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HALLOWEEN-NIGHT 1K+




On Halloween night in 2002, four young girls were walking down a lonely street,
when they passed by an old church. Standing outside was a man dressed in a clown
costume. He asked the girls if they had seen his puppy. When they said that they
hadn’t seen it, the man asked them to help him find the lost dog. The girls
agreed to help in the search and the man in the clown costume led them into the
old church.As soon as they went through the door, the man locked it behind him,
trapping them in the old building. The girls realized that they had been
tricked, but it was too late. They tried to flee, but he was too fast for
them.The man tied the girls up and kept them in the old church for hours. He did
unspeakable things to them and their screams echoed off the marbled walls, the
wooden rafters and the ornate ceiling. After he had his fun, the poor
unfortunate girls thought he would let them go. But they were wrong. He killed
them one by one and then escaped into the night. People who saw the clow walking
down the street didn’t think anything of it, because it was Halloween night and
many people were wearing costumes. If only they had known that his clown costume
was red because it was covered in blood. The next morning, the local priest was
surprised to find the church doors were unlocked. He went inside and, in the
darkness, he heard a mysterious dripping sound. As he walked down the aisle, he
saw a pool of blood lying on the altar. He quickly turned on all the lights in
the church and gasped in horror at the terrifying sight that met his eyes.The
dripping sound was coming from the headless bodies of four young girls that were
hanging upside-down from the rafters. Their blood was dripping down from the
bloody stumps of their necks and forming a pool on the altar. But worse was yet
to come. The girls’ bodies were buried in the small cemetery behind the church.
Just a few weeks later, their parents recieved four mysterious packages in the
mail. When their parents unwrapped the packages and opened the boxes, they
recoiled in horror. The boxes contained the severed heads of their dead
daughters. Some people say that if you visit that old church on Halloween night,
you will see the ghosts of the four young girls standing on the altar. According
to the legend, you can still hear their screams echoing in the darkness. To this
day, the man who murdered the girls has never been found.


BOOBY 1.7K+




There was woman named Suzanne who lived in an old house on a cliff overlooking
the sea. She was divorced from her husband. Suzanne had been deeply depressed
ever since her son Bobby drowned. She was devastated by the loss and felt like
she couldn’t go on.As time went by, Suzanne began reading books about black
magic and satanism. The more she read, the more she became immersed in the world
of the occult. It was like an addiction. She came across a spell that was
supposed to be able to resurrect the deadOne dark night, she drew a pentagram on
the floor of her living room. Lighting some black candles, she stood in the
middle of the pentagram and at the stroke of midnight, she read aloud from an
ancient satanic book. “Come fulfill my desire and do my bidding in accordance
with my will. I conjure thee in the name of satan to whom all evil is obedient,
by which name, the earth is overthrown, the seas turn black, the ground
shudders, fire is quenched and all host of things in heaven and hell do tremble.
Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, return my son who drowned by accident. Return him
to me now, I command thee!” . All of a sudden, she heard a faint scratching on
her front door. Cautiously, she walked over to the door and listened. The
scratching grew louder.“Who’s there?” she cried.There was a long silence and
then she heard a voice whisper, “Mommy?”. Suzanne, opened the door and was
shocked to see a small boy crouched on the doorstep. He was soaking wet and
shivering with the cold. “Bobby!” she cried. “It’s you! It’s really you!”. She
hurriedly brought him inside and put a towel around him, trying to warm him up.
His teeth were chattering and his hands were shaking. “I was so lonely and
desolate without you, Bobby,” she said. “Where were you? What happened?”. “I
remember water,” he said, “… cold water… and I couldn’t breathe. I woke up and
couldn’t remember who I was…. I walked and walked in the rain… These people
found me and they took me in… I didn’t know if I was alive or dead…”. “You’re
alive Bobby,” she cried. “You’re really alive!”.“Was I a good boy, Mommy?” Bobby
asked.“Of course you were a good boy,” she replied.“Did you love me, Mommy?”
Bobby asked.“I do love you,” she replied. “From the bottom of my heart”.“Were
you nice to me, Mommy?” Bobby asked.“Of course I was,” she said.Bobby stared at
her. It was a mean, angry stare and there was a spiteful sneer on his face. It
frightened Suzanne.“I want to play a game with you, Mommy!” he cried. “Hide and
seek!”. All of a sudden, he raced up the stairs. All of the lights in the house
went out. “Bobby, what are you doing?” she cried. “Where are you?”. There was no
answer. “Bobby, stop this!” she cried. “I want you to come right back here.
Bobby, please don’t do this to Mommy. Bobby, for the last time, what are you
doing?”.Just then, she heard the boy’s voice coming from the darkness.“Aren’t
you glad the lights are out, Mommy?” he said. “It makes the game more fun!”.
“You’re going to hurt yourself in the dark,” Suzanne replied.Suzanne cautiously
walked up the stairs, feeling her way in the darkness. When she got to the top,
she looked around, straining her eyes to see.“Bobby, stop this now!” she
shouted. “You’re making Mommy very angry!”. All of a sudden, the door burst open
and Bobby was standing there, cackling like a maniac. In his hand, he held a
long, sharp kitchen knife.“Let’s play hide and seek now, Mommy!” he
shrieked.Suzanne recoiled in horror. Backing away, she tripped and went tumbling
down the stairs. When she landed at the bottom, she looked up and saw her son
coming down the stairs with the knife raised above his head.“You lied, Mommy!”
he said. “Bobby didn’t really drown by accident. You knew that! Bobby drowned
himself! He couldn’t stand the way you treated him and he killed himself just to
get away from you! Don’t you see? Bobby didn’t want to come back, Mommy. No…
Bobby hates you, Mommy. He didn’t want to come back, so he sent ME
instead…”.Just then, there was a flash of lightning and it lit up the house. For
one terrible moment, Suzanne saw the face of the thing that had come back
instead of Bobby….


CONTAINMENT 2.1K+




A coward has many guises, and my bluff; has been called. I’m not a brave man. I
slept with a night light on until I was in my twenties. Yet, here I am, Mr.
Tough-guy, the first line of defense against forces unknown. Forces that were
unknown until we went poking around in the dark, looking for them. The warning
signs were all there. All I had to do was accept them. Now look at where I am.
This whole situation is a mess, everything is out of hand, and it’s all my
fault. Now, the only way forward is with uncertainty, fear, and trepidation. I
should have pulled the plug on operations. There was more than enough conclusive
data to suggest possible containment failure. But no. I just had to go and poke
the proverbial bear with the quantum stick. What could go wrong? I thought.I’ve
always known certain inherent dangers came with the job, but I was in charge of
local containment. I rarely ever got to see a subject in its natural habitat. I
spent most of my time in the lab. So, I jumped on the opportunity to assist in
live capture. Funds were sparse. They always were. That’s the thing about
clandestine operations. It’s hard to fund something that doesn’t exist. So I was
our only available containment expert. It was my job to ascertain an evaluation
of success. On my initial assessment, I concluded we were understaffed and
underfunded, but I purposefully overlooked some minor details and issued a
passing score. It was a class two assignment, a simple grab-and-bag job. Myself,
agent Calveres, and the youngest rookie I have ever met, Agent Thompson, pulled
up in a work van dressed in gas company uniforms. The event had occurred in the
basement of an old two-story house. I was so excited I forgot to unbuckle my
seat belt before I stepped out of the van. I felt the strap bite into my
shoulder as I lurched forward. “Shit,” I said. “This isn’t the time to be
clumsy,” grumbled Agent Calveres as he crossed himself and slid out of the
driver’s seat. “I didn’t know you were religious,” I said, unbuckling and
sliding out of my seat.Agent Calveres walked around the van and opened the side
door, “Only on the job,” he responded. The rookie hopped out of the back and
scanned the surrounding darkness, “When will our backup arrive?” he asked.
“You’re looking at it,” Agent Calveres grunted. “Why would we need a backup for
a class two?” I asked, “I thought class two’s were easy.” “There’s nothing easy
about what we do, kid,” said Agent Calveres as he strolled up the sidewalk to
the house, pausing to open the gate. “After you,” he said, waving me through the
opening. For the first time since I had accepted the assignment, I was
rethinking my initial excitement. In my job, I find a subject’s weaknesses and
teach others how to exploit them. Somehow I had forgotten how much damage these
things can do, the extent of which; I have yet to see for myself. Sure, I had
dealt with plenty of class two subjects in the lab, usually heavily sedated and
in a secured cage. But I have never been near an anomalous subject without
arduously strict guidelines and fail-safes in order. In the field, anything can
happen, and I was standing at the threshold of uncertainty with nothing between
myself and madness but a cherry red door, ready to be opened. Like a new chapter
in life eager to write itself into existence, it beckoned me, hurling me toward
the darker depths of truth. Agent Calveres turned the knob and pushed the door
open. There was no turning back. We stood for a moment staring into the dark
entryway. At my request, we had the power shut off, which increased the safety
of operations by two percent. Only a fool would have left it on. It was weird
how normal it looked, just a house. Clean and orderly, with a fresh pine scent
emanating from within. As we stepped across the threshold, my hair stood on end,
and a tingling sensation crawled across my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Bet you’ve never felt that before. Have you, Doc?” Agent Thompson grinned,
leading the way to the back of the house. “I never get used to it,” Agent
Calveres said as he removed a stun gun from under his jacket. “Temporal
displacement,” I said. “Tempora dis-what now?” asked Agent Thompson, removing a
small device from his pocket. “It’s what’s responsible for the goose pimples. If
you will,” I responded. “As soon as we get finished here, I’m writing a book
about it,” said Agent Thompson. “Sure thing, Shakespeare,” I said. “Are you
getting smart with me, Doc?” Asked Agent Thompson, turning to face me, his eyes
narrowing to two beady slits. I hadn’t realized how imposing he was. He had a
grizzled masculinity that, until that moment, I hadn’t noticed. For that matter,
I had never even heard of the guy before we left Ark. “I didn’t mean anything by
it,” I said. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he responded, clapping me on my shoulder. We
had made our way through the house to the kitchen. To the back of the room was
the door to the basement. I could hear my pulse beating in my ears, my resolve
melting away more and more with each step. Depending on what species subject
came through the anomaly, it may be able to hear my racing heart. Perhaps it can
sense our pheromones and knows we are closing in for the capture. “Calm down,
Doc. It’s only a class two, right?” joked Agent Calveres as he readied himself
to open the door. He crossed himself once more and turned the knob to another
unknown destination. The door pulled open into the kitchen, exposing a flight of
stairs that plunged into the darkness below. The rookie pulled a flashlight from
his belt and turned it on, covering it with his fingers to dim the light. As the
rookie passed his light over me, he paused, “Where’s the fucking cage?” he
asked. Agent Calveres turned in front of the stairs to face me, “What kind of
containment expert are you?” he snapped at me. “I forgot it. I- I’ve never been
in the field before,” I stammered. There was a sound from the basement. An icy
whistle rose from the darkness. I heard the stairs creak, and before Agent
Thompson could get his flashlight fixed on the sound, a lightning-fast streak
lunged up the stairs and struck Agent Calveres in the chest. Agent Calveres flew
across the kitchen, slamming into the stove. He clutched at the creature
managing to throw it off into the pots and pans hanging above his head. The
creature was back on him before the first pan hit the ground, “Get it off,”
yelled Agent Calveres, “Contain! Contain!” I was frozen. I couldn’t move. I
could see blood forming on Agent Calveres’s chest and arms. The subject appeared
to be a class two Skripper. They’re not very big, but they make up for it with
thick skin, razor-sharp everything, and ferocity. It was all Agent Calveres
could do to keep it at bay. “Contain!” he kept shouting as the skipper lashed,
lunged, and gnawed at his arms and chest. Agent Calveres fell to the floor,
grabbed the oven door, opening it as he fell. Seizing the opportunity, I punted
the Skripper into the oven and slammed it shut, pressing against it to keep it
closed. “Took you long enough,” Agent Calveres grunted, rising to his feet. His
chest and arms looked shredded even in the dark. The Skripper thrashed around in
the oven so hard I struggled to keep it shut. Agent Calveres grabbed a chair and
slid it in under the handle. Once I was confident the door was going to hold, I
stood. “Where’s the kid?” Agent Calveres asked. In all the commotion, I hadn’t
noticed he was missing. The door to the basement stood open. There was a soft
glow of light in the basement, just enough to see the bottom of the stairs.
Agent Caveres approached the stairwell, “Agent Thompson,” he called down the
stairs before turning to me, “Find the stun gun,” he said and started down the
stairs. “Do you think there’s more of them?” I asked while I searched the
kitchen for the stun gun. “It doesn’t seem likely there’s two. Does it?” “Not
likely, but not impossible either,” Agent Calveres responded before continuing,
“For our sake. Let’s hope it’s another Skripper and not something else.” I found
the stun gun underneath a counter on the far side of the kitchen. These aren’t
your garden-variety stun guns. They aren’t electric. Instead, they rely on a
focused frequency unique to the anomaly. For some reason, electricity seems to
feed most anomalous beings. Imagine your favorite zoo animal, all hopped up on
methamphetamines, and then teach it how to use a gun, and it would still be less
dangerous.I clutched the gun in my hand. I felt ridiculous holding it. It wasn’t
part of my training. I wasn’t even authorized to use it. Nevertheless, I went to
the stairs in time to see Agent Calveres turn the corner into the basement, and
I started my descent. When I reached the landing, Agent Calveres stood in the
middle of the basement holding the rookie’s flashlight. I stopped in my tracks
as I saw what he was looking at. Agent Thompson stood in front of an open
anomaly. I had never seen one before. It was as if someone had unzipped a tent
flap to another world. He turned to look at us, and even as he did, his face
morphed and contorted into countless shapes, his grin ever present among them. I
raised the gun at what was once Agent Thompson. He raised his arms at his sides
and started to levitate. He was at least a foot off the ground. “What are you
doing, shoot!” Agent Calveres shouted. The imposter before us started to laugh,
his face an ever-changing convoluted mess. The basement shook, and for all I
knew, the whole world was quaking. I felt defenseless. I couldn’t think, let
alone move. A shadow loomed beyond the other side of the anomaly, and a voice
spoke from somewhere amongst the ever-changing proportions of Agent Thompson’s
face, “You shall live for now, for it was you amongst my enemies, foolish enough
to release me.” Before I could pull the trigger, a giant tentacle tore through
the anomaly and pulled whatever he was through. There was a sickening pop as the
anomaly seemed to implode upon itself, folding smaller and smaller until there
was nothing but myself and Agent Calveres in the basement. “You don’t see that
often,” Agent Calveres said, turning to the stairs. “That’s it?” I practically
screamed, “That’s your takeaway!?” “Yeah, I did my job. The anomaly’s closed,”
said Agent Calveres shrugging as he climbed the stairs. “We have to at least
talk about what we just saw!” I snapped, following him up the stairs. “I believe
you have a job to finish,” Agent Calveres said as he stepped into the kitchen,
motioning to the oven. The door to the oven stood open, the chair that held it
shut was in splinters, and I heard a familiar whistle from somewhere in the
house. “I’ll be in the van,” Agent Calveres smirked as he made his way toward
the front of the house. “What? You can’t leave me alone with that thing!” I
fumed, “You can’t be serious.” “You said it yourself, Doc. It’s only a class
two. How serious can it get?”


THE HAUNTING MELODY 4.3K+




Deep within the dark, foreboding woods, nestled among the gnarled trees and
overgrown shrubs, stood the abandoned cabin, shrouded in mystery. Its cracked
walls and broken windows bore witness to the passage of time, and its wooden
door creaked ominously as if warning intruders to turn back. Rumors of a cursed
melody, whispered by the locals in hushed tones, swirled around the cabin like
an ethereal mist. Tales of a long-lost musician who had once resided within its
walls and composed a hauntingly beautiful melody that had unleashed an
otherworldly presence were passed down from generation to generation, adding to
the cabin’s eerie reputation. Sarah, a young pianist with a hunger for the
unknown, had heard the stories and felt drawn to the cabin’s allure. Her fingers
itched with curiosity, yearning to play the elusive melody on her beloved grand
piano. Ignoring the cautionary tales, she embarked on a daring quest to find the
cabin, driven by a relentless desire to unravel its mysteries. As Sarah ventured
deeper into the dense forest, her senses were heightened, and her heart pounded
with anticipation. The twisted branches seemed to reach out to her like skeletal
fingers, and the rustling leaves whispered in eerie harmony, as if beckoning her
to the cabin’s location. At last, she stumbled upon the cabin, a dilapidated
structure that loomed before her like a ghost from the past. The air was thick
with an otherworldly energy, and a chill ran down Sarah’s spine. Undeterred, she
pushed open the creaking door, and the musty scent of decay greeted her senses.
Stepping inside, Sarah’s eyes widened in wonder as she beheld the remnants of
the musician’s life. The cobwebs that adorned the walls like a ghostly tapestry
swayed gently in the breeze, and the moonlight filtered through the cracks in
the roof, casting eerie shadows across the room. With trembling fingers, Sarah
approached the grand piano that stood in the center of the room, its
once-polished surface now covered in dust. She ran her fingers lovingly over the
keys, feeling a surge of excitement coursing through her veins. This was it –
the moment she had been waiting for. Without hesitation, Sarah positioned
herself in front of the piano and began to play. The melody flowed from her
fingertips, resonating with the cabin’s eerie ambiance. The notes danced in the
air, creating a haunting symphony that seemed to echo through the walls of the
cabin and beyond. As Sarah played, she felt a strange sensation, as if the
melody was taking on a life of its own. The music seemed to have a mind of its
own, pulling her deeper into its grip, and she was unable to resist its allure.
Her fingers moved with increasing frenzy, lost in the enchantment of the melody.
But then, the atmosphere in the cabin shifted. The air grew colder, and shadows
danced along the walls. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat as she realized that she
was not alone. She turned around, but there was no one there, only the empty
cabin with its peeling walls and broken windows. A sense of foreboding washed
over Sarah as she continued to play, the melody now taking on a darker, more
sinister tone. The once-beautiful music now sounded twisted and dissonant, as if
it were mocking her. But Sarah was unable to stop. She was entranced, trapped in
a musical spell that seemed to tighten its grip with every passing moment. With
a sudden jolt, the piano keys beneath Sarah’s fingers seemed to come alive,
pressing down on their own, creating a cacophony of discordant notes that
reverberated throughout the cabin. Sarah’s eyes widened in horror as she
realized that she had lost control. The cursed melody had taken over, and she
was merely an instrument in its dark symphony. The shadows in the cabin seemed
to come alive, swirling and shifting as if guided by an invisible force. Sarah’s
once joyous expression turned to one of sheer terror as she realized that she
had awakened something malevolent within the cabin. Her fingers trembled on the
keys, but the melody continued to play, louder and more chaotic, as if urging
her to play faster, harder, and louder. As Sarah tried to resist, the cabin
seemed to close in on her, its walls seemingly closing in, trapping her in its
suffocating embrace. The air grew colder, and the atmosphere grew increasingly
oppressive, making it hard for Sarah to breathe. Her fingers became numb, but
the cursed melody continued to pour forth from the piano, now a cacophony of
dissonant, demonic tones. Desperate to break free from the grip of the cursed
melody, Sarah slammed her hands down on the keys, trying to force the music to
stop. But the piano seemed to resist, the keys refusing to release, trapping her
hands in their icy embrace. The melody intensified, now a twisted, demonic dirge
that echoed through the cabin and into Sarah’s very soul. Sarah’s mind was a
whirlwind of fear and confusion. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her
lips. Tears streamed down her face as she realized that she had fallen into the
trap of the cabin, just like the musician who had vanished all those years ago.
She was now doomed to be a part of its dark legacy, forever trapped in its
clutches. As the cursed melody reached its crescendo, Sarah’s vision blurred,
and her strength gave out. She slumped against the piano, her body limp, her
spirit broken. The melody slowly faded into silence, leaving only the oppressive
silence of the cabin. The next morning, the locals found Sarah’s lifeless body
sitting at the piano, her hands still clasped to the keys. Her eyes were wide
open, a look of eternal terror frozen on her face. The cabin stood silent once
again, its cursed melody sated for now, waiting for the next unwitting soul to
fall under its spell. And from that day on, the legend of the haunted cabin
grew, with tales of the cursed melody and the tragic fate of Sarah the pianist.
Locals warned travelers to stay far away from the cabin, for they could still
hear faint echoes of the melody on moonlit nights, a chilling reminder of the
cabin’s malevolent power. And so, the cabin remained abandoned, its walls
whispering the haunting melody to anyone who dared to venture too close, a
reminder that some mysteries are better left unsolved, and some melodies are
best left unplayed. The cursed melody of the cabin continues to echo through the
ages, a dark and enduring legend that sends shivers down the spines of those who
hear its haunting tune.


AIRLESS, BLOODLESS 6K+




Tony and Allison sat jovially at the edge of the schooner anticipating the
plunge while their captain settled the boat somewhere between the sun and the
water. Tony and Allison’s anniversary had been but a few days back, and for
their first they had decided to do something the both of them had recently begun
to desire: go scuba diving. And now they were finally here, at the precipice of
their aspirations, donning their suits and face masks and getting ready for an
afternoon full of memories the both of them would hold onto for the rest of
their lives. The day was perfect, sunshine beating down to warm the soon-to-be
divers and the water around them. Allison chuckled when she noticed that the
pale skin on Tony’s bridged nose was starting to turn pink. She reached into her
bag and retrieved a small bottle of sunscreen and before Tony could protest,
Allison dabbed a little on her finger and had blotched it on his nose. His
surprised response made her laugh. Tony with love and annoyance in his eyes,
rubbed the excess into his nose, which of course he noted would probably be gone
the second they hit the water.They looked around at the blue, clear sky above
them as the captain came over to assist the couple with their breathing gear.
Allison put her goggles on and bit down on the mouthpiece while Tony tried to
make his goggles sit comfortably with the additional sunscreen. They, together
and holding hands, leaned backwards off the side of the boat and plunged into
the sea. Tony held his eyes closed and Allison’s hand tight for a few seconds
after the initial shock of hitting the cold water. When his mind and body caught
up to each other, he slowly opened his eyes to see a world of blue. Allison who
floated right beside him twirled in the water with childish glee. She pointed
downward. Tony moved his eyes to where her finger was pointing: the light and
playful blue around him was swallowed by a void of blackness that extended, as
far he could tell, downward indefinitely. Suddenly, Tony felt very alone,
surrounded by miles of water all around him with no company except Allison who
was figuring out her flippers a few meters away. Tony looked down again, but
this time, the black unknown painted images for Tony that made him miss the
feeling of being alone. Any quality, quantity, or variety of shark or squid
could be lurking just below the light, waiting for the pair of divers to
descend. The feeling crept up from below from his feet and through his legs and
torso until it consumed him. Allison stopped her twirls in the water to
excitedly look over at Tony to see if he was enjoying this the way she was. She
saw him frozen goggles angled down toward the black that carpeted the world
below them. She laughed into her breathing kit and swam over to give him a
gentle nudge. Tony seemed to awake from his daze and shook himself to look at
Allison, who had a glint of harassment in her gaze, the corners of her lips
turned up into a smile. Tony exhaled exasperatedly and bubbles flew up around
his mask to reach the sky above. Allison began to descend and after a few
moments to gather his courage, Tony followed suit. The blackness swallowed them
whole, but the deeper the duo descended, the more they were able to see what was
below them. At first it was just more black, but soon, they found the sea floor.
It was gray and sedimentary with a few washed boulders scattered along the
scenery. Allison looked excitedly over at Tony, who was regaining his nerves at
having found the extent of their watery surroundings. The pair glided over the
sea floor, passing through the occasional water plant or seeing the occasional
fish or crab dart under a rock when they approached. It was beautiful, but it
was lonely, even with the two of them there. Suddenly, they approached a very
clear line. On one side, the side they were coming from, there was at least a
little life here and there, even if a little skittish. But the other side of the
line was blanketed with death. No plant grew beyond the line and when fish
approached they promptly turned and swam in the other direction, as if they were
compelled by some calling instinct to flee. Tony and Allsion stopped at the line
and looked over it. With the way the ocean floor curved, it looked like the
line, or rather, a circumference, ran over to each side before curving back
behind the epicenter. Allison gazed intently at a world beyond the one she was
in and already unaccustomed to. She began to move forward, toward the epicenter,
compelled by curiosity. Tony glanced over at Allison who incredibly naturally
glided over the sea floor. He reached out swiftly and grabbed her flipper in
haste. She turned wide-eyed to see what had caught her, but smiled when she saw
that it was just a timid Tony. She relaxed in the water over to him, put a hand
on his cheek, and smiled. Tony did not share the same sentiment, and nodded his
head repeatedly to the left, indicating that they should turn around and leave
from the way they came. Allison, an adventurer at heart, grabbed Tony’s hand and
dragged her reluctant partner behind her. They glided over the sea floor,
keeping close to the ground to keep their bearings. Allison found herself
scanning the area all around her. She felt her muscles tighten and her mouth ran
dry. As the two progressed, the water felt like it was thicker to swim through,
and presently became colder. Tony looked behind him, sure that they had been
descending, only to find flat, consistent ground behind them. When he turned
back forward, he found a still Allison floating gently in the water. He swam up
to her and followed her goggles, but he did not have to search far: looming over
them was an enormous steel vessel. Tony was shocked, it was as if they had been
swimming up to this giant boat for some time by how close it was. Tony could
almost reach out his hand and touch it. The pair floated for a moment, suspended
in the abnormally-cold water, taking in the grandeur of this ancient piece of
history. It had nearly no external markings, but Tony could make out some paint
on the sides that were too washed away to identify the ship. The hull was
covered in holes of all kinds of sizes, ranging from what might have been bullet
holes to holes that Tony guessed must have been a meter in diameter. It was
awe-striking, and Tony and Allison simply stared at the sunken marvel in front
of them. Allison started to move forward. She swam slowly at first, approaching
one of the larger holes in the hull. Tony looked over dreamily to see his
partner moving forward. He started to move to follow behind her when he shook
himself back, shivering as he noticed the freezing water. Again, he darted
forward and caught Allison’s flipper. She turned robotically to look at Tony.
Her face was cast downward and the lines under her eyes were sunken in; she
looked exhausted. Then she blinked her eyes and light returned to her cheeks and
she smiled at Tony. She shook her flipper free and again grabbed him by the
hand, pulling him in toward the nearest mouth in the hull. He shook his hand
free and used his body to pull away from the boat and Allison, his eyes starting
to carry a little more fear in them. But Allison, in the insistent way that she
did, swam over to Tony and pulled him in toward the colder water. Up close, he
could really see under her eyes, which seemed darker than they had minutes ago.
Finally, Tony broke and felt himself letting Allison pull him, partially against
his will, to the nearest hole in the vessel. They peered inside. It was dark,
even considering the depth that they were at, and they could not make out much
of anything. Allison looked over at Tony, eyes glinting, before she grabbed the
lips of the hole and pulled herself inside the ship. As she slipped inside, the
darkness swallowed her whole and Tony lost sight of her. He panicked for a
moment and moved forward to see where she had gone, but as soon as he had his
head through the hole, the interior was illuminated as if a lantern had been
lit. He could see Allison, floating near the chandelier and momentarily relaxed
before scanning down. The room looked Victorian, though everything was damaged
heavily by water. There were archaic paintings that adorned the walls, and no
furniture lined the floor. Instead, the floor of the ship was covered in
dehydrated corpses, dozens of them, covering the floor like carpet. Tony almost
didn’t notice them by how consistent their presence was along the floor. Spindly
arms and fingers lay at all angles, some entwined with another body’s leg or
with the fingers ran through patched hair that lay on scalps. The bodies were
clothed to varying degrees, some with holey shirts and jagged pants and others
in rotten, torn garb wrapped haphazardly about their thighs or torsos. Though
their clothes varied, each of the bodies looked the same: shriveled, skeletal,
dry, as if they had been dehydrated for years.It was an appalling sight, but
Tony was captivated by the sheer magnitude of it and the uniformity of the
corpses. Taught faces teased into gaunt screams looked this way and that, and
though their eyes were gone, Tony felt like they were watching him. He pulled
his body inside using the same lip that Allison had. He reached in to grab a
piece of metal jutting out of the hull to pull himself inside. Tony gave the
metal a hard pull to hoist himself inside and as he did the frame around him
buckled and collapsed. Tony pulled himself inside up the chandelier up to a
horrified Allison whose eyes were plastered on the missing space where Tony’s
leg should have been. Tony looked down and screamed his breathing apparatus out.
Allison had to help him get it back into his mouth as he choked in the
blood-filled water around them. Tony looked back to the space he had just
entered from: the interior sheet of metal had detached cleanly from the ceiling
and like a watery guillotine had sliced off Tony’s leg below the knee on the way
down. The two of them were shocked to stillness for a moment until Allison began
to act. She ripped her shirt and wrapped it as well as she could around Tony’s
leg which bled more and more red into the watery room around them. When Allison
finished her makeshift mend job, she looked up into a room that was now not only
black, but red as well. The blood floated upward at first, but soon it settled
down into the mess of bodies that littered the floor. At first, it was just a
jaw that relocated, then it was a finger that twitched, then arms and legs
pulled gaunt torsos to their feet. Tony and Allison watched in horror as the
carpet below them began to move, reaching out and grabbing blindly at the water
around it. Terrified, Allison and Tony moved to the sheet of metal that had
fallen. It now blocked the hole they had entered through, as well as any others
on that wall that they might have been able to squeeze through. They turned to
face the nightmare around them to make their next move. There was a doorway on
the far wall across from them, but between the couple and the door was now a
gnashing pile of limbs. The desiccated corpses began gulping at the blood-filled
water, chewing through it as if it were coagulated. They began to fill out as
they consumed more and more blood, forearms and calves starting to bulge below
the pulled skin. The couple panicked. Keeping as close to the ceiling as they
could, they moved swiftly toward the door, Tony doing what he could to keep his
eyes open, feeling light-headed from losing so much blood. They crept along the
ceiling, Tony grabbing what holds he could to accommodate his leg. Allison
ducked down to get through the top of the doorway and turned to assist Tony,
reaching out her hand as she did. Tony reached out his hand to grab hers,
supporting himself on a jagged part of the ceiling to reach her. Tony reached
Allison and pushed past his hand hold. She pulled him through the doorway, but
stared in horror looking back into the room. Tony turned to see what she was
looking at and saw a jostled piece of wood from the ceiling slowly floating into
the carpet. It descended slowly, but time seemed to freeze for Allison and Tony,
the moment not passing in the slightest. Finally, the wood floated down and
tapped a shoulder. The body that it had hit turned its head all the way around
and looked straight at Tony with empty eyes. It slowly opened its desecrated
jaw, letting it drop lower and lower until it was touching its sternum and then
let out a ear-deafening and hoarse scream. All at once, the other bodies gulping
at the floating blood in the water turned at the exact same time to look at Tony
and all dropped their rotten jaws to a scream in a deafening chorus. Then, they
began to clamor over each other toward the couple. Tony and Allison wasted no
time in retreating into the room they had just come into. The old boiler room
they found themselves in only offered things to get in their way. They vaulted
over ancient water heaters and tanks all the while the wave of rotten flesh
moved into the room and over the boilers like water engulfing anything in its
path, all the while still screaming without ceasing. Tony and Allison moved as
quickly as they could, but Tony began to slow down. Allison put his arm over her
shoulder and tried to pull him through the water, but he was dragging behind her
and the hoard was gaining on them. Allison looked into Tony’s tired yet
terrified eyes one last time before pushing off of him toward the next room.
Tony floated downward toward the writhing mass. They reached up and grabbed his
leg that had been severed and crowded mouths began to suck from Tony’s stump
leg. Tony pushed off of them with his arms and kicked with his good leg, but
soon the color drained from his face as more and more mouths insatiably sucked
from his leg. Tony’s body began to shrivel, first from his legs, but the parched
skin that clung to Tony’s skeleton grew more gaunt and closer to his face.
Tony’s scared eyes stared into Allison before they too were sucked from the hole
in his knee. Allison turned frantically, but as she swam into the next room, her
heart sank. The room was empty, devoid of any window or doorway or outlet. The
hoard, having finished with Tony, moved toward Allison’s coffin. They moved
slowly, as if stalking prey when suddenly Tony’s corpse writhed from within the
pile, spindly and dry fingers flexing in agony. The corpse rose, but then
slumped into the mass that was making its way toward Allison. The mass
surrounded her from above and all sides and crept in closer as if testing the
waters. Allison closed her eyes as she felt teeth sink into her skin, and was
acutely aware of herself being dehydrated through teeth marks on her body. Her
stretching skin pulled tighter and tighter across her face and as her eyes
stretched open, she realized she could not see. All at once, the blackness in
the room took her, and she lost herself in an insatiable hive mind, her will
leaving her with her blood. When Allison was a husk, the mass settled and
slumped, drawing odd angles with their limbs as they did. Allison’s corpse
simply fell on top of the pile, face petrified to dehydrated terror. Not a drop
of blood floated around the bodies, and air slowly seeped in a line of bubbles
from two oxygen tanks from inside the mass.


DON’T LOOK OUTSIDE 1K+




I’ve been living in a fifth wheel on my recently purchased property. The goal
was to build a home on the 2 acres of land but the weather didn’t agree with
that. I live in rural Nevada and the weather conditions in winter can really
throw a wrench in any construction plans you may have. Between the snow and the
50 mph winds, winter just wasn’t an optimal time to build. Nonetheless, I still
have my fifth wheel and generator to keep me up and running through the cold
months. It’s pretty peaceful, actually. Between the howling wind and the rain on
the tin-like roof, it’s like my very own ASMR. That’s usually how I fall asleep,
listening to the therapeutic sounds of nature. Tonight is different. There was a
mild case of wind and a light drizzle but the quiet came before I could drift
off. The sound of a herding dog who lives across the way is barking at what I
assume is his flock of sheep. I toss and turn but the incessant barking is
refusing me rest. I’m irritated. I understand the dog is just doing his job but
in order for me to be on time to my job in the morning, I need to be able to
sleep. The bark is hollow. There is little urgency from the dog and he sounds
more like an old man coughing. It’s a low woof and it happens every three
seconds. I imagine him nipping at heels, nudging the sheep into the direction
they need to go. Eventually, the barking seems to stop and I’m able to doze off.
When I wake, it is not from my alarm. Unfortunately, the same old tired herding
dog is barking again. I pick up my phone and see that it’s 4am. Okay, well I’d
have to be up in an hour for work anyway and trying to fall back asleep with
this noise would be pointless. I get up and start to brew my coffee. I’m
listening to the rhythm of the dog’s bark. “Woof, woof, woof. Woof, woof, woof”
He sounds like he hates his job. Me too, bud. I turn on the TV and put on a
comfort movie from Netflix to drown out the animal. As though he knows I have
tuned him out, his barking picks up. I roll me eyes and curse to myself. This is
starting to really get under my skin. I crack the window and yell. “SHUT UP.”
Before I can shut the window, however, I notice something. It’s something small
but nevertheless it’s there. The dog sounds more urgent now. He seems alarmed
and instead of the usual cough like woof I was hearing, it sounds more like a
panicked and biting bark. He’s facing away from the flock and I try to make out
the image before me that is clouded by morning mist and lack of sunlight. In the
field of uneven grass and strewn about feed, there’s a figure. It’s just
crouched behind a half eaten bale of hay. The dog and sheep are in the opposite
far corner, clearly unsure about the shape that has entered their land. I try to
force my eyes to focus but between the bale of hay blocking it and the lack of
proper sunlight, my eyes refuse to adjust. My heart pounds with anxiousness. Is
this what the dog has been barking at? This person? Is it a person? It has to
be. It has a very round head and a long neck and shoulders as far as i can tell.
Thats a person right? Before I can stare any longer, I close my window. I know
farmers get up early so maybe the shape I’m seeing is one of them just laying
out the feed. Maybe they’re children, saw me, and crouched down to hide their
embarrassment. I rationalize as much as I can. I sat still in the near silence
just convincing my mind that whatever it was, it was human. Maybe its an
intruder and thats why the dog was so distraught. Should I call the police? But
what if it was a farmer? I decide I’m being too dramatic. I’m going to look
again and make sure that what I saw was one of the people who own the land. I
refuse to allow my brain to get the better of me. I just really need to build my
courage back up to crack the window and peak out. I’m ashamed to say it has
taken me what feels like an hour to gain the mettle to look outside. I think
what has helped me finally build said courage is the fact that the dog has
stopped barking. I know I should have done something before this point but the
comfort of knowing the dog no longer sees a threat is what pushed me to finally
follow through. I slowly crack the window and look out. Its a little brighter
now, with the sun pulling oranges and pinks into the sky. The field is empty,
thankfully. The only residents are the sheep, who are now back to the center of
the field, and the dog. Good. Now I can go to work and forget that any of this
happened. And thats exactly what i do. Work was boring as work usually is. I
hardly thought of the dog or the person I saw in the field. Its easy once time
goes by to convince yourself of what actually happened. I looked out and saw a
shape. Thats all. No monster of the night, no killer awaiting ambush. I just saw
a shape- and im not even sure if thats what i saw either. It could have been
nothing. A shadow in the field. SO that’s what I go with, nothing has happened.
As i pull into my dirt driveway, i look across the field. I smile to myself
seeing the sheep graze the grass and the dog laying against the fence line
peacefully. What a fool I have been. I am a grown man and I allowed a little
dog’s bark to terrify me over essentially nothing. I go inside my trailer and
make myself a package of ramen for dinner and pair it with a glass of sweet tea.
Not a five star meal but really its all I have energy for after the lack of
sleep I got last night. I eat my ramen, drink my tea, and watch my shows as the
hours slip past me and the day creeps into night. I start to feel anxious. What
will i do if i hear the barking again? What if they or it is out there again? I
try to rationalize and laugh it off but fear is stronger than logic and as we
descend into night, my mind descends into panic. I decide to sleep on the pull
out futon in the “living room” area of my fifth wheel. At least this way ill
have the illumination and sound from the tv to muffle any noise outside my
trailer. I make my bed and turn on a tv show ive seen a thousand times. I allow
myself to drift off.When I wake, I awake with a panic. The kind of panic you get
when you know someone is standing inches from your face, watching, waiting. The
tv has timed out and the illumination the dimmed screen adds to the space is
eerie. I sit up and look around as my chest struggles for breath that somehow
escapes me. I scan my head from the kitchen area back to the futon. Nothing. I
relax a little, getting up to turn my show back on. As I do, I double check that
my door is locked and all windows are closed. I’m ashamed to admit that when
checking the windows, I squint my eyes, avoiding any possibility of seeing
something I would rather not see. As I check the last window next to the futon,
something unfortunately catches my eye. It was quick and brief to the point that
I wasn’t even sure that it was ever really there. But I think I saw something
peek out at me from behind the tree in my yard. I didn’t get a great look but it
seemed like whatever it was had an unnaturally round head with two glowing eyes.
I slam the window cover down and lay back down, chest once again heaving. “I
didn’t see anything” I tell myself. “Your mind plays tricks on you when you’re
already panicked.” I do my best to focus on the tv but like an itch in the back
of my brain I hear my own small panicked voice. “Its gotten closer. Its no
longer across the street. Its here, for us. What does it want with me? Will it
try to get in?” The panic eventually subsides as I convince myself that what I
saw was probably my own reflection or shadow. I decided that is what it had to
be. I don’t look out to look again though, to be sure. I just drift into sleep,
dreaming of glowing eyes and howling wind. When I wake, everything seems normal.
I make myself a cup of coffee and a bagel. I go through the motions of preparing
for my day and when I get to work, I go through the motions of being an
employee. I don’t necessarily have a bad day, but it feels like I’m stuck on
auto pilot. I chalk it up to lack of sleep. Today is Friday which means I will
be stuck at home for two days. I’m scared that without the distraction of work,
I may go insane trying to ignore the glowing eyes that I keep trying to convince
myself I didn’t see. I arrived home once again and put on some sweats. I turn on
the tv and make a cup of hot tea. I don’t eat dinner. My stomach churns as I
feel like I am waiting for the inevitable. My eyes dart around the trailer
waiting to see something move. My ears perk up with any hint of noise.
Relaxation feels impossible. I don’t even lay down today, instead I sit at the
edge of my futon and watch tv with wired, bloodshot eyes. After about two hours
of absolutely nothing, I decided I can lay back and relax, just a little. I
don’t decide on sleep as sleep isn’t an option. Even if I was tired, which I am
not, the panic in my chest would refuse me any rest. It’s about 2am when I hear
it. A slight knock on my door. My eyes dart to the trailer door and lock in as
if I’m trying to shoot lasers out of my eyes and into whatever is standing on
the other side. I don’t get up and open the door. I’ve seen enough horror movies
to know what happens after that. I just sit and wait. I hear another low
consistent tapping noise this time coming from the window beside me. My head
whips to the side as I jump off of the couch. I just stand and stare, waiting.
Another tap, this time in threes. There is no mistaking the noise. Its as if
someone is intentionally trying to gain my attention. Tap, tap, tap. I crouch
down onto the floor holding my head in my hands. I want to scream. I want it to
leave me alone. But i don’t want to acknowledge its existence. Tap, tap, tap. I
start to chew on my nails. Tap, tap, tap. This time it’s coming from the door
again; ruling out any possibility that the tap on the window was a tree branch
or something more logical than a creature of the night. Rap, rap, rap. The taps
have turned into banging now. Loud knocks that beg for me to open the door. I
refuse. Then, I hear something else. A giggle, low and almost like a gurgle. It
sounds as if someone tried to laugh with a mouth full of water. At this point,
I’m sweating and shaking. I can’t help myself. I’m exhausted and terrified. I’m
not thinking straight.“LEAVE ME ALONE” I scream. For a moment nothing happens.
It’s quiet, almost too quiet. I reach for my cell phone to call the police but
before I can, the trailer shakes. I squint my eyes shut as I hear the window
cover roll up in a quick whip of motion. “I can’t look outside. I can’t look
outside. I can’t look outside.” I’m rocking back and forth, whispering a slurred
reminder to myself. Minutes pass and that’s when temptation takes over. I don’t
know what it is about the human brain, but any time you tell yourself you must
not do something, the need to do the opposite overpowers your mind. I squint my
eyes. I need to close the shades, I silently tell myself. But I needed to see. I
needed to see if it was really there or if I was just going insane. I count to
three and open my eyes. I almost scream at what appears before me but nothing
escapes my lips. Standing on the other side of my window is the most terrifying
thing I have ever laid eyes on. The head is so round and smooth. The eyes are so
metallic yellow, reflecting all the light coming out of my trailer. Its skinny
neck looks so unproportionate to the head it has to carry around. The nose is
just a single U shaped slit. The mouth though, oh god the mouth. It has three
times the amount of normal teeth, all appearing human. Its smile is so wide that
it takes up the majority of this thing’s face. You can see every tooth from its
smile alone. And it is just staring right at me and smiling. I don’t move. I
freeze like a deer in headlights and can hear my brain screaming at my legs to
move, to run, to do anything but stand here and let this thing see me. But it
already has. It slowly leans its head forward. Before I have any time to react,
it bangs its head against the window. It does it again and again. It’s trying to
get in. The fear in my body finally turns to fight. I grab my old revolver from
my tv stand and manage to load three bullets in. Without thinking I ran outside
and face it down. “LEAVE ME ALONE” I scream. It slowly turns away from the
trailer and towards me, still smiling with a tar like substance oozing from its
forehead. I aim my weapon and pull the trigger and it falls with a thud. Relief
floods my body and without hesitation, I squeeze the trigger two more times to
be sure the thing is dead. I almost laugh to myself. It’s done. It’s finally
done. I reach for my cell phone to call the police and let them know that I
killed this… thing on my property. As I stick my hand in my pocket I soon
realize I left my phone inside. I turn around to go back inside but as I do, I
see a bunch of tiny lights appear around my trailer. I start to walk forward,
gun still in hand to see what these lights could be. As I approach them I start
to make out a very round head and a very tiny neck. These aren’t lights. These
are hundreds of reflective eyes staring back at me. I turn to run back to my
front door but see that through the window, three of them are already in my
home. They just stand there, smiling at me. I drop to my knees and feel
something on my shoulder. I look to the side and see that it is a hand, a hand
with long bony fingers and inch long nails. I know that I can’t run. I assume
they are everywhere now. I feel the nails sink into my skin and I let out a cry.
I really shouldn’t have looked outside.


THE MODEL VILLAGE 3.4K+




My Uncle David was an eccentric man. That’s not code to say he was some kind of
deviant. In fact, he was a pleasant and caring man for most of his life.
However, he was also a sensitive soul and not much of a people person. David
never got married or had children. He lived alone his whole life and worked a
dull job in the civil service. Yes, David was definitely an introvert and may
have been on the spectrum, but he kept himself to himself and indulged in his
unusual hobbies, some of which became obsessions. I guess that’s why he bought
the model village. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept – a model or
miniature village is an attraction closely associated with the English
countryside, although there are few left in existence in the 21st century. Some
date back to the 19th century, but their popularity peaked from the 1930s to
1950s. Essentially, they are outdoor scale models turned into very detailed
exhibits replicating towns or villages, containing everything from miniature
churches, houses, railways, canals and parks…and figurines representing small
people – men, women, children and even pets.The level of detail is impressive
and there’s a quaint and almost magical feel to such attractions. But of course,
like so much else, model villages have lost much of their appeal in the modern
digital age, unable to compete with more contemporary leisure pursuits and
venues. The few which remain retain their quintessential charm and appeal, but
their heyday is long gone. Uncle David couldn’t have foreseen this trend when he
purchased his own model village in the early 1990s, although I doubt it would
have stopped him, as he never regarded the attraction as a financial enterprise.
I won’t tell you the location of Uncle David’s village. It doesn’t exist
anymore, but I can’t guarantee that its former site is safe or that the evil
which once dwelt there is now gone. I will describe it to you, however. The
‘village’ was called Mosvil – an odd name with slightly sinister overtones. This
was the title the attraction came with when David bought it, and he was adamant
that the name wouldn’t change. He was a stickler for tradition after all. Mosvil
was built to a scale of 1 to 72 and contained most of the features one would
expect to find in a traditional English village circa the late 19th or early
20th centuries. The main street consisted of a steepled church (Anglican of
course!), a neat town hall with a copper-domed roof, and a schoolhouse with big
glass windows. The street also contained several tidy shopfronts – a butchers, a
grocery, a village pub, a bank and a post office – the type of small businesses
which are slowly disappearing in the real world. Off the main street were the
homes and houses – a mix of quaint cottages and Georgian townhouses. The detail
was astonishing, right down to the tiny flowerbeds in the gardens surrounded by
white picket fences. The manor house was located on the edge of the village
close to the purposefully built stream which cut though the mock countryside.
The house was four storeys tall with stained-glass windows and turrets. The
grounds around it were meticulously designed and maintained, with a neat,
treelined avenue leading out to its front gates. Further along the river stood a
functioning windmill – more in the Dutch rather than the English design, but
still in keeping with the ambience of the attraction. The final feature of note
was the railway station to the south of the village – a long platform and
red-bricked station house with an old steam locomotive that permanently sat on
the rails, its adjoined carriages divided into first, second and third class.
And then there were the figurines – the tiny ‘villagers’ who populated Mosvil.
Each was unique and had their own names based on their roles and jobs – lady of
the manor, the butcher, the vicar, the grocer’s wife, the train conductor… All
appeared to be happy people going about their daily business. Everything was
well ordered and peaceful in Mosvil, as it represented an oasis of tranquillity
in an otherwise chaotic world. Or at least, that’s what we used to believe. As
you can probably tell I used to spend a lot of time in Mosvil. My parents
brought me and sister down there regularly when we were young and before mum and
dad got divorced, and I recall how magical a place it was to visit as a child.
My uncle was always happy to see us and to share his village with us, telling my
sister and I the stories behind every building, feature and figurine. He was
strict however, warning us never to mess around with his beloved village. I
remember one time when we accidently damaged the church roof whilst playing, and
David was furious with us. His reaction was scary and I guess we didn’t
understand why he was so obsessed with his village. Sadly, David was a man with
a lot of problems. But life moved on. My sister and I grew up and we stopped
visiting Mosvil and my uncle. I feel bad about it now, but I was a stroppy,
hormonal teenager and the last place I wanted to hang out was a boring old model
village. Sadly, Uncle David’s mental state only deteriorated in the years that
followed. He took early retirement from his job and became even more obsessed
with building and maintaining Mosvil. For a while he ran it as a family
attraction, charging a small entrance fee for families to visit on weekends and
bank holidays. But eventually he grew tired of these visitors and their
disruptive ways, choosing to close Mosvil to the public and make it his own
private haven. In the years which followed David became a total recluse, cutting
ties with most of his family and the few friends he had. My mother would still
visit occasionally, mainly to check that her brother was still alive, but she
usually received a frosty reception. I don’t know what happened to David which
made him cut himself off from the outside world and become completely engrossed
in his almost child-like hobby. Perhaps he suffered a personal tragedy or
heartbreak which we didn’t know about, or maybe he just couldn’t cope with the
stresses and pressures of the world. In any case, I’m afraid his life was
destined to end tragically. So let me tell you about the summer of 2001. My
mother hadn’t seen her brother in about two weeks. She phoned regularly enough
but my uncle rarely answered or called back. She went down to his cottage one
day and couldn’t get an answer when she rang the bell, or even when she knocked
on the door repeatedly and loudly. Concerned, she used her spare key to enter
David’s home but discovered he wasn’t at home. Alarm bells started ringing at
this point as David rarely if ever went out, but mum didn’t panic just yet. She
did start to really worry when she drove to the Mosvil site and found David’s
workshop empty and no sign of him in the village. Not only that, but the site
was a mess – with miniature buildings smashed in and figurines broken and
scattered all over the concrete and grass. Mum knew how much Mosvil meant to her
brother and she could only imagine the impact this act of wanton destruction
would have on his mental state. At this point she did panic and phoned the
police, but they weren’t able to file a missing person’s report until 72 hours
later. This deadline came and went and the report was processed, but no
information was forthcoming. Mum phoned the police daily until they stopped
returning her calls, and then she started her own search – getting stories
published in the local press, posting missing signs all over the countryside and
starting a website requesting information (as this was before social media was a
major thing). She worked so hard for so long but never got any solid leads. It
was heart-breaking for us to see as the fruitless search consumed my mother. She
always felt responsible for her brother’s disappearance, feeling that she should
have looked after him better. We told her constantly that she wasn’t to blame –
that he was a grown man who’d made his own decisions – but it was no good. Out
mother kept the faith for years, still believing that David would turn up one
day. I didn’t share her belief however. My uncle was always disturbed and I
feared he had gone to some quiet spot to end his life. Perhaps his body had been
swept out to sea and that’s why he was never found. I think the whole family
shared my theory but we never spoke about it, and we never told mum what we
thought. It would have broken her heart. In any case, the search went from cold
to freezing and after seven long years my uncle was declared legally dead. This
sad milestone broke my mother. She went on with her life, being there for her
family, children and grandchildren, but a big part of her died along with her
brother, and she never really recovered from the tragedy. I think it surprised
us all when we discovered that David had written a will, and he’d left all his
possessions and assets to my sister and I, including his beloved model village.
My sister had just had a new-born and so had no time to deal with this mess, and
I couldn’t ask our mother for help as it was still too raw for her. So, I took
on the task of dealing with my late uncle’s estate. The plan was to sell up and
split the money. There really wasn’t any other practical option. David’s cottage
was in a bit of a state after all those years, but I knew some renovation work
would fix it up nicely, and with the housing market the way it was we could sell
for a good price. Mosvil was a different kettle of fish however. There was
little to no prospect of selling it as a going concern. The market for model
villages in the modern world is almost non-existent for the reasons previously
explained, and besides, the site was a mess. My best bet was to sell the land
off for development but first I needed to get the site appraised and valued,
with due consideration given to planning permission and other issues. I made my
initial visit to get the lay of the land. I’ll admit to feeling trepidation on
the drive down to the Mosvil site as all the old memories came flooding back.
We’d had good times there during our childhood, but I kept recalling how Uncle
David had raged with us when we accidently damaged the church roof, and the
terrible sadness my mum carried with her after his disappearance. Unfortunately,
my mood only darkened when I reached the site. The glory days of Mosvil were
clearly long gone. The once immaculately maintained streets, houses and
figurines were now an awful mess. Everything was smashed up to hell or worn down
by years of exposure to the elements. The village was fenced off, but the
vandals had got in anyway, tagging the site with graffiti and adding to the
destruction. I’ll admit to having tears in my eyes as I surveyed the damage. It
was tragic to see this once idyllic place reduced to such a terrible state. But
there was something else too. I’ve never been much of a believer in the
spiritual world, but something struck me as I walked through the ruined model
village. I experienced a nearly crippling depression – a terrible sadness which
went well beyond what I should be feeling. It was as if this once magical place
had assumed a dark aura, one of tragedy and death which threatened to consume
anyone who walked these grounds. I should have listened to my instincts but of
course I didn’t. Instead, I told myself that my emotions had gotten the better
of me and I needed to pull myself together. I had a job to do however unpleasant
it may be, and so I got to work with clearing the site. This is where my story
takes a bizarre and dark twist. What I intend to do now is to transcribe the
contents of my late uncle’s diary, which I discovered during my clearance work.
Most of its content is irrelevant, sadly giving little insight into David’s
state of mind. That was until I got to the final few days before his
disappearance. The diary entries answered some of my questions but raised many
more. This will become self-evident as my story progresses. You may also be
wondering how the diary went undiscovered all those long years while the police
and my mother were on the case. Well, that’s a question which is hard to answer
and so all I can say is please read on. So, let us begin with my Uncle David’s
entry for the 9 July 2001: “Today the weather was quite good. It started off
cloudy but the sun came out in the afternoon. This makes a pleasant change after
all the rain over the previous few days. Thank goodness, as I have much work to
do. I spent the morning in my workshop, finishing off my new villagers whilst
touching up the paint on some of my existing people. The police constable’s
uniform needed retouched, and I’m excited about introducing the new undertaker
to Mosvil. As always, I need to work with painstaking accuracy on my little
people to get them just right. Attention to detail is everything in this line of
work. In the afternoon I took advantage of the sunshine to do some work in the
village – polishing the dome of the town hall and replacing three of the trees
in the manor house grounds. Much to my annoyance I saw that the stray tomcat had
invaded my village once again. I didn’t see the little bastard but found
evidence of its intrusion – with scratch marks on the church walls and several
villagers out of place, scattered down the street with a blatant disrespect.
This will have to stop. I’ve phoned the council to complain, asking that animal
control captures the stray, but I doubt they’ll do anything about it. I may need
to take action myself. My sister called this evening. I didn’t answer but she
left a message on the machine. This only added to my annoyance. I know she means
well but I wish she’d just leave me alone to get on with my work. Well, tomorrow
is another day. 10 July 2001 – I am beyond furious. It has taken me all day to
regain some level of composure so I can write down my experience and attempt to
work through my anger. The day started like any other. I got up and travelled to
Mosvil to start work. What I discovered was an atrocity. Someone – or probably
multiple persons – had broken in during the night and proceeded to wreak
devastation in an act of pure barbarism. The bulk of the damage was confined to
the main street. Several of the villagers were broken beyond repair – the
grocer, the milkman and the postmistress – all smashed to pieces. I don’t how
anyone could be so cruel. There was some superficial damage to several
buildings, but the vandals had taken out their anger on the church, breaking the
steeple in half, crushing the roof, and stomping the building into the ground. I
will need to rebuild the whole church from scratch. I was so angry that tears
were rolling down my cheeks and I had to control my breathing before considering
my next move. Once I calmed down somewhat I phoned the police to report this act
of wanton destruction. Sadly, this only added to my anger. They said they would
process my report and send a constable out in due course, but I could tell they
weren’t taking it seriously. No doubt the vandalism was carried out by local
teenage hoodlums. Children today are little better than animals -semi-feral and
without discipline from their parents or teachers. The police will do nothing to
stop them and so these hooligans run amok, destroying property and ruining
people’s lives. This country really has gone to the dogs. I spent the rest of
the morning cleaning up the mess, but there was another sickening twist to this
foul tale. I almost missed it at first, hidden away as it was at the rear of the
wrecked church. When I saw it, my heart froze for a second and I believe I
suffered a moment of genuine terror. The figurine was built to the same scale as
my villagers – 1 to 72, meaning it was only an inch tall. I knew straight away
that it wasn’t one of mine. After recovering from my initial shock I got down on
my hands and knees to examine the miniature in closer detail. What I saw was a
Grim Reaper – a sinister figure dressed in a dark robe down to his feet and with
a hood covering his head. The figure had no face but did carry a scythe almost
as tall as he was, its blade made from an actual tiny razor. I found the
figurine repulsive and would never have such an ugly miniature in my village.
But this raised the disturbing question of who had left the figure, and why? I
began to doubt my initial theory in that moment, thinking this was too
sophisticated a trick for teenage hoodlums. Perhaps this is the act of a rival
model villager, jealous at my creation? I took the Grim Reaper figurine back to
my workshop to examine it more closely. I examined it under my magnifying glass,
impressed by the precision its maker had used. This was clearly the work of a
professional. There was something very disconcerting about the miniature though
– a creepy feeling that I couldn’t quite explain. But things only got weirder.
When I picked up the figurine I found it was ice cold, like it was just out of
the freezer. But as I held it in my hand the figurine suddenly and inexplicably
heated up, and in a moment it became so hot that it burned my hand, forcing me
to drop it on the floor. I’ll admit to swearing in rage as I looked down at the
tiny Grim Reaper lying on the wood floor of my workshop. I couldn’t understand
what had just happened. Was this some sort of new technology? I’ll gladly admit
to being a luddite, so I suppose its possible. I should have kept the figure as
evidence but in my anger I acted in haste, using pliers to pick up the red hot
miniature and drop it into the furnace, watching with a grim satisfaction as it
burnt to ashes. Its bedtime now but I’m still angry and confused, so I doubt
I’ll get much sleep tonight. In any case, I will return to Mosvil first thing in
the morning. I pray this ugly incident is a one-off and I can put it behind me.
11 July 2001 – The intruders returned during the night. It was naïve for me to
think they wouldn’t. I’m angry but also…deeply unsettled. Let me try to explain
what happened. I arrived at Mosvil shortly after dawn and went to work on the
church reconstruction. At first it didn’t seem like there was any additional
damage, but then I noticed several of the villagers were missing. The pub
landlord, the schoolmistress, the fireman, the nurse and the mayor were all
gone. I searched frantically for my little people, hoping against hope that I’d
simply misplaced them. I couldn’t find their bodies – but I did find the heads.
Yes, I can hardly believe that I’m writing this, but that’s what I found – five
tiny, severed heads, all carefully impaled on the railings in front of the town
hall, forming a sick and macabre display. I could hardly believe my eyes. I was
horrified, disgusted and also amazed. The amount of effort it must have taken to
remove the heads from the one-inch models and mount them to railings only
millimetres thick. It almost defied belief. I struggled to breathe as I surveyed
the scene – but then I saw it. The Grim Reaper miniature – that hateful figure –
it was just standing there in the middle of main street. It was as if it were
mocking me. It couldn’t possibly be the same model from the previous day. I’d
watched it burn for God’s sake! I stared at the Reaper for a moment before
realising that whoever was doing this must have made several copies of the
figurine to mess with my head. I felt paranoid in that moment, scanning the
horizon as I imagined my tormenter was watching me from afar. I soon reassured
myself however. I felt sure the vandal was too much of a coward to show his face
during daylight. He would surely return under the cover of darkness, but next
time I’d be waiting for him. In a fit of rage I stomped the Grim Reaper under my
boot, crushing it into little pieces. Enough is enough. Tonight I will stand
guard right here and catch the bastard in the act. He’s going to regret he ever
messed with me. 12 July 2001 – I am in Hell…Is this real? I don’t understand and
I’m so scared. I fell asleep at some point during the night, lying on the grass
beside my precious village. It wasn’t my intention to do so but I was so tired.
When I awoke I instantly realised something wasn’t right. It seems like a
nightmare but somehow it’s real. The grass I’d slept upon was now as tall as I
was. I stared at the blades in astonishment and then at the mud beneath my feet.
In confusion I staggered forwards, pushing my way through the tall grass and
hoping in vain that there was some kind of logical explanation. I saw a
dandelion twice my size and almost had a heart attack, but this was only the
start of it. As I trudged through the mud, I saw the dirt in front of me move as
something huge emerged from beneath the ground. I stepped back, recoiling in
horror as I watched a massive, slimy snake-like beast burrow its way up to the
surface and slither out from the hole it had created. It took me a moment to
realise what I was seeing, as its pink, segmented form wiggled out into the
open. It was an earth worm but grown to an immense size….an impossible size,
easily as long as I was high and with a body as thick as my thigh. I stood
there, paralysed in fear as I watched the beast blindly slithering towards me.
But a moment later, a huge shadow appeared above my head – a massive form which
dwarfed both me and the worm. There was an almighty squawk, a high-pitched din
that almost deafened me. A second later and the huge, winged beast dived down,
reaching out with its mighty talons. I watched on in terror as the creature
rapidly impaled the earth worm with its sharp talons before it secured it within
a mighty beak. The winged beast squawked again as it flapped its vast wings and
ascended back into the blue skies. I looked up as my unlikely saviour flew away
and was once again astonished to recognise the black, brown and white feathers
of the ‘monster’ bird, which I realised was nothing more than a common garden
sparrow. I broke in that moment, still not understanding but knowing I was in
grave danger. I sprinted for so long, cutting my way though the tall blades of
grass and the giant wildflowers. Eventually I reached the edge of the grassland
and found myself walking on hard concrete. I stopped and looked ahead, and then
I saw it – Mosvil, my miniature village. Except it wasn’t miniature anymore. The
scale was one-to-one. The town hall towered above me and the wrecked church
stood in front of me, and the villagers were equal to my own height. My tired
brain struggled to comprehend the terrifying implications, and the answer was as
obvious as it was impossible. Mosvil hadn’t magically grown to full size
overnight, but instead I’d been shrunk. Inexplicably I was now a mere inch tall,
potential prey to insects and small birds and with nothing but the clothes on my
back and the diary I carried with me, which has also been shrunken to a
proportionally small size.What’s more, I was trapped in my own creation – a
resident of my miniature village and entirely cut off from the real world. I
tried to control my panic as I slowly walked along the main street that I’d so
carefully built and maintained over all these years. I was certainly frightened
by this inexplicable development, but also exhilarated at seeing my beloved
Mosvil in a way I’d never thought possible in my wildest dreams. But my boyish
fascination didn’t last, as soon I had a new threat to deal with. I heard a
familiar sound – a foul hissing amplified one hundred fold. When I looked up I
saw the beast – a leviathan to me in my reduced form. It was the black tomcat –
the stray which had caused me trouble over the last few weeks. I’d been able to
see the feline off easily enough when I was a six-foot-tall man, but now the
‘small’ cat was as big as a T-rex in comparison to my puny size. It stood at the
far end of the village – its hungry green eyes glaring at me like I was nothing
more than a kitty treat. I gasped in horror as I saw the cat stand up tall, its
ears pinned back and eyes widening before it charged. The monster stomped along
the concrete main street, the ground shaking under its huge size and weight. I
ran for my life, desperately seeking sanctuary as the predator rapidly closed
the gap. I made it to the town hall just in the nick of time, sprinting in
through the doorway and diving into cover. The cat reached the door a second
later, but thankfully it was far too big to get inside. It glared into the
entryway with its predatory eyes, opening its maw to reveal huge and sharp
fangs. And then it shoved its paw through the tiny doorway, reaching out with
its deadly claws. I screamed, retreating back to the far wall and as far away as
possible from the clawing attack. Fortunately, I was just out of reach of the
predator and so remained relatively safe inside of the structure. The cat
continued its attempt to break in, but thankfully without success. I hoped it
would give up and seek alternative prey, but instead the beast lay down on the
main street, glaring at the town hall as it patiently waited for me to come out.
Its as if the cat has a personal vendetta against me and won’t give up until I’m
in its belly. I remained trapped inside the town hall as I write this – without
food, water or any prospect of rescue. I’m alone and scared, and I don’t know
how I’ll get out of this in one piece. 12 July 2001 (evening) – The cat left
shortly after dusk. Actually, it didn’t so much leave as it fled. I heard a
high-pitched miaow before the beast sped off at top speed, shaking the ground
beneath its paws. I was relieved but also concerned. What in hell had scared the
feline away? Was it another cat or dog? I feared I might be in even greater
danger than before. But then again, perhaps the cat had been frightened off by a
human being? Had my sister come looking for me? If so, maybe she could save me
from this hellish predicament. I cowered in the town hall for several more hours
before I felt brave enough to poke my head out of the door. To my relief I saw
it was all clear. The cat was nowhere in sight, but nor was anyone else. Feeling
a bit bolder, I opted to explore the village under the dim light of the moon and
the stars. This was not a wise decision. As I cautiously walked down the main
street – past the model shops and lamp posts – I had the unsettling feeling that
I was being watched. My throat was dry as I hadn’t had anything to drink in the
best part of 24 hours, and so I proceeded to the stream, cupping water in my
hands and slurping it up greedily. For a moment I felt better, but then I raised
my head and I saw it. The Grim Reaper figurine, standing just behind the gate to
the manor house, glaring down upon me from the hillside. This was its third
appearance – except now it was no longer a tiny model I could crush underneath
my foot. The Reaper was now as tall as I was. I felt sure that this thing –
whatever it was…surely it was responsible for my grim predicament, using some
form of dark magic to reduce me to this tiny stature. I can’t explain why, but
in that moment a cold terror pulsated through me as I believed I was in mortal
danger. Turning on my heels, I fled for my life, sprinting back to the town hall
and sealing myself inside. I’m still here – cold, afraid and hungry. I won’t
dare to leave my sanctuary again before dawn. I can only hope and pray that my
prospects improve. 12/07/2001 (don’t know what time) – My God, hell has come to
my door! My own creations have turned against me. I write frantically as I don’t
have much time. I slept for a short spell, waking some time in the early hours.
When I went to the window my heart froze as I witnessed my worst nightmare come
to life. All my villagers were standing there out on the main street – the
artisans, the schoolchildren and all the professions…even the five previously
taken, minus their heads. They all stood there with menacing intent, forming a
mob and facing the town hall. Those who still had their heads looked different
than before…the smiles once on their faces now turned into mouths emitting
silent screams, and their once friendly eyes now narrowed in anger. At their
head was my nemesis – the dreaded Grim Reaper, his scythe in hand as he pointed
the sinister weapon in my direction. And then it started. The Reaper gave the
order, lowering his scythe and pointing it in my direction. This was the signal.
To my shock and horror, the villagers all suddenly came to life – slowly
marching forward in an awkward, almost mechanical fashion. I had no doubt that
they meant to do me harm. I cower inside as I scribble this note – which will
surely be my final words. They are banging on the doors and windows, trying to
break in. There is no escape. I hope against hope that someone will find this
journal and get word to my family…To my sister, nephew and niece…I’m so sorry
that I pushed you away. I love you all…” This was my uncle’s last entry, and I
don’t mind telling you that his final words moved me to tears. You’re probably
wondering how I discovered my late uncle’s diary. Well, in many ways it was by
pure chance whilst I was clearing out the site. The journal was still in its
reduced size – a micro-miniature book, less than a quarter of an inch in
dimension. I could well have ended up throwing it out along with all the other
tiny models, but as I held it in the palm of my hand I had a feeling which made
me think of my uncle. I had to acquire specialist equipment to view the tiny
book and use a powerful microscope to read my uncle’s words. His terrible end
defied belief, and yet I knew in my heart it was the truth. I never told my
mother about my discovery, fearing what it would do to her. She went to her
grave without ever knowing the truth. There was no body to bury and I can only
assume his tiny corpse was taken away by his killers or consumed by local
wildlife. I don’t like to dwell on it however, as it sickens me to imagine my
uncle’s final moments. As for Mosvil, I had it completely demolished and sold
the land. I’ve never returned to the location in all the years since. I can’t
help but feel that this bizarre tragedy would not have happened if David had
kept in touch with his family. In the end you could say that his obsession
killed him. I don’t know what you’ll make of this story. I still don’t fully
understand it myself. All I know is that there are dark powers beyond our
comprehension, and my Uncle David sadly fell foul of them. So, my final advice
is to take care, because you can never know where an unhealthy obsession will
lead you.


THE DREHLEIER 7K+




I found the following letter in a music text book in our school library. It’s
pretty weird, but thought it would be best to share it here…make of it what you
will. “Hey. I’ve been mulling over sharing this or not for the past two weeks. I
can’t tell anyone, no one would believe me. But things are getting strange and I
just really need to get this out of my system. I’m a second-year music teacher
currently teaching in Vienna. It’s always been my dream to come here to teach
and soak up the sheer history of the place. To think the likes of Mozart,
Beethoven and even Schubert walked these streets just blows my mind.It’s been a
long journey and the process was arduous at times. The remote interviews were
tough and thorough. I’d been nervous as hell and convinced I’d messed them up.
But though I initially stammered through my introduction, I quickly found my
flow and was confident I’d aced the interview when I’d started telling the
interviewer all about my love of Mozart and his lost song “Ich wiege dich in
meinem Arm.” Lo and behold, several weeks later I got my visa and I’m heading
out to Vienna. I’d visited years before for a school trip, but I’d forgotten how
beautiful it was. The architecture and the sense of art seemed to radiate from
every corner. I spent hours walking street after street searching out the
locations of so many of my heroes. Anyway, I was lucky enough to secure rooms,
admittedly in a not-so-great part of the city. But for the money, I didn’t have
much choice. Regardless, it felt like life was falling into place. The students
were easy-going and within the first month, it felt like I’d made several pretty
solid new friends with the staff already. I’d been lucky enough to get my dream
job at a school in Vienna for musicians. This was it, I’d told myself. Then
winter rolled around. Now I’m from the West so dam, it came as a shock. I can’t
remember the last time I saw snow that thick and unfortunately for me, my
apartment’s heating was next to none existent. But the beauty of that
snow-covered city just made it all worthwhile. It was like waking up in the
scene of a picture postcard every day. November had rolled around way sooner
than expected and my plans to head home to celebrate my birthday had quickly
evaporated with the deluge of work that had come my way. I felt pretty
disappointed and I think my colleagues got that from me. So you can imagine my
delight when they announced they were taking me out for drinks at some fancy
restaurant around Innere Stadt in the city. It was such a thoughtful gesture of
theirs and it made me feel not so bad for being stuck out here.So as planned, we
finished up for the day and headed out into the cold streets of Vienna. It was
such an amazing night. We ate so much and it turned out a few of my colleagues
were also huge G.O.T. nerds like me so we ended up discussing that until the
early hours. It had probably been because of this that when I checked my watch I
realized I’d stayed out later than I first intended. I needed to get back home.
So knowing no one else is heading my way I begin weighing up the cost of an Uber
or Taxi which I know is going to be pretty high with just me on her own. Then
luckily one of my team suggests the U-Bahn train which supposedly still ran
pretty late. Knowing the stop is a stone’s throw from my apartment, I figure
this a better (and cheaper) option and agree. So, escorted by my colleagues I’m
safely dropped off at the station, where I buy a ticket, I’m wished Happy
Birthday one more time, and wave good night. It felt really weird arriving on
the platform that late in contrast to the bustle of the daytime. There were the
usual suspects you’d expect, the drunken partygoers, heads nodded forwards into
their laps. Along with the late-night workers shuffling home from the shifts,
eyes too tired to focus. That cold air had hit me hard too and I was feeling the
effects of too many glasses of wine. I decided it might be best to sit down. So
duly, I fired up my music, put in my headphones, and tried to somehow make
myself comfortable on one of the station’s cold plastic seats. The next thing I
remembered was the clunk of a train door opening as a carriage pulls into the
station. I panicked, I’d fallen asleep and now had no idea what time it was.
Somehow it only took me a split second to grab my stuff and leap aboard,
literally fighting back those closing doors. Anyway, relieved to have made it
onto the train, I slump breathless into a seat and start to drift into that
comfortable feeling of drunken numbness you get as the train begins to whine and
rumble out of the station. Glancing around I was surprised to see the lights on
the train were significantly duller than most U-Bahn trains, and the majority of
the carriage was bathed in shadow. With only a handful of passengers sharing my
carriage, situated way down in the darker end. Just outlines in the murk. The
lights too needed fixing and would flash sporadically. In doing so, occasionally
I’d catch sight of a passenger’s face. The weird thing was, no one appeared to
be on their phones or, given the time of night, asleep. Instead, they gazed at
the floor or out the windows into the darkness surrounding the exterior train.
The riders seemed, uncomfortable. There was an odd vibe, something I couldn’t
put my finger on. I couldn’t help noticing how each of the passenger’s
expressions seemed remarkably sorrowful – and for a second I would have said
that in the half-light of the carriage, their skin had appeared grey, almost
translucent under the luminescent lighting. Again I put it down to too much
alcohol and so clearly not too worried, I’d once again allowed that comforting
rocking motion of the train and the ‘clack a clack’ of the rail to wash over me
once more as I felt myself drift into sleep. I wasn’t sure how long I’d closed
my eyes for when the sound of someone quietly crying had woken me. It had been a
strange, pitiful mewling sound. Glancing down the carriage, I’d been struck that
a handful of new passengers had joined the train and that several of my fellow
passengers from before had departed. The new riders had sat on either side of
me. Again they seemed to be doing their best in fixing their eyes away from each
other, staring out the windows into the tunnel beyond. Looking for the source of
the crying, I’d quickly realized the sound had been coming from a passenger, who
couldn’t have been much older than me. The person, smartly dressed was seated
diagonally across from me and appeared to be weeping quietly whilst rocking in
her seat. I’d glanced around her, but none of my fellow passengers seemed the
least bit interested or concerned with the distraught woman. With no intention
of involving themselves in something which didn’t matter to them. Aware that
this was a peak time for encountering abnormal behavior down on the u-bahn I’d
shamefully hesitated to intervene, conscious that to do so might invite unwanted
attention. I was still a foreigner here and I’d heard the stories of people
running into trouble abroad. It was whilst I’d been contemplating what to do
next that another sound in the carriage had quickly broken my train of thought.
The sound was sharp, discorded, a harsh contrast amidst the quiet carriage. A
noise that I’d not heard for many years. A sound that I remembered listening to
in school sometimes. It went under a variety of different names. ‘Hurdy-Gurdy’
‘Viella A Roue’ but I knew it best as the old, German medieval instrument we had
in our school. A Drehleier. A noise that seemed so out of place now on this
train. As I peered into the darkness of the adjoining carriage, I’d first caught
a glimpse of the source. A silhouette nimbly, swept through the clattering
train. In the figure’s hands, it held the small black instrument. The odd thing
was, there had been no audible footstep from the figure, just that incessant
whine of its ancient-looking, wooden Drehleier as the figure had made its way
past the passengers. As the player stepped into the fluorescent glow I shuddered
as it’s mask caught in the light. The white tone of the mask’s painted face and
the player’s crooked, uncanny gait made a cold shiver run down my spine. It
appeared off-kilter, unlike the other buskers I’d seen. As the Drehleier player
grew nearer, I found myself staring as it crept almost theatrically through the
carriage. Step by exaggerated step. But unlike other buskers I found it so
strange that the busker paid no notice to the other passengers, never seeking
money, instead, its eyes remained fixed on the crying passenger. What was also
strange was the seeming surge of relief seemed which seemed to pass over each
passenger as the figure stepped passed them. None would dare look upon the
prancing player, instead, the riders would continue their gaze into the interior
of the carriage, into the gloom. Then as the busker finally neared the woman
adjacent to her I’d been able to catch a full glimpse of the musician. The
busker wore an elaborate costume. A long lacy tunic covered its wiry body whilst
an elongated white wooden mask that had adorned the figure’s face. The mask had
done a particularly poor job at hiding the oddly stretched face which lay in the
shadow underneath. Though what was noticeable was a bulbous chin and matted long
hair half concealed underneath. The mask itself had been carved into a rictus
grin, much in the same way as the classic theatrical masks I’d remembered from
school. But the thing that had stuck with me most had been the eyes. Wide and
bright, like saucers. Large black saucers with only a sliver of white around
each one. It was an expression of seeming madness. They were hideous. Looking
down at the instrument I could see how the figure’s long fingers were clad in a
pair of old-looking, cracked, black leather gloves. I’d watched mesmerized as
the fingers had flown over the Drehleier like a dancing spider – and though I
wasn’t aware of the tune the musician played, I’d felt an instant uncanny
familiarity to it like it had been something I’d once heard years ago as a
child. But the most unsettling aspect for me was how the entire time the person
played, the Drehleier player’s eyes had seemingly remained fixated on the crying
passenger. This complex and impressive musical performance didn’t seem to
impress the woman in the slightest. In fact, it seemed to alarm her even more
and her sobbing grew in intensity with every turn of the instrument’s handle.
I’d suddenly become aware that the music’s tempo had risen both in volume and
tempo. The figure’s fingers flew faster over the strings whilst it turned the
instrument’s handle over and over. Then I’d watched in confusion as the player
had begun to dance, ‘hopping’ from side to side. The movement was oddly inhuman,
almost like it had spent a second too long in the air leaping from toe to toe.
By this time the loudness of the music had reached an ear-piercing crescendo –
and I’d been tempted to say something, but then a second later, it stopped. As I
stared at the Drehleier player’s back, I’d watched as it made a particularly
peculiar gesture, slowly removing his mask and in a low, extravagant bow, he
extended an outstretched palm to the sobbing woman in front of him. By this
point the passenger before it was gulping back tears, looking pained by the
performance before her. I watched in astonishment I saw the woman’s trembling
hands feel in her pockets before placing a small coin-like object into the
player’s outstretched glove. Like a clockwork toy, this token of payment had
seemingly brought the figure back to life. Immediately springing back into
action. Stiffly, the busker had pocket the coin and lifted the mask to its face.
In such close proximity, I’d had caught sight of its features. Though I never
saw it clearly, I just recalled a flash of grey, mottled skin. Skin that
seemingly hadn’t looked right on the face of something so animated. Then the
train had lurched sideways with that familiar motion of the brakes being applied
as we approached a station. Drowsily I’d turned to look out darkened windows. I
froze. There was no station. A total void of blackness lay outside the glass. As
I looked on in confusion, the doors of the train slowly slid apart, revealing a
dimly lit platform with a wall of black tiles. No lights, no seats, and no clear
exits. A ghost station. The busker had stood quietly to one side of the doors as
if gesturing to the woman to disembark. As the lady rose to quietly step off the
train so, she turned and for the briefest of moments the passenger’s eyes locked
onto mine. I’d attempted to speak but found myself frozen to the spot. Her
expression was horrific. I made me think of a term my religious mother used to
use ‘harrowed.’ ‘Harrowed from hell.’ As if to signal for the woman to hurry,
once again the busker had dropped and bowed to the passenger. The woman,
seemingly unhappy to be disembarking had stumbled forwards into the dark beyond,
looking around disorientated. Then, as she gulped back tears I’d watched her
feel her way into the darkness until she was swallowed by the darkness. As I
searched for the words, unsure of what I was watching, to my horror the doors
had suddenly slid shut and once more the train lurched onwards. She was gone.
The whole event probably took no more than a minute. The response from the rest
of the carriage had been non-existent and shortly after, that terrible sound of
the whining Drehelier continued once more. I was shocked and angered. What had I
just seen? If it had been a theatrical performance I was convinced that the
staging would be too elaborate, too fantastic. No, I was certain I’d just
witnessed some sort of targeted mugging, arranged by perhaps a gang? The woman’s
reactions had been too real. The fear from the other passengers was absolute.
Annoyed I’d frantically looked for an emergency cord or driver intercom to
summon help. However, neither was immediately apparent in the dark train.
Appalled at the other passengers’ lack of intervention, I’d reached my limit and
found myself standing to confront the busker. The words came out stilted, far
meeker than I’d intended. ‘Hey – What do you think you’re…?’ The reaction was
instant. The sound of the Drehleier ceased and the carriage fell silent. The
busker, stumbled momentarily as if forgetting its step and I watched as a small
silver disc had fallen from the player, rolling across the floor of the carriage
before hitting my shoe. Slowly, kneeling, I’d instinctively leaned down to
collect the coin. The audible gasps from my silent fellow passengers had irked
me. Somehow this is what it had taken for them to show any reaction? But as soon
as that coin was in my hand, the busker was upon me. Taken aback I fell
backwards into my chair. I’d never seen someone move that fast and I’d felt my
blood run cold as the player stared down upon me. That hideous mask and those
two black orbs under it boring into my own. Irritated I’d attempted to push the
busker away, feeling it invade my own space. But it had been then when I’d felt
the tugging on her clothing on either side of me. Two passengers pawed at my
coat, clutching at it tightly whilst they aimlessly mouthed words at me. They
appeared drunk, almost in a daze. But somehow they seemed desperately trying to
articulate something which remained unspoken. Even more annoyed I’d shouted at
the passengers telling them to ‘let me go,’ even going too far to strike out at
them. But each hit seemed to do nothing to dissuade either one of them. Instead,
they’d held on staring mournfully at me, opening and closing their mouths like
fishes. It had been then when I’d first heard the music start once more. That
same Drehleier tune I’d heard before. Though now it had changed. Now the tune
sounded even more discorded If sounded ‘wrong’, like the tune, was being played
backward. Looking away from my fellow passengers I’d watched unsettled as the
Drehleier player had once more begun its leaping, but this time the actions
looked out of time. His elaborate dance routine was stiffer and more crooked
than before. His limb movements were somehow even more unnatural. Like an old
puppet with half-broken strings.Staring around the carriage I’d willed the other
passengers to intervene. Yet the other riders had simply sat staring at me, fear
had overtaken them. Freeing myself from the grasp of the passengers I’d found
myself staggering towards the next carriage. But as I did so I felt the familiar
pull from the passengers, seemingly reaching out to stop me. Yelling at them my
words were met with the same wide-eyed terror. As my yells and the sound of the
instrument rose, I felt the strangest thing happen. That previous mild sensation
of a drunken need for sleep had suddenly risen in urgency. A sudden need to let
go, like a flood through my body powered by the music, washing through every
muscle. An exhaustion I’d never felt before. Abruptly I’d crumpled onto the cold
metal floor of the train. As the warm sensation of slumber took hold I’d tried
to fight it, biting my lip, pinching myself but nothing made any difference –
and as the sound of the Drehleier grew ever closer I’d felt myself forgetting
why I was resisting. My lasting memory, the hideous Drehleier player’s mask and
the maddened eyes behind, boring into my own as that horrific discorded music
reached an ear-piercing crescendo. It must have been over an hour later when I’d
woken. Darkness surrounded me. Unable to see in the dark, I was aware the space
I was in was far colder than before. Tentatively I felt about myself and was
quickly made aware I was no longer on the train’s metal floor. Instead, this
floor felt colder, harder. I’d suddenly panicked as I’d distinctively felt the
touch of stone and brickwork. I’d been thrown out of the train. Quickly getting
to my feet I used my phone’s torch, sweeping it desperately around me. My
suspicions had been confirmed, I was in a ghost station, a disused part of the
line no longer utilized for passenger services. There were no clear exits and no
phone service. I was stranded. Countless year’s worth of thick, black dust lay
on bleached, ghost signs for tobacco and sweets. Spiders scuttled over long
discarded cigarette ends. Glancing down at the rails I was shocked to see they’d
appeared warped and rusty, seemingly unused for decades. How had I got here?
None of it had made any sense. Attempting to stay calm I’d run my hands over the
walls, urgently searching the platform, eager for some sort of exit. But no
evident way-outs were visible. Just my fingers touching moldy black walls which
seemed to go on forever. It had been then, when trying not to breathe in clouds
of decades-old dust, my fingers had first felt the rotten piece of wooden
hoarding. Hopeful, I’d scrabbled at the panel trying to free it. To my relief it
moved and behind I first caught a glimpse of the ancient-looking doorway. Taking
a brick from the platform I’d chiseled away at the panel, cutting my hands
multiple times in the process but gritting my teeth through the pain.
Eventually, my persistence paid off and the old wooden barrier broke. Aware of
my now very low phone battery, I stumbled forward desperate for any sign of
civilization. It was as I did I first thought I’d heard the sound. A single
note, a familiar discorded whine. Not stopping to check, I found myself pushing
further into the darkness beyond. It was dense, thick, my small phone light
doing little to shine a way in the gloom. Disheartened I found one tunnel led to
another and then to another and another. Sobbing I’d screamed and screamed my
lungs out for hours, banging bricks against pipes and walls in the hope of being
heard. All the way I was conscious of the screech of rats and the thick
spiderwebs and arachnid egg sacks that seemed to dance around me. – and
occasionally the sound of something else in the distance…and all too familiar
whine. Then, after what had seemed like an eternity a miracle occurred. I heard
a shout back. I found out later that by pure luck a passing maintenance team had
taken a disused tunnel. In doing so they’d heard my calls and after extensive
shouts, they’d been able to pinpoint my location. Half an hour later they’d
broken through brickwork and found me. Cold, frightened, and bleeding. The
maintenance crew was dumbfounded. They’d told me the section of underground
railway I’d been found in had been abandoned for decades. No trains had run that
way since pre-war. There was no clear explanation for how I had gained entry to
a ghost station. However, my relief was short-lived, as once taken to safety and
cleaned up I’d been quickly threatened with prosecution for trespass. But those
threats had quickly been dismissed as I angrily threatened court action against
them. How would it sound to hear that the U-Bahn company had somehow left a
young girl alone at a disused station? I would take it to the press, hell the
embassy. Terrified of the rammifications, the station manager had to admit there
was no other route and I was sent home in a taxi. The matter was over. Closed.
Well, that’s what I’d thought anyway. Anyway, I got home, washed the layers of
black dust off me, and decided to try and sleep. Eight hours later, life felt
more normal. I reasoned with myself that I was a rational person and there had
to be a rational answer. Perhaps I had drunk something too strong or perhaps
someone had put something in my drink when I wasn’t looking. But I remember how
I’d felt on that train, the fear – the terrible whining sound and…that thing.
Regardless I went back to work and didn’t tell anyone about it. Hell how could
I? The U-Bahn staff would never share anything and nor would I. I guess it had
probably been several days later when I’d put my clothes in the wash. As I’d
emptied my jeans’ pockets, the distinct metallic clattering sound of a coin
hitting the floor made me freeze. Pausing, I reached down to pick the object up
off the floor. I recognized it instantly. It was the woman’s old token from the
train. I’d felt my breath catch in my throat. A relic from something I’d assumed
was a nightmare, but suddenly in my hand in the cold light of day it seemed very
real again. In the daylight the object had looked far more heavily tarnished
than I’d remembered. On one side several lines had been scored by a sharp point,
illustrating a range of crude symbols. It was unclear what it represented but at
a push, I might have said it could have been an elongated face. The only symbol
I did recognize was the one in it’s center. An Octave, a note I knew only too
well after countless hours marking papers discussing it’s a mathematical ratio
of 2:1. The thing that stayed with me was the adjacent side of the coin, on
which just a single date had been indented – with a line as if suggesting
another had been planned but never indented. 20TH NOVEMBER 1997 – My birthday.
I’d done my best to reason with myself that my birthday being the same as the
date in front of me was purely coincidental. I had to, there was no other
option. Heck perhaps I’d scored it there myself in a drunken haze. It’s foolish
now to think I’d rationalized it so quickly. It had been the next day when I’d
heard the Drehleier music first again. Admittedly I’d taken it to be another
student in school, practicing in one of the closed rooms. But when I’d gone to
investigate there’d been no one there. When I asked my colleagues, they’d been
confused they’d heard no sounds, the rooms had been locked, empty all day. That
evening I went home and threw away the coin. But the next day it was back, sat
on my bedside table when I woke. There was no question, I’d definitely thrown it
away. Over the next two weeks, I’d heard the sound over and over again. First
whilst out shopping. A harsh whine in the ‘Supermarkt’ I’d cried in shock as the
piercing shriek of the Drehleier seemed to echo down the aisle, dropping my
shopping in the process. The shopper next to me stared as if I’d lost my mind.
But then I heard it once more – and turning, I caught the edge of a ragged tunic
as something dark and nimble leapt behind a display of cereal boxes. But of
course, when I’d run down to them, there’d been nothing there. Later I heard it
at night, often somewhere outside my window. I asked my neighbors but no one
knew what I was talking about. I heard them whispering about “the crazy
foreigner.” It’s been two weeks and nearly one day and the sound gets louder
every night. Sometimes I can’t sleep it’s so loud. I’m sure I’ve seen ‘it’,
lurking in the hedges outside the apartment block. – and no matter how many
times I throw away the coin, it keeps coming back. So this I believe is my last
option. You might believe me when I saw this, but truly I’m so, so sorry… “
After I read the letter I’d reached out to the library but they’ve got no record
of the person who left it there. There’s no further information on the person in
question. But I did remember reading a story about a missing music teacher in
Vienna some time ago. There was one final detail of note. On the back of the
letter, a single coin was affixed with tape. On one side was an octave on the
other a single date was scrawled on. It’s my birthday.


THE SECRETS OF MR. THOMAS 5K+




In every neighbourhood, on every street in North America there is that one
person who just doesn’t fit in with the rest. Sometimes they are an elusive
recluse that rarely ventures much further then the mailbox. Sometimes they are a
grumpy senior citizen who seems to hate all things fun. On my street that person
is Mr. Thomas. He is an elderly man who is always found either in his home or
sitting on his back porch. He detests people even stepping a foot on his
property and has been known to threaten civil action against those antagonize
him. If you ever had the police show up on a noise complaint you can bet Mr.
Thomas made that call. If your ball or Frisbee went over his fence then you
might as well kiss it goodbye because you were never going to get it back. This
caused all the children of our street to fear and despise him. He was the grumpy
boogeyman of Wilson St. It is sad really because us older children remember a
time when none of that was the case.When I was a boy Mr. Thomas was the sweet
old man from down the street. Whenever you walked by he was always on the front
porch with a smile on his face, ready with a friendly wave and a pleasant hello.
Mrs. Thomas would always have treats on hand and nothing could beat her home
made gingerbread cookies. When it came to Halloween and Christmas no one went
more all out then the Thomas house. They were the shining jewels of the
neighbourhood and beloved by all. That was until 6 years ago, when everything
changed. It was a pleasant 4th of July evening and everyone was coming back from
the fireworks. We could hear a series of loud cries coming from the Thomas
house. My parents and I rushed over to find Mr. Thomas sitting on his back porch
with his face covered in tears. My parents asked what was wrong multiple times
and he just kept repeating the words “She’s gone!” It didn’t take them long to
know who he was talking about and they rushed in expecting to find Mrs. Thomas
on the floor having suffered a heart attack or stroke. However multiple searches
of the house turned up empty. They asked him again and again where she was only
to get the same answer of “gone”. The police came and took over questioning from
there however they received no better answers then my parents had. After days of
questioning and investigation the police were forced to let him go having no
evidence of foul play. The neighbourhood was a bustle with rumors and theories
about what happened to Mrs. Thomas. The most rational one was that their
marriage had been struggling for years until finally she snapped and abandoned
him. The other theory that became popular among the children was that he had
murdered his wife and buried her body in the woods behind their house. I didn’t
know what theory to believe all I cared about was that the pleasant couple from
down the street was truly gone forever. My parents said it was just grieving but
Mr. Thomas was never the same after that night. He became a hermit overnight not
wanting to be seen by the public. His favorite chair on the porch became forever
vacant and his garden withered from neglect. When October came you would not
find so much as a rubber bat as a decoration on his door. The Thomas Christmas
party that was once treasured tradition was now little more then a memory. It
would seem that Mr. Thomas’ love of holidays had vanished with his wife. However
the holiday he hated the most was of course the 4th of July. If he even heard so
much as a fire cracker he would send a call to the police station. For several
years he sent out a petition to ban all fireworks displays in town. Those
petitions never saw more then his solitary signature lining it’s pages.
Eventually he just stopped trying all together. That was when the wind chimes
started. Overnight he seemed to become an avid collector of every windchime on
the market. At first it seemed promising, that perhaps picking up a hobby was
the old Mr. Thomas coming back. This was however not the case as his smile never
returned. He placed windchimes on every one of his doors and windows. Some
people thought this was his way of getting revenge for the fireworks as when the
wind blew even a big banger seemed quiet compared to the clangs coming from his
home. A few people debated on making a petition of their own but in the end no
one had the heart to do it. Whether from fear or pity everyone wanted to leave
the old man alone. All that changed this 4th of July. My parents found a movie
in my room with X’s as the rating instead of PG-13 and as such I was forbidden
to attend the fireworks display. I sat in my room blankly staring at the
television when the strangest thought went through my brain. “This must be how
Mr. Thomas feels all the time.” I grew sad remembering the man who once was.
Today would be the hardest and loneliest day of the year for the old man. I
could just picture him sitting all alone in his empty living room and I felt a
great sense of pity for him. Then an idea that would make my younger peers faint
entered my mind. I wanted to go and try to comfort him. My parents barred me
from attending the show but that didn’t mean I had to remain in the house. I
simply shrugged then made up my mind to go and at least try to visit him. The
streets were unnervingly dark and quiet. With everyone down at the park the
neighbourhood felt more like a ghost town. The thought sent a strange chill down
my back and I quickened my pace. Mr. Thomas’ house was the only one on the
street with any lights on and I knew he was home (as if I had any doubt to begin
with). I walked slowly up his driveway and knocked gently on his door. I thought
he might storm out with a scowl on his face and a shotgun in his hand however
something even stranger happened. The door slowly swung open at my gentle knock.
The idea of his door being unlocked was surprising enough but to be left open
was a complete anomaly. “Mr. Thomas?” I asked well poking my head through the
door. This was the first time I had entered their house since Mrs. Thomas’
birthday party over 6 years ago and at first glance it seemed like it hadn’t
changed a bit. Their fall coats still hung waiting for their chance to be used
again and one never would. The house was completly quiet and I considered
leaving but with the door left open I became worried about Mr. Thomas’ safety. I
tip toed though his foyer. “Mr. Thomas are you here? It’s Jimmy from down the
street. I was just checking to see if you were ok.” I called out into the
silence of the room. No sound met my call. I stepped into the living room and
was almost unnerved by what I saw. I was completly surrounded by images of Mrs.
Thomas. Every inch of mantle and table space was covered with framed pictures of
her smiling face. I felt sadness well up in me for it had been years since I had
seen her and I had almost forgotten how radiant her smile was. I was then filled
with a different feeling all together, confusion. This wasn’t the living room of
a man who murdered his wife, nor one that was abandoned by her. What ever
happened to Mrs. Thomas, her husband loved and missed her terribly. I turned
towards the dining room and was instantly assaulted by a very different series
of images. Covering all the walls were drawings and paintings that I couldn’t
quite make out. Some of them were of splashes of color in a spiral, others of
tall black figures with no discernible features. The images that unnerved me the
most were of a pair of black and purple orbs. It seemed to be that Mr. Thomas
had drawn these the most. They ranged in quality with some looking like they
were drawn with shaking hands and others looking like a master painter had drawn
them. Those orbs seemed to drill right into me and I became uncomfortable in
their presence. The drawings were so erratically placed on every inch of the
walls that they radiated with a single word “madness.”. I considered leaving
then and there but that was when I spotted the door. Laying on the hardwood
floor was the door leading to the basement. It had been ripped clean off it’s
hinges from the outside. I went over and tried to lift it only to discover that
this door was made out of solid steel. This was the type of entryway that you
might find on a bomb shelter. It possessed every type of lock known to man and
yet someone or something had torn it off as if it were plastic. I felt fear like
I had never known take hold of me and it was taking all my will not to run away
screaming. Leading away from the basement was a trail of scratch marks heading
towards the back door. It looked as if someone was dragged across the floor
fighting the whole way. A voice in my head was screaming for me to run, to go
home and call the police but what if Mr. Thomas needed help now? I couldn’t
abandon this old man when it seemed like his life was in danger. Against all
logic I followed the trail of scratches leading to the back porch. The back yard
showed even more signs of a struggle. The balcony rods were missing chunks of
wood as if someone grabbed on with all of their might. In the lawn several
patches of grass were pulled out by the root. I could see a clear imprint of a
body being dragged right into the woods and it looked very fresh. My fear
screamed at me but I could not let it control me now so I ran straight into the
field of trees. I stepped quickly and carefully through the foliage of the
forest. I did not know who was taking Mr. Thomas but I knew that I could not let
them hear me no matter what. The forest seemed far too quiet for a calm summer
night. There were no creatures scurrying around, no owl looking for prey. They
had all been smart enough to hide from the forests invaders. The moon shone
overhead sending long shadows through the trees. I could feel my childhood fear
of those shadows creeping up like a spider and I began to shake. Looking back it
seemed to be so foolish to be afraid for I was about to find out that there were
things much worse then shadows and trees to fear. The trail ended in a small
clearing and there I could see Mr. Thomas kneeling in the dirt. I was about to
call out to him but that was when I noticed he was sobbing. I felt as if I had
gone back in time for those were the same sobs we had all heard exactly 6 years
prior. He looked up into the dark trees on the other side of the clearing and
began to beg. “Please just give her back. I don’t care what happens to me, just
give her back you bastards!” I thought for a moment that he may be suffering
from a delusion for we were alone out here but that was when I saw them and I
had to stifle a scream. At the other end of the clearing what I initially
mistook for shadowy trees were actually figures. The figures were pitch black
and impossibly long. Their bodies were completly disproportionate with legs that
were far too thick and arms that were far too thin. They had to stand at least 7
feet tall with elongated skulls. As my eye adjusted to the darkness I could see
no mouth nor nose on their face. They seemed to be covered in a layer of thick
ooze. That was when I got a whiff of their scent and almost gagged. Their odor
was beyond horrible and completly indescribable. There was nothing on this Earth
that matched their scent. It was at that moment that the thought occurred to me
that these figures were just that, not of this Earth. The thought had me gasping
audibly before I could control myself. All of the figures heads snapped to me at
once and I could see their eyes for the first time. My blood turned cold in my
veins as I stared into those eyes and in an instant I understood what those orbs
in the drawings were. Their eyes were as black as their skin and yet held a
strange violet sheen to them. These were eyes that had seen countless worlds and
galaxies. Eyes that held the secrets of the universe and now they were focused
on me. A strange and nearly skeletal hand rose from the darkness. The hand bore
only three fingers and each tipped with a bulbus frog like pad. Two of the
fingers curled leaving one pointed directly at me. Mr. Thomas turned around and
noticed me for the first time. His eyes held fear at first. Then the eyes turned
to a look of pure guilt and sorrow. A single tear fell from his left eye and I
knew he was apologising to me. As if summoned by some invisible force Mr. Thomas
was pulled into the forest so quickly a scream didn’t even have time to rise
from his throat. The black figures seemed to dissolve into shadows as if they
never were. For a second all was quiet then came a mighty force of wind. The
blast sent every chime on the house shrieking into a crescendo of deafening
music. I was forced to cover my ears to try and muffle the sound in vain. I
looked up just in time to see a spiral of blinding color shooting into the sky.
In what could only be the result of careful planning the color spiral reached
it’s peak height just as the town’s fireworks began blasting into night. The
anomaly was lost in a sea of colors and when all was finished nothing remained
in the sky but a mass of smoke. I don’t know how long I stood there simply
staring at the night sky. Eventually my natural instincts kicked in and I slowly
made my way home so my parent’s wouldn’t know I had left. I told them nothing
when they came home. I debated on telling the authorities about what I saw but
would they believe such an impossible tale from a boy of barely thirteen? I
thought not, no more then they would believe an old man whose wife had just
disappeared. I simply kept my mouth shut and let nature take it’s course. It
took the authorities 8 days to discover that Mr. Thomas was gone and even then
it was only because the mailman noticed that his box hadn’t been emptied. The
police were as clueless to his disappearance as they were with his wife. In the
end most people believe that he left town and committed suicide. Mr. Thomas the
so called boogeyman of Wilson St. was gone. He leaves behind no family and no
next of kin. He only had two true pieces of inheritance of which I am the sole
benefactor. These are madness and solitary knowledge that that these creatures
will be back.


MALE NUMBER 15 8.5K+




Adam held his wife’s hand tightly as the doctor reentered the room. “Mrs Hill?”
Adam could see the lump in her throat moving up and then back down as she
swallowed. “Just tell me Doc.” “You do seem to be the next one.” She hunched
over, nearly throwing up onto the white tiled floor below them. Adam put his arm
around her, pulling her in tight. “The good news is that it was caught early.
It’s still only the size of a grape, so we can easily remove it.” “Jamison’s was
the size of a grape when you caught it too, but the recovery process still
killed him! Same with Martha! And Louise! And Martin!” Her wails were like a
knife in Adam’s ears, arching their way through his head and directly to his
heart. When his coworkers finally got it, he didn’t think he ever would. When
his neighbors finally got it, he didn’t think he ever would. Now Kate has it…
and all he wants is to have it too. A tumor. Then he can perish with her. Over
the course of the last six or so months twenty-three—now twenty-four—have been
diagnosed with cancerous tumors in the brain. That maybe might not be a lot for
a big city like Chicago ro New York, but here in this town of just a little over
five hundred people it was alarming. The EPA has started running tests on the
town’s water supply, and have advised all citizens to drink only bottled water
brought on trucks from outside town. They’ve shut down the local farmers’ market
too and are conducting tests on the soils around town. But they’ve found nothing
so far. And now, Adam didn’t care if they ever did find anything because his
Kate would already be gone. His only hope was the man who now stood before him.
He looked back up at Doctor Stevens. Stevens was one of the top neurosurgeons in
the country that the EPA subsidized to come and live here in this little town
while the epidemic continued. He’d performed twenty-three surgeries here in this
town in all of six months. Only five of those twenty-three have survived, and
two of those five are reportedly in dire health right now. Stevens has performed
hundreds of successful surgeries in his lifetime. Adam, nor anyone else for that
matter, could understand why all of a sudden every one of his surgeries were
failing. It had sent a sense of terror throughout their small community.
Whatever was causing these tumors was more than it seemed. Adam and a few others
had been advocating for the FBI to get involved, for this to become a criminal
investigation, but to no avail. Kate’s diagnosis made it a surefire bet that
Adam would be doubling down on that petitioning. Twenty-three was too many. Kate
added on top of that made that pile seem astronomical. “Misses Hill, I swear to
you this will be resolved.” “I don’t wanna die, Adam! Oh, oh Adam! I… I don’t
wanna die!” “Sh, It’s okay, Kate. It’s Okay. Doctor Stevens promised this will
all be better. It’ll be okay.” “Everyone else who’s had it has died! Adam, I’m
not ready! I’m not ready to die!” “Hey, it’s okay,” Adam squealed, unable to
hold his tears back any longer. “Misses Simmons survived it, didn’t she?” “Who
knows if she’ll die here in the next week?” Adam looked back up at the surgeon,
biting his lip as the sense of dread slowly enveloped him. His eyes pleaded with
the doctor, who could only look on with a somber expression at the sobbing
couple. “Mister Hill, it seems to me that I cannot assure your wife, so I will
attempt to assure you. Your wife will not die. I’ve been getting better with
these tumors—wherever they’re coming from. The five who are still with us are
all some of the more recent victims of this plague, I’m becoming more skilled
with these.” Adam tilted his wife’s head up, looking into her eyes. “You hear
that, honey? Things will be okay. Things will be okay. We’ll get this surgery
done real fast and before you know it you’ll be on the road to recovery.” His
shirt became wetter and wetter, some from his tears, others from his wife.
Whatever the case, he was preparing himself for the worst.Adam stood in the
cemetery the next day, in the section which the town had reserved for the
victims of this epidemic. It was a large swath of land, large enough for the
whole town. They would be the only people ever buried here. The CDC had declared
their community to be under quarantine just last night, and the National Guard
had arrived to enforce it. Not a soul would come in or out except through birth
or death. But one would have to be pretty heartless to bring a child into this
town now. Everyone would be dead within the next few years from this thing,
maybe even by the end of six months by how fast whatever this was has been
spreading. Adam was staring at the spot of land next in line to be filled by a
headstone. He could already see his wife’s name carved in stone there in his
mind’s eye: Katelynn Emily Hudson Hill. Next to hers on the right would soon be
a gravemarker saying Adam John Hill. Yep, she’d be sandwiched right between him
and Jamison. That was their neighbor of five years who had perished just a week
before. He had no idea at that closed-casket funeral that in just a little while
longer Kate would be in the same position. And soon he would be joining them. He
began to walk along the pathway, looking at every grave marker which labeled a
victim of these brain tumors. He could remember every funeral vividly in his
mind’s eye. Watching the casket be lowered into the ground, wishing he could see
each of them just one last time. He turned and looked back into town, the small
collection of houses centered around the local church making him wonder how much
longer a congregation would be meeting there before everyone was dead. Wouldn’t
be too long, he was sure. At any rate, it was getting to be dusk, and the nippy
autumn air was beginning to get colder. It would be best to head back home,
spend some time with Kate before she was gone. He had been avoiding her ever
since he got back from work. He couldn’t bear the sight of her face anymore—it
only reminded him of their limited time. But he oughtn’t avoid her forever. He’d
regret not spending as much time with her as he could, he knew that. It just
seemed like the time they did have was oh so painful. His mind still racing, he
began walking home. Through the small flowerbed at the edge of the cemetery he
went, not caring that he stepped on any of them. His head hung down as he walked
through the gravel streets of town. He didn’t even look up to see Nick’s vintage
pickup truck he’d been restoring. It all just seemed so… so pointless now. The
sun was mostly below the horizon by the time he walked through his front door.
He could hear the television on, and the gentle sound of water boiling on the
stove. He walked into the kitchen where Kate sat on the counter staring blankly
ahead. “Hey, Kate.” “You’re coming home late.” “Yeah. I hit the bar and then the
cemetery, I just needed some time to think.” “You’re so lucky. You get to drink.
The Doc says I can’t have anything before my surgery.” “Well then, don’t have
any. Maximize your chances.” “I’m gonna die anyway, though. Everyone else has
followed his instructions to the letter and look where they are now. I may as
well just live it up before they shove me into a casket and bury me in the
ground.” “Hey, don’t think that way. Negative thinking is just as bad for your
health as a brain tumor.” “Isn’t that just some old wives’ tale? Pseudoscience?”
“No. It’s real.” “Well then I guess I have two brain tumors.” Adam put his hand
on her back. “We’ll get through this. The surgery is in two days from now. In
forty-eight hours it’ll be over and done with, things will be great!” “Or I’ll
be dead.” “Hey, honey, you can’t be talking like that.” She took a deep inhale.
“I know, I know. It’s just hard to not to.” “How about we call Doctor Stevens
first thing in the morning and see if he can bump it up a day, eh? Get it out of
the way by tomorrow?” “Wouldn’t it be better to just let the tumor grow? I’d die
slower, but I’d get to be with you longer.” “I’d rather take a chance that
you’ll be with me for forever than let you die like that, Kate.” She again let
out a large sigh. “Alright.” “Alright what?” “I’ll do it. I’ll do the surgery.”
Adam smiled. “There you go. You wanna do it tomorrow instead of Friday?” She
nodded. “Yeah, best to just get it over and done with.” Kate stared at Adam from
the wheelchair, her knuckles tight as the nurse moved her into the operating
room. Adam bit his lip, staring on at the door as it shut. When he had wanted to
get this over and done with yesterday he hadn’t anticipated that his stress
levels would rise like this. He thought he was already a wreck, like it couldn’t
get any worse. Yet, here he was, able to feel his heart beating against his
ribcage. Doctor Stevens had assured him everything would be okay. They’d keep
Kate here for the next five days to make sure she was okay. She’d be coming home
next Tuesday. That wasn’t so long, was it? Five days. The time would go by in a
flash. He’d just work real hard until then and it’d all be over soon. If those
next several hours were any way of telling, though, those next five days would
not be over soon. Adam swore he’d aged a decade by the time the door finally
opened and the nurse stepped out. “Mister Hill?” “Yes?” “You’re welcome to come
and see her.” A smile whipped across his face as he leapt to his feet. “She’s
okay?” “She is fine right now, yes.” He walked right past the nurse into the
operating room, looking Kate dead in the eye. “Kate?” Her head turned, and she
smiled at him. It felt like an odd smile, though… almost plastic and doll-like.
But he didn’t care. He was just glad she was alright. “Oh, Kate! I’m so glad
you’re fine!” “Sh, no loud noises please, Mister Hill,” Doctor Stevens
instructed. “Please do not touch her either, we don’t want you to jostle
anything too hard.” He nodded, lowering his voice and kneeling by the bedside.
“Thank goodness for these mobile medical centers, huh?” She continued her smile.
“Yes, indeed.” He chuckled. “Brain surgery got you talking all formal, huh?”
“Yes, it most certainly does.” Her monotone voice should have worried him, Kate
always put twice the emotion into her words than anyone he had ever met. That
was one of his favorite things about her. And, surgery shouldn’t have changed
that about her, right? Whatever the case, he just passed it off as drowsiness
from the painkillers and continued their wonderful reunion. “Kate, I told you
that you’d be okay. You’re okay. See? You’re fine. Everything turned out okay.”
Adam wiped his eyes, and the clear vision lasted for but a moment before they
were teared over again. “I love you, so, so, so much! Kate, I love you.” “I
reciprocate your affection,” she said, the plastic smile still holding strong to
her face. Adam got ready for bed quickly that night, he had had a very
emotionally exhausting day and was looking forward to just putting his head on
the pillow. He wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to sleep, though. Afterall,
Kate wasn’t out of the woods yet. But, the most stressful part was over, now it
was just a matter of whether or not she’d join the five other survivors or end
up like everyone at the cemetery. A chill ran up his back as the images of those
gravestones flashed again through his mind. It seemed like everything reminded
him of them lately. He finally did climb up into his bed, yawning and stretching
before shutting his eyes and putting his head on the pillow. The room felt
vacant without his wife by his side to comfort him. It almost put him on edge.
He just tried to focus his thoughts on other things to keep himself from crying.
Oh, how he did miss her. But, no matter, he’d be able to go and visit her in the
mobile medical center tomorrow. He’d be with her then. Everything would be fine.
He was nearly completely asleep when his phone suddenly began to ring. His eyes
flew open, and he looked at the screen. An unknown number. He groaned, hanging
up on them and shutting his eyes again. The number called him back not even a
minute later. “Yes?” he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Is this Mister
Hill?” “Yeah.” “Mister Hill, I’m terribly sorry to inform you but…” His heart
clenched, and he lost all feeling in his lungs. “What? What’s happened? What’s
going on?” “…your wife, she…” “No. No. No no no no no no no!” “…she passed away
about twenty minutes ago.” He dropped the phone on the floor, falling over as
everything went black. He awoke to a knock on his door just a few minutes later.
He climbed to his feet, dizzy. What was he doing on the floor just then? And who
was knocking at this hour? The recollection of what had just happened suddenly
came back to him, and he broke into a sprint as the tears and sweat began
streaming down his face and forehead. He got to the door, opening it with
swollen red eyes. “Mister Hill?” “Yes, that’s me,” he groaned. “Mister Hill, I’m
one of the nurses from the center. I came over when you suddenly stopped
responding over the phone?” “Yeah. I guess I passed out.” “Are you alright?” He
sniffed, wiping his nose on his arm, not caring that it was now covered in a
layer of mucus. “No, I’m not alright. My wife just died!” “Mister Hill, I’m so
very sorry. Doctor Stevens was performing a routine test with her to see how she
was holding up when suddenly she flatlined.” Adam fell onto the nurse, sobbing
into her shoulder. She placed a hand on his back, patting him gently. “There
there, Mister Hill. Everything is alright.” He wailed, his cries flowing into
the night air like the shrieks of a dying animal. He didn’t get much sleep after
the nurse had left that night. He had tried to lay down in bed and shut his eyes
but he just couldn’t make himself tired enough. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He
couldn’t he couldn’ he couldn’t he couldn’t… He took in another shaky breath,
whimpering as he let it back out again. “Kate…” he muttered. “Kate… it really
happened. It really happened, didn’t it? You’re gone. You’re gone and I ought to
be next!” He began banging his head on the window to the front of his house, the
tears falling off his chin with each pound. “Kate! Kate! Oh, Kate!” He looked up
through the window, blinking the water in his eyes onto the ground. The world
outside was still, nothing moving. It was dark, illuminated only by the moon and
the short, stubby street lamp on the corner of their block. Nothing moved, and
it seemed like his heart didn’t either. Nothing had any life, just like
everything inside of him now. His life was essentially gone. Without her, what
was the point? Nothing mattered. Nothing— He rubbed the tears from his eyes
again, blinking several times before squinting out the window. There was a
figure standing there… standing right in his front lawn. He couldn’t make out
any of their features, except the fact it was most definitely human. “What the?”
He looked to his right, reaching for the switch that would turn on the porch
light. He flipped it up, and his front lawn was covered in a soft, yellow light.
“What?” He only saw it for a second before the figure turned around, but their
face remarkably resembled… resembled Kate’s. “I’m hallucinating,” he murmured.
“I’m in so much grief that I’m hallucinating.” The figure began to walk away,
the back of their body looking again so strikingly similar to his wife’s. “No.
They’re… they’re still there?” Adam stepped to the door, opening it and walking
out into the cold air of the autumn night. He questioned whether he should call
out to the figure. To… to the ghost? No, ghosts weren’t real. This wasn’t a
ghost. It was just someone who looked just like Kate standing out front of his
house? “Kate!” he yelled out. The figure continued walking. “Kate!” His legs
began picking up the pace as he followed her down the gravel road, his bare feet
somehow not feeling any of the pain the sharp rocks created as they stuck into
his soles. The figure out ahead of him began moving faster too. He picked up his
pace again, and so did she. “Wait! Stop! Whoever you are!” They suddenly burst
into an almost inhuman sprint, flying at a speed Adam had only ever seen in the
Olympics. The air was sucked out of his lungs as he began running faster than he
ever had before, out of breath before he could even turn the corner. “Wait!” he
wheezed, turning the corner. The figure was still running dead ahead. Adam made
every effort to run faster, catch up with the girl, but he found himself failing
in his strength. His feeble legs continued to pump harder and harder but she
stayed ahead of him no matter what he did. The figure suddenly turned to the
left, sprinting right up to a house with all of its lights on still. Adam kept
up his pace, gradually losing his strength and slowing to a stop as the door
opened. A man stood there in the light, illuminating both his face and the face
of his dead wife. The man… he… he had the face of Jamison. His brow ruffled and
he strained himself to call out. “Kate? Jamison? Wait! Jamison, is that you?” He
had seen the casket being laid into the ground. He knew Jamison was dead. And
so… so was Kate…. Kate stepped into the house, and Jamison closed the door
behind her. Bewildered, Adam began stumbling to the front door. Panting and
sweating buckets, he knocked on the door. The lights were still on, and he had
just seen someone there at the door. Someone was here, he knew it. “Hello?” He
began banging as hard as he could, but to no avail. He used both fists, pounding
with all the force his weakened body could muster until the sides of his fists
stung. The lights suddenly turned out, and he jumped. “What the?” He kept
pounding. “Somebody answer me! Hello? Someone is in here! I know it! Answer me!
Hello? Hello!” He awoke the next morning cold and shivering on the front porch
of that house. He looked up to the Friday sky, teeth chattering as the sun
slowly warmed up the world around him. Was that real? He was on the porch of
that house, surely it must’ve been real. But… but it just didn’t seem so. How
could he see both Kate and Jamison last night? Surely he wouldn’t have
hallucinated both of them. The door did open, and the lights did suddenly turn
off while he was knocking, that he was sure of. But… then… why? How? The door
behind him suddenly opened, and he fell backwards. “My! Mister Hill, what are
you doing here?” It was Doctor Stevens. “Doctor? You live here?” Adam gasped.
“Yes, I do. It was the best empty house the city could offer me during my stay
here in this pleasant little town.” “Doctor, I saw her last night! I saw Kate!”
Adam exclaimed as he stood up. Stevens frowned a little, placing a hand on
Adam’s shoulder. “Mister Hill, it is quite natural for you to—” “No, I saw her.
She came right here, to this house! Last night she came right to this house!”
“Mister Hill—” “And—and Jamison opened the door. Mister Walker, as you know him.
He was there! He opened the door for Kate! I saw them! I… I… I saw them both….”
“Mister Hill, it is not quite uncommon to perhaps… for lack of a better term,
hallucinate family members after they die. It happens all over America. It’s
sometimes just the body’s way of coping with a difficult loss.” Adam nodded.
“But then… why did it feel so real?” “The mind is good at fooling us. The brain
is quite a powerful organ, you know.” Adam looked Stevens square in the eye. “Am
I going crazy?” “No, Mister Hill. You’ll be fine. You just… need to process this
loss. Things will be better, I promise you.” “You promised that Kate wouldn’t
die, too.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean to—” “Quite alright.
I’ve heard worse. Come on, let’s get you home, Adam.” Stevens places his arm
around Adam’s shoulder, and began guiding him down the street. “I can make it
home by myself just fine. You’ve got work to do, I’m sure.” “I can be late. It’s
better to comfort you right now.” Adam nodded, not sure if he ought to be
grateful or creeped out. Something about this whole conversation just seemed…
just seemed off. Nonetheless they reached the Hill residence, and Stevens walked
Adam right up to the door. “Good luck, Mister Hill.” He nodded, opening his door
and stepping inside. “Right, thank you.” “Someone will be with you later today
from the center to help arrange the funeral,” Stevens mentioned. “Best to keep
your hallucinations to yourself, hm?” Adam nodded, slowly. He shut the door
without thanking Stevens. It seemed… odd that one of Stevens’s employees would
be coming to arrange the funeral. He’d have thought a mortician would do it.
Then again, the nearest mortician lived two towns over and they were under a
quarantine right now.Adam found himself staring out the window for most of the
day that day before the nurse arrived. He went to let them in, recounting the
expected pleasantries: saying hello, shaking hands, inviting her in to take off
her shoes, the usual. “Well, I appreciate you coming to help me with this,” he
sighed. “Especially since this is probably your first time doing this.” She
smiled. “Oh, no worries. I’ve done this many times before.” He swallowed. “You…
you have?” “Yes, I’ve been helping with all of the funerals in this town since
the tumors started. He raised an eyebrow. “Why… why hasn’t a mortician been
doing it? We’ve only been quarantined a couple of days now.” “Doctor Stevens
just feels that it is best if he oversees them all.” “Why?” “Of no concern for
you. Now, let us begin discussing, shall we?” He nodded, slowly. “Since no
family will be able to make the trip into town, we can have this fairly quickly.
Shall we say, tomorrow afternoon?” He swallowed. “Is that enough time to embalm
the body?” “Embalm?” “Yeah. I want an open-casket funeral. Will that be enough
time?” She smiled. “Yes, dear. Yes.” He stared at her straight, white teeth,
something making him feel offset about her plastic smile. Her dead eyes.
Something was weird here. Adam couldn’t sleep that night. He laid in bed,
staring at the ceiling blankly. No, his brow was furrowed. He wasn’t quite
feeling any feelings of mourning right now. He really couldn’t. He wasn’t sure
if Kate was truly dead or not. That… hallucination… had felt so real. It
couldn’t have been fake. There was no way. Was there? After what felt like hours
of laying there he finally got up and went to put on his shoes. He put a light
jacket on and headed out the door, marching for Stevens’s house. “What is up
with this?” he muttered. Thoughts raced through his mind the whole way there,
none of the logical ones winning out. Nothing right now seemed to make sense.
None of it. It was all… all too weird. Yeah, sure. He had hallucinated Kate. He
was in mourning. He missed his wife. It made sense he might hallucinate her. But
Jamison? Yeah, he was shocked, sad, downtrodden, depressed when his friend died,
but it wasn’t the same as his wife. Why would he hallucinate Jamison, too? Adam
rounded the corner, getting to Doctor Stevens’s house. He stood there in front
of it, the lights all still on. The blinds on the large window by the door were
still open, and he could see into the empty living room. Just a rugged looking
couch sat across from an old box television, with the kitchen in the background.
Nothing. Nobody was in there. Suddenly a figure walked across the kitchen, a
very tall figure. Adam jumped back, somewhat alarmed by it. He… he had the same
profile as Evan Wells. One of the first ones to get the tumors. He died just
hours after his surgery. But who else in town could possibly be that tall? And
who else had the same muscular profile? Adam jumped, letting out a small scream
as Evan suddenly stepped in front of the window. He glared out at Adam, snarling
before suddenly closing the blinds. In a frenzy Adam ran up to the front door
and began pounding. “Let me in! Let me in! You had better open this goshdarn
door before I break it down you cretin!” His knocks were answered when Doctor
Stevens opened the door. “Mister Hill! What on Earth are you doing at this
hour?” “Doc—I swear. I swear I’m not crazy. I just saw Evan Wells through your
window.” “Mister Wells? Why, Mister Hill, he’s been dead for months! What on
Earth are you talking about?” “I saw him—I saw him! Doc, you’ve gotta believe
me! You’ve gotta let me in! I’ll show you where he is!” “Mister Hill—” Adam
pushed right past the doctor, bursting into the room in a fury of panicked rage.
“He was here! Look, I’ll show you!” He started heading down the hallway, his
head rotating every which way as his eyes scanned for any sign of anyone he knew
to be dead. “I think that’s quite enough from you,” Stevens growled as he
grabbed Adma’s shoulder. “No! I’ll show you!” “Mister Hill, stay out of my
house! The funeral is tomorrow, I’ll see you there!” He thrust Adam through the
front doorway, slamming it behind him. “No! Let me back in! I’ll show you! I’ll
show you! They’re not dead! They’re hiding in your house! They’re… they’re…”
Adam slapped himself across the cheek, shaking his head viciously. “What am I
doing? They’re all dead. They’re… they’re not hiding in his house! Oh, gosh, I
sound like a lunatic!” He looked behind him, ready to turn and walk home. Almost
out of instinct he turned back to look at the house to see a pair of eyes
glaring at him between the blinds before they pulled away and the window was
completely cut off again.Adam was standing next to the table with Kate’s picture
on it, staring into her eyes. She had died Thursday night and here he was at the
funeral Saturday afternoon. He hadn’t had any time to process this. None at all.
It’s all happened so fast. He would have liked the funeral to be later, to give
him some more time to digest it all. But the nurse seemed adamant that it would
be today. He got everything else he wished for, though. Tulips everywhere,
Kate’s favorite flower. They were serving deviled eggs as well, Kate’s favorite
d’oeuvres. Playing in the background was the gentle piano music of Mozart, her
favorite composer. She had been a classical woman. She liked the arts,
especially from that time period. Always found them interesting. Adam never
really did, but he always admired her for it. But now with that tumor having
killed her… Adam looked up, seeing one of Stevens’s nurses walk in. He got up to
go and greet her. “Hey,” he said, nodding his head. “Why, hello Mister Hill!”
she exclaimed, her plastic smile sending a shiver down his spine. “Um, will she
be here soon?” “Yes, Doctor Stevens is just helping to unload the casket now.
Would you like to go and help him?” He nodded, though nervous to confront
Stevens after he barged into his house like that last night. He went anyway,
seeing Stevens and a few others carrying the casket. “Don’t worry, Adam, we’ll
handle this.” He turned to the other gentlemen following him. “Just come in and
set her on the table inside.” Adam’s eyes followed as they passed by, and he
couldn’t help but notice the lock on the side of the casket holding the lid to
the bottom. Eyebrows raised, he followed the crew into the small room they were
having their service in. The four men placed the casket on the table up front,
all of them going to sit in the audience. “Doctor Stevens?” Adam said. “Ah,
Mister Hill. Look, if you’re going to apologize for last night, there’s no need.
I ought to be more sensitive to someone whose—” “I asked for an open-casket
funeral.” Stevens paused. “Excuse me?” “I asked for an open-casket funeral. The
casket is closed.” “Oh, I’m… I’m terribly sorry. My nurse reported back to me
that you had said a closed-casket service.” “Open it.” “I think you can stand to
be a little kinder right now, Mister Hill.” “Open it, please,” he growled. “I’m
afraid it’s already locked shut. There’s nothing I can do about it.” Adam
clenched his fists, sitting in the row behind Doctor Stevens. He suddenly felt a
tap on the shoulder. “I wanted an open-casket service for my little Toby,” came
an elderly voice. “But they wouldn’t give that to me, either. Don’t take it
personally.” Adam looked on at Doctor Stevens. What was going on here? Why were
all the caskets closed? That was the only question he could ask himself that
night as he lay in bed. The more he thought, the more he recalled that every
funeral for these tumor victims had been closed-casket. Jamison. Misses Simmons.
Evan. All closed-casket. And Misses López, today, she had said she wanted an
open-casket service for Toby but that was closed as well. And so was his. Was he
just being paranoid? Or was something going on here? He had called the Sheriff
today. But he said he couldn’t come into the town because of the quarantine. He
explained the situation to him, but he was just written off like he was insane.
This wasn’t fair. None of it was. How did this make sense? Every one of those
funerals were closed-casket, and now he was seeing their bodies walking around
in Doctor Stevens’s home! He resolved that night to head back out to Stevens’s
house. He would look and see if he saw anyone else. He knew he would. It only
made sense that he would. He had so far, afterall. Why would these so-called
hallucinations stop now? He knew that he had seen Kate. He knew that he had seen
Jamison. He knew that he had seen Evan. He saw them all. Something was going
there, something he didn’t trust. The clock was nearing eleven at night, and he
slipped on his shoes and donned his jacket. “Here goes nothing,” he stammered.
He went through his front door, the pit in his stomach growing with every step.
Was he really doing this? Was he really going to the surgeon’s house again just
to see if he could find a ghost? A ghost that he was likely hallucinating? What
was he doing! He was in mourning, of course he was going crazy. Surely anyone
who loses a loved one starts to see things and go crazy, right? He ought to just
stay home, not do anything. Let it pass. Wait until he got a brain tumor. Drink
the city water. Eat home-grown vegetables in this “contaminated” soil all around
him. Expose himself to as many people with the brain tumors as possible to get
sick. However these things were spreading, he needed to just get one and get it
all over with. Yet… he found himself compelled to continue walking forward, on
and on towards Stevens’s house. He rounded the next corner, feeling a chill as a
small gust of wind blew between the buildings. The street lamp bathed the
landscape in a yellow glow that Adam could only see as being ominous. He pressed
forward, Doctor Stevens’s home coming into view. “Alright, Stevens,” he spat.
“What’s going on in your house?” The lights were on. He walked closer, crouching
down as he came into the field of view of anyone who might be in the window. He
got right below it, standing in between the old, crusty rose bushes below the
living room window. His head turned upward and his eyes began scanning the
living room. He was too low, he could only see the ceiling. He extended his
legs, slowly, little by little until he could get a clear view into the house.
There were two people standing there. Doctor Stevens was there, smiling as he
talked to the other one… Kate. She wore a plastic smile, and her eyes were wide
and dead. He could almost hear her robotic responses to the surgeon as he talked
with her, nodding just so, smiling all the while. “Kate…” he murmured. “Kate,
are you really alive?” He rubbed his eyes, slapping himself across the face. No,
this couldn’t be. He had seen them bury her that day! In a… in a closed casket.
In a closed casket, that was right. How could he know that it was really her?
No, no. He was going insane. He could feel it. This wasn’t normal. He was losing
it! Absolutely losing it! But… but was he? Kate’s head suddenly turned to face
him, and she extended her arm towards the window. Stevens turned his head to
look right at Adam. He ducked, and began running as fast as he could crouched
over. He went around the corner of the house and hid behind a bush there just as
he heard the front door opening. “Adam?” It was the voice of Doctor Stevens.
Adam held his breath, shutting his eyes tight. The silence lasted only several
moments, but those moments felt like they could have been years. The door closed
again, and he let out a gasp. There was a sudden banging, and Adam turned around
to see a hand on the window behind him. Jamison stood there, grinning like a
madman at Adam. His lips began to move; he was screaming something. Adam burst
into a sprint, dashing down the gravel road back towards his house. He rounded
the corner and made a beeline right for his front door, out of breath and a
sweaty mess by the time he got there. He didn’t waste a moment catching it,
though, he opened his door right away and leapt inside. He deadbolted the door
behind him, something he had never done before in this small community. He went
around the house making sure that every window was locked and every last one of
the blinds were shut tight. He climbed in his bed, Holding the sheets over his
head like he did when he was a child. Adam hadn’t bothered to put on his Sunday
best the next day. He went to church with no shower, no order to his hair, no
order to his body or life. He walked right in wearing the same thing he woke up
in: old tennis shoes and a ratty shirt paired with work pants. He could feel the
stares of his friends and neighbors as he sat down in the front pew. He stared
straight ahead, glaring at Reverend Caddel. He made eye contact with Adam,
scowling at him with an obvious sense of abhorrence for his appearance. Adam
didn’t care, though. No, not one lick. He simply waited for him to finish his
sermon, then marched right up to the pulpit the moment he closed. The
congregation was still saying Amen by the time he got up there, the wildness in
his eyes sending a streak of fear throughout the benches. But they’d be thanking
him soon enough, after he warned them. “Doctor Stevens is a madman!” Adam
shouted. “Do not trust him! No one is dead! No one! He’s keeping them at his
house! I’ve seen them! I’ve seen them! Don’t let him operate on you! He’s doing
something!” The firm hand of the Reverend found itself on Adam’s shoulder, and a
strong nudge followed. “Come on, Mister Hill, let’s get you out of here.” “No!
It’s true! It’s true!” “Mister Hill, please! Come with me!” Adam began
squirming, growling and kicking as he was guided out of the hall. “You’ll see!
He can’t be trusted! None of them can! I’ve seen them!” “Mister Hill, if we
weren’t in a strict quarantine I’d call an exorcist! Get back to your home, I’ll
come and pray over you later today.” “But Reverend—” He slammed the door, and
Adam turned around with his fists clenched. “I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em good!”
He was shaking, unsure what was happening. He suddenly collapsed to the ground,
tears shooting out from his eyes. “Oh, I’ve gone insane! I’ve gone absolutely
insane! What… why did I do that? Oh… oh goodness… I’m a crazy man!” There was a
rustling in the bushes, and Adam looked up. He blinked the saltwater from his
eyes to see two men approaching him. Jamison, and Evan. Their smiles were the
smiles of madmen, their wide, dead eyes piercing Adam. “Come with us, Mister
Hill,” Jamison chirped. Adam was frozen, he found himself unable to get up and
sprint the other way as they clasped their hands around his arms. “No!” he
suddenly cried. He began kicking and screaming as the two men dragged him away.
“No! I won’t go with you! Leave me be!” Their grips tightened, and he felt the
blood circulation in his arms stopping. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t
breathe! They went right up to the front door of Doctor Stevens’s house. It was
opened by another, their plastic smile wide and their eyes brimming with death.
“Master Stevens is waiting,” the butler grinned. Adam was brought through the
doorway and they marched him around a corner, right to a door. They kicked it
open, revealing a dismal stairway leading into a basement. His body became cold
as they entered. He couldn’t tell if he was shivering or trembling from the
sense of deep dread that had come over him. They got to the bottom, and cast him
onto the ground. He looked up, seeing an operating table placed in the center of
the room. Doctor Stevens stood there, a surgical mask on and putting on latex
gloves. “Well, Mister Hill,” he began, “I was going to do this after diagnosing
you with a tumor, but seeing as how you’re spreading rumors about me, I can not
wait.” Adam swallowed. “Get him on the table.” A hand grabbed him, and he looked
up to see Kate. “Kate! Kate, you’ve got to help me!” “Oh, she won’t help you,
Mister Hill. After the surgery, she is mine.” She began dragging him towards the
table, a sudden inhuman strength being exerted on his arm as she lifted him onto
it. “What? No, Kate!” “Kate is no longer. Only drone number F-17. Isn’t that
right, F-17?” “Yes, master.” Adam felt a strap tightening across his chest, and
another one across his legs. The table began to lift him up into a sitting
position as two more were tightened across his arms. “We’ll tattoo him after the
procedure,” Stevens said to someone standing off to the side. “Excellent work,
F-1.” The nurse nodded, stepping back. Adam then noticed the tattoo on her
shoulder that read F-1. And on Kate’s, who was standing to the side, was a
similar tattoo reading F-17. “No. No! You can’t do this to me, Stevens! You
monster!” “Oh, am I a monster? No, M-15. I am a man of science. Don’t worry,
after the surgery you won’t be calling me a monster. You’ll be calling me
master, and thanking me.” Adam couldn’t stop shaking, he was hyperventilating.
He felt a sudden pain in his arm, and his body began to slow down as he lost
feeling. “There were never any tumors, were there, Doc?” he muttered. “Ah, smart
man you are, M-15. You will serve me well.” There was a dull pain on the top of
his head as the scalpel began slicing down towards his neck.


TALES FROM LAKE BOTTOMLESS: THE INFECTION 2.9K+




Hey everyone, Howard Greene back again. Things have gotten quite strange since I
last shared my experiences here at Lake Bottomless. Which may seem like an
oxymoron, but I promise you I have much to tell you all. First off, my uh… Well,
I guess I should just be outright and call it an infection. Because that’s what
it is. And while you might think that sounds not so positive, this infection has
so far given me some strange new abilities. For example, earlier today I come
home to find another one of The Submerged had made its way out of the lake and
onto my property, I spotted it roaming around in my damn backyard. So I
naturally went outside to confront it with the new baseball bat I had bought
after my original one had been snapped in half by a relative of his. I figured
now that I had a good grasp of what these things can do, I’d be better equipped
to kill one this time around.The abomination turns as he sees me, readying the
bumpy and ruby-red tentacles it had in place of fingers, they wiggled and
squirmed in a skin-crawling manner as he began to move toward me. Opening his
rectangular mouth and revealing his misshapen black teeth. I lunge forward and
take a swing at the beast, and upon the bat colliding with the creature, I was
quickly drenched in a splatter of its blood. As my blow not only completely
obliterated his head and turned it into a gory mess, but it also sent the
remaining mass of its body flying backward well over twenty feet as if he had
been hit by a speeding car. Even I was shocked, as I had felt like I still had
some strength to spare, and yet. That just happened, and there I stood looking
like a dumbfounded moron while drenched in its blood. The Submerged’s corpse had
impacted with the ground and continued sliding along the grass, all the way to
the edge of the bank that bordered the lake. The body stops just at the edge,
but copious amounts of its blood spill below into the murky lake water. Turning
it into a brown and red mix. I drop the bat and look at my pale hands,
dumbfounded at what I had just done. I knew that I felt stronger, faster, and
other such things after some time had passed from the initial incident of my
infection. But this was completely unexpected. However, my little moment of
pondering was interrupted as I jumped backward at the sudden sound of a massive
and crashing splash. Water shot up on the bank like a bomb had exploded just
underneath the surface. And the cause? It was none other than the big, yellow
giant himself. Levi. His serpent body rises up from the surface of the water,
with almost two dozen feet of it exposed above the water, with plenty left
unseen underneath it. Levi’s cold and reptilian eyes hungrily narrow down to
focus on the corpse of The Submerged member. A glance that lasted for a mere
instant before Levi lunged his massive head downward, opened up his gargantuan
jaws, and clamped them down around the body. Blood splatters and squirts in
various directions as his fangs sink into the bumpy and hive-textured flesh.
Levi raises his head back up with the corpse still in his mouth, now turning his
attention to me as he chews his food. “Oh hey, how’s your wound doing?” He
inquired before tilting his head up and letting what remained of the corpse fall
into his throat as he swallowed it. “It’s uh… Well, we’ve got a lot to talk
about.” I reply, unsure of where to start. “Get in your boat, we’ll discuss it
on the water,” Levi says in an inviting tone. And it was an offer I was happy to
take him up on. Who else was I supposed to talk to about stuff like this with? A
therapist? Yeah right. I got the boat and equipment ready as Levi and I set off
towards the deeper east side of the lake. I informed him of my incident with
that Submerged, or at least, what occurred before he had arrived to devour what
was left of it. “I don’t see any negatives so far.” Said Levi as he continues to
slither and swim on pace with my boat. “Yeah, but what am I gonna tell people at
work? I’m so damn white that I look like a ghost.” I reply, glancing at my pale
skin. “Tell them nothing.” Levi fires back. “If you’re not causing any harm
towards them, then it is none of their concern. And if they stare? Just ask them
what they’re looking at. Works nearly every time.” “Eh… I guess you’re right.”
Our conversation then shifts to more about each other’s lives, as I figured it
would help get my mind off the more… fantastical stuff going on. We went back
and forth about several things, our family for one. Or, my family at least. Levi
was a bit more hesitant to discuss his. But given the interaction I saw between
him and his father, I didn’t blame him.We continued on for about several more
minutes, and something about having this massive serpent cruising along next to
my boat had become oddly comforting. The whole time we were talking I’d watch as
the water foamed up as he pushed through it, creating mini waves in the process.
Like something you’d see in one of those “oddly satisfying” videos. However,
something would occur that would quickly disperse that sense of comfort. As Levi
and I continued our journey across the lake and approached closer to the bank
that was still a part of the east side of the lake but, was on the opposite side
of the water from my property…I noticed something… Odd. You see, the immediate
land around my property was mostly cleared of trees, bushes, and other
shrubbery. And that was less than ten thousand square feet. Meaning I was a mere
needle in a haystack that was the forest that surrounded the lake. So when I
focused my attention on the treeline just about fifty feet in front of me. I saw
what looked to be some sort of figure attempting to cloak itself in the thick
shrubbery. One that was bipedal in nature, but I wouldn’t say it was quite
human. And while I couldn’t make out the exact details of said figure. I could
tell that it was far too tall to be human, its arms and legs were thin, really
thin. I even got a glimpse of its fingers, which were quite long, too long for
them to belong to any man or woman I had ever seen. It had this, inky black tint
to its skin. As if it was a shadow given a three-dimensional form. I made sure I
didn’t take my eyes off of it as I quietly choked out words to Levi. “Do you see
it too?” “I do.” He replies. “It’s not giving off a scent. And I’ve never seen
it around here before.” This creature continues to stand completely still, and I
honestly couldn’t even tell if it was directly watching us. But I knew in my
heart it was. Several more moments passed of this beast having a stare-down with
Levi and me. Although I’ll be upfront when I say Levi didn’t look like he had an
ounce of fear in him. He looked mostly intrigued. And after everything I had
seen at this lake, I wouldn’t say I was necessarily terrified, but I definitely
felt like my gut was trying to warn me that something was off. That slight
churning feeling we all know so well was making itself known. I wasn’t sure how
much longer this would go on for, but it quickly came to a halt when Levi began
to suddenly swim forward at a rapid pace toward the land that creature was
standing on. “Wait!” I called out with a raised voice. But Levi simply ignored
me, I turned around for only a second to start the motor of the boat back up,
only to return my gaze to the treeline a mere second later and find that the
creature had vanished completely out of sight. I get the boat going and catch up
to Levi, who had raised about ten feet of his body above the surface of the
water and began to scan the treeline from his position in the water, attempting
to sense if the entity was still nearby. “It’s gone.” He declares. Confirming my
suspicion that it had fled. I approached the bank, the tip of my boat bumping
into the grassy landscape. After which I hesitantly stood up, and walked to the
end of the boat, preparing to climb up onto the bank. “You’re not planning to go
after it, are you?” Asks Levi with a presence of concern in his tone. “Shouldn’t
we try to find out if it left something like a clue as to what the hell it is
behind? If even you’ve never seen it before then it might be something that
doesn’t belong here in the first place.” “It seems to think the same of you.”
Levi rebuts, but I could only stand there in confusion as to what he meant.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” “On the tree, behind you.” He retorts before
pointing his snout forward at whatever it was. I raise a brow as I turn my head
and lay eyes on the tree directly behind me, my stomach now churning more
intensely than before once I fully comprehended what I was seeing. About eight
feet up the length of the trunk of the tree was the word “leave” carved into it
in a jagged and sloppy manner. As if it was trying and failing to imitate human
handwriting. It was clear to me that this… Thing. Was not going to be any ally
of mine here at Lake Bottomless.


TALES FROM LAKE BOTTOMLESS: LEVI THE LEVIATHAN 4.1K+




Being the only person that lives near a cursed, murky, swamp-like lake sounds
quite creepy, stupid, and moronic, I won’t lie to you, it kinda is. Most of the
time anyway, but I’ve come to realize that not everything here is all bad, a lot
of it in fact is actually pretty cool. Even beneficial sometimes. My name is
Howard, Howard Greene. I’m thirty-seven, financially well off but not quite what
most people would call wealthy, I’m also unmarried with no kids. Some may see
that as a negative, I don’t. Everyone likes what they like. I had my house built
right along the lake. It’s nothing fancy, just about the size of an average
farmhouse. As for the body of water right next to it though, well that’s a
different story entirely. To begin, the lake itself is actually deeper than the
Mariana Trench, filled with all sorts of oddities and monstrosities from your
most vivid nightmares, an array of different strange and surprising elements
come into play here. It even has its own supernatural ecosystem. How would an
average guy like me know all this in the first place? Well, let’s just say I
have unusual sources, weird sources. Sources that most people would call me
crazy about for even acknowledging their existence. But that’s not all, it’s
also… Heavily avoided I should say. I have no idea as to why the government
hasn’t come and barricaded and fenced it off to all hell, maybe they’re just
simply not interested? Oh well, I won’t pretend to know how it all works. I
guess it is far enough away from most infrastructure to not been seen as too
much of a problem. But I still do get most utilities, thank god. I’ll have to
travel back to about 2008, it was not long after I had finished having the house
built. Probably a week or two from what I remember, but seeing as the house was
brand new, I was in dire need of food for the place and was absolutely starving.
So of course, I wanted to stock my fridge and cabinets. I took a trip to the
grocery store, leaving my flip phone at the time behind at home. Which, is an
important detail by the way. At the store I go on about my business, picking up
the majority of everything I need, food, toilet paper, soaps, and shampoo, the
basics. I luckily already had the utensils covered, knives, forks, spoons. All
that jazz. After that’s all said and done I simply head back home, genuinely
enjoying the drive on the way. I’d say I’m a person that invites both the
company of others and simultaneously loves basking in the isolation from hustle
and bustle. It’s all about how I’m feeling at the moment I guess. But whatever,
I pull up to my freshly paved driveway, the new concrete feels smoother than
butter underneath my tires. I get out after killing the engine, walking over to
the trunk of my car to start grabbing my groceries. I’m a firm believer that
it’s definitely worth it to risk the blood circulation to your arms in order to
avoid taking more than one or two trips. I try to grab as much as I possibly
can, sliding the plastic bags as far up my forearms as they will go, realizing
mid-way through that I probably should’ve unlocked my front door first. It’s
always something with me. Speaking of which I glance over to said front door
while still standing next to my open trunk and I see it’s swung open. On the
hinges and everything but wide fucking open. Immediately this makes my blood
freeze, because I know for a fact that I had shut and locked the dang thing
before I left. It happens to puzzle me as well, like I said, I’m the only one
who lives anywhere near this lake. I start sliding the grocery bags off of my
forearms with great haste in my step, reaching into my left jeans pocket for
where I thought my phone would be. But nope, nothing. Just an empty space with a
few pebble-sized droplets of dirt at the bottom that felt admittedly gross
against my fingertips. “Shit.” I curse in a frustrated whisper, mentally kicking
myself. But not all hope is lost, I quickly dart over to the back seat, throwing
the door open and retrieving a baseball bat I had long since left behind in my
younger days of playing on the field with my middle school buddies. I grab the
bat like my life depends on it, which I thought it did at the time. I mean, can
you really blame me? I’m just one guy out there alone with no sort of immediate
help. Nonetheless, after having my good old melee weapon on me, I start marching
up toward the front door, taking a peek through the windows to make sure no one
was waiting to ambush me. I didn’t see anything at first glance, but I wanted to
be thorough, so I took a few more little looks. I wasn’t about to let myself get
stabbed in the face the second I stepped through the doorway like I was in some
cheap horror movie. Once I’m assured that I won’t get KO’d before I can even
react, I shift my stance to a more combative one and step inside, creeping along
the living room floor and trying to keep quiet as I keep the bat held firm.
Ready to swing it if need be. Everything in the living room seems intact. Well,
what little I had in there anyway, this didn’t necessarily prove it wasn’t a
home invasion, but it was highly unlikely when you combine that and the
isolation factor. Even at the time I knew stuff wasn’t adding up, I mean who
would actually come all the way out here just to rob an average home like this.
Sure it’s right near a lake with an unobstructed view which definitely upped the
property value in most cases, but the house itself really wasn’t anything to
write home about. Nor anything inside it. I sweep every square inch of the
living room just to be sure, my phone is upstairs in what would soon become my
bedroom, I still don’t go up quite yet. Mainly due to the fact I heard a sudden,
high-pitched almost yelping noise coming from the kitchen, the kitchen, of
course, being right next to the living room. Running upstairs would mean I
would’ve been seen and by extension chased by whatever was waiting me out over
in the kitchen, I wanted to assume that maybe a coyote had perhaps made its way
in somehow. But that thought quickly dissipated when I picked up the sound of
squelching, wet, slimy squelching. I don’t walk into the kitchen at first,
instead, I move down to the opposite end of the wall that separates the kitchen
from the living room. The thing creating the strange noise sounded like he was
towards the far right of the kitchen, so I move to the far left. Which is also
where the glass sliding door leading out to the lake was located. I put my back
against the wall, slowly sliding along it while holding my bat, ready to swing.
I then lean over, taking my time and utilizing precision as to not make too much
noise and bring attention to myself. The sight laid in front of me is the
sliding glass door shattered into a million pieces as if something had just ran
full speed and smashed right through it. My grip on the bat tightens when I lay
eyes upon a slimy trail of a black goo substance leading from my short dock on
the lake all the way to the glass sliding door and following through into the
kitchen. But it wasn’t only that. On the far end of the dock, I see the mangled
and mutilated corpse of a large marine beast, appearing as if it were an
alien-like catfish, bright green in its pigmentation. Glowing as if there were
copious amounts of radiation flowing through its veins. It had to be just near
ten feet in length, or at least I think it was. Hard to tell when it’s split in
half and covered in the same black goo substance that was leading to my
backdoor. I decide to quit wasting time, forcing my psyche to let me work up the
courage to face this head-on. I turn the corner, raising my bat like a rampaging
Viking as I charge the creature residing in my kitchen. But my confidence had
quickly faded when I finally saw what the thing actually looked like. And my god
was it hideous. It was about my height, bipedal in the way it stood. But that’s
where any sort of similarities had ended. The creature’s skin was a scarlet red,
bumps running along nearly every inch like he had intense hives. Poor thing.
This entity had no eyes, ears, or even a nose. But he did possess a mouth, a
rectangular-shaped mouth that ran up the length of his head filled with
pitch-black teeth that resembled the letter M in their shape. The feet at the
bottom of his legs were webbed like that of an alligator, tracking the black goo
onto my kitchen floor, his arms were lengthy, but instead of fingers at the end
of his hands, there were tentacles, tentacles that were the same scarlet shade
as the rest of his exterior anatomy. Little mini blades jetting out that were
made of something exotic enough for me to fail to name it. The creature booms
with an ear-piercing screech upon seeing me. Thrusting his arm forward and
letting a tentacle extend out to me. I swing my bat in order to counter it,
hitting the tentacle away from my immediate vicinity, this only causes the beast
to screech again, so this thing can be hurt and probably killed after all. It
reaches out with another tentacle, I swing the bat again to defend myself but I
miss miserably this time around, in response, it wraps its tentacle around the
bat and yanks it right from my hands before proceeding to snap it in half, like
it was nothing more than a simple twig. I dive for the kitchen knives, pulling
out the biggest one as the creature swats at me with another tentacle, it
connects with my shoulder. Slicing the upper layer of my flesh and slamming me
into the wall just next to the sliding glass door. The creature slips and slides
along the kitchen floor, clearly not adept at moving on land very well. But that
works in my favor, it shoots out another tentacle toward my chest as I’m trying
to not slip on the goo trail. I move backward a bit before pulling back the
blade and then throwing it down in an axe swinging motion. Slicing a foot’s
length of the tentacle off as a result. A dark red, nearly black blood oozing
out from the wound. That really seemed to have pissed it off, because the thing
dives forward at me, nearly slipping in the process. The creature tackles me and
we both tumble outside of the backdoor, rolling toward the dock. Which meant I
had also dropped the knife in all the chaos.I use the momentum to throw the
horrendous thing off of me and to the side, attempting to get up and run back
toward the house. But one of its tentacles wraps around my leg, making me fall
onto my side as it begins pulling me right back to it. Right to what I thought
would’ve been my doom. The creature is resting on the edge of the dock, just a
few feet above the water as it pulls me towards it like a car attached to a
crank. I try digging my nails into the wood of the dock to stop the process, but
looking back and seeing how close I was getting to him only made me lose hope.
My foot was nearly within range to be chomped on by those weird-ass teeth. This
was it, this would be the end. That same thought was only reinforced when the
creature shrieked again, but this one sounded much more playful and excited in a
sinister amusement kind of way. It was happy it had caught its prey, that’s all
I was to it. Prey, and without anything to defend myself, I was done for. But
just as my foot is about to be clamped down by the creature’s oddly shaped jaws,
something explodes up from the lake below. Bursting through the surface and
causing a massive splash of water to occur. Drenching my clothes and me in its
wake. This new beast is what I can only describe as an enormous sea snake, its
length I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time, but what I saw had to be twenty
feet at the very least. Its width being multiple feet across, I’m sure its head
alone was the size of a minivan and that’s me lowballing. The skin color of the
aquatic snake was a dark, sickly yellow. Its eyes were what you’d expect from a
reptilian lifeform, but that didn’t mean they still weren’t terrifying as all
hell. Don’t even get me started on its teeth, it had a lot, far too many of
them. Each at least twice the size of the kitchen knife I had used to dismember
the tentacle beast. The massive sea snake lunges down onto the dock and bites
the tentacle beast, sinking its teeth into the creature’s legs and lifting it up
off the dock. This caused the tentacle monstrosity to loosen his grip on my leg,
setting me free long enough for me to move away. I quickly crawled forward,
getting to my feet and turning to watch this all unfold. I know I should’ve run,
I should’ve gotten in my car and drove away like there’s no tomorrow, but it was
far too mesmerizing, breathtaking, in a horrific and morbid sort of way. The
leviathan begins to thrash the tentacle beast around as it screams desperately
for mercy, the sea snake splattering its blood in every possible direction while
Mr. Tentacle screeches his lungs out from the extended period of agony. Throwing
its slimy limbs around every which way in a futile attempt to escape. Emphasis
on the futile. Once Mr. Tentacle becomes motionless and it’s clear that his
suffering had finally ended (not that I felt too bad for him) the leviathan
turned his attention to me. Staring at me in a curious, but simultaneously
indifferent manner. “What are you looking at?” He grills, not moving as the
corpse of the tentacle creature hangs from his slightly a-gape jaws. “It
speaks,” I thought, this damn leviathan-looking dude speaks. What the hell is
going on. Yet despite his size and intimidating appearance, his voice itself
wasn’t much deeper than an average human male’s. “I- uh. Thank you, you saved
me!” I reply with a shout, doing my best to be polite despite every survival
alarm in my brain going off, telling me I should’ve cut and run right then and
there. “Oh, well you’re welcome then, I’ll be honest when I say I wasn’t really
trying to save you. I just heard the screech of a Submerged and was in the mood
for a snack. The Submerged are my favorite.” I rub my eyes as I stand there like
an idiot, wanting to make sure what I was seeing was truly happening and this
wasn’t some weird-ass dream. The sea snake chews and rips apart the remaining
mass of the tentacle beast as I continue staring dumbfounded. Like a child who
just walked in on their parents doing some naked wrestling. “The Submerged?
That’s what you call those things? Meaning there’s more of them?” “Yeah, are you
hard of hearing or something?” The aquatic reptile laughs. “Huh.” I thought. “It
laughs too.” “So you don’t wanna hurt me then? Kill me, tear me apart, nothing
like that?” “Clearly not, human flesh isn’t very delectable in my opinion, too
dry. Not enough moisture. I would’ve clamped down on you too if I wanted to kill
you.” I somehow feel myself relax a bit, which seemed stupidly impossible in a
situation like this. But he really was telling the truth, if he truly wanted me
dead, then that would’ve been the reality. Still, it was hard to completely wrap
my head around such a revelation. “Well, I guess it’s good to know you don’t
want me as your side order, because, I was about to make a phone call to the
military,” I replied, only being half-serious in my tone. “Figures, it’s what a
human would do. You’re the first of your kind to have settled here. The few who
have visited are either attacked by The Submerged and other life here in The
Bottomless Lake, or they simply flee. Usually the latter.” “What else is all
here?” I ask, gaining the courage to take a few steps forward. “And bottomless?
Are you serious?” “You have much to learn human. Much to learn, but staying
above the surface for too long makes me feel sick, so I’ll speak to you later
okay?” He utters with a sense of apathy, blinking at me with his piercing eyes.
“Wait wait before you go, how did this all get here? How did you get here? I
know it’s a lot of questions but I’ve never seen anything like this before. I
didn’t think things like you exist, and even if they did. You’d be locked up in
somewhere like Area 51. I mean, you said it yourself those things have attacked
others right?” “As I’ve told you, you’ll come to learn, now if you’ll excuse me,
I’m starting to feel a bit icky, but I’ll see you around. You’re more likely to
encounter me over here, I much prefer the east side of the water. I’d avoid the
west side if I were you, it’s not a place for humans.” “Do you at least have a
name? Something I could shout in case I need your help or I have questions?” I
plea, now moving even closer to the edge of the dock. Feeling the tenseness in
my muscles relax. The sea snake turns back, looking directly at me as he’s just
about to dive back down underneath the surface of the murky water. There’s a
silence, neither of us saying anything for several seconds. “Refer to me as Levi
if that’s what you really want.” He proclaims rather softly, just before letting
his body fall and send a sizeable splash upwards as I watch him slowly disappear
into the watery abyss below. “I’m Howard!” I try to shout before he’s too deep
under. But Levi doesn’t resurface or pay me much mind. From what I saw just
before he dived down and exposed more of his body mass. I estimated him to be
around sixty feet in total length. Tripling what he had already revealed to me
when he was killing The Submerged entity. Now, most people would’ve simply left
after this, gone far far away to the opposite side of the planet. But I didn’t,
I trusted Levi even though many people would say I shouldn’t. He saved my life
and I wanted to repay him as weird as that sounds. I thought I’d perhaps
purchase a gun and a speed boat to go see what the west side of the lake is all
about with the help of Levi. I wanna know what I’m up against while living here,
which means I need to learn as much as I can so I’m able to set up defenses and
countermeasures accordingly. I’ve never been the bravest person ever, but this
was an opportunity to change that. Anyway, this is the end of my entry for now.
I’ll come back to you all with another update soon enough. Next time you hear
from me I’ll probably share my experience with the west side of the lake.


TALES FROM LAKE BOTTOMLESS: THE WEST SIDE 700+




Howard Greene back again, last time I was on here I promised I’d share my
experience of traveling to the west side of the lake with Levi The Leviathan, so
here it is… I ended up taking a trip to the store and buying myself a shotgun,
the process wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. So that was
definitely a welcome surprise, I also brought my bat along as well, in the event
that I run out of ammo. If anything, the boat was a bigger pain to get ahold of.
I stood on the edge of the dock in my backyard, watching the minuscule waves of
the murky water below as they crash up against the supports of the dock. I grip
my shotgun tight, a bag of extra shells resting in the boat, along with the
first aid kit I had decided to put together.I see a lengthy displacement in the
water, like something large was quickly swimming right towards me as I stood
there only feet above the surface of the eerie lake. It slices through the
natural waves like a knife through soft butter as it approaches closer. Then he
emerges, Levi The Leviathan. His massive head crashing up through the surface,
splashing both me and the top of the dock as he raises only around 10 of his
sixty-foot length out of the lake while the rest is hidden below in the abyss
that is Lake Bottomless. “Didn’t think you’d remember me.” I chuckle while
staring at the reptile. He returns my gaze, although his is much colder. “You’re
more interesting than most humans, I’ll give you that, but you’re a fool if you
wanna try your luck with the west side of the lake.” “Well this is my home, I
gotta know what I’m living with,” I reply, cocking the shotgun.“Maybe you
should’ve learned more before deciding to settle here, ever wonder that?” Levi
asks rhetorically. “Yeah yeah yeah.” I scoff. “Now you coming with me or not?”
Levi lowers himself a bit into the water by a couple of feet, turning his head
and looking out towards the open water of the lake. “Well, I truly have nothing
better to be doing. So yes, even though this is still an idiotic idea.” “Well,
then it’s all the more reason to tag along with me then.” I smile, looking down
at Levi as his head is now only a few feet above the surface. “I promise I’m not
that bad.” I move to the edge of the dock, climb over into the boat and get it
started up before we begin to head off. Levi dives a few feet under the surface
of the water, but due to his size and the displacement he creates, it makes his
position more than obvious. As he stated previously, having his head above water
for too long makes him feel sick, so I didn’t expect him to have a full-length
conversation with me while we headed over to the west section of the lake. I was
mostly wondering what made him of all… Creatures, so hesitant. I didn’t think a
giant damn sea snake could be afraid of very much. But oh boy was I wrong. I
spotted many lifeforms, all sorts of just plain weird marine and amphibian
beasts alike. Or whatever you would call a lot of these things anyway. Crazy
stuff like mutated sharks that glowed all sorts of different colors, which
puzzled me. Considering this seemed like freshwater and most sharks live in
saltwater, but I guess that’s far from the strangest thing about this place.
Only about fifty yards on the left of my boat emerged a multi-headed fish beast,
resembling that of a piranha that got DNA spliced with a hermit crab. The main
body of a piranha present, but with crab claws replacing the fins, and much
bigger than your average piranha. I also came to find there were other gigantic
sea snakes, one looked even bigger than Levi which is just quite frankly
ridiculous. It was made all the crazier when both he and Levi stuck their heads
just above the surface of the water and spoke to each other. The other sea snake
had to be around eighty feet in total length, his skin consisted of a dark,
basil-like green. His eyes being those same cold, unfeeling, reptilian slits
that could pierce right through your soul with a simple stare. Levi swims
backward a bit as they stare each other down, somehow it seems… Awkward, between
them. I wasn’t exactly sure how to describe it. At multiple points I caught Levi
trying to avoid eye contact with the other sea snake. “Hey, dad.” Levi hisses,
looking down toward the surface of the water. And of course, the true reason as
to why Levi didn’t wanna come here was made clear. “Why are you bringing humans
over here? What happened to ‘I don’t care about anything?’ hmm?” Levi’s father
booms, his voice far deeper and more commanding than his son’s. He truly was
everything Levi was, just amplified to an even more absurd level. “He insisted
that I bring him to the west side, he lives here now,” Levi argues, avoiding eye
contact with his father. “Then his survival will be on your hands, but I doubt
he’ll live for more than several minutes, especially when Tomono roams this area
after coming out of his territory. I could just kill him myself and make his
death far more merciful.” “Tomono is growing old, he’s much weaker than he was a
few centuries ago dad.” “He’s still more than strong enough to kill us both, you
know that as well as I do.” Levi’s father snarls, attempting to get closer to
his son before Levi backs away. Avoiding the prospect of any father-son
intimacy. They both pause, Levi’s dad emerges a few feet more above the surface
to display dominance and control of the conversation. But Levi seems unfazed by
his action. Keeping his gaze focused elsewhere. “You spend too much time on the
east side, you should come around here more, your mother and I miss you.” “The
east side has far more of The Submerged, hunting is way easier over there. Plus,
you know why I don’t like it here.” Levi’s father groans, rocking my boat
slightly just from the force of his breath being exhaled. “Fine, I’ll speak to
you later once your friend is dead. Be careful Levi, you are my only son.” “Will
do, Dad,” Levi replies with a huff, if he was capable of rolling his eyes, I’m
sure he would’ve done it right then and there. Levi’s father then arches his
body and dives back down into the murky depths while Levi himself just about
submerges his head and keeps moving along on pace with my boat. Not saying
anything as the both of them go their separate ways. I soon lay eyes upon the
west section of the lake, it’s even murkier than the east. That was only just
for starters, it possessed this almost swamp-like property. Thick, elongated,
and curved trees that jutted up from the water, they looked almost cursed. Which
they probably were in all honesty. There were creatures that sat perched on
them. All of them the size of an average raccoon, but their pigmentation was a
mixture of both light purple and dark red. Their heads were sculpted in the
shapes of deformed triangles, each possessing five rectangular eyes that glowed
a bright yellow, it was extremely ominous. Made all the more unsettling as they
watched me with an endless stare. All of these alien critters stood on six legs,
each in sets of two along the underside of their bodies, one set in the front,
middle, and back. I spotted two different y-shaped tails that jetted out from
each of their rear ends. I stopped driving the boat and looked out over the side
to talk to Levi, grabbing my shotgun just in case those things in the trees
could swim. “What are those things?” I question, prompting Levi to stick his
head just above the surface. “Vexers, they’re small but not to be taken lightly.
One bite from them will drive any creature insane. You’re lucky they can’t swim
or you’d already be long gone.” “Noted.” I huffed. “Anything else I should
know?” “Yeah actually, I was gon-.” Levi suddenly cuts himself off and does a
quick dive underwater. Splashing me as I stand there looking over the edge of
the boat, the water dripping off my hair and back into the lake. Levi then
suddenly comes back up, one of The Submerged creatures locked within his jaws.
It screeches horrifically as Levi continues to bite and tear at its flesh,
ripping apart its tentacles and tearing them away from its body while casually
dismembering the creature. “You interrupted our conversation so you could grab a
snack?” I ask with my eyes squinted disapprovingly. Levi doesn’t respond as he
continues chewing and swallowing the now dead monstrosity. That dark red blood
now coating his fangs like icing on a cake. “How many of them are there down
there?” I follow up, Levi hissing as he tries to get some of The Submerged’s
flesh off of his blade-like teeth. “Billions, did you forget the lake is endless
below?” Levi laughs. Amused at my ignorance. “Well, it’s definitely a new
concept for me,” I reply uneventfully. “Still just getting used to everything ya
know?” My ears suddenly pick up an ear-piercing squawk and or bird call ring out
from the sky, no more than a hundred feet above from what I could predict off
the top of my head. I look up, expecting to see something like a hawk or an
eagle. But judging from the distorted and almost raspy effect accompanying the
cry, I knew there had to be something wrong with said eagle or hawk. But, to say
there was something just “wrong” was a massive understatement, I lay eyes upon
what appears to be a hawk circling the tree with all of the Vexers sat upon it.
The hawk itself was definitely bigger than one you’d see on an average day, a
wingspan that had to be six feet across, bare minimum. His color and feather
patterns resembled that of a typical Red-tailed hawk, except for the fact that
he had holes in his wings, the edges coated with dried blood, half of the flesh
from his head was missing, exposing the bone of his cranium along with half his
beak being chipped away. His talons, however, still looked as sharp as surgical
knives. To put this simply, it was a large, zombified, and or undead hawk.
Whatever you prefer I guess. It was as terrifying as it was fascinating. Yet,
once Mr. Zombie Hawk had set his sights on me is when I started to grow tense,
turning his attention away from the Vexers and beginning to dive down towards
me. “Hey uh Levi, a little help!” I call out, looking down next to the boat and
seeing Levi had dived down under the water. Nowhere to be found, I couldn’t even
see the displacement he usually created when swimming close to the surface.
“Great just great, I’ll just do this my fucking self.” I babble to no one as I
begin to ready my shotgun. Holding it as steady as I can while pointing the
barrel upward as Zombie Hawk dives down while looking at me with his one
remaining eye. Which also glowed blue by the way. I cock the firearm, feeling
the anticipation grow more intense inside me for every second that passes by, I
keep my knees locked and my hands wrapped tight, waiting for just the right
moment to pull the trigger and send this thing back where it came from. The
undead avian then lets out another one of his bone-chilling calls, leaning back
and opening up his talons as he edges closer to me. Once he’s in range I finally
take the shot, the gun making me take a step back from the kick, but I handled
it pretty well all things considered. The only thing is that I missed, horribly.
Which then allowed the hawk to make it to me and sink his talons into my
shoulders. Bloodstains on my shirt as it drips down past my armpits and abdomen.
I howl like a wounded dog, attempting to hit the horrifying monster with the gun
in a more blunt force fashion. The blow connects, but it does little to faze the
beast. He’s determined, filled with undying motivation to make sure he killed
me. He sinks his talons further into my flesh, after he’s satisfied with the
strength of his grip, he begins to fly vertically, slightly lifting my feet up
off the boat and into the air. I slam the barrel into the hawk’s abdomen before
firing again. The blast blows off a significant, fleshy chunk of the avian’s
left side, but still doesn’t put him down, it only causes him to drop me, and if
zombie movies have taught me anything, it’s that I had to shoot him in the head.
I fall back-first into the boat, groaning as I feel multiple pops in both my
shoulders and ribs, but I nonetheless take aim with the shotgun yet again as the
hawk dives back down. Another evil-sounding shriek vibrating my body as this
thing converges on me. I pull the trigger a third time, the shell from the shot
blasting off what was left of the hawk’s head and a quarter of his right wing as
well. Blood bursts out in every direction as his remains fall down into the lake
next to the boat, the opposite side from Levi was swimming. That also allowed me
to notice some of the fermented blood had gotten onto my bat. Which sat
comfortably on the floor of the boat.Speaking of which, Levi was still nowhere
to be seen. I hadn’t heard from him since before the hawk attacked, he had
simply vanished. Gone below the depths without giving me a heads up. But what I
did hear instead was disturbing, yet cathartic once I realized what it actually
was. Gritting my teeth as I feel the stinging sensation of my shoulders, I curse
and swear up and down like a drunk in a bar while looking over the side of the
boat yet again. In the water, I see a multitude of rapid splashes, a group of
smaller creatures are tearing apart the rotting flesh of the hawk, picking his
bones clean as if he hadn’t been already dead for god knows how long. Some of
them were the piranha and hermit crab hybrids I saw earlier, a few were
oversized aquatic parasites that resembled centipedes with limbs that were are
too big for their slender body. Yet they still made it work, they must’ve been
intelligent as well. Either that or they were purely scavengers, due to them not
attacking Levi or his father. While they continue to tear apart the dead-undead
hawk, I grab a bottle of peroxide from the first aid kit I had brought along and
take my shirt off. Pouring a bit onto the wounds I had received. Which,
surprisingly didn’t feel as deep as I thought they would. I ball my hands up
into fists as it burns intensely for a few seconds, but that’s how you know it’s
working. After that’s done with, I grab two small pads and wipe away the excess
blood before slapping a couple of band-aids on my shoulders. Levi sticks his
head out of the water and levels it just above the boat, looking at me as I put
my shirt back on. There’s this sort of child-like guilty expression on his face,
even those cold reptilian eyes had a little remorse in them. Either that or I
was just simply overthinking it. “You killed a Kran? I heard its cry from
below.” He asks. “Seems like he got you pretty good. Although I’ve never seen
one of them attack a human before.” “Yeah no shit, thanks for the help by the
way. What were you even doing down there? Let me guess, finding more of The
Submerged to eat?” I erupt, only realizing how pissed I sound once I finish my
mini tirade. “Actually no, my mother wanted to speak to me. She prefers to stay
quite deep below. A few thousand feet or so.” “Or so,” I repeat sarcastically,
using my fingers for quotations. “It’s not my fault my family is not completely
put together, plenty of things wrong with us all.” Levi retorts. “What’s up with
you and your dad anyway? Does he not like you or something?” “He’s upset that I
am showing a human around, he thinks I should’ve just killed you when I first
saw you. Spared you the misery of trying to survive here as only a human.” I
curl my lips, nodding my head in a comedic acceptance. “Yeah sounds about right,
and your mom?” I question, turning my head to face Levi. “She was a bit more
willing to think about it.” “And by ‘think about it’ you mean she’ll wait just a
bit longer before she tries to eat me?” “Eat you?” Levi recoils. “No, not eat
you, kill you? Probably. They, like me, don’t really enjoy the taste of human
flesh.” “Yeah, that’s what I kinda figured,” I responded unceremoniously. “I’m
gonna keep going deeper into the west if you’re gonna tag along. Maybe help me
out this time in case another one of those things show up?” Levi then yawns
obnoxiously, rocking the boat as he does so. Prompting me to give him a
disapproving glare. “If it means I can avoid seeing my parents again then I’m
in.” He mutters. “But I’m telling you now that there are places even I can’t
go.” I first reload the shotgun with the extra shells I had brought along, this
thing was able to only hold three at a time. Which should be enough as long as I
can learn to improve my aim first. But nonetheless, I move back to the cockpit
and head off as Levi dives back down. More strange trees are making themselves
known here on the west side of the lake, Vexers and other creatures I didn’t
recognize all resting on their branches and twigs. Some of them looking at me
with a ruthless, hungry stare while others pretended I didn’t even exist. A
dorsal fin from one of the mutated sharks slices through the water next to my
boat, I was unable to tell what actual species of shark he might’ve belonged to.
My eyes were just fixated on that sickly bright green that his dorsal fin
glowed, it almost hurt to look at. Like staring at the sun. The fin itself was a
bit bigger than a MacBook, I couldn’t see the body of the big fish below the
murky surface. But luckily for me, he didn’t really seem to take much interest
in the boat and just simply swam off to the left. Leaving me alone, but I
wondered if that was actually because he saw Levi and knew attacking me would
end terribly for him. But I’ve always know sharks aren’t just the merciless
killers everyone makes them out to be. Most of the time it’s just them mistaking
you for a prey item they actually enjoy. But I’ll tell you now that navigating
the boat through this swampy area of the lake was a huge pain in the ass,
especially as I encountered more trees and natural debris floating along the
surface. I of course use the term natural pretty loosely in this instance,
because at one point I was damn sure I had passed the severed head of an
alligator which blinked at me. Nothing here makes sense, but I’m way too
intrigued to not explore it. After several minutes of waving through this swampy
filth and insects far too large to even exist. I finally get to a point where
the trees end and there’s a clear path to more open water. There was one little
problem, however… The water was purple, an African Violet purple. It looked no
more or less dense than the water on the side I was on, but its strange color
and shading were more than a little off-putting. “I can’t follow you there,
that’s Tomono’s territory. He doesn’t usually care for my parents and me as long
as we stay out here. But if we go in there he’ll definitely kill me and you,
even if he is weaker nowadays.” Levi speaks up, slightly swimming backward past
the boat. “What’s he like?” I probe. Looking down at the now resurfaced Levi.
“Because from what you and your pops have said, he sounds like he’s a bit
cranky.” “He’s the ultimate being of this lake, as long as you leave him alone
and don’t interrupt his hunts. He’ll return the courtesy, we shouldn’t even be
this close in the first place.” “Is it possible to kill him?” I inquire,
shocking even myself as the words leave my lips. Of course, Levi simply laughs
hysterically at me like I’m a toddler trying to overpower a grown man. “A lot
have tried, including my grandfather. But you’ll need much more than just that
weapon if you wanna stand even the slightest chance. I’m not sure where all this
extra confidence came from in you, but I admire it.” “I’m not either, maybe it
was just a stupid question.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. I would’ve expected
the heat in the swampy area to bother me. But it didn’t, and when my hand made
contact with my forehead I felt no sort of sweat or anything. Fatigue itself was
absent as well. But I did feel an internal pounding sensation inside my skull,
growing more intense with every second that passed. “A stupid question if you
intend to stay alive, yes, yes it was,” Levi interjects. “You know, maybe you’re
right. Maybe I should just head back.” I complain, groaning due to my head
feeling as if it’s about to violently explode any minute. “Are you in pain?
What’s wrong?” Levi asks with a tone of genuine concern. Not something you hear
every day from a reptile. “Head hurts like hell. Think it’s because of all the
shit in this area, I should probably just get home.” “I don’t remember making a
bowel movement but alright.” Levi hisses. “I prefer being on the east side
anyway so I’ll swim and follow you back. Best to leave before Tomono realizes
our presence.” “I appreciate it,” I say, my vision beginning to become somewhat
blurry. I wasn’t even sure that I would’ve actually made it back home. But I
wasn’t gonna give up and pass out right here, I was already vulnerable enough. I
got back into the cockpit and began driving the boat back to my house, Becoming
quite hopeful once I saw the silhouette of the roof come into view. Despite my
ever-pounding headache and weakening state. I saw Levi’s displacement in the
water next to me, it was comforting to know that I had an ally in this
otherworldly place. Even if he was reluctant to going along with what I wanted
to do, I knew there was at least one thing in this lake that didn’t wanna kill
or maim me. I turn the boat to park it right next to the dock, although
forgetting to actually tie it to one of the supports, but can you really blame
me? It’s not like I was really thinking as clearly as I could’ve to begin with.
Once I lift myself off the boat and onto the dock, I turn back to see Levi
sticking his head only slightly above the water level. Looking at me like I was
a helpless child in need. “You should rest up, but if you die in your sleep,
there are plenty of things here that will scavenge and devour your body. So
don’t worry about your corpse going to waste.” He announces with a slight
chuckle before going and submerging himself again, proceeding to shift his body
to swim away. “G- good to know.” I stutter. Limping slightly as I make my way to
the sliding glass door of my back patio. The blurring of my vision intensified,
it was like I could almost feel the world slipping away right in front of me. As
I said, it wasn’t fatigue, it was something else. I had no idea what that
something else was, but I do know what probably caused it. The hawk, Kran, or
whatever the hell Levi called it. He might’ve transferred something into me. A
disease, infection. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. As I said, I’ve seen
my fair share of zombie movies, I know how this works. To make matters worse, I
didn’t actually make it to the glass sliding door of the house, no. I was close,
maybe only a few feet from what I could recall. But still, I passed out before I
could make it inside. To my surprise, I did wake up in the middle of the night
feeling much, and I mean much better than previously. Stronger, sharper, more in
tune with my surroundings and instincts. I had seemed to have done a complete
one-eighty. Even the darkness of the night didn’t appear nearly as strong as it
should have. However though, when I took a look at my skin, it appeared paler
than snow. My eyes couldn’t believe it, I must’ve laid there on the patio
staring at my nearly chalk white arms for over a minute. Mesmerized by how I
felt so good on the inside but looked so sickly on the exterior. But it wasn’t
just that, no. I put the palm of my left hand up to my face as I had noticed two
separate but faint, light blue hues in a circle shape on it. As I brought it
closer to my face, it grew brighter and more visible. The opposite happening
when I moved my hand further away. My eyes…they were glowing. Emitting a
sapphire equivalent color in the direction I looked. “W- what the hell is this?”
I recoil. Raising myself back up to my feet. “What the fuck is happening to me?”
I throw my hand on the sliding glass door and open it, only to hear the
shattering of the glass as it slammed into the side of the house. I didn’t even
try opening it that hard. It just… I don’t know, everything felt like it was
just falling apart little by little. I thought it was all just a bad dream, some
sort of nightmare that was being concocted by some supernatural force here at
the lake. But no, that was just my mind telling me how to rationalize it. I knew
the truth, I was wide awake and fully aware of these horrific changes to myself.
But I’ve got stuff that needs to be done around here. It was great to update you
all again, I will surely return with more of my strange and paranormal
experiences. There are many stories and tales to share. Here, at Lake
Bottomless.


HUMANITIES 210: CULTURE IN IRELAND 9.8K+




Hank walked through the grounds of Cluain Mhic Nóis, trying to enjoy the beauty
of the monastery’s ruins despite having been up for over 24 hours. Hank had
flown into Dublin Airport via Aer Lingus at five o’clock that morning from
Boston, Massachusetts. He was part of a university class visiting from the
United States to learn about Ireland’s history and culture and hadn’t slept
since he got up the day before at 9 am. The bus had stopped at the monastery on
the way to Galway, where the course’s first segment would take place. Hank’s
nine other classmates were also wandering the grounds; the red in their eyes
from lack of sleep was showing.When they arrived at the 544 AD monastery site,
their professor told them about how it had been founded by Saint Ciarán and
survived attacks by the Irish, Vikings, Normans, and English until it was
destroyed in 1552. She had then sent the class out to wander the grounds. After
an hour, they got back on the bus and completed the journey to Galway City. They
pulled in to the front of the Imperial Hotel, where the class was to stay while
in Galway. After they had disembarked but before the class could enter the
hotel, the teacher called out. “I’ve already gotten the room keys, and I have
room assignments for you all. You’ll each get a key, and your room number is on
the key. The rooming assignments are Aaron and Hank, Jen and Brittney, Annie and
Carrie, Julie and Alexa, and, finally, Fred and Zack. Will one person from each
room come and get both of your keys.” After getting the luggage unloaded from
the bus, the room keys handed out, and the bags brought into the hotel, the
professor grouped the class back together. “Dinner will be at six at the
restaurant in the hotel. The restaurant staff will show you where to sit, we
have an area reserved for us. I want everyone to take a paper map of the area.
The hotel is marked on it. Go out and explore. You are all dismissed.” Aaron and
Hank both wanted to have their first proper Irish beer and set out to find a
pub. The Tig Chóilí called to them. They stepped into the small but welcoming
bar, and both ordered Guinness that they drank sitting at one of the small
wooden tables in the back. In the Imperial’s restaurant, the class was seated at
a long table in a corner with what looked like stonework at their back. The bar
had beautiful blue lighting that Hank liked. The teacher asked them about their
explorations and what everyone had seen. Everyone went to bed early, tired from
being up for so long. The next day the class loaded up on the bus early and went
to Kylemore Abbey. As they made their way to the grounds, Hank looked over
Pollacapall Lough at the impressive granite and limestone building. The
beautiful gray building stood out amongst the greenery that surrounded it,
looking majestic. Standing in front of the abbey, the professor addressed the
class.“Kylemore Abbey was built as a private residence in 1868. In 1920, the
Benedictine nuns purchased the property. The walled garden here is one of the
last built in the Victorian period. Now, go and explore the grounds. This is our
only stop today, so take your time.” Most of the class headed to the Victorian
Walled Garden; however, Hank went in the opposite direction, going down a dirt
path through the woods. After walking so far that he thought he’d somehow missed
it, Hank came across his destination, a gigantic triangle-shaped stone known as
the Ironing Stone. Hank, a fan of mythology, wanted to see the stone first
because of its mythological background. According to the Celtic myths, the
Celtic hero giant Cú Chulainn lived on one of the mountains located here, and
the giant Fionn McCool lived on another. The two giants fought continuously, and
during one of these fights, Cú hurled a rock at Fionn; the rock missed Fionn and
landed here. Supposedly, if you stand with your back to the stone and throw
three rocks over the stone while making a wish, your wish will come true. Hank
didn’t think a lot about the wish part but wanted to see the stone of
mythological legend. He found himself throwing three rocks over the stone
anyway. It couldn’t hurt, he thought. Hank made his way across the grounds to
see the Victorian Walled Garden, passing some of his classmates on his way. Once
he got into the gardens, he understood why they were renowned. The formal
gardens were sheets of grass with beautiful flower bed designs cut into the
grass in various shapes. He also wandered the vegetable gardens and enjoyed the
head gardener’s house and the workman’s bothy, both set up to show visitors what
life had been like in Victorian times. After absorbing the gardens, Hank started
making his way to the abbey and the Gothic church that he had seen on his trek
from the Ironing Stone to the Victorian Walled Garden. Hank heard a commotion
from a distance away, toward the abbey. As he was rushing over to see what was
going on, he heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance entered the grounds and
headed down the dirt path past the abbey. Hank rushed down and found out the
commotion was at the Ironing Stone. When he got there, he saw Alexa was lying on
the ground. It looked like her head had hit the stone from the blood glistening
on it. The ambulance loaded up Alexa and tore off as the teacher tried to
collect the spectating class members. The bus ride back to the Imperial was
quiet. In the Imperial’s restaurant, the Irish food was tasty, but the friendly
eating environment and the hearty food did little to lighten the classmates’
darkness. Despite Alexa being in the hospital, the class would continue in the
morning, and Hank wanted to get some sleep. It turned out that none of the
classmates had much desire to go out exploring Galway given the events of the
day and they all ended up staying in the Imperial that night. The next morning
Aaron and Hank went down for breakfast together. Their professor told them that
there wasn’t any change in Alexa’s condition. After breakfast, the professor
ushered everyone out to the bus waiting outside the hotel restaurant doors.
Their first stop of the day was at Menlo Castle. Hank was excited because he had
never seen an actual castle before. They had to climb over a metal gating across
the dirt road and walk the rest of the way to the castle. After passing a small
stone structure with no roof, the professor announced the castle was coming up.
Hank strained his eyes, trying to see the castle but only saw the green
vegetation surrounding the area. As they continued, Hank found out why. Much to
his dismay, Menlo Castle was in complete ruins, and vines covered most of it.
Hank’s hope of getting to explore a proper castle was dashed to pieces. “Menlo
Castle was built in the 16th century and survived until 1910 when an oil lamp
caught the building on fire. The fire killed three people, including the owner’s
invalid daughter,” their professor said. Their next stop was the Galway
Cathedral, an impressive stone building with green-tinged metal roofing. Hank
was happy to find this stop didn’t involve dirt roads and gate hopping. “The
Galway Cathedral opened in 1965 and is a Roman Catholic house of worship,” their
professor said. “The building is one of the last stone churches built in Ireland
and one the of the largest buildings in Galway.” Inside the sanctuary, Hank was
blown away by the beauty of the stained glass windows and the elaborate ceiling
design. When they exited the Galway Cathedral, Hank noticed their bus was gone.
“For the rest of today, we will be walking,” their professor said. “We are
heading to South Park Beach, then will return to the hotel through the Latin
Quarter.” As they passed a small harbor area on River Corrib, Hank was drawn by
the beautiful colors of the buildings on the other side of the river. Their
professor stopped the class and pointed to the same side of the river Hank had
been admiring. “If you look across the harbor, you’ll see the Spanish Arch, a
1584 extension to the 13th-century town wall built by the Normans.” After
looking out over Loch Lurgan at South Park Beach, the professor brought the
class to the Latin Quarter. “The Latin Quarter is the center of nightlife in
Galway and is considered the cultural heart of the city,” their professor said.
“Some of the buildings you’ll see here date back to the 16th century.” The Latin
Quarter was quaint with cobblestone walkways filled with people, and with shops
and restaurants lining the sides. Hank found the Latin Quarter to be bustling
with far more activity than the small New England town where he lived. He could
only imagine what it looked like at night. The class made the short walk back to
their hotel from the Latin Quarter for dinner. At dinner, the professor
addressed the class. “I talked with the hospital and Alexa is still in poor
condition and unconscious. It appears that she must have tripped and hit her
head on the rock rather hard. I know that this is a tough situation, but as part
of the course, you should really experience the nightlife in Galway. I implore
you to go out and experience the Latin Quarter before our segment here ends
tomorrow.” Heeding their professor’s advice, the nine members of the class went
to The King’s Head in the Latin Quarter to have some fun, even though Alexa was
still in the hospital. A lively Irish band was playing, and the Guinness tasted
great; however, a somber mood held over the evening. Hank and Fred headed back
before the rest of the class. The next morning when Hank went down for
breakfast, there was a commotion going on. The gardaí were in the lobby talking
with the teacher. Hank looked over at the few class members that were down
already. “What’s going on?” “Brittney never returned to our room from The King’s
Head last night,” Jen said. “She’s missing?” “Yes, that’s why the professor
called the gardaí.” Their professor walked over to them as the gardaí headed out
the door to Rosemary Ave. She looked around and counted the heads. She nodded
when she saw that all eight remaining members of the class were present. “As
some of you may have heard, Brittney never returned to the hotel last night. The
gardaí think she probably went home with someone from The King’s Head since it
looks like she was the last member of the class there.” “Are we continuing with
the class?” Aaron asked? “We have to. The trip has been paid for already, and we
can’t just temporarily suspend the class. All of you have return tickets
already.” “But aren’t we leaving the Imperial today?” Carrie asked.“Yes, we are
going to be staying at the Dromhall in Killarney tonight for the middle segment
of the trip.” “What about Brittney?” “When she gets back to the hotel, the
gardaí said she could take the Bus Éireann to Limerick then to Killarney. And
she is likely going to fail the class as well. Now, hurry up and get your
breakfast; this ordeal has put us behind schedule.” After breakfast, the class
got their luggage from their rooms and loaded it onto the bus. As the bus left
Galway City, Hank looked out the window at the now-familiar sites of Galway,
that a few days ago had been so fresh and new, for the last time. The teacher
stood at the front and addressed the class. “After the stunt Brittney pulled
last night, we are going to have assigned class buddies now.” “Really?” Aaron
said. “We aren’t high schoolers anymore.” “Really. The assigned buddies are as
follows, Fred and Julie, Zack and Carrie, Hank and Annie, and Aaron and Jen. You
and your buddy are accountable for each other whenever we aren’t at the hotel.
Everyone got it?” “Got it,” came the response in unison. The bus made its first
stop at the ruins of what looked like an ancient church to Hank. Before the
class could get up, the professor addressed them from the front of the bus. “We
are at Corcomroe Abbey, the ruins of a 13th-century Cistercian monastery.
Remember, stay with your buddy while on the grounds.” The class got out and had
a chance to stretch their legs while admiring the impressive remains of the
abbey. Hank found the recessed grave of Conor O’Brien, from 1268, particularly
fascinating. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a grave that old, especially one
with statuary in such good shape. After a half-hour, the bus loaded back up and
continued into the Burren. The land became rocky and almost alien-looking to
Hank. Hank felt excitement when the bus pulled into the Cliffs of Moher. Their
teacher again addressed them from inside the bus. “The cliffs are nine miles
long and up to 702 feet tall at their peak, which is approximately 65 storeys.
O’Brien’s Tower is an 1835 observational tower that was built on the cliffs.
There is a separate fee to enter the tower that isn’t covered in your class
fees, if you wish to go up. Remember to stay with your buddy, and have a good
time.” All Hank could see when he off of the bus were some low hills, but as he
and Annie climbed the steep path up to the cliffs, O’Brien’s Tower and the
cliffs came into view and were remarkable. They had decided to start with
O’Brien’s Tower and each handed over the two euro coin necessary to enter the
tower. From the top, they had a great view of the magnificent cliffs. Then they
went to look at the cliffs from the left side of the parking lot, starting in
the heavily visited area. When they got to the white and yellow signs saying
“Aire: Imeall Na h-Aillte – Caution: Exposed Cliff Edges,” they decided to
continue. Enjoying the view of the cliffs, the two wandering along them enjoying
the fantastic view of the Atlantic Ocean and the Aran Islands. They reached
another sign, this one saying “Extreme Danger: Unstable Cliffedge.” Hank was a
little leery of continuing, but Annie wanted to continue. It felt like a
rainstorm was coming in, but Hank found Annie cute and was hoping he might get
to know her a little better on the trip. Not wanting Annie to think less of him,
Hank continued since turning around would force her to as well if they didn’t
want to face the professor’s wrath. They continued, slower due to the narrower
and far less traveled path. The wind started increasing, and Hank decided it was
time to go back. He didn’t want to be here if the wind picked up anymore. He
stopped and turned around. Annie was standing, arms crossed, blocking the path.
“Let’s head back. This storm is picking up.” “You aren’t going back.” “What are
you talking about?” “I’m going to kill you.” Hank felt the wind whip at his air.
He hadn’t felt so conscious of the height of the cliffs until now. He looked at
Annie as some raindrops started to whip his face. “You are going to kill me?”
“Yes.” “Why?” “Originally, it was just because I wanted to see what it felt
like. What it actually felt like to kill someone. To control whether someone
lives or dies and then be the one to end their life. At Kylemore Abbey with
Alexa, the moment just felt right. We were alone. That giant rock was behind us.
I just suddenly found myself grabbing her head and smashing it into the rock. It
felt… it felt exhilarating! But it was over so fast. I wanted to smash her head
again and again, but then it wouldn’t have looked like an accident.” “So, you
did that to Alexa?” “Yes, then there was Brittany. She and I were the last
members of the class left at The Kings Head. She was very lit. It was easy to
get her to go for a walk to see the Spanish Arch. She stumbled the whole way
there. One quick little shove, and she was in the River Corrib. She struggled so
hard to stay up but failed. I sat on the concrete edging and watched until there
were no signs of her. I’m surprised they haven’t found the body yet.” “So,
Brittany is dead?” “Very. And now you. I’m going to push you over the cliff down
to the rocks and into the Atlantic Ocean below.” “Why me?” “Why not you?” “What
have I done to you?” “Nothing, nothing at all. You are here with me right now,
and if you look around, we are all alone.” Hank had been positioning his legs
and leaped toward Annie. The rain stung as it hit his eyes and the wind made him
feel as if he was moving at superhuman speed. He realized he wasn’t when Annie
quickly sidestepped his leap and pushed him sideways as he flew by. He fell to
the ground knocking some of the wind out of him. Annie kicked him with her foot
causing him to roll toward the edge of the cliff. Hank gripped at the grass, but
nothing provided an anchor, and he went over the side of the cliff. As he fell,
over the wail of the wind in his ears, he heard Annie shouting from the cliff
above. “HELP! HELP! My classmate Hank just tripped and went over the cliff!”


HOTEL MORTE – THE UNWANTED GUEST 8.6K+




No doubt all of you horror aficionados will be familiar with the world’s most
famous (or perhaps infamous) spooky hotels. Whether it’s an old establishment
harbouring restless spirits or a run-down hostel that has been the scene of
violent deaths, there is sometime which draws us to these macabre venues. Every
hotel has its stories of course – that’s inevitable, given the number of people
who come through them. But then there’s the dark tourism industry, and those
places that play on their history of paranormal incidents to bring in the
numbers. Hotel Morte isn’t one of those establishments. You’d think the name
alone would generate interest, but we like to keep a low profile. The Morte is
located within an economically disadvantaged area in a small and unremarkable
provincial city that few people will ever visit. We have no online presence and
don’t appear on any review sites. That’s probably just as well, since I doubt
our patrons would leave any positive feedback! Even the ghost hunters and
paranormal investigators tend to give us a wide berth. We do get the occasional
one who shows up and checks in, but they rarely last the night, soon realising
that they’re out of their depth. As you might imagine, the Morte has seen better
days. The hotel was built during the 1920s and was still a profitable concern
right up to the 80s, but alas, our ‘golden era’ is long gone. The building
itself is crumbling, the electrics and plumbing are barely functional, our
furnishings are ancient, our carpets worn, and our mattresses lumpy and soiled.
Needless to say, we don’t have much in the way of amenities – no room service,
no spa, and we definitely don’t have Wi-Fi! What we do have is twenty usable
rooms- that is to say, rooms deemed fit for human habitation. The other eighty
are sealed off – their doors welded shut and windows boarded up. They aren’t
exactly vacant however. When I walk the corridors at night I can hear their
former residents clawing at the inside of the doors, trying their best to get
out. And after midnight they start wailing, pleading for an escape they will
never achieve. This is a deeply unnerving experience that you never really get
used to. Given the frequent paranormal events which occur inside the Morte, it’s
no surprise that the few guests we do receive are rather unhinged. We do get our
fair share of addicts and drifters who pass through, many of whom also have
mental health problems. We do our best to look after them…But sadly, the very
nature of our hotel doesn’t exactly help in their recovery. We do have three
long-term residents, all of whom are eccentric and rather troubled individuals
with tragic pasts. For the sake of preserving their privacy, I shall refer to
these three by their nicknames. First, there’s the major – a grizzled military
veteran who acts the gentleman but is known for his violent outbursts. Then
there’s the widow, who appears much like you’d expect – an elderly woman always
dressed in black. She spends most of her time in our bar lounge, nursing a glass
of sherry, puffing on a cigarette, and occasionally directing sarcastic and
biting comments towards the other patrons. Finally, there’s the senorita. She’s
different from the rest – young, beautiful, intelligent…but with a darkness
inside of her, a terrible sadness which plagues her soul. But I’m not ready to
talk about her just yet… And then you have the staff, all of whom incidentally
also live in the hotel. First there’s me. I’ve worked and lived in the Morte for
the past ten years. My job? Well, I suppose you could call me the ‘acting
manager’, although I also fulfil the roles of front receptionist, concierge and
general handyman. I report directly to the hotel’s owner, one Mr Black. My boss
is an odd man and an absentee landlord. I can go years without seeing
face-to-face. I do speak with Mr Black on the phone every now and again, usually
to ask for advice when I’m facing a particularly tricky situation. Mr Black is a
very intelligent man with vast experience, although I have no idea how he keeps
the Morte operational when we’ve been running at a huge loss for decades. I
suspect he may have other reasons for keeping our doors open, but I guess that’s
above my pay grade. Now, you’re probably wondering why I chose to work in this
hellhole, let along why I’ve stayed here for a decade. I’d like to say that I’m
well compensated for the work I do, but sadly this isn’t the case. I earn a
pittance, and the room that comes with the job is barely habitable. And
unfortunately, I am not in possession of a set of rules I can follow that will
keep me safe. The Morte is a chaotic, unpredictable and often dangerous
environment, and I rely on my wits and the help of my colleagues to keep me
alive. No, the reason I work here is a very personal one. I have an unbreakable
connection to the hotel which means I can never leave. My staff team numbers
two, both of whom also reside in the building. There’s Mary, who is our resident
maid and has the unenviable task of trying to maintain a basic level of
cleanliness in an old building plagued by dust, cobwebs and black mould. She’s a
hard worker and has a particular skill in removing blood stains from bed sheets
and carpets. Sadly, some of our less agreeable guests keep her busy in this
regard. And then there’s Owen – our resident chef who also moonlights as our
barkeeper, as unsurprisingly we don’t get many dinner reservations. I would
describe Chef Owen as a weird guy with a very dark sense of humour. In addition
to cooking and serving drinks, he has another rather unpleasant job which will
become abundantly clear to you once I tell my stories. We make an odd trio, but
Mary, Owen and I have worked and lived together for years and have learnt to
watch each other’s backs. I guess they’re the closest thing I have to friends in
this world. As I’ve explained, much of the hotel building is now off-limits,
either because the rooms are out of use or because they’re occupied by entities
one would rather avoid. In addition to our twenty usable rooms, the main hubs of
activity include our lobby and reception area. You’ll generally find me behind
the desk, waiting on guests who rarely appear and watching a phone that almost
never rings. When I’m not engaged in other duties I’m stuck here, passing the
hours by reading paperback novels (anything but horror, I get enough of that in
my day job!). I stare at the rotating glass doors, reminiscing about better
times in the days before I become trapped inside of this hellish place. Mary’s
domain is the laundry room down in the basement, and Owen rotates between the
kitchen and bar lounge, although I often need to remind him to remove his
blood-stained apron before he starts serving drinks. The bar-slash-lounge is the
closest thing we have to a social hub in the Morte and is where our handful of
guests tend to congregate in the evenings. It was once a rather quaint art-deco
style barroom but has long since deteriorated along with the rest of the
building, with cracked tiles, dusty old bottles and tired old furnishings being
all that’s left of its former glory. The lighting is also poor, but that’s the
way our guests seem to prefer it. Our restaurant is rarely used but also doubles
as our conference room. Believe it or not, but we do get the occasional group
that wishes to rent it out (and more on that later). Other than these very basic
facilities, the Morte has a few other areas of note, but most of them are best
avoided for any extended length of time. Our elevator is ancient, creaky, and
unreliable – prone to regular breakdowns. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve
been stuck in that damned lift, needing to be rescued by Owen or Mary. Often
this is due to simple mechanical failures but sometimes the lift is paralysed by
one of the malevolent beings that frequently pass through the hotel. It brings
an icy chill down my spine every time I find myself trapped in that pitch-black
box, listening to the foul cackles of one or more of those devilish fiends. And
then there’s the dreaded corridors on each floor. They’re a frightening space,
especially at night. Once I finish my shift, I speed through the hellish
labyrinth on the sixth floor, rushing to my room whilst trying to ignore the
bone-chilling din and avoid seeing the inexplainable entities who stalk the dark
corners, always trying to draw in the living for their own nefarious purposes.
Once I reach my safe haven, I shut the door and lock myself in, putting in my
ear plugs in an attempt to drown out the inhuman screams which continue until
daybreak. So, I guess I’ve given you a flavour of what the Hotel Morte is. As
you’ve probably guessed, I’m not writing this to tout for business. In fact, my
best advice is to stay well away, which is why I shall not reveal the hotel’s
location. Nevertheless, I do wish to share my stories, because I believe the
many victims of the Morte should be remembered. Let me begin by telling you the
tale of Mr Hillman, one of our most infamous guests who I believe had a very
eventful stay at our little establishment. Now, I knew Mr Hillman was trouble
the first time I met him. He was a heavy, middle-aged man with a thinning
hairline. I wouldn’t say he was physically unattractive. When he first arrived
at the hotel reception I noted how he was fairly well turned out, clean shaven
and wearing an inexpensive but neat suit and tie. But, when you’ve been in this
business as long as I have, you learn how to recognise the bad ones. He wasn’t
exactly rude when he checked in, but his whole demeanour and personality seemed
off. I sensed a darkness in him and saw the barely suppressed malice behind his
eyes. I was also suspicious of the leather briefcase he carried, somehow sensing
it contained unsavoury items. Yes, sadly Mr Hillman is the type of unwanted
guest we occasionally receive at the Morte, perhaps drawn in by the darkness and
the evil presence which stalks our corridors. I would have liked to refuse him a
room but knew Mr Black would never allow this. Nevertheless, I knew we’d need to
keep a close eye on him, and so we did. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night
when the first altercation occurred. I’d just finished my shift on the front
desk and was having a solitary drink whilst working up the courage to face those
hellish corridors on the sixth floor. Our bar was about as busy as it gets. All
three of our long-term guests were in attendance, nursing their drinks and
killing time. The widow was sat in her usual spot, the darkened booth in the far
corner of the lounge and facing the bar. White-haired, wrinkled and wearing a
black dress and shawl, the elderly woman made for a sorry sight as she sipped
her sherry and puffed on her cigarettes. There was always an awful sadness in
her eyes, betraying the hurt and grief she carried with her always. The major
stood at the far end of the bar, striking a confident pose as he drank brandy
and closely watched over his fellow patrons. The ex-officer was always well
dressed, wearing a tweed suit and his regimental tie. He sported a grey
moustache and wore thick spectacles, giving him the appearance of a harmless
intellectual type. But this was merely a guise. The major is in fact a highly
trained killer, and he’s lost none of his edge since retiring from the service.
And finally, there was the senorita, who sat in the middle of the bar, nursing a
glass of white wine. As always, I was struck by the young woman’s beauty and
elegance – her flowing dark hair, olive skin, soft eyes and bright floral dress.
I wanted so badly to speak with her, but I knew she wouldn’t talk to me. It
hurt, but I would continue to respect her wishes…For now at least. Owen was
working behind the bar, serving our patrons whilst sporting a wide grin. Our
chef is a tall and thin man with a devilish look in his eyes and a near
permanent smile on his lips that is anything but wholesome. I’ve worked with
Owen for years but the man still surprises me, and I’ve never figured out what
makes him tick. In one sense he is my closest friend and confidante, but the man
also scares the hell out of me. I know what he does in that kitchen and it turns
my stomach. Mr Hillman came into the lounge at around 9:30pm. He’d already been
drinking that evening. This became obvious due to his slurred speech and the
smell of alcohol on his breath. Nevertheless, our guest took a stool and ordered
a large whiskey, downing it in one before demanding a second. I became concerned
whenever he turned his attentions to the senorita, taking a seat beside her and
trying to start a conversation. Frankly, the exchange was painful to watch.
Hillman seemed to be trying to chat her up, but the senorita was having none of
it, and clearly she was well out of his league. I noted how his body language
became more aggressive as the conversation dragged on and as she continued to
give him the cold shoulder. I was very worried about the senorita’s safety but
knew she wouldn’t appreciate me trying to intervene. Besides, she could look
after herself, as she’d proved many times in the past. I remember the moment
when the situation deteriorated. Hillman leaned forwards, trying to touch the
girl. She reacted in an instant, jumping off her chair and stepping back whilst
glaring him down and shouting – “Don’t you dare!” Predictably, Mr Hillman
reacted badly to this firm rejection, standing up from his stool, his face red
with fury as he clenched his fists. “You stuck up bitch!” he spat, his eyes
narrowing as he prepared for violence. I could no longer sit and watch and so
made ready to intervene, but this proved unnecessary, as the others stepped in
first. “You sir, are a sorry excuse for a man!” That was the widow, awakened
from her grief as she spoke up in the girl’s defence. “If my husband were still
alive, he would teach you a damn lesson!” Hillman shot her a hateful look,
shouting – “Keep out of this, you old bat!” The major was the next to speak, and
as always, his words hit home. “You’ve had too much to drink, young man. I
suggest you call it a night.” His words were typically polite on the surface but
were spoken in a tone which left no doubt as to their meaning. He also shot
Hillman a killer glare, holding his gaze after he’d said his piece. I imagine
the major had given that look to dozens of men over the years, just before he
snapped their necks. I looked on in shocked awe as Mr Hillman’s face turned pale
and he quickly backed off, almost stumbling over the bar stool as he retreated.
Hillman had been humiliated and clearly wasn’t happy about it, and so he ranted
angrily whilst leaving the lounge, screaming – “To hell with the lot of you!
You’re all a bunch of God damn freaks! This place is dead anyway…A total dump.
I’m going out to find myself a real party!” And with that he stormed out,
slamming the door shut behind him. I felt a huge relief at seeing him leave and
looked over to Owen, who was still standing behind the bar. He’d remained silent
throughout the tense encounter, although I noted his hand was under the till and
remembered that’s where he kept his meat cleaver. “That guy is trouble. We
haven’t heard the last of him.” said Owen. I nodded my head in agreement,
knowing he was right. I didn’t think this was going to end well. I took another
drink to calm my nerves before leaving the lounge and ascending the floors,
running the gauntlet to reach the relative safety of my room. Thankfully, my
short journey was fairly uneventful on that night. The elevator ran smoothly,
and my walk along the sixth-floor corridor went uninterrupted, that is until I
reached my bedroom door. I was fumbling with my keys when I felt the hairs on
the back of my neck stand up, and my sixth sense told me I was being watched. I
turned around in a shot, coming face-to-face with the senorita. She was just
standing there behind me with a look of reproach in her eyes. The lights above
her flickered as she stared me down, giving the young lady an unsettling
appearance. I was in shock because I couldn’t remember the last time she’d
spoken with me. I’d yearned for the chance to reconnect, but now she was here, I
found myself speechless. Therefore, it was left to the senorita to break the
silence. “I saw you watching me at the bar. What were you going to do, jump in
to save me? Play my knight in shining armour?” I was taken aback, barely able to
stutter my response. “…I wanted to make sure you were safe…” She scoffed in
contempt whilst rolling her eyes. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” I
lowered my head in shame, as her words were like a dagger through my heart. The
worst thing was – I knew she was right. “Why?” she cried angrily, “Why are you
still here? Why can’t you leave me be?” I began to sob emotionally as I
struggled to respond. “You know I can’t do that…” I whimpered tearfully. She
shook her head in disgust, her voice full of sorrow as she spoke her parting
words. “There’s nothing I can do for you, no relief I can give you. Please just
leave me alone.” And with that, she left me – disappearing into the darkness and
leaving me alone with my pain. I didn’t sleep that night as my encounter with
the senorita kept running through my head. I was so upset that I’d forgotten all
about Mr Hillman and his bad behaviour. Unfortunately, he also occupied a room
on the sixth floor, only a few doors down from my own. He came in after
midnight, making an awful racket that would wake the dead. I listened to the
muffled sound of his voice and realised he wasn’t alone. There was a woman with
him – I could hear her laughing at his undoubtedly snide comments. I assumed she
was a lady of the night as I couldn’t imagine a man as vile as Mr Hillman could
charm any woman he wasn’t paying. I lay on my hard mattress and continued to
listen carefully as they entered his room and shut the door behind them. I
didn’t like it but remembered Mr Black’s motto – ‘The customer is rarely right,
but we must suffer their excesses.’ Besides, I was exhausted – both physically
and emotionally drained, and so I closed my eyes and fell into a deep slumber. I
awoke to the sound of screaming, jumping up from my bed as all my senses came to
life. I groggily glanced at my alarm clock and saw the time was 3:33am – right
in the middle of the witching hour. The screaming grew louder – a blood curdling
cry from a woman in mortal danger. I thought it could be connected to Mr Hillman
and his late-night visitor but couldn’t be sure, as disembodied screams were not
uncommon along the hotel’s haunted corridors. I know what you’re thinking and
yes – I should have left the sanctuary of my room to investigate, but I’d learnt
long ago to never walk the halls between the hours of 3 – 4 am. My actions may
well have been cowardly, but I haven’t survived this long by taking unwise
risks. Next, I heard the sounds of a scuffle as furniture was knocked over and
walls were slammed. Soon, the screams were soon replaced by the terrible sound
of a death rattle…and then there was an awful silence. I knew straight away that
the Hotel Morte had taken another victim and I also realised there would be a
mess to clear up in the morning. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep another wink
that night and by 7am I found myself standing inside Room 66 – Mr Hillman’s room
– observing the bloody mess he’d left behind. Mary – our resident maid – was
standing with her back to the door, facing the blood-splattered bed and shaking
her head in disgust. I sheepishly walked up behind her, making my presence known
by clearing my throat. Mary turned to look at me and I saw the anger in her
tired eyes, noting her drawn face set under fading red curls and her traditional
maid’s uniform that was now worn-out and threadbare. Sadly, the many years
trapped in this hellish establishment had taken their toll on this poor woman.
She remained professional with her words, but I could hear the emotion in her
voice as she spoke. “Really sir, this will not do. Those sheets will have to go,
and the carpet will be permanently stained. Frankly sir, this guest is little
better than a savage animal.” I nodded my head meekly and muttered – “Where is
the deceased?” She didn’t answer verbally, instead pointing sternly towards the
bathroom. I reluctantly made my way to the closed bathroom door, my nostrils
filled with the sadly familiar stench of death. I turned the handle and
discovered a sickening scene inside – the corpse of a young woman dumped in the
blood-filled bathtub, semi-nude and stabbed multiple times through the chest,
her dead eyes still open and staring up at the ceiling, and her face frozen with
an expression of absolute terror, a permanent reminder of the horrifying last
moments before her violent death.I stood in the doorway for a moment, sickened
by the sight and with my heart filled with shame, as I recalled how I’d done
nothing to prevent this heinous crime. I was brought back to reality by a voice
from my rear. “I told you he was trouble.” I swung around to see Owen standing
beside Mary, his usual grin no longer present. “Yeah.” I agreed solemnly, “Where
is Mr Hillman?” Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know boss. I heard him going
out early this morning, but all his stuff is still here, so I guess he’ll be
back.” I sighed out loud, racking my exhausted brain as I tried to figure out
what to do. “Okay.” I finally answered, “I know this is bad, but I’m going to
need you both to work with me on this. Mary, please do your best to clean up the
blood. And Owen, can you take care of the body?” “Sure thing boss.” our chef
replied, his face suddenly lighting up. This worried me as I’d seen that look
before. “Now Owen,” I said sternly, “I don’t want her going through your kitchen
like the others. This young lady deserves better.” Surprisngly, Owen seemed
aggrieved by the accusation. “What do you take me for boss? I am no heartless
monster. I shall wait until dark and drive her out to the woods. Find a peaceful
burial spot. Nice and respectful.” I nodded my head, feeling somewhat reassured.
“And what about our guest?” Mary asked sharply. I experienced the stabbing pain
of anxiety as I considered her question. Sadly, this was a task I could not
delegate. “I will speak with Mr Hillman.” I replied. And so, I left my staff to
their unpleasant work while I went downstairs and began my shift. I carried out
my daily tasks and impatiently waited for Mr Hillman to return. He arrived back
at the hotel around lunchtime. I noted how he wore clean clothes, having
presumably discarded his blood-stained garments from the night before. He shot
me a look as he entered the lobby through the rotating door and I tried to see
any signs of guilt or remorse in his bloodshot eyes…but alas, all I saw was
darkness staring back at me. Mr Hillman was evidently not in the mood for
conversation, as he attempted to rush past my reception desk, tightly clutching
his briefcase which I now believed contained a murder kit. I cleared my throat,
speaking up to stop him in his tracks. “Excuse me sir, might I have a word with
you?” I would’ve used much harsher words if it were up to me, but Hillman was
still a customer, and so Mr Black would insist on a basic level of courtesy. He
turned around and glared at me with hate in his eyes, practically spitting out
his reply – “What do you want?” I took a deep breath, meeting his hateful gaze
as I spoke my piece. “Sir, I must tell you that the incident in your room last
night is considered a severe breach of our residency rules. With all due respect
sir, the condition your room was left in is unacceptable.” I expected him to
react aggressively to my rebuke but instead he bellowed out laughter, emitting a
sick, sadistic cackle which filled the lobby. “So, you’re not happy?” he replied
mockingly, “And what the hell are you going to do about it?” I felt the anger
rising up in my stomach and struggled to control it as I spoke my next words
through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to pack
your bags and leave.” He laughed again, louder this time. “I’m not going
anywhere my friend. If you’ve got such a problem with what I did, why don’t you
call the cops?” Suddenly I lost my previously held confidence, finding myself
unable to respond. “Yeah, I thought not.” said Hillman, as a sickening smirk
appeared on his lips. “I know what goes on here. I hear the strange noises late
at night – the banging and the screaming. This is no normal hotel, and you sure
don’t want the authorities poking their noses in. Besides, I rather like it
here. This is where I belong. No my friend, I intend to stay here for a long
time, and there’s nothing you can do about it! In fact, I would strongly advise
you to stay the hell out of my way, or else you may end up dead in my tub!” He
cackled once more, slapping me hard on the shoulder before casting me a parting,
predatory glare. And with that, he left, heading to the elevator and up to his
room, no doubt planning his next murder. I was left seething with anger, barely
able to contain my hatred of that vile man. It took a moment to compose myself
and consider my next move. At this point there was really only one option left
open to me. The time had come to phone Mr Black. The owner of the Hotel Morte
didn’t sound particularly pleased to hear from me. Mr Black expected me to
handle difficult situations on my own initiative wherever possible. However, my
employer became more sympathetic after hearing my predicament. “Hmmm…” he
mumbled thoughtfully, his soft voice carrying down the line, “This is quite the
conundrum. A very unfortunate situation indeed. Our guest is right of course, we
cannot contact the authorities on this. At the same time, we certainly do not
want this unpleasant individual to remain in our hotel…” “So, what should we
do?” I asked impatiently. Mr Black laughed softly before replying. “My good man,
have you learnt nothing from your time in service? Here at the Hotel Morte, we
handle such matters in house. Our staff and long-term residents, we are like
family. Perhaps our relations are not always amicable, but we’ve always come
together in the face of external threats. Speak to your people and they will
advise what action to take…Now, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you good
day.” After that, he abruptly ended the call, leaving me listening to an ominous
dial tone. I knew this was as much advice as I would get from the enigmatic Mr
Black. And of course, he was right – we needed to deal with the Hillman
situation ourselves. So, I called a meeting in the lounge that very afternoon,
and we made our plans, preparing to put them into motion. That evening I sat up
in my room and stayed alert, ignoring the usual ‘bumps in the night’ that were
all too common in the Morte, waiting for the sound of our unwanted guest
returning from his night’s exertions. I felt extremely tense, shaking with
anxiety and anticipation when I heard his muffled voice and the footsteps along
the corridor. A surge of adrenaline kept me going as I opened my bedroom door
and stepped out into the danger zone. Mr Hillman was outside his room, fiddling
with his keys in the lock. He turned to face me, and his expression was one of
pure rage. There was a lady of the night with him, a girl so young she could
have been his daughter. She was pale skinned, thin and wore a short cocktail
dress and heels. I noted how her pupils were dilated and so guessed she was an
addict. Digging deep into my reserves, I spoke up defiantly as I finally
confronted the vile man. “Now Mr Hillman, perhaps I wasn’t clear when we spoke
this afternoon. We will have no repeat of last night’s unpleasantness.” Hillman
was clearly furious and he snarled at me through clenched teeth. “Get back in
your damned room!” I took a deep breath and shook my head in the negative. “I
will not.” I replied firmly. “You son-of-a-bitch!” he growled, “I’ll gut you
like a damned fish!” Hillman pushed the girl aside and charged at me, reaching
into his jacket to withdraw a sharp butcher’s knife. I reacted on pure instinct,
fighting for my life as I grabbed hold of his wrist and desperately struggled to
disarm him. As we fought, I glanced over his shoulder and saw the young lady,
her eyes wide with terror. “Run!” I screamed. Thankfully she obeyed, sprinting
down the corridor in the opposite direction. We’d anticipated this situation and
so Mary and the widow were waiting for the fleeing girl and would get her to
safety. But now I was the one in mortal danger. Mr Hillman was stronger than he
looked and so he soon got the better of me, breaking free from my grasp and
throwing me to the ground. I looked up fearfully at my attacker as he advanced
upon me with pure hatred in his eyes and his knife raised, ready to strike. “You
bastard!” he cried, “I warned you not to interfere in my business! Now you’re
going to pay!” I crawled backwards, praying that the cavalry would arrive in
time to save me. Thankfully, my friends didn’t let me down. “Now then sir, this
really will not do.” said the major. “He’s got that right.” added Owen. Hillman
turned around in shock, suddenly finding himself confronted by two men, both
advancing upon him with menacing intent. The major carried a machete and Owen
was armed with his trusty meat cleaver. The hardened looks in their eyes
confirmed they meant business. Hillman gasped and slowly started to back away.
As he did so, the banging started, as the entities trapped inside of the vacant
rooms slammed their fists against the insides of the doors, hammering in unison
to create an ominous and intimidating drumbeat. For the first time I saw genuine
fear in the killer’s ghostly pale face, as suddenly the hunter had become the
hunted. The major and Owen were blocking his route to the elevator and so Mr
Hillman fled in the opposite direction whilst still wielding his knife. He
headed for the staircase, just as we’d anticipated. I got back up on my feet and
joined my armed comrades as we pursued our quarry. In a blind panic, Hillman
threw open the door and stepped out onto the staircase. That’s when the next
part of our plan was put into action. Suddenly, the senorita emerged from the
shadows, approaching Hillman from behind and taking him completely by surprise.
She got right up in his face and shouted – “Boo!” Hillman cried out in dismay
and stepped backwards, losing his footing and falling down the stairs, his body
tumbling heavily until he hit the bottom. He turned over and I saw his own knife
was now protruding from his chest, buried deep in his ribcage. The monster’s
eyes were now filled with shock and fear as he began to choke on his own blood,
his life slowly and painfully draining away. I think we all felt a grim
satisfaction when watching the serial killer die, but Owen was the first one to
speak the words. “A job well done!” he stated firmly. “Indeed.” I replied,
whilst shooting our chef a sly look. “I assume you can take care of this?” “Of
course.” Owen confirmed. “And feel free to dispose of this body in whatever way
you see fit.” I added. I watched with a combination of concern and morbid
curiosity as Owen’s face lit up, and he replied – “With pleasure sir.” All
traces of Mr Hillman were gone by the next day and no-one ever came looking for
him. Things returned to normal soon after, or at least as normal as they ever
get in a place like the Hotel Morte. We’d worked together to take care of
Hillman, but sadly the senorita went back to ignoring me. I would keep working
on her however, hoping against hope that she would one day forgive me. It was
two days later when I received an unexpected phone call from the ever-mysterious
Mr Black. “So,” he began, “I understand our issues with the troublesome guest
have been resolved?” “Yes.” I replied, somewhat puzzled but not really
surprised. Somehow, Mr Black always knew what was happening in the Morte, even
if he wasn’t physically present. “Very good.” he replied, “I always had faith in
you to find a satisfactory solution…But this isn’t the reason I called you.”
“No?” I said, now feeling more than slightly apprehensive. “There is a special
event coming up which I want to discuss with you.” he continued, “A small
convention, of sorts. Thirteen attendees, all requiring food, beverages, and
rooms for two nights.” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I would have
thought this was a joke, but Mr Black never had much of a sense of humour.
“Really?” I exclaimed, “They want to hold their convention here?” “Yes indeed.”
he confirmed, “This group has a special interest in our little establishment and
the unique amenities that the Morte offers. Now, do you think you can handle
this event?” I almost laughed, struggling to find the words to respond. “Well…I
suppose so, if we use all of our spare bedrooms and set up the dining hall.
Yeah, I guess we can make do.” There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the
line before my employer finally spoke again. “Hmmm…it’s not that I don’t trust
in your abilities, but this is a very important customer and so I think I will
need to attend in person, just to make sure everything runs smoothly. I shall
see you next Friday to confirm the details. Good day.” And then he hung up,
leaving me to my thoughts. I’ll admit to feeling deeply concerned but also
intrigued. I was facing three virtually unprecedented events within the next
week – a fully booked hotel, a convention, and a personal visit by the hotel’s
owner. I expected it to be an eventful few days but could never have anticipated
the bloody carnage that would follow. And so readers, if you’ll indulge me for a
second occasion, I will tell you the tale of a hotel convention straight from
the depths of hell. Until next time, my friends.


HOTEL MORTE – CHECKING OUT 6.28K+




I found myself standing in the middle of a wind-swept, abandoned street at
night, facing the building that had dominated my life so completely, even though
I’d come to loathe it so intensely. The sign above the front entrance was faded
and almost falling off its hinges, the paint on the walls was peeling away, the
brickwork was cracked, and most of the windows were boarded up. An uninformed
observer would have assumed the building was a derelict – an empty structure
slowly crumbling due to years of neglect. Well, they’d be part right. The Hotel
Morte has certainly seen better days (and isn’t that an understatement!), but it
is far from empty. In fact, it’s home to a diverse community of residents and
staff – some alive, others not so much. I stared at the glass rotating doors for
what seemed like an eternity, focussing on the dim light on the inside. My
instincts told me to flee, to run away and never look back…but I couldn’t do
that. Something was pulling me towards the ominous doorway, forcing me to enter
in spite of the pain and fear I carried in my heart. I pushed against the
stained glass with a shaking hand, exerting physical effort as the old door
creaked and slowly spun around, allowing me entry to the hell within. I walked
across the worn red carpet and past the unmanned reception desk, casting my eye
upon the hard wood chair in which I’d spent so many miserable hours sitting and
regretting the life decisions I’d made to bring me to this place. I sighed
deeply as I walked on, exiting the lobby and summoning the elevator with a push
of a button. The lift slowly and noisily descended down to the ground floor,
hitting the bottom with a thud as the door creaked open in an awkward mechanical
motion. Reluctantly, I stepped inside, my shaking finger hovering over the
button for floor 6 before I finally pushed it. The elevator ascended noisily as
the ancient mechanisms came to life. I almost panicked when the lift became
stuck between the third and fourth floors, grinding to an abrupt halt as the
lights went off, leaving me standing in the pitch dark. Sweat ran down my brow
as I stood helpless in the steel coffin, fearing I would remain trapped inside
here indefinitely. My heart almost jumped out of my chest when I heard the foul,
disembodied cackling from directly behind me. The terror almost overwhelmed me,
but I knew from previous experience to control my reaction. Entities such as
this one thrived on fear, and I had no intention of giving it that satisfaction.
And so I stood tall and waited for the spirit to lose interest. Sure enough,
after a few minutes, the power came back on and the elevator continued upwards
to my destination. I felt the dark energy as soon as I stepped out onto the
sixth floor. It’s as if the old walls with their flaking wallpaper had somehow
absorbed all of the violence, suffering and death which had occurred here over
the past century. I tried not to think about this tragic history and also
ignored the dried blood stains on the carpet as I made my way along the dreaded
corridor. My heart sank as I passed the door of Room 66 and remembered its vile
former residents – the serial killer Mr Hillman and the twisted cult leader
Kane. Both were gone now thankfully, but they’d left an evil legacy behind them
that could never be fully erased.I wanted to reach my bedroom and lock myself
inside, as this was the closest thing I had to a sanctuary in this hellish place
– but alas, my path was blocked. To my horror I saw my two enemies marching down
the corridor towards me, both armed and ready to inflict pain and injury.
Hillman walked on the left – the gaping wound still visible on his chest from
when he’d been impaled by his own knife. And on the right was Kane – his body a
bloody mess, as his bones had been crushed by the hideous demon he’d unwittingly
summoned. Both should be dead and buried, their souls burning for all eternity,
but yet here they were – their bodies broken but somehow still moving, and their
dead eyes filled with a murderous rage. They both opened their mouths
simultaneously to reveal a pair of dark gaping holes, and when they spoke, their
voices were detached and almost inhuman. “Payback time, you bastard!” spat
Hillman, as he drew his butcher’s knife from his jacket pocket. “Revenge will be
sweet!” added Kane, armed with his ceremonial dagger. I gasped in shock, pausing
for just a moment before I turned on my feet and ran, frantically racing down
the corridor in the opposite direction. I opened my mouth in an attempt to
scream but found I could not emit a sound. I doubted it would do me much good
anyway. My friends were nowhere to be seen and I feared I was all on my own. I
ran for what seemed to be an eternity, dashing down seemingly endless, twisted
corridors with my ghoulish assailants in close pursuit, as I heard the awful
noise of their blades scraping against the walls. Before long I was exhausted
and disorientated, and a part of me felt like giving up and accepting my fate,
but then I saw the girl – her back turned to me as she stood under a flickering
light. My heart beat fast in my chest and suddenly I was filled with a renewed
purpose, knowing I must protect her against these monsters. “Isabella?” I
whimpered, calling the name I hadn’t spoken for so long. The girl turned around
slowly, her long dark hair almost covering her thin face, but when I looked into
her once sweet and innocent eyes, I saw nothing but a black void, her pure soul
now stolen away and replaced by something evil… I cried out in dismay as I
backed off, horrified by what I saw. For a moment I forgot about the murderous
spirits pursuing me, but when I turned around I no longer saw Hillman and Kane,
but instead something far more dangerous. The shadow creature emerged from the
darkness and swept across the carpet, seeking to swallow me up in its dark form.
And as it did so, I was suddenly filled with a terrible despair as a lifetime of
regret and shame came flooding back into my memory. In that moment I wanted it
all to end and felt myself falling into the void… Suddenly there was an almighty
scream, a banshee-like wail which brought me back to reality. I shot up from my
bed, drenched in sweat and realising what I’d just gone through was only a
nightmare, but the scream that had awoken me was all too real. I glanced across
at my alarm clock and noted the time = 3:33am, no surprises there. The
photograph album was on the floor beside my bed, with pictures of Isabella – the
real Isabella – prominently displayed. In these old photos she was a carefree
and beautiful young girl enjoying her life…back in better times. I must have
fallen asleep whilst flicking through the album, reminiscing of the good old
days before all of this misery. The nightmare had been bad, but the harsh
realities of the Hotel Morte were far worse. The screaming ended as suddenly as
it began, replaced by an ominous and eerie silence. But in my heart, I knew that
the Morte had claimed another victim, and I would have yet another body to deal
with come daybreak. Well good readers, I must apologise for my rather
unconventional introduction to this latest tale, but I believe my chilling
nightmare best illustrates the stress I was under when these events occurred.
The Morte can be an odd place. I’ve lived (or perhaps survived) here for a
decade, and still this old hotel surprises me. The stories I’ve told you to date
haven’t made for pleasant reading, but both incidents resulted in a degree of
poetic justice. Few would argue that Hillman and Kane’s death cult didn’t
deserve their fates. But alas, the account I will tell you today is one of
tragedy, pain and loss…but also of hope and redemption. And at last, I am ready
to reveal the hidden secrets of the Morte and the true relationship between our
staff and long-term residents. But I digress… My story begins the morning after
my vivid nightmare, as I found myself facing a sadly familiar scene of death and
devastation. The deceased was hanging from the back of the clothes hook in the
bathroom, a belt wrapped tightly around his neck, his face purple and his eyes
bulging. The life had been choked out of the middle-aged man and I guessed he’d
been dead for about five hours, perishing at some point during the infamous
witching hour. I looked on at the corpse with a terrible sadness in my heart, as
tragic memories came flooding back. My staff members – chef Owen and maid Mary –
both stood behind me, silently holding vigil over the awful scene from a
respectable distance. “Who was he?” asked Mary, breaking the tense silence in
the room. “I don’t know.” I replied without turning around, “He came in
yesterday afternoon and booked a room for one night. Paid in cash and gave what
I assume was a fake name. There’s nothing amongst his possessions to identify
him, no way to contact his family…” “I guess he decided to check out early.”
said Owen. I shot around angrily, ready to rebuke our chef for his poor taste
joke, but I saw his head lowered in shame and so said nothing. “A suicide then?”
Mary asked nervously. I sighed deeply before responding. “I think we all know
this wasn’t an ordinary suicide…” “It was in my dreams last night.” Mary
interjected, her eyes filled with fear. “Mine too.” Owen confirmed. “Yes.” I
muttered, breaking eye contact with the pair as I once again looked upon the
corpse. “We need to deal with the body. Owen, please bury this man in the
forest. He must not go through your kitchen. Understood?” “Of course, boss.” our
chef solemnly replied. I glanced across to see the room number upon the open
door – No. 66. Enough was enough. “Mary, we’re going to close up this bedroom
like the others. Board up the windows and weld the door shut.” “Are you sure
sir?” she asked. “Yes.” I confirmed sternly, “I should have done this after the
Hillman murder. Definitely after the Kane fiasco. Room 66 is now off limits for
the living.” “As you wish sir.” Mary replied. I took one last look at the poor
man’s dead eyes before Owen cut him down, and a cold chill ran through me as I
realised this was only the beginning. Despite my distress from the morning’s
events, I reported to the front desk for my shift as usual. Room 66 was now
sealed off and so this was one less thing to worry about, but it would make
little practical difference to the shadow creature, which was more than capable
of moving freely throughout the hotel, striking at the place and time of its
choosing. I felt an almost overwhelming guilt as I sat there in my lonely post,
racking my brains as I tried to figure out what to do. Normally in a difficult
situation such as this I would phone Mr Black, the Morte’s enigmatic but
all-knowing owner. However, my last conversation with my employer still played
on my mind. Mr Black was getting on in years and he’d made it clear that the
running of the hotel would fall to me when he eventually passed on. Therefore, I
couldn’t keep going to my elderly boss every time I faced a challenge. I would
need to resolve this issue myself. I was still pondering this deadly dilemma
that afternoon when an unexpected guest arrived at my front reception. The young
man who came through our doors was probably in his late teens or early twenties
– just a kid really. He looked worse for wear – his clothes soiled and ripped,
his hair and beard matted and greasy. He smelt bad and I guessed it had been
some time since he’d last bathed or showered. In all likelihood he’d been living
on the streets for some time. I noted how his eyes were sullen and unfocussed
and so guessed he’d been drinking or had taken something. I was rather taken
aback by the young man’s dishevelled appearance and concerned by his arrival
here of all places, but I composed myself and remained professional. “Good
afternoon sir,” I said, “How may I help you?” “I need a room,” he slurred, “One
night…please.” I gulped, my brain racing as I considered my response. I’ve seen
plenty of folk come and go over the years and like to think I’ve become a fairly
decent judge of character. I didn’t believe this kid was a danger to anyone,
except maybe himself. My instincts told me he wasn’t a killer like Hillman or
Kane, but this boy was certainly vulnerable, and so I feared he would be in
mortal danger if he stayed even one night. I briefly considered lying, telling
him there were no rooms available – but Mr Black had taught me to never turn
away paying guests. Besides, if I refused him, he’d likely be back on the
streets, and the outside world could be just as dangerous as our hotel. At least
in here we could keep an eye on him. “Certainly sir,” I answered, “we have a
room on the first floor…” “No.” he suddenly interrupted, “I want to stay on the
top floor.” I looked up in shock, meeting his gaze. Alarm bells were now ringing
in my head as I stuttered my reply. “As you wish sir…” I said, whilst pretending
to look through our bookings journal. “We can put you in Room 92. On the ninth
floor.” “Fine.” he replied. “Your name sir?” I enquired. “Dave Smith.” he
answered. Another alias, I thought. But I wrote down his given name anyway. He
paid up front in cash, setting down crumpled and dirty notes on my desk. I
didn’t ask where he’d got the money or why he wanted to stay on the top floor,
but I’d already guessed his intent. With considerable reluctance, I pushed the
room key across the desk and into his waiting hand. “Enjoy your stay sir.” I
muttered in a sombre tone. Mr ‘Smith’ nodded his head curtly. I noted a terrible
sadness in his tired eyes, and for a brief moment I hoped he’d changed his mind,
but then he took a deep breath and marched towards the waiting elevator,
summoning the lift as he ascended to the ninth floor. My heart sank as I watched
him go. My anxiety levels had increased as I realised there was now an added
urgency to stopping the shadow creature. The beast had a fresh target for
tonight, and I doubted Mr Smith would survive until daybreak unless we
intervened. The trouble was, I still had no idea what to do, no plan in my head
to stop the coming tragedy. And then I saw her out of the corner of my eye, a
sudden appearance which made me jump. I quickly turned my head and saw her
standing there in the dark corner of the lobby, staring at me across the void.
Her green eyes were not filled with their usual reproach but instead with pity
and (perhaps) regret. Those eyes, once so full of youthful hope and wonder…but
they’d seen so many horrors over the years, taking away her innocence. But still
her spirit had not been broken – not entirely anyway. Despite everything, the
young lady was compassionate and prepared to fight back against the evil which
stalked our halls. “It’s back. You know that right?” she asked. “Yes.” I replied
solemnly. “We need to stop it…to save that kid.” she stated firmly. I shook my
head, breaking eye contact in shame. “I don’t know how…” I muttered. “You do.”
she shot back, “You’re stronger than you think. All you need is some help.” I
looked up in surprise, meeting her gaze. For the first time in years my heart
was not filled with regret and fear but rather love and hope. The senorita
hadn’t said a kind word to me in a decade…until now. “We need to meet.” the
senorita added, “All of us. Your people and mine. We can only defeat this evil
if we work together.” I nodded my head in agreement. “The lounge? In one hour?”
The senorita didn’t reply, instead simply melting away into the darkness. I
called out after her, somehow knowing she could still hear me. “Thank you,
Isabella.” I said. Well readers, the time has come for me to reveal the truth –
the secret I’ve carried with me for so long. The senorita’s real name is
Isabella, and she is my daughter. I stay here because she’s here, her spirit
forever trapped inside the walls of this damn hotel, the place where her life
ended so suddenly all those years ago. The whole group met up right on time,
once again frequenting the tired old bar-slash-lounge with its cracked tiles,
worn-out chairs, and smell of stale alcohol. The patrons sat in their usual
positions – the black-clad widow in the corner booth, the major and senorita at
the bar…well, I guess I should call her by her real name now, Isabella…my girl,
forever 21 – the age she was when she died. Owen was behind the bar while Mary –
who rarely frequented the lounge except to clean it – stood awkwardly by the
door, refusing to take a seat. The mood inside the barroom was sombre, as all
present recognised the seriousness of our situation. No drink was had but the
major puffed on his pipe and the widow smoked her cigarettes. It was a little
too late for either of them to worry about the impact smoking would have on
their health. All were silent, looking to me to start the meeting. I felt a
sharp pang of anxiety as I came to the realisation that I was now their
leader…no more Mr Black to fall back on, it was all me. I cleared my throat
before I began to speak. “Thank you for coming everyone. Let’s not beat about
the bush. We all know why we’re here…” “That monster is back!” interjected the
widow, her voice filled with anger and dread. “Yes.” I replied, watching as the
faces dropped, their worst fears confirmed. “Why now?” the widow asked, “Why has
it come back after all these years?” “I don’t know for sure.” I answered
truthfully, “I saw Kane speaking with it the night before he died. Perhaps he
summoned it.” “Maybe.” the major added thoughtfully, “although perhaps there’s a
simpler explanation. This spirit or demon…I believe it is a hunter at its core.
Pickings were slim for a number of years and so it moved on to new territories.
But now it smells new prey, fresh meat to feed its ravenous appetite. It lures
in its targets, preying on their vulnerabilities, sucking them into its kill
zone so it can strike them down at will. Sadly, we all know the story…” The
major’s normally steely front dropped for a moment before he continued. “A
bullet in the head did it for me. Years of untreated PTSD and the trauma of
conflict. The monster struck when I was at my weakest, unable to fight back.”
“The same for me,” the widow added, “A bottle of pills downed in the bathtub,
not long after my husband died.” “And it made me hang myself.” said Isabella,
making eye contact with me as she did so. “But you already knew that.” Suddenly,
the terrible images flooded back – the sight of my daughter’s lifeless body in
the hospital morgue, her skin pale and ice cold, the red rope mark still visible
around her neck. My old life ended that day, and her death almost broke me. I
came to the Morte to find answers but instead discovered my daughter’s spirit
trapped here, unable to pass over to the next world. And so I stayed, trying in
vain to re-establish some kind of connection with my deceased daughter and
hoping to absolve my guilt for losing her in the first place. “We all know how
this monster operates.” Isabella continued, “It’s a liar, invading your psyche
and discovering your worst fears and anxieties. Telling you that there’s no way
out, no other choice but to end it all…” she paused, sighing deeply before
finding the inner strength to carry on. “It’s too late for us, but we can still
save that young man upstairs, and the countless others who will surely follow
him.” “But what can we do?” Owen exclaimed from behind the bar. “It’s a damn
shadow with no physical body! It’s not like I can chop it to pieces with my meat
cleaver!” I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all but knew our chef was
right. “Different enemies call for different tactics.” the major offered. “Like
what?” exclaimed Mary, “This isn’t a bloody war you know!” And with that, the
barroom descended into anarchy, with everyone shouting over each other with
their own opinions. I knew this was my moment to assert my authority, such as it
was. I surprised them all by whistling as loudly as I could, the high-pitched
sound filling the small barroom and instantly halting all other conversations.
They all looked at me with a measure of respect as I made my speech. “Listen
people. We know the Morte can be hell on earth, but it’s also our home! This
vile creature has invaded our hotel and turned it into its hunting ground. I
don’t know about you folk, but I’m not okay with that! We’re a community, a
family…living and dead, it makes no difference. We must work together to stop
this monster. We have no choice.” “But how?” Mary exclaimed, “It’s too
powerful!” “It’s not as strong as you think.” Isabella proclaimed, taking my
side for the first time in years. “You only believe it’s powerful because it
preys on your weaknesses and insecurities. The truth is – the only strength it
gains is from our pain and fear. Take that away, and it can’t survive.” Isabella
met my eye, nodding and smiling as she passed the baton back to me. I can’t
describe how good it felt to have won back my daughter’s trust. “Isabella’s
right.” I confirmed, “But we need a plan. And it needs to happen tonight. We
must act now to save that young man’s life.” And so all were in agreement, but
the hardest part was still to come. Over the coming hours we made our plans and
waited for nightfall. In order to battle the shadow creature, I needed to do
something I swore I would never do again – leave my bedroom during the dreaded
witching hour, between 3 and 4am. This was the most dangerous time for the
living to walk the haunted corridors of the Morte, but it was also when the
creature did its hunting, and so we had no option but to act. The ‘bravery’ I’d
shown earlier in the safety of daylight seemed like so much folly now, as my
whole body shook when I slowly unlocked my bedroom door and stepped out into the
hallway. I sheepishly crept along the sixth-floor corridor, experiencing a
chilling cold that had little to do with the low temperature. I didn’t believe
the shadow creature would be present on my floor, it having already fed on the
soul of the poor wretch in Room 66 the previous night. However, it was by no
means the only dangerous paranormal entity to stalk our corridors during this
deadly hour. But, to my relief, I found the hallway ominously quiet. Perhaps
this wasn’t just good luck however. It struck me that the shadow was an apex
predator and so the others surely feared its presence, electing to remain hidden
in the dark corners, waiting for the creature to finish its hunt in the hope
they could pick up the scraps. Even the trapped spirits were largely – but not
entirely – silent. They weren’t banging and scratching at the doors of their
rooms, nor did they scream or wail. However, when I listened carefully, I could
hear a soft crying from inside each of the sealed off rooms – sorrowful sobbing
from spirits in emotional pain. The shadow creature’s activities were impacting
on all of our unconventional community, slowly but surely draining the energy
from our walls, replacing it with nothing but a black void. I paused momentarily
outside of Room 66, painfully recalling the previous victims who died in there,
in part due to my negligence. The guilt and anger I felt helped spur me on. I
wouldn’t risk taking the elevator at this time of night, as I feared a devious
ghoul may trap me inside. Therefore, I braved the stairs, watching my step under
the dim light as I made my way up to the ninth floor. I knew this was where I’d
find the beast. I just hoped it wasn’t already too late. I was panting and
perspiring by the time I made it up the three flights of stairs, my heart
beating fast in my chest as I darted out into the ninth-floor hallway. I glared
for a moment at the sealed door to our former suite, sparing a thought for the
hotel’s first owner who allegedly set off all this horror one hundred years ago.
If this was true, I hoped he was burning in hell right now. When I reached Room
92 I saw the door was already ajar and instantly feared the worst. With a
shaking hand I pushed it open to reveal a horrifying scene within. Inside the
room, at the far end of the bed, I saw Mr Smith. His face was full of terror and
he was standing with his back to the open window, only inches away from a fatal
fall. But this wasn’t what had scared him. That was the shadow creature, the
darkness in the shape of a man which had cornered him, using its black magic to
drive him to madness. I stood in the doorway, paralysed in terror for a moment
before I caught Dave Smith’s eye, and then I opened my mouth and screamed.
“Don’t do it kid!” I cried, “Step away from the window! You can’t let it beat
you!” Dave – or whatever his real name was – looked astonished by my
intervention, but the demonic entity was furious that I’d come between it and
its prey. I believe it turned to face me, but I couldn’t tell for sure, because
the being had no face. It was the strangest thing, but I could feel its glare
burning through me, even though it had no eyes…and I could hear it, even though
it had no mouth. And the sound was awful, an ear-splitting scream, high-pitched
and so loud I was nearly deafened. Suddenly the shape shot forwards, seeking to
devour me within its dark form…And I ran, fleeing for my life as the wailing
demon pursued me, intent on ending my mortal existence. I sprinted down the
corridor before suddenly tripping on the ripped carpet, falling heavily to the
floor with a crash. I frantically looked up, seeing the shadow approach. Its
wail was now one of glee, as it prepared to suck out my very soul. But
thankfully the next part of the plan came into effect. “Hey you bastard, over
here!” It was Owen, standing at the far end of the corridor and purposefully
drawing the creature’s attention. The shadow screeched, gliding away along the
hallway in pursuit of its new target. I pulled myself up, watching as Owen
darted into the staircase and headed up to the roof. I followed, pausing only
briefly to see our maid Mary evacuating Dave Smith from Room 92 and leading him
to safety. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the young man would at
least be safe no matter what happened to us. I raced after them and up onto the
roof of the building, feeling the chill from the cold air but somehow being
comforted by the sight of the moon and stars in the night sky above. The shadow
had Owen cornered, his back facing the edge as he stared at the demon with
terror in his eyes. I had never seen our chef so frightened and for a moment
believed he was in real danger. But the creature seemed less certain now it was
out in the open and no longer in its usual hunting grounds. It moved slowly and
without its former purpose, giving Owen the chance to escape its deadly grasp.
And that’s when the final part of our plan was put into action. I can’t tell you
the range of emotions I felt when I saw the trio – our three righteous spirits
suddenly emerging upon the hotel’s flat roof, moving towards the shadow beast
with steadfast purpose. Isabella, the major and the widow linked hands, seeming
to draw off each other’s supernatural energy. What happened next was truly
breath-taking, as the triumvirate of spirits suddenly illuminated their souls,
emitting a blinding white light which lit up the night. The shadow creature
faced its enemy but was overwhelmed by the intensity of the light, emitting a
scream which wasn’t of anger and sadism, but rather pain and fear. Next, the
three spoke as one, their voices filling the night air – “Begone foul spirit!
Your time in our realm is over!” The shadow had no answer. It screeched in agony
as the white light surrounded it, crushing its form…and then it was gone, cast
back to whatever hellish realm it had come from and leaving us standing under
the stars. Their task done, the spirits unlocked their hands and the bright
light faded. All seemed exhausted by the effort and I wondered what it had taken
out of the trio to summon such immense power. Concerned, I looked to Isabella
but saw her shooting me a wink and a smile as she mouthed – “See! I told you we
could do it!” Still in a state of shock, I couldn’t find the words to respond.
But as always it was Owen who brought us back to reality as he quipped – “Well,
that was quite the light show! Who’s for a drink?” In spite of myself I burst
out laughing, realising that some things would never change. Fifteen minutes
later we were all sitting in the lounge, either calming our nerves or
celebrating as we came to terms with all that had happened that night. Owen,
Isabella and the major sat at the far end of the bar, toasting our victory
against the shadow creature. Meanwhile, Mary and the widow were seeing to the
young man ‘Dave Smith’, who sat in the corner booth wrapped in a blanket and
still in a state of shock. The older women’s maternal instincts kicked in as
they talked him down with soothing words, offering him a medicinal drink to calm
his nerves. We aren’t doctors or psychiatrists but would do what we could for
the boy before sending him back into the world. As for me – I sat alone, nursing
a whiskey and feeling drained by the whole experience. I wasn’t a natural leader
and – despite the solidarity of my friends – I still felt isolated and lonely at
the top. We’d beaten this monster or had at least banished it from our realm,
but more would surely come, and I wondered how long I would have the strength to
continue this fight. I vowed to quickly finish my drink and retreat back to my
bedroom, but there was one last twist in the tale to come. As I made my way to
the door, I found my path blocked by Isabella. She stood in my way, her dark
green eyes filled with sympathy, although the expression on her beautiful face
was deadly serious. “I think we need to talk.” she stated in a matter-of-fact
tone. I nodded meekly, letting her guide me over to a side booth hidden away
from the rest of the bar. I felt nervous as I had no idea what my daughter would
say to me. We sat facing each other and Isabella maintained eye contact as she
spoke. “You did well tonight.” she proclaimed. I shook my head in modesty. “I
hardly did anything. You’re the one who came up with the plan and carried it
through.” “We worked together,” she stated, “and I think we make a pretty good
team!” I experienced a flood of emotions in that moment – some good, others bad.
There’d been this awful, forced silence between us for that many years, and I
had so much I wanted to say to my daughter. But now I had my opportunity, I
couldn’t find the words. After a lengthy and awkward pause I spluttered out what
I wanted to say the most – “I’m so sorry Isabella, I’m sorry I let you down.”
Her response surprised me greatly as she said – “You didn’t let me down, not
really. We drifted apart…I was a girl who lost her way and got drawn in by the
darkness…It wasn’t your fault daddy.” I saw the emotion in her eyes and realised
this was just as tough for her as it was for me. But she wasn’t finished yet.
“The reason I’ve been cold to you all these years is because I didn’t want you
trapped here with me. I wanted you to leave this place and live your life.” I
responded without thinking, stating – “This is where I belong.” My daughter
smiled before replying in a soft tone. “Yes dad, I understand that now. The
Morte is a crazy place, but it’s also our home. And we can still do some good
here, don’t you think?” I broke eye contact with my daughter momentarily,
glancing across at young Dave Smith, who was beginning to regain his composure
under the care of Mary and the widow. “Yes.” I replied, after turning back to
look into my daughter’s deep eyes. “We can still save lives and protect the
innocent and vulnerable from this evil.” My emotions got the better of me as
tears rolled down my cheeks and my voice cracked. “I love you baby.” I
spluttered. “I love you too daddy.” my daughter replied. My heart was restored
in that moment. I knew I could never hold my daughter again, but I’d
re-established our loving relationship, and this was all that mattered to me.
And so, there you have it good readers. After three instalments we have finally
reached the truth of the Morte and its permanent residents, and the reason why
I’ve stayed here for all these years. I will never leave the Morte, not only
because I can’t abandon Isabella’s spirit, but also due to my renewed sense of
purpose. I run this hotel now and it’s my responsibility to keep our permanent
guests content, whilst also catering to the needs of our short-term visitors,
who come in all shapes and sizes. This is the end of my accounts, for now at
least. But there are many more tales to be told from the twisted annals of Hotel
Morte’s long and torturous history. Every trapped spirit and every living guest
who’s stepped into the darkness – they all have their stories to tell, and
perhaps one day they will make it onto this forum. In the meantime, you must
excuse me good readers, as I hear the banging on doors and the disembodied
wailing from the corridors, meaning our guests need my attention. But, if by
chance you do find your way to the Morte’s doors and feel brave enough to enter,
come see me at our front reception and I’ll find you a safe (or at least,
relatively safe!) room for the night. And feel free to join us for a night cap
in our bar, where you’ll find both types of spirits in abundance! Those with a
good heart will always be welcome at the Morte, no matter what you’ve done to
get here. But, if you come here with malicious intent, not even God will be able
to help you. You have been warned!


HE WHO WANDERS 9.81K+




I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia. How it pours sunlight onto your face,
toying with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and milling around
hair. I missed the smell of the valley and that ripening softness of Muscat
fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze. From up here, I can see the house
where I grew up. I see white chapels tucked into grape orchards like pawns
scattered on a chess board. I can see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road
hailing from the old town through dappled rocks, then waning behind the horizon
with erratic headlights of beat-up trucks cruising along. One of the pit stops
along Ed Jardinito, where truck drivers stop to relieve themselves, marks the
starting point to this wavy trail. All covered in blotches of spindly grass
stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, no
one even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a blitz-leak care to
check on a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is how I got
up here, to the top of this hill, where I am standing now. I’ve climbed all the
way up here, so I can finally end it all – all these years of vagrancy and
fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to come to an end.But for
now, I am enjoying the view of the valley unfolding below. I am sipping the air
of what could be my final memories. He will show up soon. He always does. Like a
shadow, he’s been following me right on my footsteps, always there, behind me.
And there he is! His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El
Jardinito. He looks up and he sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his
breath and leans on his cane, as if assessing the remaining trajectory for this
final stretch, then resumes his walk. Or should I say, “resumes his agonizing
trudging”. Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. No wonder. How long
has he been chasing me? Ten, twenty, thirty years? He is slow. Methodically
slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I
will finally come face to face with him. This sharp Swiss knife blade I am
holding in my hand will soon lance right through his neck bone. Yes, that’s what
I am going to do. This ends here, at the dead end of this sandy trail atop the
hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards. Funny.
After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I always
called him what master Borges called him “He who wanders”. He who wanders,
listen. I will kill you. * * * * * * Borges. The Borges. I idolized him when I
was in college. Many did, but I was different. It was 1961. I was an average
lazy learner at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, floating around from one
semester to another with barely passable grades. I had very few friends and
almost no interests. One can say that I had an early form of an identity crisis.
Besides chugging Anisado, my only other passion was Literature. Latin American
Literature. Borges and Neruda were at the forefront. One could only imagine my
excitement when I saw a pamphlet hanging on the wall of the Literature faculty.
Spaces were limited. But who cared? It was the man himself, Jorge Luis Borges,
coming to give us a lecture followed by an open panel of questions. Like a
maniac, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the lecture. I was the first in
line and when the doors opened, I got the front row seat. The auditorium was
packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, awaiting the
arrival of the great one. And there he was, the blind Lord of Literature,
walking upright onto the stage with a cane and his loyal assistant right by his
side. Standing ovation. He nodded and made a “thank you, please be seated”
gesture. Then he began. The lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers, I cannot
distinctly recall if it was Cervantes or De Vega. It truly made no difference.
Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three
hours, and remember nothing. He talked slowly and methodically, pouring honey
into our ears like Segovia’s guitar, with his absent eyesight affixed on the
ceiling. And then it happened. Something that caught me completely off guard.
Before closing the day, Borges was about to take questions from the audience. Of
course, I raised my hand and so did about hundreds of other students. One of
Borges’ assistants whispered something into his ear, which made him smile. “It
is an honor for me to be in front of an audience of young people, but our time
is not infinite,” he said with blind eyes still pinned on the far corner of the
hall. “For that reason, I will randomly pick questions from five of you.” I have
never won any prizes or lotteries in my life. When I played poker or blackjack,
I lost far more than I won. I knew my limitations and that turned me into an
average apathetic person, rarely trying to outdo oneself. And so, sitting still
with little ambition – I got used to that. Until that moment. When I saw Borges
pointing his finger in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock.
“Me?” “Yes, young man. Senor Borges picked you. Step forward and introduce
yourself,” said his assistant. I did not know what to ask. So, I quietly mumbled
my full name. “Fernandez Augustin Navaro” Borges shifted his gray-shaded pupils
in my direction as if reacting to a sudden buzzing of a fruit fly. “Fernandez
Augustin Navaro. Navaro. Haven’t I met you once before, young man?” he asked.
“No, senor Borges. I never had the honor.” “But you will. We will meet again,
Senor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for right now, what is your
question?” The rest of the day was foggy. I don’t even remember what question I
asked, it must have been about him winning the Prix International, not sure. And
maybe not important. No, not important at all. The greatest writer in the
history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre unreal thing he said
about us meeting again. When? * * * * * * Nine years later. In 1970. And there I
was – a somewhat-promising journalist in one of London’s somewhat-scandalous
tabloid newspapers. Every week my name was featured on the second page alongside
with celebrity chronicles and vile rumors. My paycheck was decent enough for a
small studio flat by Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by
directionless studies, you could say I became something more than an average. Or
at least that is what I believed. That day (it was early October, arguably the
best season in London) began as usual. I ate my chic breakfast consisting of two
scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and dark roast coffee at Barrymore’s Diner and was
ready for a pleasant walk to the office. It was shortly after 8 am, and I was in
no hurry. My route was the same as it was every day: pass the square, right turn
on George Street, left turn on Thayer, another right on Marylebone. My thoughts
that morning were all preoccupied with the piece I was working on, so I was
slowly making my way through the square when something caught my eye. Or rather,
someone. At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to
anybody else who idled at the square that morning. Hippy rascals with soiled
hair playing guitar on every corner was a common theme in those days, and London
town was certainly no exception. So here was another one of those misunderstood
love proclaimers, sitting right behind the gated area of the square. Striped
worn out jacket, heavy cap, sandals with clots of woolen socks sticking out. A
common hippy bum as anyone may have thought. I thought so too except this one
had something that made my intestines churn. I didn’t know what it was, but once
I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him
again. The way he looked at me, that gloomy frown that made me think of a line
from Oscar Wilde, “that fellow’s got to swing.” There certainly was something
outer worldly about that “fellow.” His eyes, as if carved from a rock below his
forehead were mercilessly drilling thousands of tiny holes through me. I added
pace. As I turned back one last time, I noticed him slowly walking towards me.
Past the gates of the square, onto the street, paying no attention to screeching
tires of honking cars. Walking right towards me. He’s just a bum. No, he is not.
Just another one of those unwashed hippies. No, no, run run run! George Street
was empty like in post-war bombed quarters. I could hear my brisk footsteps. Or
was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? He was catching up. Run?
Don’t be silly. Yes, run. First slowly as if you’re trying to not show your
chaser that you’re scared. No, not scared, more like in a hurry. Why am I
running? I can take him out with one punch. But it really wasn’t about that. It
was my first experience of that feeling, which I can only describe as some sort
of primordial sense of fear. Panic. Dread. Unexplained sense of looming doom
arching above you like a dark figure with a scythe. I ran. I ran faster than my
feet could move. As I turned the corner on Thayer, I paused and looked back,
fearing to see him right behind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee
were about to make their way back up through my esophagus. Wiping the sweat off
my palms onto my pants, I bent forward in a protective position and looked
around. Empty windows of George Street were checking me out like a toddler
witnessing parent in a cowardly act. Whoever that man was that incensed me into
this uncontrollable panic, he was now gone. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin, I
repeated to myself while making futile attempts to enthrall palpitation to
subside. Shame on you. I mumbled repeating that word. Mumbling turned into
whistling that song by “Magic Lanterns”. Shame, shame. I whistled, acting calm
and self-composed. I sang without knowing words only to convert my mind to
something else. I sang so others wouldn’t notice me shaking. I climbed the
stairs of my office building. Three at a time. Third floor. The familiar smell
of typography oils calmed me down. Safe heaven. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin
Navaro. * * * * * * Even now I question myself whether my journey to madness
began on that day or was it underway for many years. Madness that creeps in and
recedes in tidal waves. Is that how it usually happens? All I know is that an
hour later I was laughing at my little moment of weaknesses. Preposterous and
rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang spoke to me. The idea of being fully checked
out by a specialist did cross my mind, and I immediately thought of Doctor Patel
in Camden Town. He’d give me a comfortable medical diagnosis like a panic attack
and prescribe some white pills, I thought. Little did I know that the day had
more surprises in store. The unnerving script development continued in a more
eerie fashion when my boss marched to my desk with a pack of printed paper. No,
Navaro you are not going to see Doctor Patel in Camden Town who will make a
judgment call on your insanity. Instead, you are going to do an article on Jorge
Luis Borges’ new book. He is making his presentation today at London Public
Library and blah, blah, blah. I forgot about the panic attack. The thrill of
seeing Master Borges again, nine years later, was surreal. Moments later I was
sitting in a cab on my way to the London Public Library, scribbling all possible
questions I should be asking him. El Informe de Brodie? Other books? Forget it!
I knew very well what I would ask. I paid the cab and galloped up the marble
stairs leading to the hallway, where the Master was about to hold his new book
presentation. I elbowed myself through the crowd of journalists to occupy the
coveted front-row spot. Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack along with the
omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four more
minutes. Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget Dr. Patel. Collect yourself,
Fernandez Augustin * * * * * * “Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?” “Yes.
Yes, Senor Borges. But how do you..?” “Nine years ago, in Cordoba. I told you we
would meet again. Do you remember?” I nodded rapidly completely forgetting he
couldn’t see me. Stupid. “Perhaps,” continued Borges, “it would be more prudent
for us to speak privately after the conference. I invite you to have coffee with
me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro? I shall see you precisely at 6
o’clock at the address that my assistant will provide.” His blind eyes were
still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested
sharp-penciled critics and arduous followers of his divine writing. The
attention was now all on me, as revealed by hundreds of photo flashes from
behind. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. How
does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his
illegitimate son? Back then I did not know. Answers came later. * * * * * *
Memory is a tricky animal. As I gaze over the valley and satiate my lungs with
familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. Vague and elusive memories
of my childhood home. And these orchards, these white chapels and the old town
itself – nothing but an incomprehensible sensation somewhere down there, below
the chest cage. I close my eyes and let the sun twirl around with tinted specks
of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to
mind. I’ve been robbed of my memory. You! I cast my eyes at the trail again. He
is closing in. It’s hard for him to walk upward, and yet I see that
determination in his eyes, in his tight grip of that wobbly walking stick, in
the way he periodically stops to catch his breath and eyeball the remaining
distance. I am not going anywhere. Five? Ten more minutes? Come and take me, old
man. If you can. I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced
frontal lobe. It’s a grin. It’s an expression that says, “We shall see.” * * * *
* * Once I read an interview in “The Morning Times”. In it, Borges was portrayed
as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly
organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging
from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by
theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the
same rack, so he could find them easily. In another article, dated 1966, I read
that when Borges travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a
whole rack of books along, some of which may not even be read. When I entered
his hotel room, that very bookrack was the first thing that caught my eye. I
stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the
door swing wide open, and there he was entering through the doorway with a
leisurely swinging cane. “Ah, Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit this old
man!” I took a step towards him and produced some gibberish like “pleasure is
all but mine”. He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair. “I know you
will quite enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast.” Borges sat down and leaned
slightly backwards, without releasing his cane. “Do you know the biggest
advantage of being blind?” he asked and answered immediately. “Blind don’t need
light, so my utility bills are way lower.” He laughed at his own joke only to be
interrupted by his assistant carrying a tray of aromatic coffee poured in two
small porcelain cups. Amazing how the very idea of drinking coffee instantly
changes your mood before you even take your first sip. As I was readying to go
on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honor, Borges jumped
right into the action. “I will get right to it, Senor Navaro. About you being
here and about me remembering you. I know you have many questions. I will
attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will
still be some questions that you will have to find answers to. On your own.” He
gently picked his cup of coffee and with hand somewhat shaking, took an artistic
sip. Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes were buzzing in
bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in the room with one of the
greatest writers, who happened to mysteriously know my name and “Have you by any
chance read my ‘The Book of Imaginary Beings?’” asked Borges. I have. Many
times. I read it in Spanish, when it just came out. Very recently I bought the
English translation in some shabby bookstore off Oxford Circus. I read that book
far too many times, but never in its entirety, mostly starting on a random page.
Just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers. “You see, Senor
Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress as
human imagination has no boundaries. I have included what I had researched over
ten years ago, then recently expanded and republished with more figments of
collective human imagination. But the book is merely a small subset. In a way,
the book writes itself. In some form, it’s a labyrinth, an endless one, a living
one, where every corridor and every room is never the same. What I had always
wanted is the book to reflect the labyrinth in our collective subconsciousness,
the force that drives our minds to craft. For that reason, all the creatures in
my book are strictly fictional. Mythical. Am I not boring you?” “Not at all. I
understand, Senor Borges.” He nodded and wiped a coffee grind off his nose.
“That book, as its title implies, is all about imaginary beings. Tales, legends,
folklore. But one thing that no one knows is that I had originally intended this
book to include one more being. A being that goes by its Latin name Quietus Est.
It appeared and disappeared across many cultures, sometimes centuries apart.
Very little is known of it, but what I found was indeed astonishing. First, this
being is physically no different than an ordinary human. You may say, it is
human in many ways. As I studied this entity, I became more and more agitated. I
could not stop. Like a madman, I was trying to learn more and more, but very
soon the excitement turned into another feeling. Fear.” “Fear of what, Senor
Borges?” Borges eyesight shifted from the corner of the room straight on me, as
if he could perfectly see me. “Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is
not a myth at all.” He attempted to take another sip, but his hands started
shaking, so he had to put the cup down, spilling some of it on the saucer and
around the table. “Pardon me, young man, I am trying to maintain composure. But
you have not tried the coffee”, he said wiping his mouth and forehead with a
knitted handkerchief. I raised the small cup and took a sip, disregarding the
aromatic fumes of Colombian beans drifting down my internal gorges. “Pardon me
sir, but you are saying that the imaginary being called Quietus Est was not
imaginary. Is that why you decided not to include him in your book of imaginary
beings?” “Only in part. Fear came from the realization of what it would mean for
mankind to know about its existence. You see it’s no secret that we are all well
aware of our eventual demise. We all die. But imagine what would happen if we
all stared right into the face of death every single day of our lives and knew
the time that was left for us in this world. Death not as a vague concept
portrayed by middle-aged artists, not as a folklore tale of a grim reaper. But
as a real living entity that stalks you and walks around showing you a ticking
clock counting down minutes and seconds. Getting closer to you with every
second, trying to grab your hand. Running from death is worse than death
itself.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “But I shall talk no more.
Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago. These are unedited in their
raw format, so please pardon the poor language. It’s right there, in the drawer.
You will find a folder with a yellow piece of paper. Read it aloud, while my
ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.” I opened the drawer, as he
instructed, and found a yellow piece of cursive handwritings carved in Spanish
with some Latin phrases. The scribbles were short, less than a page long with
marks and scratches, but most of this was very much decipherable. He must have
written this himself half-blind, I thought. What caused him to do that and not
dictate to his assistant? I unfolded the paper and began reading. Quietus Est It
is said that one shall not know about its own ways and times of demise. The
imminent passing is only felt by those that are either terminally ill, and even
so, they don’t possess the knowledge of when and where, or by death row inmates
awaiting the exact day and time of their execution. Lack of such knowledge
coerces us to exist. Sumerians believed in a certain deity (the word “deity” was
scratched and replaced with “demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones”,
which again was scratched and replaced with “entity”), whose sole role was to
stalk its victims and inform them of how much time they have left to live. Per
the ancient “Book of Dead”, which was discovered as a set of clay tablets,
typically buried in corpses, only those that are “luminous” can see the deity
(again crossed out twice, replaced with “demon”, then with “entity”). The
“luminous” ones are thought to be either people with high spiritual powers or
vice versa, the cursed ones, condemned by priests. The reference briefly
reappears in some Egyptian manuscripts, but in later writings is replaced by
Anubis or – in rare occurrences – by Horus. The writings again depict this
unnamed being as an eternal human who never sleeps, but always wanders. What’s
strange is that neither Sumerians nor Egyptians ever gave the entity a discrete
name. However, the latter rare findings during Dark Ages refer to him as Quietus
Est. The only depiction of Quietus Est was that of an ordinary human standing
next to a sun clock, which was used to measure the time that the chosen one had
left to live. From time to time Quietus Est stalks the chosen one and, when
cornered, moves hands of the clock forward to shorten the lifetime. If the
chosen one cannot escape, then his time eventually runs out. The very last
reference was found in “Enough, Mr. Navaro. You understand the idea. Now on to
the main question. Why are you here?” He drew closer, and a dull shadow from a
lamp cut right through his elongated forehead. “Quietus Est is an eternal
wanderer who is always with us, the timekeeper who sits at the edge of the stage
with a ticking watch on his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is its
inability to see him. When I lost sight, I thought blindness was a blessing in
disguise. But one does not require eyes to see the wanderer. What eyes cannot
see, ears can hear and skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him. You are here, Mr.
Navaro because you and I are the luminous ones…” Borges paused and asked me with
a trembling voice: “Mr. Navaro, you saw him too, didn’t you?” Cold shivers that
have been accumulating in my lower back rushed up my spinal cord in millions of
explosions. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I
struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed
words out. “I saw him today.” * * * * * * How do you get used to the notion of
being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that.
We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes
that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It
allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred
carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive
emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton
is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we sip,
in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the
sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears.
And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle “Shame Shame”, deceiving our own
self-cognizance. And that, as Senor Borges called it, is the true blessing.
Those who possess the name of the divine being are doomed. Knowledge is madness.
Knowledge is inexistence. Knowledge of death is worse than death. We sat in his
hotel room until early morning, the two luminous and doomed souls. Our casual
exchange of words was amplified by the ticking of the clock. It was dawn when I
noticed Borges nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane
and his pupils were shuffling behind shut eyelids. Borges was dreaming. So must
have I. As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and
looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange
crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like
witches around the fire. I was looking around, hoping to not see him. He wasn’t
there. But he was. I felt his presence not very far from me. * * * * * * Muscat
orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep
alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from
one object to another, but my nomad memory is lost in endless labyrinths. You
took my memories away from me, didn’t you? Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes,
and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can
see how the long uphill walk is wearing him out. But what are pain and tiredness
when you’re crossing the finish line? As Borges warned me, “Do not ever come
close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. His
watch will be ticking. If he attempts to catch on, run. But he will forever
follow. In a way, he will be like a shadow of you.” And I ran. And he wandered.
I evaded. He followed. He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second
day after my long night in Borges’ quarters. The fool in me still thought that
escaping from him would be as easy as moving into a new flat. Or checking into a
hotel. So I did just that. It was some shabby hotel minutes from my work where I
decided to spend a few nights just to think things through. That evening, and I
remember every minute of it, was my first face to face encounter with him. My
room, B6, was on the basement level. As I stumbled through the dark hotel
corridor, trying to find the key to my room, I felt his presence, but my
ignorant foolishness dismissed all mental warnings and turned the keys. As the
door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the hotel room. A street-level
window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the floor carpet. I
smelled dust and spider webs. He was in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed
with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a
shroud around a statue. I stood in a stupor like a paralyzed insect. An
avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. With hand twisted behind
my back, I was feverishly trying to twist the doorknob. He got up from the bed
with a groan. He took a step towards me. Hand too sweaty to turn the knob. Open
it. Open! He grabbed my wrist. Open! Run! The stretched corridor of the hotel
basement flashed like random shots of a silent movie. Run! B5. B2. B1. Run!
Staircase. Up! Exit! Run! “Your time is coming, Fernandez Augustin Navaro!” a
whisper crawled into my ears. “Coming, coming!” hissed the wind. I ran until my
legs gave in. I fell down somewhere in the outskirts of the town, passing out in
an alley amidst rubbish until sunup. My madness has begun. In the days following
my first face-to-face encounter with Quietus Est, I’ve moved out of my London
flat. I had some savings, enough to tramp town to town, continent to continent,
doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets. He was right
behind me. Even if I didn’t see him for a month, I knew he would soon catch on.
It would be only a matter of time for him to pop up somewhere on the opposite
side of the street, in the next car over on the subway, or madly prying through
shutters of windows in the house across. My attempts to speak to Borges were
futile. How does the blind master live with this curse, I wondered. How does he
manage to evade his sinister follower? I had questions. Far more than I had
anticipated. But Senor Borges was already on the other side of the globe. I
wrote him letters. He never replied. I tried calling hotels where he stayed.
Unavailable. The books that he wrote, I bought all of them in attempts to find
hidden meanings. What if he had secret messages for me inside his writings? The
Book of Sand, Dr. Brodie’s Report I even searched his earlier writings, analyzed
every word. Pointless. Futile. Until 1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory.” His final
book, as it turned out to be. I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I bought
the book. Immediately I began my scrupulous study. Letter by letter, page by
page, analyzing every space and every punctuation sign. And that’s when I found
it. The answer. The answer was the story itself. The story that did not require
much study or decryption. All I had to do was read it. I knew I had to come face
to face with Quietus Est like Borges did, but not before having to go through
the life of an exile. That’s what Borges had intended me to do. Such was his
final and only message to me embodied within his last story. A story written for
the public, but intended for my eyes only. The story was that the protagonist
receives memories of Shakespeare. Memories that overwhelm him, overpowering his
own. He forgets modern day cars and engines, instead remembering faces and names
from some distant past, memories he has never known. Memories that belonged to
another man. “In a way, he will be like a shadow of you,” Borges told me that
night. Slowly but surely, my shadow was becoming me. That’s why I can only
vaguely remember you, my childhood home. Him or me, no more running. It ends
here. * * * * * * Few more minutes, I say to myself as I look at the watch.
There he is. He is out of breath. Beaten, tired and bent by the weight of his
own arid body. One last push, old man, and we will meet. I am hiding behind the
rock. His footsteps on gravel and sand, I can tell them from any other footsteps
in the world. His breathing, wheezing and crackling. I am counting to five. He
knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that last step. Let me take that
step for you. I am staring at his face, wrinkled like leaves of an ancient
scroll. “Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I am telling him. He is not fighting back, and
my Swiss blade finds a comfy spot below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish
him now. Popping sounds are coming out from his flabby throat. What are you
trying to tell me, old man? Let me hear your last words. I am easing the
pressure to let him talk. But the sounds that come out not words, but laughter.
“You, you are confused,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me, let me help
you understand.” I am letting him sit up. He is coughing blood. One wrong move
and he’s dead. He wipes the blood off his lips and nods in understanding. “All
my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly. “It’s a miracle I have come this
far and lived this long. Ever since I left Cordoba, I was a ticking time bomb. I
was diagnosed as suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapies, specialists,
prescription, yoga – I have tried them all. Some helped for a while, and the
disease subsided, but then trolled back with a new stronger wave. It’s this
disease that nests here” – and he points to his head – “forcing me to look for a
way to end my own life. It all began in London, on that morning when I was
sitting on the bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing
on my brain. My first attempt was in that hotel, room B6. I sat on the bed in
that dark room for hours with a rope in my hand and a blanket over my head.
Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I
wanted my pain to end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to
live on. Ever since that day, it was a cat and a mouse game between us. I chased
death, and death would always slip away. Until now.” He pauses, rubbing his
flabby neck, then points his finger down the valley and continues: “I was born
in that house. I remember every moment of my childhood. My parents, my toys, my
school. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins in Muscat gardens and
dosing off to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs being
washed on the street and the smell of grapes. My name is Fernandez August
Navaro. And you, you have no true name, but they call you Quietus Est. The one
who wanders.” Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The
fire sets off inside my eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and
trickling down my body. “Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar. “Look at me,” he says, “I
am an old man. And you? Still young and strong as you will always be. You have
not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean
memories of random sounds and smells are all you have gained from me. Master
Borges knew who you were. He cracked you, and then he tricked you. He made you
think you were me. That was his way of evading you – by not revealing you the
truth until his final breath, final book, final story. You are the one who
wanders. And those memories you have – those are my memories. And now that I
have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.” I have heard
enough of his fibs. I am throwing my knife away. I shall not require any blades
to finish him. With hands clenched around his thin neck, I am strangling him. I
hear him squeal as the grip tightens. I feel the crackling of neck bones between
my thumbs. I see him gulping the air in warm convulsions. He looks peaceful. I
sit on his chest and watch his last breath picked up by the wind, carried down
the valley to the gardens, passing by the white chapel and the house where he
grew up. The scorching wind of Andalusia is pouring sunlight onto his face,
toying with eyelashes, pounding on cheeks and gyring through hair. He must have
missed the smell of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff
glistening in the air. I am rewinding my wristwatch and walking downhill along
the wavy trail, my thumbs still sore from killing. I am taking small step
sideways. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will hop on the first bus, and from
there I will travel west. Or north. Destination will never matter. Anywhere is
where the roads take me. Me, the one who wanders.


HOTEL MORTE – THE CONVENTION 3.5K+




Greetings friends and horror aficionados. Thank you for joining me for the
second story from the terror-filled annals of the Hotel Morte. I imagine you
have questions following the first instalment, in which I described the
premature demise of Mr Hillman in all its gory details. Hopefully I will be able
to provide answers in the tales to come, but for now I ask for your patience.
Today I shall tell you the story of a very unusual convention which ended quite
abruptly in the most spectular fashion. But before I begin that account, I would
like to tell you a little more about the history of our most unique
establishment.As I previously stated, the Morte first opened its doors during
the 1920s, meaning we’ve recently celebrated our one hundredth anniversary
(although if I’m honest, these celebrations were rather muted). Our lack of
paying guests means I have plenty of spare time on my hands, and I’ve used some
of that time to research the establishment which has come to dominate my life so
completely. Despite my best efforts I’ve discovered little about the location
which could explain the hotel’s descent into the paranormal realm. It is not the
site of an ancient Indian burial ground and no massacre ever took place here as
far as I can tell. By all accounts, the land the hotel was built upon was simply
an empty lot, swallowed up by urban expansion during the boom years of the 20s.
The first owner was an eccentric millionaire named Thomas Raine. Mr Raine may
have been able to provide some of the answers I seek…but alas, he died under
mysterious circumstances only weeks after the Morte’s grand opening. A maid
discovered his mangled body inside of the penthouse suite, the door locked from
the inside. It’s said that his restless spirit still occupies the suite which –
like most of our rooms – has long since been sealed up and declared off-limited
to the living. There is little recorded about Mr Raine and his life. His
financial affairs are something of a mystery although it seems he had links to
organised crime and at least some of his fortune came from bootlegging and
illegal gambling. The construction of the Morte appears to have been a vanity
project for Raine as he sank almost all of his fortune into it, leaving a string
of debts behind him after his untimely death. There were also rumours about the
mysterious Mr Raine and his extra-curricular activities – talk of dark secrets
and an unhealthy interest in the occult. One theory is that Raine performed some
kind of dark ritual inside the Morte soon after its construction and that he
inadvertently opened up a portal to the underworld, allowing malevolent entities
to pass through into our world. The story goes that Raine bit off more than he
could chew and thus fell victim to one of the monsters he set loose. I don’t
know whether any of this is true, but it’s interesting to note that the
attendees at our convention did believe (but more on that later). In any event,
Mr Raine’s violent demise was the first of many deaths to occur at the Morte
during its long and bloody history. By my reckoning, one hundred and thirty
individuals have lost their lives at the hotel over the last one hundred years.
This figure was accurate at the time of writing but will undoubtedly increase in
the future. My research indicates that at least two dozen of these deaths were
murders, with about twice that number being suicides. The remainder are
officially classified as unexplained deaths or accidents, both of which are all
too common at the Morte. There is so much tragedy here, so much grief and pain
trapped in our old walls…a terrible dark energy that can drive you insane if you
stay here too long. You’re probably wondering about the entities which occupy
our eighty unusable rooms, those frightening but unseen beings which bang and
scratch at the doors in an attempt to escape. The truth is, I don’t know exactly
what they are, as these rooms were sealed off long before I started working
here. My best guess is that they are the spirits of the Morte’s victims, some of
those who have died violently on the premises over the years and for some reason
haven’t been able to move onto the next world. If this is the case, it would
surely be reasonable to feel sympathy for these trapped souls. There are
occasions when I’m tempted to set them free, but Mr Black has warned me in no
uncertain terms that this can never happen, as the consequences would be dire
for all involved. Nevertheless, we do get a degree of co-operation from the
spirits as was proven by the Mr Hillman incident. They are part of our very
unconventional community…and besides, in a sense we are all prisoners of the
Morte. And then there’s Mr Black himself, the hotel’s current owner and my
employer. Mr Black acquired ownership of the Morte in 1983, shortly after a
number of highly publicised deaths which permanently destroyed the hotel’s
reputation. He bought it cheap but acquired a money pit – an unprofitable
business in a crumbling building with a history of unexplained paranormal events
and violent deaths. I’ve no idea why he took on such an obviously doomed venture
which has done nothing but lose money for the past 40 years. Certainly, he’s
made no attempt to turn Morte into a profitable concern, as every year the
building slowly crumbles due to continuing neglect. I can only guess that – like
me – Mr Black has some kind of personal connection to the hotel, which is why he
keeps it open. Nevertheless, the Morte’s elderly owner very rarely visits the
premises, which is why I was so surprised when he attended to help in the
preparations for the convention. My employer arrived at 9am on the dot, greeting
me at the front desk with a curt nod and emotionless expression. It was the
first time I’d seen the man in several years and I was shocked by how much his
physical condition had deteriorated. Old age had caught up with Mr Black and now
he was undoubtedly an elderly man, stooped over and walking with the aid of a
stick, his skin wrinkled and eyes lacking their former spark. I’ll admit to
feeling concern as I shook his frail, shaking hand. Not for the first time, I
wondered what would become of the Morte and its residents once Mr Black finally
passed away. But this was a problem for another day. There was time to kill
before our mysterious guests arrived, and so I provided my employer with an
update on the business, such as it was. We looked over the books, confirming the
grave and ongoing financial issues faced by our failing hotel. Surprisingly, Mr
Black appeared totally unconcerned by our grim set of accounts. Afterwards, my
employer requested a tour of the premises. I reluctantly agreed, knowing that
the corridors and hallways should be relatively quiet during these daylight
hours. We slowly walked through the lobby, bar lounge, and restaurant/conference
room before ascending to the higher floors on the elevator. As we progressed I
explained the issues and faults, informing the hotel’s owner of the repairs we’d
need to make to keep the establishment running in the long term. He nodded his
head as I spoke but I got the distinct impression that he wasn’t really
listening to me. I did notice how uncharacteristically emotional he became as we
walked the corridors, a terrible sadness coming over him as he struggled to hold
back the tears. He became particularly upset once we reached the fifth floor and
I noticed how he paused outside of Room 52, sighing deeply as he held his hand
up against the door and staged a silent vigil for a prolonged moment. I didn’t
ask him what he was doing, merely standing by patiently and waiting for him to
finish. It was only after we’d returned to the front reception that I dared ask
him about our mysterious guests. “Who are these people? Why do they want to come
here?” I asked sheepishly. There was a lengthy pause before Mr Black responded,
and I guessed he needed to regain his composure after the trauma of his visit to
the fifth floor. “Hmm…well sir, I suppose you could describe them as a religious
organisation…of sorts. They are certainly fascinated in the spiritual world,
which explains their interest in our establishment and its unique features.
Their leader is a man called Kane – an intelligent but rather intense
individual, prone to flights of fancy. I suspect our guests will be challenging
to attend to, but I’m confident that our team can deliver a satisfactory service
for our client.” I nodded my head, not really any the wiser, but realising I was
unlikely to get anything further from my ever-elusive employer. Still, his
explanation concerned me, as I instantly had images of some kind of freakish
cult. As it turned out, my fears were well founded. Hours passed, as Mr Black
met with our other staff – Mary and Owen – briefing them on the upcoming event.
Kane and his entourage didn’t arrive until close to midnight, sauntering in as
if they owned the place. I imagined they would all be clad in dark robes,
wearing hoods and necklaces with bizarre and unnerving emblems. But this wasn’t
the initial impression. The thirteen who arrived in our lobby looked
surprisingly normal, on the surface at least. They were a diverse enough lot –
young and old, male and female, and of various different races. Their clothing
was conventional – jeans and shirts, skirts and blouses…nothing on the surface
that would raise concerns. But, as I’ve said before, I’ve learnt from bitter
experience to recognise the troublemakers. I don’t remember each and every
member of the group. They tend to blend into one in my memory, as I recall
predatory glares and sadistic grins. Their leader was called Kane – a bald
headed and bearded man with a fiery intensity behind his eyes and a dark aura
surrounding him. I noticed how the others were all totally subordinate to Kane
and followed his orders without question. Their submissive body language
indicated a dangerous mix of devotion and fear. Kane was an intimidating
character, that much was obvious. The only one of their number who seemed to
command Kane’s respect was Lilith, a red-haired young woman with piercing green
eyes and a seductive look which would be difficult for any man to resist.
Judging by their interactions I guessed she was Kane’s lover, and she also
seemed to hold the position of his second-in-command within the small group. It
was Kane who spoke with us however, confirming the details of their reservation
in a puzzling conversation with Mr Black. “Ah, Mr Kane, it is our pleasure to
welcome you to the Hotel Morte.” my boss began, “I hope you and your party will
enjoy your stay.” Kane smiled slyly, exerting a snake-like charm as he shook our
hands. When I felt his cold palm against mine, I experienced an icy chill, and
when I looked into his eyes I saw nothing but darkness. “Thank you gentlemen,”
Kane spoke, his voice deep and raspy. “We are grateful for your hospitality. As
you know Mr Black, this event is of great importance to my organisation, and it
is essential that all goes smoothly during tomorrow’s ceremony.” “And indeed it
shall, Mr Kane. Our dedicated staff will stop at nothing to ensure our client’s
satisfaction. Now, I’m sure your party are tired after your long journey. May we
escort you to your bedrooms?” Kane smirked before replying. “Thank you
gentlemen, we shall leave our luggage in the rooms, but my associates and I are
night owls. We would like to unwind by enjoying some drinks in your bar.” I
shook my head in the negative. “Regrettably sir, our bar closes at midnight…”
“Not tonight,” Mr Black interjected, “I have spoken with Owen and instructed him
that the bar will remain open, for the benefit of our new guests.” I shot my
employer an angry look, wondering why he had blindsided me on this, but he
ignored my glare and motioned for me to assist the cultists with their luggage.
With no other options open to me, I did as I was told, shifting heavy bags to
the waiting elevator. I noticed how two members of the group carried a
substantial animal carrier, a cage containing a subdued creature I could not
see. They insisted on carrying the box themselves, indicating that the animal
inside was of great importance to their organisation and whatever they had
planned. I guessed the poor creature was sedated as it made barely a sound as
they carried the box to the waiting lift. I glanced across at Mr Black,
expressing my disapproval, but he merely shook his head, warning me not to
protest. And so I continued as normal, braving the corridors as I escorted our
guests to their bedrooms before I descended back downstairs and awaited their
arrival in our bar lounge. That night, our dilapidated little barroom was about
as busy as I’d ever seen it, with all thirteen of our new guests in attendance
along with our three long-term residents. Given the increased demand for drinks,
I joined our chef Owen behind the bar. I had hoped Mr Black would remain to keep
an eye on things…but alas, he’d elected to retire to bed, leaving me to take
care of the rabble. The tension inside of the small bar was palpable, as the
customers split into two groups. Our regulars – the major, the widow, and the
senorita – were sat at the far end of the bar, glaring suspiciously at the
newcomers who they surely considered as invaders of their home turf. The
thirteen cultists were at the other end, congregated around their leader and
hanging on his every word. They were fairly civilised at first, but after a few
drinks the newcomers descended into increasingly vile and offensive
conversation. Their talk began with jokes made in poor taste and soon moved on
to crude descriptions of past sexual encounters. But that was just for starters.
Belong long Kane’s followers began boasting of despicable acts of violence, of
savage beatings, murders, and massacres they’d committed. These people clearly
took a perverse pleasure in recounting these vile assaults, savouring every
little detail – the fear, the blood, and the gore. It was sickening to hear, but
I felt powerless to intervene, remembering that Mr Black had instructed me to do
everything in my power to accommodate our new guests. Kane was holding court,
reciting his own gory tales whilst also vocalising his crude and nihilistic
philosophy. “We alone understand the simple truth – the universe is not governed
by justice and harmony, but rather by chaos and violence. In the inferno to
come, only the strong will survive.” My reaction to Kane’s hate-filled words was
stunned silence, but the senorita surprised us all by laughing aloud in open
mockery, fearlessly provoking the cult leader’s anger. I listened on in dismay
as Kane snarled his angry words through clenched teeth. “You have something to
say, young lady?” The senorita certainly did. Her forthrightness was one of the
things I most admired about the young lady, but once again I was worried she was
putting herself in danger. “People like you are always the same! Full of
world-weary cynicism and self-loathing, thinking you know some great secret that
the rest of humanity has missed. You dismiss everything in human nature that
doesn’t fit into your twisted view of the world – compassion, love, loyalty,
selflessness. The truth is, you can’t feel these emotions because you’re
weak…You’ve given into the worst impulses of your blackened hearts!” For a
moment, the whole barroom was stunned into silence, and a tension-filled moment
followed as all awaited the response. Lilith – Kane’s lover and number two –
broke the silence, screaming in fury as she screwed up her face and clenched her
fists. “How dare you speak to our leader this way! I ought to tear your tongue
out!” There was a terrible dark energy in the air as all prepared for violence.
The thirteen formed up like a pack of jackals, ready to pounce on their prey.
Meanwhile, the major jumped up from his bar stool and reached into his jacket
pocket, while I saw Owen go for the meat cleaver he kept under the bar. In a
panic I glanced across at the senorita, noting with some pride that she stood
her ground. Nevertheless, I felt sure that bloody violence would ensue, with the
odds heavily stacked against our side. Therefore, I was astonished when Kane
himself acted as peacemaker. “Friends,” he exclaimed, “There is no need for
unpleasantness. This young lady is entitled to her opinion. She is completely
wrong of course, but I forgive her for her naivety and loose tongue.” The
senorita scoffed in disgust but made no further comment. The next to speak was
the widow, who sat in her usual corner, sipping on her sherry and observing the
tense confrontation from afar. “And so, what is it that you awful people want?
Why have you darkened the doors of our hotel and home?” “A very good question.”
Kane answered, as a snide grin appeared on his lips. “We have come here to
fulfil our destiny. This hotel – as you describe it – is hardly deserving of the
title. Nevertheless, this location holds a special importance to our
organisation. You see, this crumbling structure which you inhabit is a portal –
an entryway to another dimension. And on the other side dwells our master…the
Prince of Darkness and Lord of Chaos. Tomorrow we shall perform a sacred
ceremony to summon our master to this realm. We will pledge our eternal fealty
and be rewarded with immortal life and unlimited power.” The widow shook her
head, not in dismay but rather in sad resignation. “You must be insane if you
think such an outcome is possible.” she proclaimed. “We shall find out soon
enough.” Kane sneered, “I gladly invite you all to attend our ceremony tomorrow
and see for yourselves. In the meantime, why not join us for a drink, so we may
settle our differences?” Kane’s offer seemed genuine, but I noted the devilish
look in his eye and guessed he held malicious intent. The major surely
recognised the deceitfulness and spoke to the cult leader in a tone which should
have left no doubt. “I think it is time for your party to call it a night.” he
stated firmly. “I think not.” Kane replied, not missing a beat. “We are paying
customers and intend to finish our drinks. If you are so offended by our
presence, I suggest you leave.” Another tense moment followed as two killers
attempted to stare each other down. We’d worked together to bring down Mr
Hillman not so long ago, but he was just one man…and ultimately he turned out to
be a coward. Kane was a much tougher foe however, and he was backed up by a
dozen bloodthirsty fanatics who stood ready to attack on command. The major
broke eye content with Kane as he spoke to the widow and senorita. “Come on
ladies, let’s leave these people to their libations.” And with that, our three
regulars left the barroom, still retaining their dignity even as Kane’s vile
followers sneered and whistled after them in cruel mockery. I watched with
sadness as the trio exited the lounge and disappeared into the shadows.
Meanwhile, the hateful Mr Kane toasted his petty little victory and ordered
another round of drinks for his twisted subordinates. Thankfully, Kane’s party
left the lounge soon after, although they ordered more booze to bring up to
their rooms. I was relieved to be able to escape from the tense situation and
make it up to my bedroom before the hotel descended into its usual cycle of
nightly chaos. I secretly hoped that one or more of our guests would fall victim
to the malicious entities which stalked the corridors and staircases, but I
doubted we would be so lucky. Once I reached the relative safety of my room, I
lay on my mattress and tried in vain to sleep. The unpleasant encounter down in
the bar kept running through my head. I had seen much worse over the years of
course, but what Kane had planned had the potential to be catastrophic. I would
need to speak with Mr Black in the morning, as he would surely know what to do.
But despite my apprehension, I also felt just a glimmer of hope. The senorita’s
words had moved me. She’d been brave to stand up to Kane, although perhaps also
foolhardy. Still, there was a time when the young lady would have shared much of
Kane’s deep cynicism and his black world view…But now she spoke of love,
compassion and loyalty. I felt a renewed hope and started to believe she could
be saved. But whatever positivity I felt that night disappeared once we reached
the witching hour, and the corridors outside of my room descended into hell. The
anarchy commenced at 3am on the dot. Kane had chosen Room 66, recently vacated
by the late Mr Hillman. Perhaps the cult leader had sensed the dark energy
attached to that room, or more likely he’d seen the fresh blood stains on the
carpet. In any case, the murder scene no doubt appealed to his dark and twisted
perversions. The first sounds I heard through the thin walls were those of
amorous activities. I thought I recognised the voices of Kane and his mistress
Lilith, and soon several other members of the cult joined in. It started with
low moans but soon escalated to screams. I couldn’t tell whether they were
crying out in ecstasy or agony. Perhaps it was a perverse combination of the
two. The loud sex noises made me feel very uncomfortable, but the scary part was
still to come. At 3:33am Kane and his party opened the bedroom door and walked
out into the corridor. I immediately sat up on my bed, both shocked and
terrified by this unexpected development. The witching hour is the most
dangerous time to navigate the corridors, as this is when the spirits are at
their strongest. I knew there would be a reaction to their intrusion, and so
there was. The ominous banging came first, as the trapped souls slammed their
fists against the inside of the doors. And then came the banshee-like wails, the
horrific din which I’d heard so many times before but still dreaded. I was
worried because I knew there were other entities out there, ones that weren’t
confined to boarded up bedrooms. The most dangerous beings could roam freely
during the witching hour, and they were more than capable of causing physical
harm to the living. Kane and his people were surely taking their lives into
their hands by leaving the sanctuary of their rooms, and I feared a bloody
massacre would follow. But the cultists showed no signs of fear, instead
laughing and cheering in unison with the restless spirits, apparently finding an
affinity with the ghouls and spirits. I listened as they tore down the hallway,
crying out in ecstasy as they soaked up the dark energy and anarchy of the
Morte. This chaotic din went on for some time before finally the cultists
returned to their rooms. I was astonished they’d survived when so many others
had perished over the years, and I began to think that Kane’s boasts of God-like
powers may hold some water after all. Once the ruckus had died down, I put my
ear against the door, hearing a soft whispering from the hallway outside. I
don’t know what came over me, but against all my instincts I opened my bedroom
door, keeping it on the latch as I peeked out into the darkness. I saw Kane
there, his back turned to me as he spoke softly in a language I did not
recognise. I wondered who he was talking with, but my heart froze as I saw the
dark figure hiding in the shadows – a faceless entity that unfortunately I had
encountered before. This dark being was undoubtedly one of the most dangerous to
stalk the halls of the Morte, and whenever it appeared, death and tragedy would
inevitably follow. I stood behind the door, frozen in fear as I peeked through
the gap and observed. I could not hear the words Kane spoke, but it was clear he
had a relationship with the dark spirit, and this was certainly a disturbing
development. I’d been spying on the unholy meeting for a couple of minutes
before Kane suddenly turned around, looking me straight in the eye as he spoke
in a threatening tone. “Don’t you know it’s rude to spy on your guests?” he
growled. I gasped in shock, my courage disappearing as I slammed my door shut
and locked it tight. Somewhat ashamed, I heard Kane laughing in open mockery at
my cowardice. He made a point of shouting out as he passed my bedroom door,
surely knowing I could hear him through the thin wood. “Until tomorrow my
friend! It’s going to be quite the show!” His ominous warning brought a cold
chill down my spine, as I lay on my hard bed and waited for daybreak. It was
almost twelve noon when I escorted our maid Mary as she walked from floor to
floor to inspect the disgusting mess the cultists had created the night before.
“Barbarians!” she exclaimed angrily, “Uncultured and uncouth vermin! I’m sorry
sir, but there’s no other way to describe such people. The mess they’ve made of
their rooms –spilt alcohol, blood and bodily fluids all over the
place…Mattresses and furniture torn up and smashed to pieces. There are even
animal faeces on the carpet in Room 33! Room 66 is the worst of course…Honestly
sir, it will take me all day to clean up this bloody mess!” Her guilt trip
worked on me, as it always did. “We’ll help you, won’t we Owen?” I glanced over
my shoulder to our chef-slash-barman who strolled behind us, causally observing
the carnage with a giddy smile on his face. “No can do sir” he answered with a
smirk, “I’ve got instructions from Mr Black himself. Our guests missed
breakfast, but they’re expecting a banquet as a late lunch, a good feed before
they start their silly little ceremony.” I was aghast and almost lost for words.
“You’re preparing lunch for thirteen guests?” I asked in astonishment, “Are you
sure you can handle it?” Owen looked rather hurt by my question. For all his
faults, I sometimes forgot how sensitive he could be. “Of course I can sir!” I
spotted a sly glint in his eye as he added, “In fact, I’ve got a special dish
for this group. I think they’re really going to enjoy it!” I didn’t like the
sound of this. Frankly, I knew the man too well and feared what unpleasant
surprise he had in store. But whatever he had planned, that was Mr Black’s
problem. I heard Mary clearing her throat and turned around to see her glaring
at me, a look of reproach set across her stern face. “Well?” she asked
impatiently. I sighed aloud and rolled my eyes. “Okay then, let’s get to work.
Owen, you get down to the kitchen. I’ll help Mary with the rooms.” And so we
continued to pander to our vile guests, ignoring the fact that – if Kane had his
wicked way – we would probably all be annihilated by the day’s end. It was
mid-afternoon before I had finished helping Mary with her cleaning, after which
I went back downstairs and straight to the conference room. The thirteen were
all there of course, seemingly recovered from their late-night celebrations and
ready for their big day. They were dressed more traditionally for a gang of
rabid cultists, all wearing dark robes and hoods. The group congregated around
their beloved leader Kane, as they were apparently determined to follow him down
this crazy path, no matter what the cost. I noticed how Owen had set up buffet
tables in the centre of the room, with plates stacked high with cooked meat –
chops, joints, kidney and liver – a literal carnivore’s feast, all piled on the
table…steaming hot, the smell wafting through the room. Kane’s disciples waited
for permission from their master before descending upon the food-filled table
like a pack of hungry dogs, greedily devouring slabs of meat with their bare
hands. I was disgusted by the gluttonous display, but not surprised. Mr Black
and Owen were stood at the rear of the conference room, quietly observing the
feeding frenzy from a safe distance. I quietly walked over to them, wishing to
speak with the two in private. “Where did you get all that meat?” I asked Owen,
“Our catering budget is wafer thin.” Owen shrugged his shoulders and answered
with an alarming honesty. “Well boss, you said I could do whatever I wanted…with
Mr Hillman’s body.” My jaw dropped and stomach turned. I looked to Owen, hoping
he was joking, but his expression told me he was deadly serious. “Jesus!” I
swore, “What if they find out?” I expected Mr Black to be equally disgusted by
Owen’s revelation and so was astonished to hear him snigger ever so softly.
“Frankly, I doubt they would care.” he whispered, “Cannibalism is the least of
their sins.” I shook my head, hardly believing what I was hearing. “Do you know
what they have planned?” I asked in desperation, “We can’t let this lunatic go
through with it. If he opens that gateway…” “Shh! Keep your voice down.” my
employer replied sharply, “Don’t worry about it. The situation is under
control.” I opened my mouth to speak again but was interrupted by a voice from
across the room. “You there! My people are thirsty. Fetch us some drinks to wash
down our meal.” It was Kane of course, shooting me a look of utter contempt as
he took pleasure in ordering me around. My face turned red with anger as I bit
my tongue. I looked across to Mr Black, hoping for some support, but he merely
nodded his head, indicating that I should do as I was told. Soon Kane and his
people were downing alcohol, whipping themselves up into a wild frenzy as they
prepared for their unholy ceremony. They waited until after dusk to begin,
having made meticulous preparations in advance. After the buffet tables and
drinks trolley had been removed, a member of the cult painstakingly drew a
pentagram-style symbol on the hard wood floor using white chalk, a perfect
circle ten feet in diameter. I frowned whilst observing the worrying artwork and
wanted to put a stop to it, but once again Mr Black held me back, shaking his
head in the negative. I really hoped my boss knew what he was doing. The
preparations continued as several cultists carefully placed wax candles around
the circumference of the pentagram, lighting them one-by-one to complete the
circle. I reached my limit when they brought the animal into the conference room
– a horned goat, still dazed from whatever sedatives they’d fed it. They led it
across the floor on a lead, and I watched in horror as the group’s sadistic
excitement reached fever pitch, and Kane removed a shining dagger from
underneath his cloak, grabbing the goat by its horns and holding the knife to
its throat. The animal bleated in fear, its eyes widening as it recognised the
deadly threat. I cried out without thinking, shouting – “Really sir, this will
not do! Killing livestock on the premises is not permitted. You risk losing your
security deposit.” Kane glared across at me with rage in his eyes, almost
spitting out his rebuttal through clenched teeth. “You object to our ritual?” he
snarled, “Our ceremony requires the spilling of blood. If not the beast’s blood,
then yours will do just fine!” I saw the killer glint in his eyes and knew he
wasn’t joking. This psychopath would murder me without a moment’s hesitation.
Luckily, my employer came to my rescue, albeit by submitting to the vile
cultist’s wishes once again. “My apologies Mr Kane, my manager spoke out of
turn. Of course you may carry out your ritual without interference. Please
proceed.” Kane grinned sadistically, wasting no time before cutting the poor
creature’s throat. The goat kicked and struggled as its blood spilt and its life
slowly drained away. Kane continued to hold on tightly to the dying beast as
Lilith walked over with a gold-plated goblet, catching the animal’s blood within
it. Once the goblet was filled, Lilith passed it along the line, and all
thirteen cult members drank from it in turn as they formed a human circle around
the candle-lit pentagram, linking arms as they began a chilling chant in a
language I could not comprehend.As his minions performed their parts, Kane
stepped forward, the goblet in hand as he walked into the very centre of the
circle, carefully and meticulously pouring blood downwards in a steady stream as
he spoke in a booming voice, reciting a prayer-like stanza in English. “Glory to
the Prince of Darkness. My Lord, we offer this sacrifice in humility and fear.
We are your loyal servants, dedicated to the righteous cause of chaos and
violence. Come to us, oh great master. Show us the true path. Use us as your
sword in your war of purification.” He finished the ritual, the goblet now
empty. We all waited with bated breath for whatever would occur. I found myself
frozen in terror, but when I looked to my employer, I saw no fear or emotion in
his eyes. For a moment nothing transpired, and I wondered whether Kane’s ritual
would turn out to be a humiliating failure, but then everything happened at
once. The first event I observed was the blood inside of the pentagram starting
to boil, as if the floor itself was burning up. Clearly Kane had expected this,
as he stepped back to the edge of the circle, his face lighting up with a
perverse satisfaction as he watched the horror he’d summoned come to life. What
happened next is hard to explain and shouldn’t have been physically possible,
and yet I swear my account is truthful. In an instant, the floor inside the
circle disappeared, inexplicably transforming into a pitch-black opening. It
wasn’t a hole in the ground exactly. A more accurate description would be a
whirlpool-like portal, a dark gateway to a hellish dimension. A biting cold
suddenly came over me, as an icy wind tore through the conference room.
Suddenly, a deep, booming, and demonic voice called out from inside the gateway,
addressing Kane and his cultists in a furious address. “Who dares to interrupt
my slumber! What mortal filth believes they have the right to address me!” Kane
seemed taken aback by the terrifying rebuke. Clearly, this wasn’t part of his
plan, and in that moment I saw genuine terror in his dark eyes. “My Prince,” he
stuttered, “It is I, your loyal servant. I have followed the instructions in the
unholy scriptures. We mean no disrespect…we merely wish to offer our devoted
service to your cause.” The demon’s response was to laugh, emitting a horrifying
and sadistic cackle which was probably the most horrifying sound I’d ever heard.
“You foolish and weak mortals!” it boomed, “I have no need of your services. I
have only one desire…possession of your immortal souls!” What I saw next almost
defied belief, as suddenly a huge claw-like hand emerged from inside the portal,
rising up and opening its enormous palm. Kane screamed and tried to run, but the
demon had him, grabbing hold of his body and crushing his bones in a sickening
display. A moment later and the still screaming Kane was pulled down into the
portal, his soul surely condemned to a torturous eternity in Hell. After that,
the hall descended into pandemonium. Lilith and the other cultists lost their
minds and attempted to flee in every direction, but suddenly a napalm-like
stream of fire ascended from the portal, engulfing each and every one of the
cultists in a horrific inferno. They all screamed in agony as their flesh
burned, and an appalling stench filled the room. In a matter of seconds, all
twelve were reduced to charred corpses, but the demon wasn’t done with them yet.
The remains of the twelve were pulled towards the gaping hole like iron filings
attracted to a magnet, all sucked into the pitch-black void. And then, to my
immense relief, the hell mouth closed, leaving nothing behind but the chalk
circle and a sickening smell of burnt flesh. I felt faint, hardly believing the
horrific event I’d just witnessed and somehow knowing this atrocity would haunt
my nightmares for the rest of my life. But to my astonishment, I saw Mr Black,
still standing beside me with a look of satisfaction in his eyes and a thin
smile on his lips. “Very good.” he said softly, “I couldn’t have asked for a
better outcome.” I gasped and shook my head in disbelief, unable to find the
words to respond. As usual, it was our chef Owen who broke the tense silence,
approaching us from behind and saying – “Well friends, I think we could all use
a stiff drink!” Ten minutes later and we were all sitting in the lounge, Owen
cheerfully pouring drinks as Mr Black and I sat in quiet contemplation. Our
three long-term residents stood at the far end of the bar, toasting the demise
of the vile cultists who’d invaded their home so aggressively. I hadn’t seen the
major, widow or senorita in our conference room but somehow they knew what had
happened. I wasn’t surprised, as nothing took place in the Morte that these
three weren’t aware of. My hand was still shaking as I lifted my glass and
poured the hard liquor down my throat, savouring the rough taste as it went
down. I looked to my employer, flabbergasted to see him calmly sipping on his
scotch, seemingly without a care in the world. “How can you be so calm after
what just happened?” I exclaimed. He looked me in the eye before replying in his
typically soft voice. “My good man, you really should learn to listen! As I
said, the event went exactly to plan. Our client will be most pleased.” My jaw
dropped in disbelief. “Our client?” I repeated, “Our client was literally
dragged into the depths of hell!” Mr Black laughed whilst shaking his head.
“That foolish Mr Kane was not our client. He and his moronic followers were
always going to meet an unpleasant end…No my old friend, the entity we serve is
far more powerful, and the price he demands is a heavy one. But today we
delivered, and now the future of our hotel is secure.” A cold chill ran down my
spine as I realised the terrifying implications of what my employer was telling
me. “I won’t be around forever,” Mr Black continued, “and the time will come
when I hand over the reins to you. The Morte is my legacy, and I know I’m
leaving the old place in good hands.” My mind was racing by this point. After so
many years of silence, my employer was hitting me with so much information all
at once, and I was finding it difficult to cope. “You want me to take over the
Morte? Why on earth would I want to do such a thing?” I asked. Mr Black smiled
ever so slightly, and a terrible sadness came over him as he broke eye contact.
“I know you will stay,” he finally replied, “because like me, you have an
unbreakable bond with this old place.” I instinctively glanced across the bar to
the senorita. She met my eye for the briefest of moments before turning away.
“You know, it’s been four decades since my beloved perished in that damned
room,” said Mr Black, his eyes now welling up with tears, “Forty years, but it
never gets any easier. I can feel her presence every time I walk the halls, but
she never makes herself known to me. I suspect she still blames me for what
happened, and perhaps she’s right to do so.” My employer was sharing with me for
the first time in our long professional history and I couldn’t help but feel
sympathy for him. No wonder he so rarely visited the hotel. Clearly his memories
were too painful. But Mr Black’s rare show of emotion didn’t last long, as he
quickly finished his drink and composed himself before getting up from his chair
and patting me gently on the shoulder. “Well, in any case, my work here is done.
I expect it will be some time before we see each other again. My lawyer will be
in contact regarding the legacy matters. In the meantime, keep doing what you’re
doing old friend. It is essential that we keep the Morte’s doors open, no matter
what the cost.” With that, he held out his hand in friendship. We shared a hardy
handshake before my elderly employer offered his parting words – “Good luck
sir.” I watched him leave the lounge and wondered whether I’d ever see him
again. And as it transpired, Mr Black was right – the Morte’s doors will stay
open, and I shall stay here until the very end. And so, that is the story of our
hellish convention, one which the staff and residents of the Morte will never
forget. Kane and his rabble were gone, and the mess they’d left behind them was
soon cleared away – for the most part at least. But sadly, the vile Mr Kane did
leave a lasting legacy for us to deal with. The shadowy entity which Kane had
conversed with, the night before his death. This malevolent spirit was already
known to us, and its last visit to the Morte had resulted in tragic
consequences. This entity had been absent from our hotel for many years but had
apparently taken advantage of the chaos caused by Kane’s botched ritual to slip
back into our mortal realm. I knew we would need to work together to fight this
demon…otherwise, suffering and loss would surely follow. So my good readers, if
you choose to join me for a third instalment, I shall tell you the story of our
battle against the embodiment of death itself. Until next time, my friends.


I FOUND A LETTER FROM MY STALKER 9.38K+




I found this note, nailed onto a tree on my front lawn. I really don’t know how
to describe it. I’ll just let you read it yourself. I saw you today. It was your
birthday. You didn’t see me. You hardly ever do these days. Your skin looked so
nice and healthy, and your eyes, they were the most beautiful I’d ever seen
them. You’ve grown so much. I remember how different you used to look when you
were younger. I remember the day I first met you. It was four years ago. I was
sitting at my desk, head down, listening to the teacher rattling off names for
attendance. The teacher called out a name I didn’t recognize, and a stranger’s
voice answered behind me. Was there a new student?The teacher didn’t pause for a
second, just continued calling out name after name. I turned my head to where
the voice had come from.I saw you, a pale thing, so thin, your eyes so red, at a
seat that should have been empty. I saw the fireflies flying around you,
flickering. Dozens of them, never straying far from you. I saw them going
through you, and coming out through your skin, like you were a mist to them. Can
you believe I thought you were a ghost? No one else seemed to acknowledge the
new stranger sitting at the back of the class. Class after class, hour after
hour passed as I waited for something to happen. For someone to notice you, for
you to leave, for you to let out a ghoulish scream and claw at me like in the
horror story I was certain I was in. But nothing happened. Teachers came and
went. My classmates laughed and slept, and you just sat there. The bell rang for
recess. The other kids ran to their mundanities for the day, leaving me and you
together in the empty classroom. You stood up and pulled a chair from the desk
next to you, making it face your desk. You turned your head to me and spoke.
“Well, you’re slow today. Come on. Ask me your questions.” I don’t know why I
didn’t run away screaming at that moment. Probably would have turned out better
for me in the long run, but let’s not speculate. I guess, at that point in my
life , I was pretty bloody lonely. I figured there was only a 50-50 chance you’d
eat me and the other 50 was that someone wanted to talk with me. Kid priorities
don’t make sense to me either these days. So I went along with the flow. I
walked over to your desk, sat down on the chair you pulled for me, and asked my
question. What were you? You told me you didn’t know. You said that once you
were a child, just like me, with parents and friends. You used to go to the same
schools as me. Then, one day, one ordinary day, when you were ten, you just woke
up and you were like this, covered in fireflies and no one could remember you
the moment they concentrated on anything else. No one, not even your parents.
You told me of how I’d notice you, every day. How I’d think of you until recess
every day. How I’d come to you every day. How we would talk, every day. How we
would meet for the first time, every day, for the last three years. About how
I’d forget the instant I walked out of the room. How everyone would forget you.
How the fireflies would make them. How for the last three years, you’d been
alone. Your story was very hard to believe. So I didn’t. I asked what reality
prank show I was on. You looked, well, unimpressed, and asked me to continue
telling my story. I was caught off guard by the non sequitur. You said last time
I was here, I was telling you a story, a horror story about a haunted house. As
you detailed the story, goosebumps prickled my skin. It was a story I’d been
making up in my head. A story I hadn’t told anyone yet. At that moment, a
million reactions were open to me, all simultaneously adequate and inadequate.
But the only thing that seemed proper was to finish the story for you. So I did.
Halfway through, you interrupted me to ask if my mother had recovered from her
sickness yet. I had to shake my head, a bit ashamed at the fact that I shared
this private matter to a stranger. The story ended a few minutes before recess.
My next class was in another room. You told me to go. Your steadiness took me
back. You seemed so… accepting of your fate. Like you’d already gotten used to
the idea of being forgotten forever. I was a kid back then. I wasn’t a
particularly smart kid, and I was probably on the onset of a crush. So you can
excuse what I did next as an example of my childhood stupidity. I grabbed my
scissors, pressed it against my arm’s skin, and dug in. As it drew blood, I
pushed it forwards, till the cut formed the shape I wanted. Letter by letter, I
carved your name onto my arm. Just so you know, I don’t regret that. Don’t get
me wrong, kid power might have made me do it, but it sure as hell didn’t make
the pain go away. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life. But
even then as a kid, I thought what was happening to you was unfair. I remember
how your eyes looked when you saw that. The confusion. How strange it was for
you that anyone would want to remember. I remember that look so clearly. When I
woke up the next day and saw your name on my arm, I remembered you. I didn’t
forget. That day, for the first time, we had a conversation that wasn’t so
one-sided. You said no one had ever done anything like that before and suggested
I might have a mental illness. I won’t deny it, that drew a little blood. As we
talked, a creeping thought came into my head: Did you prefer it when I didn’t
remember? That night, I was sitting up on my bed, staring at your name on my
arm, wondering if I should cover it up so I couldn’t see it and give you back
your privacy, when I heard a crash. I looked up to see my bedroom window
shattered and a dirty rock on my floor. I looked out of the cracked window, to
see a dark figure on my lawn. You were outside yelling, about how we should hang
out. It took me a while to get used to how bad you were at talking to people.
Years without practice, made you quite a bit rusty. That was all right. We had a
lot of time. For the next two years, we spent most of our free time together.
Most of the time, we talked. You’d tell me an aspect of your life and how you
lived. You still stayed in your old house. Your parents never noticed the food
that had gone missing, never noticed the extra room, or that you’d stolen the
extra keys. One night, I confided in you that I was beginning to think you were
a part of my imagination, Fight Club style. After all, what could you do to me
that I couldn’t do to myself? You spent the next month or so trying to leave
bite marks on my ear or neck, to prove a point. I still have a few scars on my
ear, so I guess you did. Looking back, I could see the warning signs even then.
Your skin seemed to get worse and worse, paler and paler, and you’d rubbed your
eyes raw. It was in winter we had our wakeup call. The morning began like any
other. I woke up, brushed my teeth, and started searching for clothes to wear.
It was a winter morning, and my room was dark, so I didn’t see your name on my
arm. The cold sent shivers through my body, and pulled out a long sleeve jacket.
A small bell rang in my head. Don’t you usually roll your sleeves up? Yeah, and
why did I? That was annoying. I finished tidying up and headed to school. On the
school bus, I felt oddly content, like something I’d been worrying about had
just… disappeared. I walked up the school stairs, down the hall, through my
classroom door, and sat down at my desk. The same feeling of a burden forgotten
hounded my mind. What was I forgetting? When recess came, I just sat at my desk,
while my classmates ran out. It felt like a ritual, but I didn’t know what for.
I was contemplating just walking out to join them, when I heard it. It was
something small in the wind, like a whisper, but it came over and over,
incessant. It sounded like my name. I knew this was strange, that this was worth
my attention, but I felt oddly calm. Everything would be alright, everything
would be fine. Just ignore it. I sat there at my desk, my mind a war zone
between two conflicting, contradictory voices, when I felt a force tugging on my
sleeve. The moment I noticed this, my jacket sleeve tore open. I saw your name
on my arm, and then your hand that had ripped my jacket open. You’d been yelling
at me for over 20 minutes. I think that was the moment we realized how on edge
our friendship really was. One accident away from complete erasure. We spent
most of the next year in the town library together, trying to find out what the
fireflies were. It wasn’t really a problem for me. Because of my mother’s
treatment, my family couldn’t afford to go on any trips, and our house didn’t
have heating anymore, so I was happy to spend my time with you. Trying to find
information was a puzzle in and of itself. After all, how would I read about
people I couldn’t remember and how would you find out who was special when no
one could even remember enough about them to record them? We found our old
family trees and records. Individually, we’d write down the name of everyone in
the book on two lists, and then we would compare. The names I hadn’t remembered
to write down, but you had, would become the focus. They were the names who were
under the curse of the fireflies. We compiled a list of “suspicious” books.
Books we thought could help us, because they were written by, or were about, the
people we were searching for. I read the books, with the list of names
side-by-side, reading it again for every page of the book. You scoured the
internet on the library computers, on the lookout for articles about the people.
Our search would lead us to the first glimpse we got of what was really
happening to you. It was late at night when you found the picture. I was a bit
drowsy at that time, and almost about to nod off when I heard a sharp intake of
breath. I turned to see you standing up, pointing at the screen. I didn’t see
anything. Well, anything noteworthy. On the screen was a picture of a clearing
somewhere in the woods. You held up your piece of paper where you’d marked out
two names. Susie Applebee-Reagan, 13. Terry Applebee-Reagan, 12. Siblings. For a
moment, I saw the paper and the screen side-by-side. Side-by-side. And then I
saw them. Two figures, emerging from the woods, towards the camera. They were
almost humanoid, with the exception of their limbs, which stretched to
nightmarish proportions. Their blank, white skin was that of a pure albino, and
looked more like tree bark than anything you expected to find on a mammal. A
cloud of fireflies surrounded the duo. The shorter one looked emaciated. I could
see their rib cages, around which their… their eyes! God, their eyes! So small,
so red. The taller one, with its white hair, didn’t look alive anymore. They
were little more than skin wrapped around a skeleton. Fireflies swarmed out of
the pair’s empty eye sockets. Both reached for the cameraman. I looked at the
article surrounding the picture. It was a blog posted by a hiker, twenty years
after the last mention of the two kids. The picture was a mystery to the
cameraman as well. He’d been wanting to go to the woods pictured for a while
now, but he never actually remembered going there. The picture had just appeared
on his camera one day, out the blue. For a moment, I looked at your face. Your
thin, pale face, with those red-veined eyes. Would that be you when my scar
faded? Just a walking horror I’d glimpse, then forget? We worked through our
reading list at a much faster pace starting from that moment. Maybe we should’ve
gone slower. At least every book, every website we’d left untouched, promised
hope. The books that we finished and tossed aside promised nothing but the
clearing in the woods as one’s future. And we tossed aside a lot of books. I
believe I tore through three-fourths of my reading list before I stumbled across
the journal. Oh, God, that horrible, horrible journal. The journal used to
belong to a mental patient, named Joey, who claimed to be a serial killer. He
was locked up in an asylum when the police discovered his supposed victims never
existed. He was ‘diagnosed’ with a need for attention, and shoved away. They
should have electrocuted him. They should have fried him until his flesh melted
and his hair burned. In the journal, he talked about how he carried out his
killings. He knew things, bizarre and disturbing things no one else knew. He
knew of strange creatures that lived in the woods. Of them, his favorites were
the fireflies. I’m not going to tell you how he summoned these things. I trust
you. I trust you more than anyone, but a thing like this belongs to the ground
more than it ever will to the human mind. In the end, it’s sufficient to know
that these things were not fireflies. Joey would start his ritual by taking a
kid. Any kid, anyone he pleased. He could take them at any time, in the dead of
night from their own homes, or in broad daylight from their front yards. It
didn’t matter if he was seen. He’d take them to his house and drag them inside.
Usually, an Amber Alert came up at that point. He didn’t care. Like I said, it
wouldn’t matter soon. He’d drag them to a special room in his house. Here the
fireflies would come and latch onto them. Now, nobody was searching for the
kids. Not the police, not the parents. Nobody. From then on, he could do
whatever he wanted to the kid. He’d get bored of them after a day or two, after
the child had broken. At that point, he disposed of them. Hacksaw, kitchen
knife, anything would work. He detailed a large pit of bodies he kept in the
woods, swarming with bugs. One day, I guess he got bored of that too, so he went
right to the police station and turned himself in. Not on account of guilt, no,
no, no. He just wanted someone to know about the stuff he was doing. Sick
bastard. Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. He never stopped killing kids. The asylum
doors didn’t stop him from doing what he liked. It just made him improvise. He
made a new way. He modified the flies, so they could survive without a host,
just in a dormant state. When a child (he specified the age) would approach the
swarm, it would latch on and begin its effect. Over the years, the child would
warp horribly into the things we saw in the woods. I wish I could hate him in
peace. I wish I could say the world owed him nothing. But that wouldn’t be true.
He detailed a way out. On the final page, there was an exact explanation on how
to get rid of the fireflies. You must have seen something in my face because, at
that moment, you asked if had I found anything. I said no and closed the book. A
few minutes later, you shut down the computer. You picked up the last book and
went through it yourself. When you reached the end cover, you tossed it aside. I
asked what we should do now. You said it was alright. I could go home. We’d talk
about it in the morning. I stood up and walked past the shelves of books. I
headed for the library entrance, but stopped right outside the door and waited.
I waited until I heard the sniffling sounds. I sneaked back to our table, where
you were quietly sobbing. You had your head in your hands. I sat back down, as
you raised your eyes to me. You said you wished you’d never met me. How happy
you were when you had nothing to lose. How I ruined your life. You’d never
really gotten better at talking to people. That was the worst love confession
I’d ever heard. I remember how we kissed that night. I remember your hands
gripping my hair. I remember that kiss. I wish it could’ve been just a kiss. I’m
sorry I ruined that moment. When my arms were around you, I was close enough to
steal a firefly without you noticing. I remember holding the firefly in my hand.
I remember how it struggled, until it didn’t. Until it was a part of me. The
fireflies shifted. They came over to me, and left you. I remember the familiar
look in your eyes. The confusion. I never wanted to see that confusion in your
eyes again. You deserved to be loved and you deserved to know that. I wasn’t
really living anyway. You reached for me. I pulled away, as the last lights of
recognition faded from your eyes. And then you were just staring at a stranger,
walking away into a crowd of strangers. That was a year ago. You’ve gotten so
much better since then. You have so many friends now. So many people at your
birthday party. You also look so much healthier. I haven’t been as fortunate. My
skin’s gotten a lot paler, and my eyes hurt all the time now. I couldn’t go to
school like you did all those years. I haven’t wasted my time though. I found
Joey’s pit. The bodies, there were so many bodies. There’s a grave for those
children now. Without me, my mom could afford her surgery. She looked so happy.
Just yesterday, I saw her playing with my baby brother. I saw you crying
yesterday. You were with your friends, laughing. For a brief moment, your eyes
met mine, and then, they were so wet. I think I’m going away. For good, I think.
You’re not going to be happy if I stick around. I’m so happy I met you, even if
you don’t remember me. [Note end] Sometimes I go through depressive episodes. I
feel so lonely, even with my friends. I don’t know what’s going through my head
during these times, and sometimes I’d end up in a bath tub, a knife in my hands
and my wrists bleeding. Until now, I thought I was cutting my wrists. I wasn’t.
The cuts… they’re letters. I’ve been carving a name onto my arm.


TICCI-TOBY 6.2K+




The long road home seemed to go on and on. The road continued to stretch in
front of the vehicle endlessly. The light that shone through the branches of the
tall, green trees danced across the window in random patterns, and every once
and a while, obnoxiously shining in your eyes. The surroundings were full of
deep green trees forming a forest around the road. The only sound was the sound
of the car’s engine as it traveled down the path. It was peaceful and left a
serene feeling. Although the ride seemed like a nice one, it lacked every form
of ‘nice’ from its two passengers. The middle-aged woman behind the steering
wheel had neat short brown hair that fit her complexion quite well. She wore a
green v-neck T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Diamond stud earrings decorated
each of her ears, which partially showed from behind her haircut. She had deep
green eyes, which her shirt brought out, and the lighting seemed to make them
more noticeable. There wasn’t anything significant about her appearance. She
looked like any other ‘average mother’ you would see on TV shows and the like,
however, the one thing that made her different than the ‘average mothers’ was
the dark bags she had under her eyes. Her facial expression was gloomy and sad,
although she genuinely looked like someone who smiled a lot.She would sniffle
every once and a while, and occasionally glance in the rear-view mirror to look
at her son in the back seat, who was hunched over partially, with his arms held
tight around his chest, and his head pressed against the cold window. The boy
lacked any normal appearance, and anyone could plainly see there was something
wrong with him. His messy brown hair went every which way, and the luminescent
lighting brought out his pale, almost gray skin. His eyes were dark, unlike his
mother’s, and he wore a white T-shirt and scrub pants that had been provided for
him by the hospital. The clothes he had worn before were so shredded and
bloodstained that they weren’t wearable anymore. The right side of his face
bared a few cuts along with a split eyebrow. His right arm was bandaged all the
way to the shoulder, which had been shredded when his right side hit the
shattered glass. His injuries appeared to be painful, when in reality he
couldn’t feel anything. This was just one of the glories of being him. One of
the challenges he had to face while growing up was growing up with a rare
disease that caused him to be completely numb towards pain. Never before had he
felt himself get hurt. He could have lost an arm and felt nothing. The other
major disorder he had faced, which was the one that deemed him many insulting
nicknames in the short time he attended grade school before he switched to
homeschooling, was his Tourette’s Syndrome, which caused him to tick and twitch
in ways he couldn’t control. He would crack his neck uncontrollably and twitch
every once in a while. The kids would tease him and call him Ticci-Toby, and
they mocked him with exaggerated twitching and laughing. It got so bad he had to
turn to homeschooling. It was too hard for him to be in a common learning
environment with seemingly every kid poking, or more like stabbing, fun at him.
Toby starred blankly out the window, his face empty of any emotion, and every
few minutes his shoulder, arm, or foot would twitch. Every bump that the car
tires hit would make his stomach turn. Toby Rogers was the boy’s name and the
last time Toby remembered riding in a car was when it crashed. That’s all he
thought about, unconsciously replaying everything he remembered before he
blacked out, over and over again. Toby had been the lucky one; his sister had
not been so lucky. When the thought of sister came, he couldn’t help the tears
that welled up in his eyes. The horrible memories replayed in his mind. Her
screaming that had cut off when the front of the car was smashed in. It all went
blank for a moment before Toby opened his eyes to see his sister’s body, her
forehead pierced with glass shards, her hips and legs crushed under the force of
the steering wheel, and her torso pushed in from the too late inflated airbag.
That was the last thing he had seen of his dear older sister.The road home
continued on for what seemed like forever. It took so long to get home because
his mom wanted to avoid the sight of the crash. When the surroundings gave way
to a familiar neighborhood, they were both more than ready to get out of the car
and step back into their own home. It was an older neighborhood with quaint
little houses all next to each other. The car drove in front of a blue house
with white windowpanes. They both quickly noticed the old vehicle that was
parked in front of the house, and the familiar figure that stood in the
driveway. Toby felt automatic anger and frustration take over him at the sight
of his father. His father who wasn’t there. His mother pulled the car up in the
driveway beside him before turning off the engine and preparing to step out and
face her husband. “Why is he here?” Toby said quietly as he looked back at his
mother who reached to open the car door. “He’s your father Toby, he’s here
because he wants to see you.” His mother responded in a monotone voice, trying
to sound less shaky. “Yet couldn’t drive up to the hospital to see Lyra before
she died,” Toby narrowed his eyes out the window. “He was drunk that night,
honey, he couldn’t drive-“ “Yeah when is he not,” Toby pushed the door open
before his mother and stumbled out onto the driveway where he met his father’s
gaze before looking down at his feet with a stern expression. His mother stepped
out behind him and met her husband’s eyes before walking around the car. His
father opened up his arms, expecting a hug from his wife, but she walked past
him and put her arm around Toby’s shoulder and started leading him inside.
“Connie,” her husband began in a raspy voice, “What no welcome home hug, huh?”
She ignored her husband’s obnoxious words and walked past him with her son under
her arm. “Hey, he’s sixteen he can walk by himself,” his father began to follow
them in. “He’s seventeen,” Connie glared back at him before opening the door to
the house and stepping inside. “Toby, why don’t we get you in your room to rest
okay? I’ll come get you when dinner is ready-“ “No, I’m sixteen. I can walk by
myself,” Toby said sarcastically and glared back at his father before stumbling
up the small staircase and turning into his room, where he slammed the door
violently. His little room didn’t have much in it, just a small bed, a dresser,
a window, and his walls had a few picture frames of his family, back when they
were a family. Before his father became an alcoholic and acted violently toward
the rest of his family. Toby remembered when he was arguing with his mom and he
grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to the floor, and when Lyra had tried to
break it up, he pushed her and she hit her back on the corner of the kitchen
counter. Toby could never forgive him for what he did to his mother and sister.
Never. Toby didn’t care how much his father beat him down, he couldn’t feel it
anyway, what he did care about was how he intentionally hurt the only two people
he cared about. And when he was waiting in the hospital where his sister took
her last breaths, the only one who didn’t rush there was his dad. Toby stood by
the window and looked out at the street. He could have sworn he saw something
out of the corner of his eye, but quickly blamed it on the meds he was on. When
dinnertime had come and his mother called up to him, Toby came down the stairs
and hesitantly sat down at the table across from his father, and in between his
mother and an empty chair. It was quiet as his parents picked at their food but
Toby refused to eat. Instead, he just watched his dad with a blank stare. His
mother caught on to his staring and elbowed him slightly. Toby looked over at
her slightly and then down at his uneaten food, which he still didn’t touch.
Toby laid in be, he pulled his covers over his head and stared at the window. He
was tired but there was no way he would fall asleep. He couldn’t, there was too
much to think about. He had been debating on whether or not to follow his
mother’s directions and forgive his father, or continue holding a grudge with
his boiling hatred. He heard his door creak open and his mother padded into the
room and sat on the bed next to him. She reached over and rubbed his back, which
had been turned to her. “I know it’s hard Toby, trust me, I understand, but I
promise you it will get better,” she said softly. “When is he going to leave?”
Toby said with an innocent tone in his shaky voice. Connie let her gaze fall
down to her feet. ” I don’t know honey, he’s staying as far as I know,” she
replied. Toby didn’t respond. He just continued to look forward at the wall,
holding his damaged arm near his chest. After a few minutes of silence, his
mother sighed before she leaned in to kiss his cheek and stood up to walk out of
the room. “Good night,” she said as she closed the door. The hours passed
slowly, and Toby couldn’t quit tossing and turning. Every time he let his
imagination take over, he heard the screeching of tires, the screaming of his
sister, and he would uncontrollably jerk in bed. He threw off his cover, and
lying on his back, he pulled his pillow over his face and cried into it. He
could hear his own pitiful weeping. He would have been screaming and crying if e
didn’t press his pillow over his face. After a few seconds, he threw the pillow
off his face and sat up, hunched over, holding his head and breathing roughly,
tears streaming from his eyes. He couldn’t help but cry. He tried to keep it in,
but he couldn’t stop the whining and whimpering as he sat there shaking. He
inhaled before he stood up and walked around his bed to the window and peered
out, taking deep breathes trying to calm down. He rubbed his eyes and looked out
at the group of tall pine trees across the street. He stopped suddenly, and his
gaze slowly centered on something standing under the street light. He heard
ringing in his ears and couldn’t look away. The figure stood beside the
streetlight, about two feet shorter than it did, long arms draped at its sides
as it stared up at him with non-existing eyes. The figure had no facial features
to speak of. No eyes, no mouth, no nose, yet it held Toby’s hypnotized stare,
seemingly peering into his very being. The ringing in his ears grew louder and
louder each second he stared before suddenly it all went black. The next morning
Toby woke in his bed. He felt different. He wasn’t tired at all, and when he
consciously woke up, it felt like he had been lying there awake for hours. He
had no thoughts flowing through his mind. He sat up slowly and stumbled over to
the wall, but when he stood he automatically felt dizzy. He stumbled to the
doorway and walked down the stairs. His parents were sitting at the table, his
father was tuned in to the small TV that sat on the counter top, and his mother
was reading the newspaper. She quickly looked over when she felt Toby’s presence
looming behind her. “Well good morning sleepy head, you’ve been sleeping
forever,” she greeted him with a hesitant smile. Toby slowly looked over at the
clock and noticed that it was 12:30 p.m. “I made you breakfast but it got cold,
I was going to wake you but I felt you needed sleep,” her expression fell from
happy to worried as her son resisted responding to her. “Are you all right?”
Toby stumbled over and sat by his father. He felt as if he was on idle and had
no control over his actions. He was seeing everything he did, but I didn’t
register in his brain properly. He reached out to his father’s arm, but his hand
ended up getting slapped. His father turned to him abruptly and pushed his chair
over whit his foot. “Don’t touch me, boy!” he yelled. His mother stood up,
“Alright know that off! That is the last thing we need!” The days went by, and
things continued on as they were. Connie spent most of her time cleaning the
house, and her rude husband spent most of his time ordering her around. It was
just like how it used to be before the crash. Toby never really left his room.
He would sit by his bed and tremble. His mind would wonder, but his thoughts
changed too fast to be remembered. He would pace around his small room like a
caged animal or stare out the window. The unhealthy cycle continued. Connie
continued to be pushed around by her husband, being way too submissive to him,
and Toby remained in his room. Before he could think twice, he would begin to
chew on his hands, tearing the flesh from his fingers. He would gnaw his hands
until they bled. When his mother walked in on him while he was doing so, she
reacted horribly. She rushed him downstairs and grabbed the first aid kit,
wrapping his hands in bandages. Afterward, she demanded that he wouldn’t leave
her side again. Toby isolated himself so much that he grew to hate being around
others. His memory grew glitchy as well. He’d start missing memory of minutes,
hours, days, and so on. He would begin talking nonsense about things completely
unrelated to the conversations he would have. He’d go off about seeing things,
sharks in the sink as he washed the dishes; hearing crickets in his pillows, and
seeing ghosts outside his bedroom window. His mother grew so anxious about his
mental health that she decided it would be good for him to talk to a
professional about what he was feeling. Connie walked Toby into the building,
holding his hand and guiding him in. She walked him up to the front desk and
began talking to the lady who sat behind it. “Mrs. Rogers?” The lady asked. “Yes
that’s me,” Connie nodded, “We’re here to see Doctor Oliver, I’m here with Toby
Rogers.” “Yes, right this way,” the lady stood and led them down a long hallway.
Toby looked at the framed artwork down the halls and tuned in to the sound of
the lady’s high heels on the hardwood floor. She opened the door to a room with
a table and two chairs. “If we can get him to sit in here for a few minutes,
I’ll get the doctor,” she smiled and held the door open. Toby stumbled into the
room and sat down at the table. He looked over at his mother and the lady before
the door slowly shut behind them. He looked around the room before he held up
his tightly bandaged hands and began to bite at the bandages to unwrap his
hands, but he was interrupted as the door swung open and a young woman in a
black and spotted dress with light blond hair stepped in, holding a clipboard
and a pen. “Toby?” she asked with a smile. Toby looked up at her and nodded.
“Nice to meet you Toby, my name is Doctor Oliver.” She put her hand out for him
to shake by hesitantly pulled away when she noticed his bandaged hands. “Oh,”
she smiled nervously before clearing her throat and sitting in the chair across
the table form him. “So I’m going to ask you a few questions, try to answer them
as honestly as possible, okay?” she placed her clipboard down on the table. Toby
nodded slowly and held his restrained hands in his lap. “How old are you, Toby?”
“Seventeen,” he responded quietly. She wrote that down on the paper that was
clipped to the clipboard. “What is your full name?” “Toby Aaron Rogers.” When is
your birthday?” “April 28th.” “Who is your immediate family?” Toby paused for a
minute before answering her question, “My mom, my dad, and…” he stopped, “M-my
sister.” “I heard about your sister dear…I’m really sorry,” her expression faded
into a sad pity-filled look. Toby nodded. “Do you remember anything from the
crash Toby?” Toby looked away from her. His mind went blank for a moment. He
looked down at his lap, and in the surrounding area, he heard a faint ringing
sound. His eyes widened and he froze in place. “Toby?” the counselor asked.
“Toby are you listening?” Toby felt a shiver go down his spine until he froze
once again and slowly looked over out the little window through the door, where
he saw it. A dark featureless figure, peering in at him. He stared, eyes
widened, the ringing growing louder and louder until suddenly the loud voice of
the counselor broke his trance. “Toby!” she yelled. Toby jumped and fell
sideways out of his chair and backed up into the corner. Doctor Oliver stood up,
holding her clipboard to her chest. A surprised look in her eyes. Toby met her
eyes again, his breath hitching as he twitched. That night Toby lay in bed. His
eyes were dazed as he stared straight up at his ceiling. He could feel himself
begin to doze off when he heard the scattering of footsteps down his hallway. He
sat up and looked towards the doorway, his door wide open. There was no light
everything was lit by the luminescent blue glow of the moon through his window,
leaving a cold lighting. He stood up and slowly made his way toward the doorway
when suddenly the door, which previously was wide open, slammed in his face. He
gasped and fell back. He was out of breath when he hit the ground and he began
breathing heavily, his eyes wide open. He waited for a few seconds before
getting back on his feet. He reached out and grasped the cold door handle with
his bandaged had and it creaked open. He looked out into the dark hallway and
tiptoed out of his room. The window at the end of the hallway lit up the
darkness with blue moonlight as he padded his way down. He could hear footsteps
rustling around him, and faint giggling followed by the pitter patter of small
feet, which sounded like a child had run in front of him, giggling and running
around. The hallway was a lot longer than he remembered. It seemed endless…like
the ride home from the hospital. He heard the door creak in front of him. “Mom?”
he called in a shaky voice. Suddenly a door slammed behind him and he jumped and
turned around. Behind him, he heard a long eerie groan that sounded like croak
right in his ear. He turned around as fast as he could and was suddenly face to
face with none other than his dead sister. Her eyes were clouded white, her skin
pale, the right side of her jaw dangling there by tissue and muscle, glass
protruding from her forehead, black blood leaking down her face, her blonde hair
pulled up in a pony-tail as it always was, and she was wearing her grey t-shirt
and athlete shorts, which were dirty and spotted with blood. Her legs were bent
in ways they shouldn’t be. She stood emitting a long croaking noise only an inch
away from Toby’s face. Toby yelped and fell back. “AH!” He started to crawl
backward away from her, but he was unable to break the eye contact he held with
her blank, dead eyes. He dragged himself backward until he backed up into
something. He stopped for a second. Everything was dead silent except for his
heavy breathing and crying. He slowly looked up to meet the blank face of a tall
dark figure, the same figure that stood over him now. Behind the tall dark mass
were rows of children looking to range from three to ten years old, their eyes
completely black and dark black blood leaked from their eye sockets. He screamed
and stood up as fast as he could only to be tripped by dark black tendrils that
wrapped around his ankle. He fell straight on his stomach and got the wind
knocked out of him. He tried to scream but he couldn’t make a sound. He wheezed
out before it all went black. Toby woke with a start. He screamed out and sat up
as fast as he could, completely short of breath. He wheezed out and held his
chest with his bandaged hands. It was just a dream….just a dream. He lay back
down on his bed and rolled over on his side. It felt like against weight had
been lifted off his chest as he took in deep breaths. He stood up and padded
over to his window. He saw nothing. Nobody was out there. No ghosts, no figures,
nothing. He heard the rustling and coughing of his father outside the doorway.
His door was closed. He walked over and opened it. Looking out into the hallway
once again, he padded down the hallway and into the kitchen where he found his
dad standing and having a smoke in their living room. Toby waited for a second
and watched him from around the corner before a burning feeling started deep in
his chest. Deep boiling anger overtook him. He heard the little imaginary voices
in his head. “Do it, Do it, Do it,” they chanted. He turned away and held his
arms. He felt like he actually had control over himself, unlike he did for the
past few weeks since he got home from the hospital. He actually had complete
thoughts for just moments before the chanting of the little voices in his head
clouded them. “Kill him, he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, kill him, kill him,”
they continued on. Toby trembled. No. No, he wasn’t going to do it. What, was he
going crazy? No. He won’t kill anyone. He can’t. He hated his father, but there
was no way he was going to kill him. That was it, the last thought he had before
he fell into an idle state once again. The influence of the voices in his head
was too much. He began to silently walk up behind his father. He reached over
the counter to the knife in the case. He gripped it in his hand. He felt the
sensation take over his chest. He let out a snicker. “Heh… heheh… hehehehehe!
HAHAHAHAHAHA!” he began laughing so hard he had to gasp for breath. His father
turned around abruptly before he felt a brute force shove him to the floor. He
grunted as the air was knocked out of him. “What!” he looked up at the boy who
stood over him, grasping the kitchen knife in his hand. “Toby, what are you
doing?” he went to sit up and put his arms out in front of him in self-defense
but before he knew it Toby was on top of him. He went to grab his neck, but his
father reached out and blocked his hand by grabbing onto his wrist. “Stop! Get
off of me, you little fucker!” he yelled and with his other hand he threw an
off-center punch towards Toby’s shoulder, but he didn’t stop. The look in Toby’s
eyes was not sane. It looked as if a demon had taken control of him. He yelled
back and went to stab the knife into his father’s chest, but his father blocked
him and grabbed onto his wrist once again. He went shove him back, but Toby
kicked his feet out in front of him and landed a hard blow straight to his
father’s face. His father recoiled and pulled his arms away to cuff his face,
but Toby got back up and drove the knife straight into his shoulder. His father
let out a loud cry and went to pull the knife out, but before he could, Toby
threw his fist straight into his face. He began to pound his fists into his
head, laughing and wheezing. He cracked his neck and grabbed the knife and
ripped it out of his father’s shoulder. He drove it deep into his dad’s chest
and repeatedly stabbed into his torso, blood spilling out and getting splattered
everywhere. He didn’t stop until his father’s body went still. He threw the
knife over to the side and leaned over his body, coughing and panting. He stared
at his father’s smashed-in face and sat there twitching until a loud scream
broke the silence. He looked over to see his mother standing a few feet away,
covering her mouth, tears streaming down her face. “Toby!” she screamed, “Why
did you do that?” she cried. “W-why!?” she screamed. Toby stood up and began to
back away from his father’s bloody corpse. He began to back out of the kitchen.
He looked down at the blood-soaked bandages on his hands and looked up at his
mother one last time before he turned and ran out of the house. He ran into the
garage and slammed his hand against the control panel on the wall and pushed the
button to open the garage door. Before he ran out, he noticed his father’s
hatchets, which had been hanging on the tool rack above a table full of jars
filled to the brim with old rusted nails and screws. One of the hatchets was
new, it had a bright orange handle and a shiny blade, and the other was old with
a wooden handle and an old, dull blade. He grabbed both and looked down at the
table and he saw a box of matches, and under the table was a red gasoline tank.
He held both of the hatchets in one hand and grabbed to matches and gasoline
before running out of the garage, down the driveway and up the street. As he
approached the streetlight that he could see out his own bedroom window, he
heard police sirens in the distance. He turned around and the red and blue
flashing lights came rushing down the street. Toby stood for a second before he
pulled open the cap on the gasoline tank and ran down the street, spilling
gasoline all over the street after him. He turned and ran into the trees. He
poured the last bit of gasoline out before he reached into his pocket and pulled
out a match. He struck it against the box and immediately dropped it. In an
instant, flames burst around him. The fire caught on the trees and bushes around
him and before he knew it, he was surrounded by fire. The silhouettes of police
cars were visible through the flames as he backed away into the forest around
him. He looked around but his vision was blurred, his heart was pounding, and he
closed his eyes for a moment. This was it. This was the end. Toby felt a hand on
his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked over to see a large white hand with
long boney fingers resting on his shoulder. He followed the arm that was
attached to the hand up to a dark, towering figure. It appeared to be wearing a
dark black suit, and its face was completely blank. It towered over Toby’s small
frame as it looked down on him. Tendrils reached out from its back. Before Toby
knew it, his vision blurred and he heard the sound of ringing in his ears.
Everything went blank. That was it. That was the end. That was how Toby Rogers
died. A few weeks later, Connie sat in her sister’s kitchen. His sister, Lori,
sat next to her drinking a cup of coffee. About three weeks ago, Connie lost her
husband and her son, and a few weeks before, she had lost her daughter to a car
crash. Since then she moved in with her sister. The police were keeping her
busy, they had just finished cleaning up the case, and the story had been
released two weeks ago. The focus of the world seemed to have shifted to
completely new stories. Lori switched the TV on to a news broadcast. On the TV
the news reporter began introducing the new headline. “We have breaking news!
Last night there have been reported the murder of four individuals. There are no
suspects yet, but the victims were a group of middle school kids who had been
out in the woods late last night. The kids had been bludgeoned and stabbed to
death. The investigators have discovered a weapon at the crime scene. It appears
to be an old, dull-blade hatchet, as you can see here.” The picture changed to
show snapshots of the weapon exactly as it was left at the crime scene.
“Investigators have pulled the name of a possible suspect, Toby Rogers, a
seventeen-year-old boy who stabbed his father to death a few weeks ago and tried
to cover up his escape by setting a fire in the streets and forest area around
the neighborhood. Although they believed the young boy had died in the fire,
investigators suspect Rogers might still be alive, due to the fact that his body
was never found.”


TURN IT OFF 10.2K+




I rested my arms behind my head, skim-reading the credits of a movie I’d just
watched. After seeing them through about half way, I lifted myself from the sofa
and walked to the kitchen, stretching my arms out above me. I opened the fridge
door and found a full cartoon of juice, so I sat down on the kitchen counter by
the window, cracked open the lid, and took several long, noisy gulps. When I
couldn’t drink anymore, I gasped to let in new air and wiped my mouth on the
back of my hand. My evenings were uneventful around this time in summer. It was
9:15pm on a Saturday in July; school was out for the holidays and my parents had
gone to visit my aunt and uncle who lived by the coast, they would still be gone
for 2 more weeks. I declined the invitation to join them, I didn’t dislike the
place or my relatives, but we usually stayed there so long that I’d miss most of
summer break, and I’d truthfully rather spend it with my friends in town. I was
a good kid who knew how to wash clothes and use an oven, and generally not an
idiot, so they let me stay at the house so long as I kept it clean. As I sat, I
looked out into the garden to check for anything scary in the dark, it was empty
and black. I kind of wished we had a pet, a dog or a cat would be nice about
now, but their hair always made me sneeze and my eyes go red and itchy. With
that in mind my dad said no, even though I wouldn’t mind it. 9:22pm, I put the
rest of the juice cartoon back in the fridge door, and went back over to the
window. Hoisting myself onto the counter again, I glanced out to the garden and
identified the shadows one by one to make sure everything was in it’s place. The
bushes were their usual shape, two small trees stood together by the back fence
and a metal table with 4 chairs sat casually on the patio. I liked to check
these things, which is largely why I wasn’t scared of the dark. I would always
get up to investigate small noises in the night, and I hated sleeping with my
face to the wall. If someone was in my room at night, I’d rather know about it
so at least there was the faintest chance of getting away somehow. This meant
that my worries were quickly put to rest as I either found nothing downstairs
but the radiator popping with the heat, or opened my eyes to see an empty
bedroom. Not knowing what could be making the odd noises coming from the
kitchen, or on the stairs, or in my room is what makes my skin creep. 9:30pm, I
got down from the counter and wandered back into the living room to turn off the
TV, and decided to take the rest of the juice upstairs. I went back into the
kitchen, opened the fridge door, and stopped. Turning my head to focus outside,
I could see someone was standing in the garden. I shut the fridge door and
turned off the light so they couldn’t see me so easily, and moved slowly to lean
on the kitchen counter to get a better look. All the doors were locked and all
the neighbours were home, I took a moment to remind myself this. Still, my heart
quickened a bit as I stood there straining to see his or her shape in the
darkness at the end of the garden. I had to keep glancing away to keep their
fuzzy outline clear in my vision. They were standing very still, and were a
little thin, but that’s all I could see, I couldn’t tell anything else. ‘Oh.’ I
said aloud. It was the garden umbrella leaning up against the back fence, I
forgot that we used it for barbeques. I smiled at myself, pleased that I didn’t
get too worked up and went upstairs to my bedroom. I laid on the bed and propped
my head up on a pillow, opening my laptop on my stomach to see if anybody was
online. Apparently someone else was bored and saw my name pop up. Chris: Hey!
Me: Hey, you ok? Chris: Yeah, bored, are your parents still away? Me: For a
couple more weeks Chris: Why don’t I come round? Me: I don’t want to be rude,
but I kind of can’t be bothered to hang out tonight lol, thanks though Chris: I
know what you mean, it’s cool, what about tomorrow? Me: Yeah that sounds better
Chris: Cool, I’ll be round about 1, I’ve got some family stuff to do in the
morning Me: okay Chris: Do you still have a tent btw? We can camp in the garden
or something. Me: Aww a slumber party, I love you too bro x Chris: Whatever lol,
you got the tent though? Me: Yeah somewhere, let me check. Brb. I got up from my
bed and headed to check the cupboard under the stairs. I didn’t know where the
tent was but it seemed a good place to start. I opened the cupboard door and
started shifting coats aside, some cardboard boxes were stacked up at the back
and might be hiding it, so I started unstacking them. I took out a couple of the
easy to reach ones and had a stroke of good luck as the tent bag came into view.
I leaned over the other boxes, and picked up the bag, and took the big garden
umbrella that sat beside it too, just in case it rained tomorrow. I paused. I
put the tent down. It took me a couple of seconds to get back to the kitchen
window and focus on the darkness outside. My eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the
dark, so I couldn’t see all the way to the back fence. Turning off the kitchen
light I leaned on the counter and continued staring at the same point. The other
garden features began to fade into view one by one, fitting my previous mental
image. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to see, the darkness gave way to the familiar
forms I knew, but after a while, I was certain there still stood a figure
against the back garden fence. It hadn’t moved. I stood there for 15 minutes
looking at it, I couldn’t tell it’s shape properly, but it did look like someone
standing there. I decided it wasn’t a threat; I thought if I was in any real
danger I would’ve been a lot more worried by now, that thought kept me calm. But
I also wanted to find out what it was. I couldn’t stand there forever, I jogged
upstairs, picked up my laptop, and brought it down to with me to the counter.
Me: Could you come round now? Chris: Oh? Me: Yeah, I think I can see something
in my garden. Chris: What Is it? An animal? Me: No it’s tall, I thought it was
an umbrella. Chris: And now you’re sure it isn’t? Me: I don’t know, I thought it
was someone, but now I’m sure it’s not a person. It just looks weird and I don’t
think it was there before. Chris: Before when? Me: I don’t know, earlier today
maybe? I can’t remember. Chris: Are you scared? Me: I’d feel better if someone
else was here Chris: Well I did offer to come round, and I am bored… Me: So
yeah? Chris: Yeah, I’ll come soon Me: Cool, thanks, use the front gate. I sat
there watching the black shape lean against the fence for another 10 minutes,
eventually, the doorbell rang. I opened it and Chris ran in, and bear hugged me.
‘It’s been too long!’ Chris mock-cried. ‘Yeah it must have been a whole day.’ I
retorted, smiling. ‘The torment!’ He replied, pretending to ignore me. ‘Look,
come over here.’ I said, pushing him off and walking to the kitchen. I switched
off the light and pointed in the figure’s direction. ‘Look’. ‘Give me a sec,’
Said Chris, ‘I can’t see properly…’ A minute later he noticed, ‘That black
thing?’ ‘Yeah’. ‘Um…’ We both stood there looking at it for a while. I half
expected it to be gone when he looked. He leaned over the counter. ‘It’s just a
big plant or plank of wood or something, Let’s go watch TV.’ ‘Will you check
with me to make sure?’ I asked. ‘Do you have a torch?’ he returned. ‘No.’ I
admitted. ‘Well, we could check if we keep the kitchen light on and open the
back door a little.’ he offered. I thought for a second and agreed, but said we
should stay right by the house. We slipped on our trainers and opened the back
door, stepping onto the patio I felt the air was heavy and warm that night.
Chris walked behind me. We stood very close to the door, peering at the back
fence. ‘Should we-‘, I had just started to speak when he quickly stepped into
the house again, still looking at the fence. ‘What?’ I asked following him in. I
turned, and realised that the figure was gone. It was obvious from the light
coming from the back door, that the fence and the rest of the garden was just as
it always was. ‘Where is it?’ Chris said. ‘If it was leaning against the fence,
it probably fell over into a bush or something.’ I tried to convince us both. We
stared out for a few seconds longer, and decided that we were too nervous to go
and check. I don’t usually give into my night terrors, but now they were just
beginning to click into my head. ‘Can you stay over for the night?’ I asked
Chris. ‘Um, yeah, sure…’ It didn’t sound like he really wanted to. He kept his
eyes on the fence. We both went inside and locked the door before going up to my
room. I got out a sleeping bag for Chris, and drew the curtains without looking
outside into the garden again. We talked about stupid stuff for a couple of
hours to take our minds off the garden, and fell asleep. In the morning, I found
Chris’s sleeping bag empty. I called out to Chris and he said he was downstairs,
so I threw on a T-shirt and went down. ‘Sleep well?’ I asked. ‘Yeah pretty well,
but I kept thinking about the garden and stuff. Hey, did you find that tent?’ He
returned. ‘Er, yeah.’ I answered, remembering that shape which I had forgotten
about until now. ‘Well, I was thinking about the camping thing, and thought
maybe we could bring the tent to my house. It would just make a change you
know?’ I didn’t have to ask him why, I wasn’t to keen on staying in my garden
after last night. Wait, last night… Come to think of it, the sun was up and I
wanted to check the garden while it wasn’t pitch black. I asked Chris and he
hesitantly agreed. We put on our trainers and stepped out into the garden. I
don’t know what we were so worried about, it was bright and colourful. The
plants and bushes around the edges of the garden smelled good, and there was a
bird in one of the small trees singing out for it’s mate somewhere. We walked to
the back fence to find nothing out of place, and looked over the bushes in front
of the panelling to check if anything lay behind them. We found nothing. I
walked around the edge of the whole garden once more while Chris tried whistling
to the bird. It cocked it’s head from side to side trying to figure him out. It
was a warm day, perfect for camping that evening, I decided. We talked as we
filled a couple of rucksacks with sleeping bags and some food from the kitchen.
We didn’t want to set up a fire, so we packed some tinned hot dogs, bread, a
packet of tomatoes, and chocolate, as well as some bottles of water. ‘There’s a
forest just next to my house which is actually pretty good,’ Chris explained
‘Our garden backs onto the edge of it. I stayed in a tent there once with my dad
for my first little camping trip when I was like, 7. I remember I was so excited
at the time, I thought we were really roughing it like some hardcore
mountaineers.’ Chris laughed at himself. ‘If we get too cold or need more food
we can just go to my house. My parents are out so we’ll have free run of the
place anyway.’ ‘Yours are away too?’ I questioned. ‘It’s their anniversary so
they’re out for the night,’ he explained, ‘They’re staying in a hotel the next
town over, they’ll be back in the morning.’ Apparently leaving your kids behind
was in fashion this summer. At about noon we left my house with the 2 rucksacks,
a sleeping bag for each of us, and the tent, and made our way to Chris’s house.
It was fairly close by, and a part of the same pleasant neighbourhood. We talked
and joked a lot walking side by side, nodding and greeting a couple of familiar
neighbours as we went. It was a crazy nice day, the sun was almost too much, it
was hot on our necks, and the trees by the sidewalk seemed to glow green from
underneath as the sunlight passed through the leaves. A sprinkler offered us
some water as we walked by one house, and it felt good on my hot arms. I was
already sweating by the time we got to Chris’s place, we hadn’t been walking for
more than 20 minutes. We didn’t go inside his house immediately because it was
so hot, so we went straight to his garden and dumped our bags in the shade. He
wasn’t joking, the gate of his garden backed straight onto an impressive forest.
very tall, thin trees stood high above the house, and continued as far as I
could see. Some bushes and shrubs littered the forest floor, but most of it was
either grass, or fairly smooth sections of dirt. I didn’t see how this forest
was classed as ‘small’. ‘Looks good right?’ he boasted. ‘It’s awesome.’ I
admitted, opening the gate and surveying the area. I walked out in between the
trees and found a flat spot for the tent. I turned around to ask Chris’s
opinion, and paused, a little disappointed. It didn’t feel like real camping
when his house was so obviously in our faces. ‘Let’s go a little further in so
it at least feels legit.’ I said, and walked back to pick up my bags, Chris
objected to carrying his ‘heavy shit’ any further. We walked in a straight line
from Chris’s house, and kept checking behind us until the house was just about
obscured by trees in front of each other. We had only gone a very short way in
but the forest was already thicker and greener, there was even a long rope swing
hanging from one of the trees, but it looked too old to hold our weight, so we
decided to keep our spines unbroken and give it a miss. I unpacked the tent and
set it up with Chris’s help, and we threw our sleeping bags inside. I laid down
inside to test it out. It was so warm and humid I had to adjust my breathing for
a second. I stepped out again, and asked Chris if he had a torch for the
evening. ‘I can do better than that.’ was his response and he took off towards
the house. I was too hot to run after him, so I opened my rucksack and cracked
open a bottle of water, downing half of it and putting the rest back in the
pack. I Laid down on a patch of grass and looked up at the canopy. The leaves
were shifting gently in a breeze I couldn’t feel from down here, and I watched
them sway and mesh together until I heard Chris return. ‘Did you get a torch?’ I
asked closing my eyes. The sun shone through my eyelids and coloured my vision
red. I listened to the soft sound of his footsteps on the grass as he walked
past me towards the rope swing. ‘That’s not going to hold you,’ I warned as I
heard him tug the branch with a small creak. He tugged it and it creaked in
response. I listened. He tugged it once more, and again. There was a moment of
silence as I guessed he was still weighing it up, and then another tug. He
continued to tug a few more times, and the creaking followed each one. I was
sure it wouldn’t hold his weight, and I smiled predicting one big creak and a
snap as the rope or the branch broke. I waited as some final tugs were made.
Creak, creak. I waited still. Creak, creak, creak. ‘Yo!’ I heard Chris’s voice
coming from his garden, I sat bolt upright almost spraining my neck as I snapped
my head sideways to face his house. He was jogging through the trees holding an
electric lantern. I switched my gaze in the other direction towards the rope
swing. It was hanging still, nothing nearby. I stood up and turned full circle,
nothing in any other direction. ‘What…’ I mouthed to myself walking towards the
rope. I tugged it gently, it didn’t creak. I pulled it harder, it didn’t creak.
My mouth went dry. I jumped up, grabbed hold, and yanked it down. The branch
bent a little as my feet touched the floor, and still it didn’t make a sound. I
kept hold of it as I stared up towards the branches, but eventually the rope
gave way under my weight somewhere in the middle, and a soft thud fell on my
ears as the thick rope fell in front of me. Chris was rattling the lantern as he
came by. ‘I’ve never used this before, I got it for Christmas from my cousin.
She buys some weird presents. Ah, I see the swing is dead, lets have a proper
burial in memory of all the joy it gave us!’ I didn’t respond. I continued
looking up at the branch with half a rope swing tied to it. ‘…Hey, are you
good?’ Chris followed my gaze. ‘I thought you’d already come back,’ I said
immediately, I wasn’t the type to let things slide with an “oh… it’s nothing.”
‘What?’ He replied. ‘Someone walked by me and was messing around with the rope
swing.” ‘Who was it?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Are they still around?’ ‘I don’t know! I
had my eyes closed and was laying just there,’ I pointed, ‘but then I heard you
shout, so I looked around and there was nothing here. I heard them walk by my
head.’ I felt a bit sick. ‘Look, calm down a second’. Chris began. ‘It’s the
middle of the day, we’re 30 feet from my house, and even if it was a person, so
what? It’s just some public woods, anyone can come through here.’ That made some
sense, and he was right about it being public. But then where were they? I
glanced around one more time, however the trees quickly layered up and I
couldn’t see far at all. I guessed it was possible for me to lose track of
someone here in a short distance. ‘Okay.’ I said ‘Man… I can stay alone in the
house for weeks on end, but I can’t handle a short walk through the woods on a
summers day.’ ‘That’s why you’ve brought some muscle!’ Declared Chris, wielding
the lantern above his head, and I laughed. We spent the day walking around the
forest, and returned to the tent to get some water when we were too hot. We
talked about school and what our plans were for the future. We talked about
dreams we’d had, and ghosts, and creatures that lurked in the dark. Neither of
us were too scared of things like that, but they made for good camping stories.
Chris told a particularly good one of a woman who lived in the woods. She had
the head of a cat and if you heard her raspy meow, that meant she was trying to
find you. If she stopped meowing, it signified you were found, and she was
quickly making her way towards you. It made my skin crawl a little, and we
stopped telling stories soon after that. The light of day eventually faded, and
it was getting hard to see, so we headed back to the tent for the night. The
impressive heat during the day had killed our appetites, so we left the food for
now and decided we’d eat it in the night if we got hungry. Chris hung the
electric lantern at the front of the tent, flicking it on as he did so. It was
surprisingly bright, and spilled a yellow light onto the ground and onto the
trees that faced us. The warm glow looked dramatic, but whatever was beyond the
light was hidden in blackness. Our immediate area was clear, but after a few
paces the light seemed to stop dead. It looked weird. Chris ducked under the
tent opening and I followed him. The sleeping bags looked inviting as the heat
from earlier had gone and it was too cold for shirts and shorts. We got inside
and took the lantern with us. ‘Can you hear meowing?’ I said, my head tilted as
I strained to hear. ‘Yeah, I can hear some bullshit too!’ Chris smiled and
zipped up his sleeping bag. Damn, I thought I had him, oh well, I zipped up my
own bag and we laid there talking for a little while, and then the exhaustion of
such a hot summer’s hit us and we fell asleep. I had a dream that we were
walking to Chris’s house again, but there were more trees than before, and it
was getting dark very quickly. I blinked, and suddenly it was night, with the
forest sprawling in every direction. The rope swing hung in front of me. I
turned around and Chris was gone. I heard a creak behind me, a feeling came over
me like I’d missed a step on the stairs. For some reason, I couldn’t turn
around. I started walking straight ahead, and the rope swing soon came into my
view again, I was aware I was in a nightmare. The rope swing slowly lifted
itself up into the trees and I watched it disappear. I walked over and stood
beneath where it had been, and there was a rustle above me. As I lifted my eyes
to the canopy, a black figure with the head of a cat came hurtling downwards
with it’s mouth open horrifically wide, one of it’s teeth touched my left eye,
and I tore myself awake, gasping as I sat up in the tent. My back was damp with
sweat and Chris was asleep next to me, the lantern was still on and I could see
our backpacks at the end of the tent. I took a moment to breathe and then let
myself lay back down, my head thumping on the floor a little too hard. I winced
and reached for the bottle of water to my side, downing a few mouthfuls. I
couldn’t fall asleep with the glow of the lantern on my eyelids, so I sat up and
searched the tent for it. I quickly realized the light was coming from outside.
‘Chris?’ I said, still confused from sleep. He mumbled something in reply.
‘Chris, where’s the lantern?’ ‘Uh…Somewhere….’ He said slowly and sleepily,
before turning over. Looking around again, the light was obviously coming from
outside. I weighed up the options. Either some murderer had snuck into our tent
and done nothing but take the lantern outside. Or, we didn’t actually bring it
into the tent and I had remembered wrongly. That sounded more convincing. So I
knelt by the tent door and unzipped it. From the opening I looked around, it
wasn’t immediately obvious where the glow was coming from. Why couldn’t I see
it? I looked up. The lantern was resting 20 feet in the air, hanging in the
dark. Goosebumps swept across my skin and I zipped up the door before shaking
Chris. ‘Chris, please wake up!’ He heard the urgency in my voice and sat up.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ Chris said, rubbing his eyes. ‘The Lantern’s hanging
outside.’ ‘But I brought it in.’ He assured me. I felt sick as my reasoning
broke. We both looked at the front of the tent. ‘We should go back to the
house.’ I said, my resolve buckling. I was just a kid in a forest who’s parents
were away. ‘I’m not walking through the dark.’ He replied, Chris was now looking
worried. ‘We’ve got a Lantern-‘ I stopped myself. We looked at the front of the
tent again. We couldn’t sit there forever. We were getting scared as we sat
there doing nothing, so this was the plan; we weren’t going back to sleep, we
would get the lantern back somehow, leave everything here, and spend the night
in Chris’s house. I hated being the one to go first. I wanted to turn back even
just crouching by the tent entrance. Unzipping the fabric door I looked around,
nothing. I peered over the tent behind us, nothing in sight. Literally nothing,
everything was black outside of the light. I took a step out and it was cold,
Chris said the same as he stood right by my side looking over his shoulder. He
turned back and saw the lantern in the air. ‘Oh my god.’We stood there looking
at it for a few seconds that seemed to crawled by. Eventually I worked out which
tree it was hanging from, the broken rope swing at my feet confirmed it. Way up
out of reach, the lantern hung above our heads, tied to the other end of the
rope that still dangled from the darkness. I couldn’t work it out, it was high
up, too high up for even a ladder. The trees were thin and bare besides the
leaves that made up the canopy, There was no where to climb. Picking up the
length of rope that had snapped off earlier, I bundled it up and tied a knot,
and aimed at the lantern. I took a step back and jumped, tossing it into the
air. It caught the lantern on it’s side and sent it swinging. It threw shadows
rocking around us, I suddenly wished it hadn’t hit it. The light made the
shadows lean from side to side with the lantern. The horrible, unnatural swaying
made me panic and my eyes became wet as fear took a solid hold of me. I picked
up the rope again, and lobbed it desperately at the lantern. I missed, and the
bundle of rope sailed off into the darkness. Helplessly I turned to Chris who
had already grabbed his backpack. He span around and threw it with a yelp, and
it hit the lantern dead on. it fell and thudded to the floor with a crack, but
the light was still on, I ran to pick it up. I turned to Chris and almost cried
with relief. ‘Okay go, go, go, let’s go!’ I urged, and he started jogging
quickly towards his house as I followed. We half ran, half stumbled off into the
dark, checking over our shoulders and working ourselves up as our thoughts were
consumed by everything that may be waiting in the trees for us. I don’t know how
long we were moving, but it soon became apparent that Chris’s house wasn’t in
this direction. ‘For God’s sake, where is it!’ Chris said, tension taking hold
of his voice, ‘We’ll have to find the tent and try again.’ A couple of tears
were forming at the corners of his eyes. They were probably on mine too, but my
heart was thumping so hard I didn’t notice. ‘Okay.’ I took a breath and we
turned around, heading in a straight line directly behind us. What if we didn’t
find the tent? I couldn’t stop myself thinking that over and over as we retraced
our steps. We walked for what seemed like twice as long, before the light
finally fell on the side of the tent. We ran up and stood close to it’s side,
looking around to try and figure out which direction we should go. The silence
was like the build up of a nightmare, right before some horrible thing lurches
out at you, screaming. The comparison made me gag and I scrunched my eyes shut,
the hair on my skin lifting. My temples were so hot it felt like my brain was
thudding against the inside of my skull. I couldn’t begin to guess where the
house was. We could see about ten feet from the lantern, and then pitch black,
there were no clues. Every direction looked wrong. Chris took the lantern from
me and walked in a small circle, straining his eyes to try and see. I stayed
put. ‘Chris, Turn it off.’ I whispered to him hurriedly ‘What?’ He asked I
stepped quickly and quietly towards him, bringing my face to his. ‘There’s
something in the tent.’ His gaze shifted past me towards the tent and he stood
there staring. We were standing on the left hand side of the tent, and from this
angle I could just about see the unzipped door hanging open, but I remembered
leaving it that way. So that wasn’t what was making me clench my teeth together.
A few feet away, my rucksack sat outside on the dry earth, with the food I had
packed, now neatly arranged trailing from it. Our sleeping bags were also nicely
laid out, end to end, making the line of belongings lead straight into the mouth
of the tent. I took a careful step forward so the light could pass more easily
through the fabric. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light, something big
and dark was obviously crouched, with what I guessed was it’s front, facing the
open door. I hated myself for not seeing it sooner. It didn’t move at all, or
seem to breathe, it just sat, waiting for us to investigate the display it had
made. ‘Turn it off.’ I whispered again. Chris continued staring, deaf to me.
‘CHRIS.’ I pleaded in a whisper. A voice from nearby joined in. ‘Chris.’ We both
heard it and the blood fell in our veins. It came from the tent. A slow,
strained, rasp of a voice that sounded like a parrot copying a new word. The
sound clicked across my skin and crept into my ears. The light flicked off with
a click that was too loud. Chris grabbed my shoulder, and I clenched my fists
closed, painfully tight. We stood there in complete darkness, I didn’t want to
move and I didn’t want to stay. My brain fought for control as my legs waited
for a decision, rooted in place. We breathed shallow, quiet breaths, blackness
pressing on our eyes like water. Sweat ran down my neck, I couldn’t see the
tent. ‘Chrisss.’ Something said. ‘Turn it offff.’ My stomach flipped inside out
as the thing in the tent played with my words. I quickly grabbed Chris’s hand,
yanking him in the opposite direction. I ran like I never had before, Chris’s
legs thudding alternately with mine. The sprint continued for about a minute, we
lost ourselves as we ran through absolute darkness. I forgot where we were and I
couldn’t see what was in front of my face. I ran head on into a tree, and my
forehead struck it’s side with a sickening, hollow knock. sparks lit up inside
my eyes as I chocked back the pain. It hurt so much I couldn’t breath. Chris
tried to pull me on, but I buckled to the floor on my knees and threw up. As I
collapsed onto my back, my head went numb, Chris lifted me up. ‘Please don’t
stop, please, please!’ He begged, I couldn’t reply. ”Please, please keep going!’
I forced my legs to take my weight as I locked my knees upright, leaning on
Chris. My body felt empty and a little blood rolled down my forehead and into my
brow, I wiped it away as I tried to grasp the situation again, but the pain was
too much. ‘Wait, I can’t!’ I begged, ‘Just wait, just wait…’ We stood together
in the inky woods, but we could have been anywhere. I couldn’t see Chris as he
huddled next to me, it didn’t feel like darkness, it felt like someone had
wrapped my head in a blanket. Neither of us said a word as we waited, but our
breathing was loud, and I wondered from what distance it could be heard. Reality
began to return to me, and the pain was now just about bearable, I straightened
up, grasping at what was happening, the pins of fear sank into me a second time,
and I started counting in my head. One minute passed without any sound in the
world. The wind was dead, and the birds might be too. another minute went by, I
continued counting. Three minutes. We were still alone, was it even looking for
us? I reached for Chris’s arm in the dark, he jumped when I touched it, but I
steadied him with the other, he was still holding the lantern, good. We had
light on our side, now if only we could use it. I went over the events hurriedly
in my mind; the lantern was hanging from a tree, we got out of the tent, then
couldn’t find our way home. By the time we returned to the tent, something was
in it, but then why did it take the lantern and do nothing while we slept? If It
was sheer luck that we were alone when we were trying to get the lantern, I
wondered just how small the possibility was of us getting a second chance. I
stayed silent for a moment and then whispered as best I could. ‘Chris, we need
to turn on the lantern. We need to fucking get away from here, we can make a run
for your house but we need to see!’ ‘No! please, we have to stay here!’ Chris
tried to whisper too. ‘We can wait for morning if we have to, you can’t turn it
on.’ I could hear in his voice that a sob was breaking through. ‘Just keep
quiet! You fucking have to, Please!’ I parted my lips to try again, but as I
did, I heard something. A very faint clicking sound from somewhere in the dark.
It was almost inaudible, but it was there. An irregular, stuttering, clicking
sound. It sounded fingernails on a wooden table. And it was moving. It came from
in front of us, I was sure of it. A steady ‘click, clack click,’ filled my ears
as we tried gauge the distance. It was drawing closer. ‘Click Click Clack.’ It
stopped. I was glad for the first time in my life that I couldn’t see what was
waiting in the dark, perhaps that meant we were also hidden. As my thoughts
fired off in every direction, I gave the thing in the darkness the image of the
cat-headed woman, and it terrified me. I was just waiting to hear that meow. But
my ears were met with something else.‘Chris.’ I tensed my throat and tried not
to cry. ‘Chris.’ It said his name twice, and I cupped my hand over my mouth, the
horrible, scraping dialogue sounded a few steps away. The words were said oddly,
with no meaning behind them. They were just sounds that this thing had picked
up, and was now using them to catch us out in the dark. Chris let go off my hand
and I heard his foot plant softly on the grass behind him as he prepared to run.
‘Don’t you dare.’ I tried to project into his mind. ‘Don’t you make a sound’.
‘Chris. Pleeease.’ It sounded so wrong, drawn out like a door slowly opening.
Chris let out a whimper as it called him. I froze and waited for something,
anything to happen. There was a long silence and I held my breath for as long as
I could. I couldn’t wait anymore. Very slowly I reached out to Chris and put my
hand on his shoulder, and very carefully we both lifted our feet and managed to
step without making a sound. We back stepped away from the voice and didn’t stop
moving, but ever so carefully. So, so slowly. I didn’t care how long it would
take us to get somewhere, if it took us an hour every step, we were going to get
out. Chris backed into a tree, and gasped audibly. The clicking started up
immediately, ‘click click clack click’, it rolled on, consistently moving
towards us. I didn’t know what to do, All I could think of was to screw my eyes
shut and try not to scream. As we stood there, the clicking came to a stop an
arms length away from where we stood. Silence. ‘Chrisss. Turn it on. Pleeease.’
Fear took over, Chris switched on the light and tore off in the other direction
without looking behind him, I wheeled in place and held that lantern in my sight
like nothing else existed. We didn’t dare look at the thing, but we could hear
it. Our footsteps thudded on the grass, and the thing pursued us with a
‘taptaptaptap’, now like scurrying little claws on hard earth. As I ran
desperately to catch up to the light, the sound suddenly rose up behind me and
over our heads in between the trees. This wasn’t happening, it was going to drop
down on us. ‘Turn!’ I screamed. I didn’t care anymore, if we were going to get
out with our lives, we were going to have to run for them . We suddenly changed
course, the tapping stopped for a moment, long enough for us to gain a few feet
before it came in our direction again. My legs were cramping horribly and Chris
was gasping hard, We couldn’t keep this up. Where were we? I saw the light from
the lantern come to an abrupt halt up ahead, I didn’t have time to stop, and
braced myself to thump into Chris, but the light passed beneath my feet. He had
dropped the lantern. I turned my head and watched it recede into the darkness,
it was immediately too far for me to go back, the thing would be on me in a
second. ‘Chris!’ I was crying and swiping tears from my cheeks as I ran,
preparing for my face to connect with a tree at any moment. ‘Keep Going!’ I
heard Chris from up ahead, ‘there’s a light!’ My vision was bleary from tears
but could see it, an orange glow hanging in the air in the distance. Another
one? What was happening? I wanted to scream at him to avoid it, but I realized
it was a street light. My legs felt like I was running through water, but I
pushed them harder with a goal in sight. Gradually and painfully the light drew
closer, as did the clicking. This thing could move like nothing I knew. I saw
Chris’s figure pass underneath the street light and then he was gone again.
‘Don’t stop!’ I yelled as I approached the edge of the forest, and my legs
adjusted as the forest floor gave way to solid footing. I could see a row of
more streetlights leading off to the right, and Chris’s figure was passing
regularly underneath each. When I was sure I was completely out of the trees I
didn’t stop, I ran under several more street lights putting as much distance as
I could manage between us and the edge of the woods. I realised after a while
that the clicking had stopped, I needed to see we were ok. I turned my head and
looked back along the row of lights, keeping my gaze on the first light. my pace
slowed as the pain in my head and legs came back. There was silence once more,
and the lights revealed an empty pathway. I jogged on and kept my eyes on the
glow, expecting to see something at any minute. but it lit up nothing but
concrete and the edge of the road. ‘Is it there?’ The question pulsed in my mind
over and over. As I turned my head to continue catching up to Chris, I caught
sight of something pass under the first street light. An almighty shock went
through me as my fears were confirmed, I let out a cry and picked up the pace
once more, sprinting between the lights. The image was burned into my mind. I
hardly caught a glimpse of the thing, but it was white, and massive, it almost
brushed the street light as it went under it. It had a long, upright body full
of kinks, like it had just unfolded itself, and that’s all I was able to tell.
It must have had a face and limbs, but I didn’t have time to see. I didn’t look
again, the path gave way to more lights and soon I could see the glow of windows
in some houses either side of the road, I recognized where we were, close to my
house by some miracle. A little further and we would be there. ‘My House!’ I
yelled, and Chris listened, turning left onto a side street and dashing down.
With panic on my side I reached the turning and looked down the road to see
Chris jumping the fence into my garden. ‘Hurry up!’ I heard him scream. Reaching
the fence I planted my hands on top, hoisting myself over and shredding my
elbows in the process. My ankles stung as I thudded into the garden, and
sprinted towards the kitchen door. Chris stepped aside gasping for air as I
fumbled the key into the lock and wrenched it sideways. We both flew into the
kitchen and slammed the door behind us. I locked it from the inside and we both
sprinted upstairs into the bathroom, locking it behind us. ‘What was that!?’ I
managed to say in a panicked whisper, wondering if it would get in. ‘Did you see
it?’ ‘No.’ Chris crouched under the window, letting tears roll. ‘Shit! It was so
tall it- It was- I couldn’t-‘ ‘Don’t tell me’ Chris cut me off. I mulled it over
again and again as we sat there, minutes slowly ticked by into hours. My head
was fizzing all the while and I could still hear it’s voice, that disgusting
voice. My elbows and fore arms were sticky with blood and we both looked at the
floor, the occasional sob coming from the two of us. Our hearts banged in our
chests, and we spent the night that way. Light streamed in from the window, but
we didn’t unlock the bathroom door until noon. We crept downstairs, the kitchen
door was still locked and nothing was in the house. I looked out of the living
room window, another perfect day. No people walked by, but the sprinklers were
on and I could hear birds again. It helped to calm our nerves. ‘That tent can
stay there.’ I said at last. ‘Yeah.’ Chris Agreed. We stayed in the living room
with the TV off all day, we didn’t know what to do, and talked about if we
should call the police or something. The day crawled by as we tried to rake our
thoughts together and think of what to do next. but all that went through my
mind was what had just happened, not what we should be doing. By the time it was
dark at about 9pm, the phone rang. It was Chris’s parents asking if I had seen
him as they were getting worried, they had just got back from out of town. I let
them know he was ok, and asked if they could come and pick us both up from my
house because something had happened. They wanted to know what, but I said we’d
both tell them when they get here. They said they’d be here soon. Relief washed
over us as adults were on there way to make everything alright. They would
believe us, we didn’t lie about these things. Even if they were sceptical,
they’d at least believe that some dangerous animal was in the forest and that
was good enough for us. I went into the kitchen to get some juice from the
fridge and realised I hadn’t had a drink all day. I could hear water dripping in
the sink, so I turned the faucet tighter and glugged some juice. As I headed
towards the living room, the water started to tap again. I flicked the light on
and realized it wasn’t coming from the sink, or anywhere in the room for that
matter. It sounded like it was coming from further away. I looked out into the
garden, and could just about see a fuzzy, tall silhouette leaning up against the
back fence in the dark. Actually, the tapping sounded more like clicking. The
figure slowly moved away from the fence and clicked across the grass towards the
house.


CRYPTID COMPANY 3.5K+




It’s hard to be a romance novelist when your life is full of horror, but, hey,
sometimes you gotta follow the contracts. My real mistake was going full
“brooding author” after the divorce. I moved clear across the country to ensure
I never accidentally ran into Marcy— or any of our old “friends”— again, and I
bought a cozy house in the middle of nowhere. It’s on the outskirts of a
National Forest, and the closest town is almost an hour away; there are a few
hunting clubs nearby, but they’re all abandoned this time of year. The soil is
supposed to be useless for farming, so I got a great deal on five acres. I don’t
really have plans for it— I just wanted to ensure hunters keep a fair distance.
There’s not much of a clearing around my home, but I’m having some smaller trees
removed soon. I need a wider field of vision— plus some shotguns, security
cameras, and an electric fence… Maybe some landmines… But bitter paranoia aside,
it’s a beautiful spot; I thought it would help me recover from the irony of
writing a love story while it felt like my heart was being pushed through a
shredder, but – if anything – it only made things worse… Which is why I’m
writing this instead of deciding how Cassidy will first meet Christopher… Just
once, I’d like to decide how Christopher murders Cassidy… Sorry, that was a
little dark… I don’t fantasize about killing Marcy; I only mean that it’s hard
to write about something you don’t believe in… Not that I believe in murder— I
just don’t believe in love… Look, I’m only trying to express some of these
emotions before I drown, ok? Does anyone have a problem with that?! It’s bad
enough I’m losing my mind out here – the last thing I need is for the police to
show up asking if I’ve ever thought of harming myself or others. The answer is
no— at least, not outside of the literary sense. I’m a writer, give me a break—
this is how we process! Well, that and rebellious imaginations… Or maybe I’ve
finally cracked, and they’re just full blown hallucinations. There’s no history
of mental illness in my family, but I’ve been under an extraordinary amount of
stress… I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in a straight-jacket with some stuffy
doctor asking, “what’s the last thing you remember?” I wasn’t a poster-boy for
sanity before coming here, but I never questioned the very fabric of reality
until my first night in this house. A friend recommended writing down everything
that’s happened from start to finish in as much detail as possible. It’s
supposed to help me organize my thoughts in a way that makes them easier to
understand… My hopes aren’t exactly high, but – screw it – I’m a writer, so why
the hell not. It doesn’t really matter how much time I spend on this anyway.
That’s the thing about romance novels— no one gives a shit how Cassidy and
Christopher meet; they only care about what happens after the clothes come off.
I once changed how the main characters spelled his name halfway through a book
and not one person noticed— not even my editor! I guess I’m not exactly thrilled
at the prospect of reliving the last several weeks, but I’m desperate enough to
try anything....
I sent the moving trucks out two days ahead of myself, and the furniture was
already in place when I arrived. The boxes were the only things left for me to
deal with, and I settled for unpacking the necessities as they were needed; the
spare bedroom is still full of junk I’ll probably never need. It was around 9:00
on a Saturday morning when I first arrived. The movers were already long gone,
and I was completely alone. I converted the dining-room space into an office; it
has a great view of the creek, and – when I sat to write for the first time –
words poured from me like they used to before I became a rotting husk of
cynicism… Did that have more to do with writing a breakup scene than the
peaceful scenery? Maybe, but it’s a moot point now. Any sense of serenity
quickly evaporated with a strange, high-pitched— ugh, how do I even describe it?
I’ve heard it at least a half-a-dozen times since, but it never gets easier to
define… It’s not a scream or cry… It’s not like that weird Predator clicking
noise, either… It’s more like the screech of nails on a chalkboard only more… I
don’t know, primal? If you can imagine a “primal… chalkboard…” Look, I said I
don’t know! I really don’t— that’s the point. What matters is that I spent the
entire day absorbed in a fantasy world only to come out of it hearing some
ungodly, indescribable sound that made my blood run cold and sweat drip down my
spine. I looked up to see it was suddenly dark out— I had no idea when that
happened— and the patio bulbs were dead. Replacing them was absolutely out of
the question— nothing would have convinced me to open the door. I hadn’t
bothered buying curtains yet, and the only thing I could see through any window
was my own reflection… That was the most unnerving part of all; that sound was
so loud— whatever was making it had to be close by… My heart skipped a few beats
as I imagined what might be out there— looking in at me plain as day…
Eventually, I forced myself into motion and began turning off the lights. I
wanted to minimize the view inside, but I didn’t expect to see anything myself…
Yet – for a fraction of a second – my reflection disappeared, and I saw two
glowing-red eyes set into a hulking humanoid shape not 20 yards away… It was
dark out, but the stars provided some slight illumination— enough to distinguish
that pitch-black figure from the background… It was only the briefest glimpse…
It disappeared into the tree-line, and I was left staring through my transparent
reflection— wondering just how real that moment had been. It’s amazing how one
begins to question their own sanity when logic is threatened… ‘Had those red
orbs really been eyes? Was it really the shape of something on two legs?’ I keep
thinking about the Wizard of Oz… There’s an urban legend that one of the
munchkins actually hung themselves on set, and the footage made it past all
post-production edits. The supposedly fatal moment occurs when the Tin Man joins
Dorothy and the Scarecrow— if you focus on the background as the three
characters skip away, you’ll see a large shadow seemingly rise and drop. Now— if
the idea of a hanging munchkin has been implanted in your mind— that may be what
it looks like… But – if you were informed that the studio had several large
birds running around that day – it suddenly looks very much like a crane
spreading and folding its wings. I’m aware those two things don’t sound like
they would look similar, but there’s clips all over YouTube if you want to see
it for yourself… Basically, that’s just a roundabout way of saying I wasn’t sure
if I really saw what I thought I saw— you know? I was already one stubbed toe
away from a full mental breakdown, and now I had to wonder if I was
hallucinating! Well, spoiler alert— I wasn’t hallucinating! That night— I hung
blankets over every window before turning the lights back on and going to bed… I
only had screws to get the job done, but you can’t argue with the results. Marcy
kept the cats, but even their combined efforts wouldn’t be a match for my
redneck curtains… In some regards, I’m adapting to country-life just fine…
I spent the next day buying and installing motion detecting flood-lights. I was
pleased with myself for presumably “outsmarting” my new nemesis, but I failed to
anticipate the numerous false alarms wildlife would cause. I was getting up to
investigate every five minutes— usually just in time to see a raccoon disappear
into the forest— but my determination had doubled since the night before. I
wanted pictures that would prove I didn’t get “all worked up over a black bear.”
I might not know much, but I know black bears don’t have red eyes… Sadly that
whole night was a bust… Unless you count experiencing my first case of sleep
paralysis. It’s been happening at least 2-3 times a week ever since, and – I
gotta say – I’m not a fan. It was midnight when I went to bed, and – since my
clock projects the time onto the ceiling – I know it was 3:30 when something
woke me… I was lying on my back – trying to remember what I heard – when the
strange screeching noise from the night before made my insides recoil with pure
dread. It sounded like it was coming from right outside the window… I tried to
sit up, and simply couldn’t… You know the pins-and-needles sensation of a
sleeping arm or foot? That’s how my entire body felt. My sight was restricted to
solely what I could see without moving my head, but – by focusing my vision to
the far left – I was just able to make out the window. An old, white sheet still
acted as a curtain, but it was thin, and the flood-lights were clearly visible
behind it. Had it not been for the sound and the tall, hulking shadow outlined
in the sheet’s center— I would have blamed another animal for setting off the
motion detectors. The pricks of pins-and-needles increased tenfold as I
struggled to move, but it was useless— as useless as trying to maintain my focus
on the window. My eyes burned with the strain, but I couldn’t look away, either.
Somehow, my thoughts turned to Marcy, and how she was likely asleep in that
mechanic’s arms… A mechanic for Christ’s sake! She won’t even pump her own gas
because of the smell! Sorry— not important… But that’s what I thought about
while staring at the mystery shape. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep
because it was suddenly daylight, and I could move again. I leapt out of bed in
a hurry to check around outside, and – though I didn’t find any footprints – I
did find something much more horrifying…
My bedroom window was somehow cracked open, but I’m positive they were all
locked when I went to sleep. The wood was chipped at the bottom, like someone
crammed their nails into the tiny crack and managed to force it open – despite
the lock. I really don’t know what to make of it… When I reengaged the lock, it
seemed to work fine… Unfortunately, I’ve never thrived under pressure, so I
didn’t think to screw the windows shut until the next incident, but I’ll get to
that shortly. Things were actually normal for the remainder of that week unless
you count a few unusually vivid nightmares— I mean the regular kind, this time…
Though, it’s debatable if one would label the act of brutally murdering their ex
as a nightmare, but I digress… Don’t fall in love, kids, it’s not worth it— not
in an era where you can buy electronic romance instead. The next couple weeks
made the first week look like a vacation. There’s always 2-3 quiet days between
incidents, and this thing somehow manages to pick the exact moment I drop my
guard to suddenly start screeching. If I’m lucky, the strange sounds are where
it stops… But on the bad nights— it’s only the beginning. After a particularly
hard day, I decided to open the house warming gift from my editor— I don’t know
much about liquor, but the bottle looked very expensive. I never quite mastered
the art of self-control, so I normally avoid alcohol— especially when alone— but
at a certain point, you’ll do anything to numb the pain. With the amount I
consumed, most people would have been on the verge of drunk— but I was drunk. So
drunk, in fact, that when I suddenly heard the screeching noise, I rushed to
turn on all the outside lights; it was like the sun returned for a late-night
encore. That’s when I finally got my first full look at this thing … I could say
it resembled the grim reaper, but that would be misleading. When you think of
the grim reaper, you probably imagine a skeleton in a black, hooded robe, and
this was… Well, this was different… The creature was shrouded in something
black… It was like a half-liquid, half-solid sludgy substance. Dozens of inky
tendrils rose from all over the creature’s body like Medusa’s snakes. They moved
as if they were part of the entity rather than any type of clothing— even
seeming to form its very hands rather than simply covering them… I couldn’t tell
its fingers apart from the tendrils— or maybe it just had twenty fingers… Who
the hell knows… And those eyes… God was I right about those eyes… Two large,
bulbous red orbs were set into the half-decomposed skull of a corpse. What
little skin that remained was gray and mottled with a few white splotches of
exposed bone. There have been moments where I’ve caught a whiff of its stench,
and there are simply no words to convey the true horror of that smell. This
isn’t something I say lightly; I’ve worked some of the foulest jobs known to
man, and I know the rotting stench of death— this was far more vile than such a
simple explanation. We probably stared at one another for less than ten seconds
before I remembered to take a picture, but I was shaking uncontrollably and
immediately dropped the phone. You’re probably all familiar with the sickening
sound of your phone colliding with a hard floor— it was just enough to pull my
eyes away from the creature. I only glanced down for a fraction of a second, yet
– when I turned back – nothing was there… I was almost drunk enough to go
outside… There’s no such things as monsters, or cryptids, or whatever kids wanna
call the boogeyman these days. As far as I knew— that thing was either some
nut-job in a costume, or my mind had snapped in a forbiddingly real way. I tend
to lean towards the latter, myself, and confronting my hallucination seemed like
the best thing I could do. If I proved to myself it wasn’t real— I could learn
to ignore it and get on with my life… I mean, sure it probably wasn’t the
healthiest plan, but, again, I was drunk and thinking of my deadline. Royce
wants chapters 1-15 before April— that doesn’t leave much time when you still
have fourteen left to write… Maybe I can combine an element from real life and
make Christopher a Vampire Hunter. Those are still hot, right? Cassidy can be a
hot 500-year-old vampire tragically turned at the age of 21, and all she wants
is someone who will appreciate her for who she is on the inside… Even if that
person has devoted his life to killing her kind! That’s the great thing about
smut— it truly doesn’t matter how your characters end up naked, so long as they
stay that way for a few pages. Anyway – if it wasn’t obvious by the unnecessary
tangent – this is when the next sleep paralysis incident happened… I went to bed
just after 11:00, and the clock said 3:17 when I woke drenched in sweat. Cold
beads of moisture ran from my temple to the back of my neck in maddening
succession, but I couldn’t wipe them away— I couldn’t move at all. I was so
mortified at the realization of what was happening that it took several seconds
before I noticed the screech that I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to
describe to therapists.It sounded different somehow, and – at first – I couldn’t
quite put my finger on it… But then, I strained my eyes to the left once again,
and my heart froze mid-beat at the sight of my worst nightmare. Not only were
the flood-lights on— my makeshift curtain was flapping in the breeze of an open
window, and – this time – I could see the dark, shadowy figure’s red eyes
because they were on my side of the curtain… The motion detectors timed out at
that same instant, and the room was left in total darkness except for those two
glowing, red orbs. I’m not exaggerating when I say my heart came to a full stop.
I thought a heart-attack would kill me before that thing could… I thought a lot
of things in those few seconds, actually. To an extent, most people are probably
familiar with the sensation of processing several possible scenarios in a single
instant, but – when you truly believe your life is in danger – that effect is
magnified tenfold. In those few seconds I saw my entire life play like a movie
in my head… At the same moment, I saw myself trying to get up and run away… At
the same moment, I saw myself trying to scream— trying to flail my limbs in a
desperate attempt to repel a monster that may-or-may-not be nothing more than
the early warning signs of a full mental breakdown. It was too much of a strain
to keep my eyes on it— I couldn’t help looking away… It was only for the
briefest instant, yet – when I looked back – the creature was closer! It was
just a little easier for my eyes to reach those haunting red orbs, and their
angle to the window was just slightly different… but what could I do about it?
Nothing. So I kept staring at its eyes— terrified it would come closer if I
looked away again. I have no idea when I fell asleep; it could have been an hour
later— it could have been ten minutes— but it felt like eternity.
All I know for sure is that – when I woke up – it was 7:30, and my window was
wide open. I like to think I did what any sensible man would have done… I
screwed every window shut while crying softly and questioning my sanity. I
couldn’t stand being alone anymore; I called my best friend, endured the
keeping-in-touch lecture, and spilled my sorry guts. Landon has always been a
practical guy; I’m sure he didn’t believe me in the beginning, but he listened
to my crap recordings like the good sport that he is. The recordings may have
been worthless, but he came up with the idea to call him the next time I heard
the screeching, and he only had to wait two nights before it happened again.
Though it was initially difficult to make out – the sound became much more
distinguishable once I cracked the patio door. He couldn’t explain it either—
which fine, I didn’t expect him to— but I was just relieved someone else could
physically hear it. The noise is real, and, well, if that’s real… I guess the
same is true for the thing making it… I’ve had sleep paralysis several times
since the open window incident, but – as far as I can tell – nothing has been
back inside. I’ve only seen it one other time, and that was earlier this
evening… I was smoking on the patio just before sunset when I looked up to see
two glowing, red eyes staring back at me from inside the tree-line. It seemed
like it was waiting for the last light to fade, and I had the strangest urge to
go to it. If the cherry of my cigarette hadn’t fallen on my barefoot, I may not
have realized I was actually moving closer. This entire ordeal has shaken me to
my core. I’m not cut out for things like this; I have no idea what to do or how
to cope. Do I never go outside again? Do I build a fence? Do I get a dog— a gun?
What should I do? Christ, I can’t believe I’ve turned into one of those people
who seeks comfort from random strangers on the internet… No offense if you are
one of those people… I just have major trust issues— in case you couldn’t tell…
You know what? Never-mind… I think I’ll get that dog, after all…


THE BEEPER MAN 5.21K+




Jarren lifted the sheets up over Milli, tucking them in around her as she stared
up at him. “Daddy?” she said. “Yes, angel?” “Can I have a song?” He sighed. “I
don’t know any of the songs Mommy would sing to you.” “She would sing songs
about going to sleep.” He took in a deep breath. “Well, I’ll give it a try. Um…
let’s see. Go to sleep, goodnight, it’s nighttime little girl… go to sleep,
you’re in bed…” “That’s not a very good song, Daddy.” “Yeah, I imagine not. How
about I just kiss your forehead and then you can fall asleep all on your own,
eh?” She shrugged, and he sighed. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.
She brought her stuffed unicorn tight to her chest as he stood up. “Goodnight,
Daddy.” “Goodnight angel.” He stepped out of the room, shutting out the lights
and closing the door. He was still getting used to life without Margaret.
Honestly, he didn’t know if he ever would. Already he was finding it impossible
to raise Milli. How had she done it? How had she been able to keep up with the
needs of a five-year-old so effectively, while balancing work? “Margaret,
wherever you are, I hope it’s better than here.” He paused, taking a deep
breath. “I hope it’s better than here.” He moved to go into the master bedroom
where he went ahead and brushed his teeth and disrobed for the night. He climbed
into the empty bed, looking at Margaret’s side with a longing in his eyes.
“Goodnight, my love.” He got in under the sheets, pulling the blanket over his
head. “My reason for living.” It was but a few minutes before he heard the door
creak open. “Daddy?” “Yes, Milli?” “Can I sleep in bed with you?” He sighed.
“You’ve already slept in this room twice this week.” “But there’s a scary noise
in my room.” “What kind of noise, Milli?” He honestly wasn’t sure if she could
understand him, as his head was buried in a pillow. “There’s a beeping noise.”
“It’s probably just the smoke detector, Milli. It needs new batteries. I can fix
it tomorrow.” “But can I sleep with you?” He took another exasperated breath
before answering. “Yeah, come climb in.” “Thanks.” He heard the pitter-patter of
her feet coming in for the bed, followed by the shifting of the blankets. She
shifted around for around half an hour or so before she finally fell asleep, and
that’s when Jarren was able to follow in her footsteps and do the same. Jarren
awoke with a start the next morning, realizing that Milli was still asleep and
not ready for the bus to come and pick her up. He looked at his phone, heart
skipping a beat as he saw the time. “Milli!” he said, rousing her. “Mh.” “Milli,
we need to get up. The school bus will be here any minute. C’mon, let’s go.”
“I’m tired.” “I know you are, but we have to go. It’ll be here in twenty
minutes. You’ve got to eat breakfast, take a shower—” “I liked it when Mommy
would give me a bath at night better.” “Showers are faster. Come on, you get in
the shower and I’ll make you breakfast.” “I don’t wanna go to school today.”
“Come on, Milli. It’s kindergarten! I loved kindergarten!” “It’s too boring.”
“Milli! Come on, go hop in the shower real fast and I’ll make you breakfast.
Let’s go! Hurry!” “Ugh… fine.” She wormed her way out of bed and began moving
towards the door. Jarren got himself out of bed as well, putting on a pair of
dirty sweatpants and a raggedy shirt. He walked out down the hallway, checking
to make sure that Milli was in the shower. He heard the water running, and he
jiggled the handle. “Milli, I’ve told you not to lock doors! If you get hurt in
there I need to be able to come and help you!” “Sorry!” she shouted back. He
sighed, moving along. He paused when he heard some sort of a screeching noise,
looking into his daughter’s room. He waited another couple seconds. A light
flashed on the smoke detector and it made another beep. “I’ll put getting
batteries on my to-do list today,” he muttered to himself. He went into the
kitchen to fix Milli something to eat, wondering what he might have time for.
Eventually he simply gave up and fed her cereal, getting her out the door just
in time for the bus to pull up along the curb. “I don’t wanna go, Daddy.” “Hey,
it’ll be okay. It’s only for a little bit before you’ll be back home.” “Fine.”
“I love you, goodbye!” “Bye.” She marched up to the curb, climbing onto the bus.
Jarren closed the front door, looking down at his own clothes. “Better get
myself ready for the day, I guess.” He sighed, not looking forward to yet
another day spent looking for a new job. He found himself at a convenience store
later that day, dropping in to get himself a shot of caffeine to keep him going.
“Just the coffee for you sir?” the cashier said, ringing him up. “Yeah. Oh, and
these batteries.” The cashier bobbed his head, punching some keys on the
machine. “There’s your total on the screen, will that be cash or card?” “Uh,
card. Yeah.” He pulled out his wallet to complete the transaction, swiping his
debit card. “Have a good day, sir.” “You too,” he responded, walking out the
store. He took a few swigs from the afternoon coffee, looking at his phone. “Oh
shoot,” he muttered. “Milli will be home in like ten minutes.” He got into the
car, clutching the batteries in one hand and the coffee in the other. He went
ahead and set down the former, starting up the engine and pulling away, back
towards home. He spent the majority of the drive muttering to himself about how
frustrating it was to not be able to afford a daycare without a job. Even before
he got fired after his wife’s death it was still her extra paycheck that allowed
them to afford it in the first place. Now, with no paycheck, it was impossible.
He pulled into the driveway just in the nick of time to greet Milli when she
came home. She ran up to him from the bus, going straight for the legs where she
gave him a hug. “Hey, you miss me, angel?” “Yeah.” “How was school?” “I didn’t
like it.” “What? Why not?” “I missed you too much.” “Hey, you’ve got to go to
school. How else are you gonna learn?” “Can’t you teach me?” “No. I’ve got to
find a new work, remember? I’m busy all day.” “Okay.” “Hey, I’ve got a surprise
for you.” Her eyes lit up. “What?” He flashed the battery, trying to feign a
smile. “A new battery for your smoke detector! Now that beeping sound won’t keep
happening, huh?” “Yeah. That’s good,” she muttered, obviously disappointed by
the content of the surprise. “Come on, let’s go and get you an after-school
snack.” He took her hand, guiding her into their home. Jarren found himself
being violently awoken the next day, Milli jumping on his bed. “Daddy, Daddy,
can I watch a show?” He groaned, rolling over in bed. “So you’ll get up at the
crack of dawn on a Saturday for television but not on a school day?” “Can I?”
“Ugh… yeah. Go ahead.” “Thanks! Can you make me pancakes too?” “Uh, sure,
angel.” “Thanks!” She sprinted out of the room, and just a few moments later he
heard the television going. After another minute or so of contemplating his life
while he lay there he was dragging himself out of bed, putting on the same
raggedy morning outfit as the day before to make his daughter some pancakes. He
walked down the hall, yawning and stretching his arms when— He paused. He looked
into Milli’s room, up at the smoke detector. After just a few more seconds, it
beeped again. Jarren stared at it with a raised eyebrow. Had he not replaced the
battery yesterday? Surely he did, he had a clear recollection of doing it. He
was standing on a kitchen chair while Milli watched and asked questions. It took
all of twenty seconds, but he remembered doing it. He walked out into the living
area, which was adjacent to the kitchen. He opened up the cupboard with the
griddle and pulled it out, plugging it in to let it warm up. “Hey Milli?” he
said. No response. “MIlli, I don’t want to have to make you turn off the TV just
because you’re not talking to me.” She paused it, looking back at him. “Yeah?”
“Was your smoke alarm beeping at you again last night?” Her eyes widened, her
lips seeming to get tighter. After a moment she spoke. “No.” “Why did you say it
like that?” “It wasn’t beeping, Daddy.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re lying
to me, Milli, there are going to be consequences.” Then again, why would she lie
about something as trivial as this? She sighed, finally speaking again. “Yeah,
it beeped again last night.” “Why did you tell me that it wasn’t beeping?” “I
don’t know.” “Milli?” “I just didn’t want to. It wasn’t scary last night.” “But
you could have told me it was beeping and that you weren’t scared. I would have
been proud of you. That means you’re turning into a big girl.” She shrugged.
“Can I watch my show again please?” “Yeah, go ahead, I guess.” He began pulling
out the ingredients to make pancakes, which consisted of some Bisquick mix and
water mostly. Plus an egg and some oil, but that was it. He began stirring them,
looking earnestly at his daughter. What was that look in her eyes? Why did she
seem suddenly frightened by him asking a simple question? The look on her face
seemed too intense, too sincere, to be chalked up to just a five-year-old being
an odd little kid. It seemed to be full of genuine angst… as if just the simple
act of asking the question was some sort of bad omen. After feeding her
breakfast Jarren spent a while browsing the Internet on his phone, looking at
new job listings. He hadn’t had any luck finding anything in his area. He really
didn’t want to have to move at all. So far this house had been good to him, as
had their community. They were all so supportive when Margaret died, and they
still are. He didn’t want to leave that behind. He set his phone down for a
minute, staring blankly at the wall. What was he to do? What could he do? His
train of thought was interrupted when he heard the faint beep of the smoke
detector from down the hall. “Well, for starters, I guess I can change the
battery again.” He had decided to explain the fact that the smoke alarm was
still beeping away by assuming that the battery he had pulled out of the pack
was a faulty one that slipped past the watch of quality control. No big deal,
there were still a few more batteries in that pack he could use. He got up and
headed for the junk drawer in the kitchen where he had put the package in. He
pulled them out, and went to grab a chair to bring along with him. Milli was
still out front of the television. He should probably kick her off, but it kept
her occupied while he did his things. Maybe after he changed the battery he
could get her to go on a bike ride with him or something. “Daddy?” she said as
he walked past her. “Yep?” “Where are you going with that chair?” “I’m gonna
change the smoke detector batteries again, see if I can get it to stop beeping.”
He heard the television pause, and he stopped in his tracks to look at his
daughter. Her teeth were gritted, and she almost looked panicked. “Don’t change
the batteries, Daddy.” “Why not?” “The… the beeping doesn’t bother me anymore.
It’s okay.” “Well, the beeping bothers me. So I’m gonna change them anyway. I’m
glad it doesn’t scare you anymore, though.” “No, Daddy, you can’t.” He raised an
eyebrow, and nearly raised his voice, too. “Why can’t I change them?” She moved
her eyes from side to side, as if looking for something. Finally, she looked
back at her father. “You just can’t.” “Milli, I don’t like that beeping. This is
my house, I’m gonna change it. It’ll be fine, okay?” “Please don’t, Daddy.” “If
you can tell me why, then I won’t.” She hesitated before responding. “I… I
can’t.” “Then I’m gonna change them.” She stood up from the couch, following him
down the hall. “No, don’t. I… I won’t ask for any candy for two days if you
don’t. Two whole days! That’s a long time.” He set the chair down, climbing up
onto it with the new battery in hand. “It’s fine, Milli. Don’t worry about it.”
“Please!” “Milli, I’m already halfway through with it. Look, I have the old
battery out, and here goes the new one. And… see? No more beeping.” He looked
down at her. The sheer visage of panic that she wore took him off guard. He
almost wondered if he should change it back, just to get that troublesome
expression off her face. It suddenly melted away, however, and she walked on
back to the living room. “What the heck was that?” he muttered to himself. What
the heck was she so concerned about over a simple battery change? Jarren awoke
the next morning to the same bouncing motion of his little girl again, all the
while she chanted about television. “No… it’s Sunday. We’ve got to get ready for
church.” “Ah… I don’t wanna go to church, though.” “Mommy always wanted to make
sure you went to church. We’re going to church.” “But Mommy… Mommy isn’t here.”
“Exactly why I’m making doubly sure to keep you going to church every week. Now
come on, let’s get you showered and dressed in some better clothes.” “Daddy!
It’s so boring!” “Come on, Milli. Let’s go.” He heaved himself out of his lying
position, looking at his pouting daughter. She slumped off to the bathroom, and
he heard the shower turn on. “Don’t forget to leave it unlocked! If you slip in
there I need to be able to come and help you!” “I know!” He sat there a moment,
staring blankly at the wall. He rubbed his eyes as he took another yawn before
finally stepping out of bed. “Time for me to get ready too, I suppose…” He
turned his head to the side, looking out his door. After a few moments, he heard
it again. A gentle beep. “The heck?” he murmured. “I’ve changed the dang
batteries twice.” He stepped out of his room and headed down the hall, the
beeping noise getting louder and louder as he approached Milli’s room. He looked
up at the smoke detector and watched the light flash and the alarm beep again.
“Why isn’t this working?” He sat in church that day staring blankly ahead, not
really catching much of the sermon. His mind was too preoccupied, though it
wasn’t preoccupied with anything productive at all. He kept mentally kicking
himself for being so fixated on the smoke alarm. He should’ve been fixated on
finding a job, or mourning his wife’s death, but he couldn’t help but fixate on
the smoke detector. Why the heck were those batteries not working? Surely he
didn’t get an entire package of faulty batteries. He was startled out of his
thoughts by the sudden resounding “Amen” the congregation said and he looked
back up towards the front of the room. The pastor was stepping down, and people
were standing up from the benches. He felt a sudden hand on his shoulder. “Hey,
Jarren. How are you holding up?” came the voice of Michael Johnson. “Oh, I guess
I’m doing alright.” “And how are you, little miss Milli?” She only blushed,
looking on at him nervously. Mike chuckled. “That’s okay, I was shy when I was
your age too. So how goes the job search?” “Eh, could be better. I’m afraid I
might have to move to get a new job, which isn’t something I really want to do
alone. Let alone be able to afford it.” “Oh, if you did have to you wouldn’t be
alone. I can guarantee you that half the people here would show up to help.”
Jarren nodded. “Yeah, it’s a good congregation.” “Jarren, if there is ever
anything I can do for you, you just let me know. Got it?” He smiled. “You’re the
man, Mike.” “No, I think that title belongs to you.” “Alright. See ya later,
buddy.” “Yep, see ya later, bud.” Michael had taken just a few steps before
Jarren found himself calling out to him again. “Hey, Mike, you’re somewhat of a
handyman, aren’t you?” “Uh, yeah. What’s up?” “I’ve got this smoke detector in
my house that won’t stop beeping. I’ve changed the batteries twice. You think
maybe you could take a look at it?” He paused, thinking. “Yeah, I can come and
drop by later today. Two sound okay to you?” “Yeah, whenever you can will be
perfect.” “Great, I’ll see ya later today, then.” “Alright, thanks Mike.” “You
got it.” He began walking back towards his own family, and Jarren looked on at
them longingly. He had once had that with Margaret. But now— “Daddy?” He looked
down at his daughter, feeling the gentle tug on his shirtsleeve. “Yes, angel?”
“I don’t want Mike to fix the smoke detector.” “What? Why not?” “I want the
beeping.” “Milli, just the other night you were scared of it. What’s wrong?” “I…
I just want the beeping to stay. Please, don’t let him fix it.” “Milli, it’s
just a smoke alarm. It’ll be fine if we fix it.” “Daddy, please… don’t let him
fix it.” Jarren looked up towards the ceiling in frustration, closing his eyes
and taking a deep breath. “He’ll just be over for a little bit, Milli. You don’t
have to talk to him if you don’t want to.” “No, it’s not because I’m shy. It’s
because I don’t want the beeping to go away.” “Why not?” She looked anxiously
from side to side, then leaned in. “Because he likes the beeping,” she
whispered. “Who likes the beeping?” “The beeper man. He likes the beeping. He
says he wants to have the beeping.” “Who’s the beeper man, Milli?” She
swallowed. “He told me a couple nights ago. He likes the beeping. He wants the
beeping to stay.” “Milli,” Jarren, said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “It
was just a dream. There is no… ‘beeper man.’” “But it wasn’t a dream, Daddy. I
saw him. In my room.” “It was just a dream, Milli. Now, come on, let’s get
home.”
He had been looking somewhat curiously at his daughter on the way home. Usually
she was pretty good about separating the dream world from the real world. It was
strange she couldn’t figure this one out, especially given the rather odd nature
of it. He’d have thought she’d be able to quickly realize whatever this was was
simply a dream. That there wasn’t some guy in her room making the smoke alarm
beep. She changed quickly when they got home, obviously anxious for some lunch.
Once he was changed, too, Jarren fixed her a quick peanut butter and jelly
sandwich, plus sliced her up an apple to go along with it. He was making himself
one too when there was a knock at the door. “That’ll be Michael,” he said,
moving towards the door. He opened it, and there stood Michael. “Hey, Jarren!”
“Mike! Come on in. Come on in.” “Yeah, for sure. Want me to take off my shoes?”
“Nah, you’re fine. Can I get you anything?” “Oh, that’s alright. We’re having
steak tonight, I’ve gotta save room.” “Oh. Well, that’s nice,” Jarren said, his
voice trailing off a bit. “So where is this smoke alarm that won’t shut off?”
“Come on this way, I’ll show ya.” He turned around to guide Michael down the
hall, only to be stopped by Milli, standing in the way. “It doesn’t need to be
fixed. It’s fine. You can go away.” “Milli!” Jarren scolded. “Ah, it’s fine,
Jarren. She’s still better behaved than some of my kids. Phew. I’ll tell ya.”
“You can’t fix it.” “Milli, go and finish your lunch.” “I don’t wanna.” Jarren
sighed. He got down on one knee and placed his hand on her shoulder. “The second
door on the right, Mike. It’s pretty near the door. You can grab a kitchen chair
if you need. I’m gonna talk to Milli real quick.” “Kay, sounds good.” Michael
walked off to the kitchen, and Jarren looked his daughter in the eye. “C’mon,
let’s head into my room.” “No!” “Milli!” “I don’t want to.” “Milli, come on.
We’re going to my room.” Hand on her shoulder, he began guiding her down the
hall as Michael came up from behind with a chair. He entered his room, shutting
the door behind him. “Milli, what is the problem? Why are you being so rude to
Michael?” “He’s gonna fix it!” “Milli, it’s fine. Let him fix it.” “No, he
can’t! He can’t fix it! He’ll be mad!” “Who will?” She looked side to side, then
leaned in and whispered: “The beeper man.” “Milli, I told you, that was just a
dream.” “No, he wants it to beep. He likes the beeping.” “Alright, Milli, I’m
going to ask you to stay in here until Michael leaves. You’re on time-out.”
“What? No!” “Yep.” “Daddy!” “Stay here, I’m going to go and help him.” “Daddy!”
He stood up and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He took a
sigh, then went to help Michael. “You say you’ve changed the batteries already?”
“Twice.” “Huh. Well, it might just be a bad smoke detector. I can remove it off
the ceiling for you, then you can maybe grab a new one at Home Depot tomorrow or
something.” “Are they easy to take off?” “Oh, yeah. They’re a breeze. You can
just unscrew them.” “Oh. Well in that case I can take them off, you can get back
to your family.” “Oh, it’s already halfway off.” Jarren smiled. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Oh yeah, no problem. If there’s anything else I can do for ya just let me know.
And I don’t just mean handiwork. I’ve got a good paying job right now, and I
know money’s tight for you two.” “I’m not going to take your money, Mike.” “If
you ever change your mind, I’m just one Venmo away.” “Thanks, Mike. You’re the
best.” He stepped down from the chair with the smoke detector in hand. “You
wanna keep this?” “Nah, I’ll just throw it out.” “Well in that case I’ll totally
take it. I’d like to fiddle with it a bit more, figure out what’s going on
here.” “Sounds good, Mike.” “Alright,” he said, heading for the door, “Well take
care, man. Don’t push yourself too hard.” “Psh. I ain’t pushing myself hard
enough.” “Ah, that’s nonsense. Knowing you, you’re doing everything in your
power.” “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” He opened the door, and Michael stepped
out. “Kay. Later, man.” “Bye, Mike. Thanks again.” He closed the door, taking a
deep sigh as he turned around. He jumped back, his heart skipping a beat. Milli
was standing right there, staring at him. “The beeper man wanted me to tell you
that he’s mad. He says he’s going to get his beeps no matter what.” “I thought I
told you to stay in my room. You were in trouble.” “The beeper man told me I had
to tell you this message.” Jarren was at a loss for words. He just stared at
Milli, feeling a chill pass through the room. Maybe… maybe he could just chalk
this all up to a kid being weird? Simply brushing it aside though, created a pit
in his stomach. He… he wasn’t sure what to think. He awoke the next morning at a
decent time, finally. Enough to get Milli ready for school. Stretching in bed,
he yawned until his mind was alert enough to justify getting out of bed. He
slipped on the same pair of sweats he did every morning to get Milli ready, and
stepped out of his bedroom to go and wake her up. “Milli!” he shouted. “Milli,
time to get… time to get up….” He looked towards the laundry room, suddenly
aware of the washing machine beeping. “Milli! Come on, let’s get up, okay?”
“Okay,” she groaned back. Jarren continued to walk towards the laundry room, his
heart palpitating. He opened the door, the beeping noise of the machine filling
the air. “What the?” He approached it, opening the door and looking inside to
see an empty drum. It beeped again, and then again, and again. Beep after beep
after beep. “You’re empty! I didn’t have a load going last night, what the heck
is going on with you?” He banged on the top of it, but it only seemed to beep
louder. “Daddy?” He jumped, startled. He turned around to face his daughter.
“What?” “What are you doing?” “The washing machine won’t stop beeping for some
reason.” “I told you.” “Told me what?” “The beeper man gets his beeps. He wants
them. He’s gonna get them no matter what.” “MIlli, go and get in the shower. You
need to be ready for school.” “I told you you shouldn’t have gotten rid of the
smoke detector.” “Milli, get in the shower!” Jarren growled. He reached around
back behind the machine, grabbing hold of the cord and pulling it from the wall.
The beeping suddenly stopped, and he turned around. Milli was still standing
there, staring up at him. “You should have left that plugged in.” “Come on, time
for school. Go and get in the shower.” He put his hand on her shoulder, turning
her around and then ushering her towards the bathroom. “You should listen,
Daddy. The beeper man says he’ll get what he wants.” “Just get in the shower,
Milli. Don’t forget to leave the door unlocked.” She stepped into the bathroom,
shutting the door behind her. Jarren went into the kitchen to pull out the
cereal and milk, putting them on the table for when MIlli came out. He sat down
himself, placing his hands on his forehead. “What the heck? What the heck?”
First his smoke alarm went on the fritz, and now his washing machine? He
couldn’t just plug and unplug it every time he needed to do laundry. He could
barely reach back there. But he couldn’t afford to replace the dang machine
either, not without a job. The dang things. Why was he born into a time where
everything was so dependent on electronics? This whole thing was absurd. Milli
came out into the kitchen, smiling when she saw the sugar cereal on the table.
“Thank you, Daddy.” “Yeah, you’re welcome.” He took a deep sigh, standing up and
heading for the freezer. “Where are you going, Daddy?” “I’m just gonna microwave
some frozen sausage for myself for breakfast.” “Oh. Okay.” He opened up the
freezer and pulled out the bag, taking a few out and putting them on a plate.
“Daddy?” “Yes, angel?” he said, putting them in the microwave. “The beeper man
says to tell you not to unplug the microwave. He wants to hear the beeps.”
“MIlli?” he yelped, nearly on the verge of shouting. “There’s no such thing as a
‘beeper man.’ I told you, you saw him in your dreams.” “He’s standing right at
the microwave next to you.” Jarren spun a full three-sixty, not seeing anything.
He stared at Milli, feeling his heart rate increasing. She was really starting
to freak him out. “You’re not allowed to talk about ‘the beeper man’ anymore.
Okay, Milli?” “Why not?” “Because I said so.” The microwave signaled it was
done, and he opened the door. He pulled out the sausage and closed it again,
being startled by the sudden beep it made. He placed the sausage down on the
counter, grunting as he glared at the device. “Not you too, dang it!” “I told
you so.” “I said you aren’t allowed to talk about the beeper man!” “He said he
would get his beeps, one way or another.” “Milli, shut it and eat you dang
food.” She went silent after that, but Jarren was too frustrated to feel any
twinge of guilt. He was busy reaching around the back of the microwave to unplug
it. He had ended up scooting it forward, finally getting enough space to remove
the cord. The beeping stopped, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “You shouldn’t
have done that, Daddy. Now he’s mad.” “Eat your food.” He marched off to his
bedroom to fetch his cellphone, fists clenched. He picked it up and opened the
Internet browser, typing in the phrase: “why are all of my appliances beeping.”
A second or two later and the results loaded, and he began scrolling through.
“Daddy, the bus is here!” “Okay, see you this afternoon, angel!” He bit his lip
as he continued scrolling, none of the results seeming to match up with his
particular issue. “Gosh dang it. Dang this whole thing,” he muttered. “What the
heck is wrong with all this?” He was suddenly jerked out of his thoughts by the
sound of the dryer beeping. He dropped his phone on the bed and marched off to
go and fix it. He found himself inside a Home Depot later that day, standing
around in the appliance section. A middle-aged man approached him, smiling. “How
can I help you, sir?” “Yeah. So… I have a question? About appliances?” “Yeah!
Can I check any prices for you?” “No, no. So everything in my house keeps
beeping. Like… everything. I’ve had to unplug my microwave, my washer, my dryer,
and unscrew a smoke alarm.” “What do you mean by beeping?” “LIke, the smoke
detector kept making the noise they make when they’re low on battery. I changed
the batteries twice and it still wouldn’t stop. Then the washing machine was
just making that sound it makes when the load is done. It was making that sound
on repeat. And then so was the microwave. And this morning the dryer was making
that noise, too.” The man stared blankly at him for a moment. “Uh… yeah. I’ve
gotta say that’s probably a bit above my paygrade. Have you called like a
handyman yet?” “No, I can’t afford that. I was hoping this might be an easy fix
that I could get solved here.” “Yeah… no. If it was just one machine maybe I
could help ya, but if they’re all beeping at once I have to say I’m at a loss.”
Jarren pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Dang. Alright, I guess I do gotta call
a handyman.” “Yeah, I’m sorry, sir.” “No, it’s alright.” “Is there anything else
I can help you with today?” Jarren sighed. “No, that’ll be fine.” “Okay. Thank
you, sir. Have a good day.” “You too.” He walked away, feeling defeated. He
didn’t have money to fix any of this right now. He couldn’t afford a dang lick
of it. Michael! Maybe Michael could help him out a little bit more. He was
handy, maybe he could fix it. And if he couldn’t perhaps he could take him up on
his other offer and afford to hire someone who could. He pulled out his phone
once he got into the car, dialing him up immediately. “Hey, Jarren, is that
you?” “Yeah, Mike. It’s me.” “What can I do for ya?” “I was hoping maybe you
could come over to my place sometime later today or tomorrow? Everything is
beeping now.” “All the rest of your smoke alarms went haywire?” “No, all the
rest of my house did.” He started up the engine of his car, shutting the door
behind him. “What do you mean?” “LIke, all of my appliances have been beeping
with no end. The microwave, the washing machine, the dryer—I don’t know what the
heck to do.” “Uh… well, I don’t know if I would either. I can come and take a
look, I guess. I probably wouldn’t be able to tell ya anything. I’d just end up
agreeing with you that this indeed is a weird situation.” “Yeah… okay. Thanks,
Mike. I’ll be home anytime you want to come over. Milli gets home from school
soon, I’ve gotta be there for her.” “Yeah, okay. See ya then.” “Kay, see ya.” He
hung up, sighing as he drove home. His mind swirled with bewilderment, and he
was feeling quite tense once he finally did pull up to his house. He opened the
garage and pulled inside. Out of the car he stepped, shutting the door behind
him and heading for the one which would let him into the mudroom. There was a
gentle beeping when he stepped in. His fists balled with rage as he marched into
the kitchen. The dishwasher was making the noise it made when it was finished,
which was odd of course since there wasn’t even anything inside it to have been
washed. “Dang this blasted thing!” He squatted down and anchored his fingers
into the gap between the dishwasher and the cabinets. He clamped down on it, and
began scooching it out. Every two seconds it played the noise again—beep after
beep after beep after beep. He heard the front door open and Milli walked in.
“Daddy?” “Yeah, you can have an after school snack, Milli. Just let me unplug
the dang dishwasher.” There was a pause, then his daughter continued. “The
beeper man says you really shouldn’t unplug it.” “Milli, I’m tired of hearing
about this stupid beeper man. Just grab a cup of applesauce out of the fridge or
something if that’s what you want.” “The beeper man keeps saying it, Daddy! He
keeps saying that he will have his beeps!” “Ain’t no beeping gonna be going on
in my house! Tell him to go and make someone else’s house beep.” “He says he’s
very creative. He says he will find a way to get his beeps.” Jarren finally got
it out enough so that he could reach around and pull the plug. He did so,
silencing the dishwasher at last. “Yeah, he can go and beep in someone else’s
house if he wants.” “No. Daddy, he’s warning you. Plug the dishwasher back in.
He will find a way to make sure there are beeps. He says he’ll find a way to
make sure you don’t want to turn the beeps off. He’ll get you to never turn off
the beeps again.” “I’d like to watch him try. Just eat your snack, Milli.
Michael should be here soon to help me fix these blasted things.” “Don’t try and
fix them. The beeper man will get his beeps.” “Just eat your snack.” She
shrugged. “Okay. But I warned you. I told you what the beeper man said, and he
means it.” Jarren didn’t find himself getting that much sleep that night.
Michael had come over, and all they really did was talk. Talk about how weird
this whole thing was. There was nothing to be done, they needed someone with
more professional experience to come and figure it all out. Nonetheless,
everything Milli had been talking about had him on edge. For whatever reason her
wild fantasies of this “beeper man” had supplanted a feeling of angst into his
gut. Why was she being so insistent on this thing? Eventually his phone’s alarm
went off, and he rolled over in bed to shut it off. To somewhat of his surprise,
it actually did shut off. The beeping was done. He sat up in bed and took a yawn
before climbing all the way out. “Milli, it’s time to get ready for school,” he
hollered, putting on his pants. He walked out into the hallway, heading towards
her door. “Milli, come on. Get up.” “Ugh…” she moaned. “I don’t wanna go to
school.” “Come on, you’ll have fun. Head into the shower, let’s go!” “Okay.” He
waited until he saw her get out of her bed, and then proceeded to go over to the
kitchen. He went for the cereal again, pausing. “Eh, maybe a good father
shouldn’t feed this to his kid so many days in a row.” He put it back and opened
the fridge instead, taking out the eggs. He looked at the water filter alarm on
it, smiling a little to himself. “Ha. No beeping. That’s good.” He maneuvered
his way around the unplugged dishwasher towards the stove. He pulled out a pan
and cracked a few eggs into it, then took out a spatula to begin scrambling
them. He thought to himself while he watched the eggs slowly cook, turning from
their clear color to a whiter hue. Thinking about how strange this whole thing
was. How stressful it was, too. Now he had to pay for a handyman to come and fix
all their appliances all while he didn’t have a job. And for what? Why the heck
were they all beeping in the first place? It was just beep after beep after
beep… it was absolutely maddening! He took the eggs off the stove after a few
minutes, putting half onto a plate for Milli and half onto a plate for him.
“Milli! Breakfast is ready!” No response. “Milli?” He began walking down the
hall, towards the bathroom door. “Milli, breakfast!” The only sound was the
sound of the shower water. “Milli?” He jiggled the door handle a little, his
heart rate on the incline. “Milli, I thought I told you not to lock doors.”
Still, nothing. “Milli? Milli!” He found himself vigorously shaking the handle,
a sudden panic overcoming him. “Milli!” He ran to his room, grabbing a quarter
off the nightstand. He sprinted back with it, inserting the coin into the slot
on the door handle and twisting it in a flash. He thrust the door open, jumping
to the shower. He opened the curtain, finding Milli laying there in the water
with a small trail of blood running out of the side of her head. “Oh my gosh,
Milli! Milli!” He couldn’t find his breath, he whipped out his phone and dialed
nine-one-one in an instant. “Hello? I need an ambulance! My daughter slipped in
the shower—she’s bleeding and won’t wake up!” Jarren sat in the hospital,
shaking. His face was in his palms as he waited outside the door, hardly able to
breathe. “Sir?” came the voice of the nurse. Jarren looked up. “We’ve got her
stabilized. She hit her head pretty hard… I’m afraid she’s in a coma.” “Can I
come in and see her?” She nodded gently, letting him into the room. He looked at
the still body of his daughter, his eyes swelling up all over again. “Oh, Milli.
Milli. How did this happen!” He sat by her bedside, crying as he listened to the
rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor next to the bed. Every couple seconds,
another beep. And another. Beep after beep after beep after beep. And a slight
smirk on Milli’s face, as if saying: “I told you so.”


ODOR 7.3K+




It was a brisk morning. Snow still lined the side of the road, sparking under
the glare of the sun. “Reminds me of Edward ” I thought to myself, I couldn’t
help but to laugh a little. “What’s so funny over there?” My wife says. At the
same time, I realized how quiet it had been. “Nothing really, I’m just happy to
be getting out and enjoying the fresh air” We just went back to admiring the
view. We were probably right in the middle of Nevada, I would guess. I wasn’t
really keeping track, just watching the GPS. We haven’t seen another vehicle for
at least 50 miles and, however unnerving that was, it was undeniably beautiful.
The highway was carved right into the middle of this big open flatland, fully
surrounded by giant cascading mountains. I’m grateful that this damn snow
finally melted off, I thought it would never end. I feel like I haven’t hiked in
years with this persistent winter. Well honestly, I’m being dramatic and it was
only about 6 months. It felt so long because we had been looking forward to this
trip for some time before that. We were only about 10 miles away and I think we
were both very ready to get out and stretch our legs. It’s only been 4 hours
cramped in here. On the right we see a sign stating the turn off was in about 5
miles. Even further off the side of the desolate road we notice a red barn just
a few miles into the desert. Naturally making us curious as to why it would be
out here in the middle of nowhere, by itself. Not as if it mattered, but still.
Before we knew it, we had finally arrived at Currant Mountain. At 11,518 feet it
was no walk in the park, but that didn’t discourage us. As soon as we could we
were racing to grab our supplies, snacks, and gear. Surprisingly, there wasn’t
any service but we still brought our phones just in case. And we were off. I
asked My wife if she remembered her camera. “When do I leave without my camera?”
she asks, looking at me like I’m crazy. I laugh it off. Before we get too far
away, my paranoia and ocd refuse to let me forget to lock the car 10 times just
to assure my lizard brain that it was for sure locked. However, before I turned
back around to face the beginning of the trail I noticed something not too far
off into the open desert. “Is that a person?” I ask, as a small bit of confusion
and eeriness creeps its way in, causing a small chill to run down my spine.
There were no other cars in the area and the surrounding area isn’t heavily
populated by any means. There’s a few small towns here and there, supported by
the gas stations, casinos, and mines, but that’s about it. By the time she had
turned back and looked, I saw the figure duck behind some large boulders and
what looked to be a forest of short pine trees. We had walked by several of
these trees already and the tallest ones couldn’t have been more than 8 feet.
Thus bringing an even more unsettling feeling when I realized this figure was
hovering above the trees before it vanished. I kept this part to myself. I don’t
want to worry her over what’s probably nothing. “I don’t see anyone.” She says
after intently looking towards the area I pointed at. “Could it have been an
animal? There were all those horses a few miles back.” “Ye-yeah that’s probably
what it was. It must have taken off or something.” I try to brush it off,
telling myself I’m just seeing things. It has been a long trip and I’m running
on four and a half hours of sleep due to the excitement to get out here in the
first place. I wasn’t very worried. I never leave without my gun, an old .357,
and I wasn’t too bad of a shot. In order to not work myself up about some tall
creep stalking us, I changed the subject and pulled out a bag of trail mix that
we started snacking on without hesitation. A few hours pass by without a whole
lot of conversation, just really enjoying nature and the fresh air and sounds.
We finally made it to a slight ledge. We take in the view made up of an open
valley and the sides of the mountains still packed with snow and glistening in
the sunlight. It was truly a sight to see. We snapped a few pictures and we
decided to have lunch right there. We pulled out the ham and cheese sandwiches
we pre made and some chips, but before I could take a bite I noticed something
shine me in the face. I was confused. I got up and began to look around towards
the direction of the light. After about 5 minutes of searching, I found a phone.
It was cracked and didn’t seem to have any power, but it was relatively new. I
picked it up and noticed something on the back that appeared to be dried blood.
“Of course I touched that right before I was about to eat.” I thought to myself.
I chucked the phone back down. “That’s a little sus” I say, my thoughts escaping
my lips. “Who knows, the path does go up higher than where the phone was” My
wife stated. “Someone probably lost their footing and fell and cut themselves
and dropped their phone.” The rational side of my brain was telling me that none
of it made sense, but I couldn’t come up with anything else. There were no other
vehicles, so I can’t imagine someone is out here stranded and hurt. I start
eating my food and pick up my drink but before I could even get a sip, the most
treacherous, musty odor hits the both of us. I look up at my wife with my eyes
peeled open, unable to contain my laughter. “What the fuck is that? Is that
you?” She laughs and buries her face in her sweater, struggling to get
breathable air. We both gather our stuff and hurry out of the area. As we
climbed a bit higher, we were finally getting closer to fresh air and away from
the cloud of must. As we were getting to about where the phone would have been
below the trail below us, I stepped on an awkward shaped rock and just
completely ate shit. It didn’t hurt and once again we began laughing, she held
her hand out and helped me up. As I reached for her hand, I noticed that just
behind her was a messy trail of sage brush branches and disturbance in the dirt.
Almost like someone tumbled down the side of the mountain. “I think that
explains the lost bloody phone we found.” I said as I stood up and dusted myself
off while pointing behind her. She looked back and saw the trail of misfortune
down the side of the cliff. It was nothing that would have killed or seriously
hurt anyone, but definitely enough to piss you off and ruin your day. Especially
when you realize you lost your phone somewhere along the way. I laughed a little
bit too, it’s always funnier when it happens to someone else. A few hours in and
we were making good progress. We weren’t planning on hiking to the peak or
anything crazy, but we definitely wanted to get out, explore, and see new views.
Our endorphins were high and it was a good day. We were making our way up
through a small area dense with shrubs, focusing on not getting our socks stuck
in all the damn bushes. And then, the most horrifying unexplainable thing
happened. We both heard it. We looked at each other as if we fell into the
twilight zone “What the fuck was that” she whispered lightly, face as pale as a
Casper’s ass. I imagined mine looked somewhat the same. There was no other way
to explain it other than a massive roar, a scream almost, except not anything
you could possibly imagine. It was like a man roaring but the man had a set of
lungs that could have belonged to a polar bear. Absolutely the last thing you’d
want to hear in the middle of nowhere, 5 miles from your car. We panicked, I
like to think that I don’t get scared and I usually try to be rational, but my
heart sank and my legs almost turned into jello. I reached into my holster and
pulled out my gun. I couldn’t be more happy that I put hollow tips in before I
had left. I grabbed my wife, pulled her close behind me, and told her to be as
quiet as possible. We crouch down, my eyes peeled, surveilling the landscape. I
watch for any type of movement, but I see nothing. I whisper “Get your gun NOW!
Leave the safety on” all without breaking my line of vision. We’re both
profusely sweating even though it’s a cool 66°. Still completely unsure of what
that was, where it came from and if it was even a threat, we both decide it’s
time to call it. I have her take her safety off and keep watch. All I can think
about is the giant figure I saw just a few hours before. Racking my brain, I try
to remember what I saw. Was it a coyote? A wild cow or horse? It had reddish
hair, almost ginger red. My mind was spinning. Was there even a connection
between the two events? After the adrenaline subsided, I had only one
subconscious thought- and that was to do everything I can to protect my wife.
That was my top priority. When we decide to head back, we chose to stay off the
trail just to make sure to avoid any unwanted confrontation with whatever the
hell it could be. We kept low and quiet, making sure that we made as little
noise as possible to not alert anything. After a good 15 minutes stumbling
through the bush and crouching to stay hidden within the small pine trees, my
brain was running wild with thoughts. I hear a gasp and look back. My wife is
holding both hands over her mouth, eyes watering and full of fear. I looked in
the same direction she was staring and my eyes lit up. I almost couldn’t process
it, I almost couldn’t believe it… Just a few feet to our left was a human arm,
just an arm, still with the red and gray windbreaker sleeve covering most of it.
The arm looked like it belonged to a male and it made me think about the bloody
phone I found earlier. Was that just an innocent fall or was that a part of
this? None of that would help my current situation and I snap back to reality.
One thing became very clear to me. This is real and we very well may be fighting
for our lives. All I could think of was quietly making it back to the car and
getting the fuck out here. I gather myself. I know now the most important thing
is staying strong and keeping my composure. The last thing I want is for my wife
to see me panicking and scared. I stare straight ahead, plan in mind, I tell her
to crouch down near the brush while I go look. As I creeped forward, my heart
raced. Time felt like it stopped. With the smell of sagebrush and the breeze
sweeping across my face, I almost felt euphoric- while completely saturated in
fear. I take a closer look at the wound, right at where the shoulder should be
is just a bloody, stringy mess. It was very clearly ripped off of whoever this
man was. My chest began rapidly moving and I almost began to hyperventilate, my
anxiety shooting through the roof. This was no game and we had to get out of
here as soon as possible. As I begin to walk back to grab my wife, we both hear
it again. That loud deep horrifying yell. The odor began to set in again. I
crouched down and we covered our mouths. This time it was much closer. My heart
feels like it stops. About 20 feet away the sounds of heavy footsteps and heavy
breathing become very obvious. We freeze as we hear whatever this is sniff the
air, to smell us, to find us, and probably rip us apart too. I know that I
couldn’t let that happen. Fortunately it grunts in frustration and begins
running in the complete opposite way of us. I don’t know how it didn’t smell us,
maybe the sagebrush and pine trees were helping block our scent or fear-
whichever one it was seeking out. I honestly didn’t care. We breathed out in
relief, the odor in the air constricting our lungs. At this point our adrenalin
was keeping us from even being affected by this horrendous smell. We wait a few
minutes and just take off. I finish off the last of my water bottle and put it
back in my pack. I notice all the snacks and food that still lay at the bottom,
untouched due to the unforeseen circumstances. We pass the sign asking everyone
to stay on the trail. I remember it being about 10 minutes from the parking
area. I look back at my wife. “We’re close and I think we’re in the clear, we
should hurry up.” To our devastation and absolute shock, we find the car
completely flipped on its back and spun around, windows broken. I’m not even
sure it would start if I had the ability to push it back over. I felt completely
hopeless. That was our only way out. My knees turn into jello, I drop to the
ground. “Now we’re stuck, we’re fucked.” I panic, looking around to make sure
we’re not being set up by whatever this is. I didn’t want to walk down the road
because we’d stick out in the open. I do my best to compose myself. I gesture to
her for us to get moving and we take off, both our hands on our pistols, ready
to take down anything that tries to harm us. We stayed in the miniature forest
of trees, weaving between them as they grew thicker and closer together. It was
more work but I didn’t mind, more coverage. I knew the freeway was only a few
miles away. I imagined at that point we’d be far out of this creature’s
territory and hopefully be able to reach someone on our phones, if there was
service. We kept going for what felt like hours but in reality was maybe 45
minutes. Still on high alert, only stopping to gather ourselves. As we began to
head towards the rough direction of where the freeway was, our hearts sank. We
both dropped, covering our mouths. The smell, it was back and stronger than
ever. I felt like we were standing right next to it. We look around, eyes wide
open, but we don’t see anything. We got up and made a run for it, but before I
could get more than 15 feet the air was knocked from my lungs. I collapse, not
even sure what just happened. I wave my hand hoping she’ll just go and keep
running since I can’t even breathe enough to speak. My gun is still in my left
hand. I’m wheezing for air, putrid air. I’d almost rather pass out instead of
having to breathe this in. But I had to keep going for her. I heard her scream
and she did in fact run. I look over to where I hear commotion. There it was,
towering over these 7 and 8 foot tall trees. He must have been 9 or 10 feet
tall, animal skins draped over himself, his hair a bright red color, his
sideburns connecting to his beard and his beard hairs connecting to his shoulder
and chest hairs. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. The commotion I heard was
him throwing the tree to the ground. The tree was just a small branch to him. I
imagine this tree hit me right in the gut. I felt my broken ribs flex as I
breathed in and out and again. Time felt like it just stopped, except this time
I heard nothing. I noticed that I couldn’t even smell anymore. The giant being
brings his arm up to wipe the sweat off his brow, staring off at her as she ran.
Almost like it was just a thrill chasing us. Like a cat playing with a mouse,
killing it and then going on with its day. I look down to my hand, fist still
clutching my .357, I look back up. The Red headed giant was considerably closer,
as he would have to pass by me to get to her. Without hesitation I pulled my gun
up level with his big dumbass head and let off 4 bullets. It did put it on its
ass. I’m certain I got a headshot and two more in the chest. It groaned and
grunted and before I even had a chance to find out what it was gonna do, I took
off. Those were hollow tips, those should have brought the giant’s brain to the
outside, but it was simply rolling around in agony, putting out loud, horrifying
sounds. I do my best t get the fuck out of there. About 3 minutes pass of me
running non stop, as fast as my body would let me. I hear another roar, this one
sounded distraught, in pain. I hoped that would be enough to buy us some time to
get back to civilization. Within about 10 minutes I could see my wife running in
the wrong direction. I’m cramping, my adrenaline is beginning to wear off and I
fear I won’t be able to catch up, so against my better judgment I call her. She
heard me, stopped, and looked around quickly until I entered her line of sight.
She immediately began running my way. I dropped to my knee, bracing against a
tree, my lungs on fire from miles of running. My cracked ribs aching with every
breath. I keep my eyes peeled however, making sure she has cover. I don’t know
where this creature is now. As she makes it to me she collapses to her knees and
wraps her arms around me balling her eyes out. I began to feel relief, comfort.
“We have to get out of here and We have to keep it together right now. We’re not
dying here. Cover while I reload.” I very quickly dug into my side pocket
rummaging around and grabbed 4 hollow tips, the shakiness making it very
difficult to keep a grip. Before I could get the last round in, our moment of
what we hoped was peace was quickly interrupted by a much louder deeper and
angrier roar. This roar was then followed by about 6-7 other roars and whooping
noises. I’ve either gravely wounded or killed one of theirs, this was no small
thing to just be looked over. No, they’ve just declared war against a smaller,
weaker, and slower species. We had to get out of here. We book it and I tell
myself I’ve made it this far so I can’t give up now. We’re running, the roaring
and whooping continuing. As we run, large boulders the size of basketballs begin
landing in the areas around us and behind us. They knew our general direction,
they would do anything to exact their revenge. That thought terrified me. A
group of giants- angry, violent, limb tearing, giants- were after us. I made it
my mission to at least make sure my wife made it out alive, even if that meant
sacrificing myself. I keep close behind her, keeping my hand on her pack to help
make sure she keeps her footing since she’s quite clumsy and a fall is the last
thing we need right now. The trees begin to become more scarce. This brought two
separate feelings to my attention, one was fear as we are now more exposed and
can be easily spotted. The other was relief because the trees are a lot less
concentrated as you get closer to the freeway. We were getting more desperate,
more weak, out of breath. The taunting whooping continued behind us. An
absolutely terrifying fact that they were gaining on us, made obvious by their
giant footsteps racing towards us sounding like a herd of wildebeest creating a
stampede. Through all that, through the running and pain, I notice something.
Something red- a structure. My will and desire to keep going skyrocketed, we
could hide. We can get help. Maybe they’ll have a vehicle or more guns. We’d be
out of giant territory. As we neared the end of the tree line we noticed the
building we saw was the red barn we passed on the way in. It was only a few
football fields away. And, somehow, we’ve managed to avoid capture by these
monsters. That’s when the last thing you’d want to happen, did. The terrain
wasn’t smooth and pleasant, It was sandy, rocky, and uneven. There were random
dips in the dirt making running an uneasy task, especially when you’re running
for your life. The last little stretch seemed like 100 miles, but to our relief
we made it to the red barn, crashing through the door and collapsing to the
ground. We knew we weren’t safe but we didn’t have anymore in us. We were
dehydrated, extremely hungry, and emotionally and physically depleted. We did
the best we could and if that was it, then it is what it is. However, after
about 10 minutes goes by, we’re able to finally catch our breath. “I’m gonna
check the window” I whisper with a shaky voice as I look over at her. Of course
I’m terrified but I needed to know. I rolled on to my stomach and crawled
towards the window facing the tree line. Thankfully, this old barn has plenty of
holes in the boards that make the siding of the building. I peek through one of
them so as to not be seen, even though they damn well knew where we were. What I
saw made me sick to my stomach. Shocker I know. As I looked through the little
hole and my eyes adjusted to the light I could clearly see the thinning tree
line of the miniature forest. I can see 6 figures hovering over the trees, all
Red Headed, and all of them way too fucking big. “Oh fuck.” I said horrified
“There are six.” She whispers. I had no idea what to do besides start shooting.
The thing that was curious to me was that they would not go past the tree line.
Was that their territory? Are we in the fucking brunette giants territory now?
Is that a thing? It felt like we were being toyed with. What’s my next move? I’m
frozen and I watch them pace the tree line, whooping and hollering here and
there. The pungent odor is still lingering. I crawl back to my wife and we just
lay there, holding each other. We didn’t talk, we just enjoyed what we thought
would probably be our last bit of time together. Next thing I know I’m waking up
to the sun shining directly in my eyes from a little hole in the side of the
barn. It was cool, birds chirping, the air smelled fresh and clean, no signs of
any odor. If not for the circumstances, it would have been a beautiful morning.
I feel relieved. I nudged her a little to wake her up. To both our surprise we
were alive and unharmed. She smiled at me, tears in her eyes. We were so close
to giving up before we reached the freeway. I stood up noticing I was able to
sleep most of the pain away. A few ribs were broken but for the most part, we
just had scratches and bruises. I’ll take that over my arms being ripped apart
by a giant “human” any day of the week. I stood there for a few moments
reflecting on the prior day. Mostly the moment that time almost came to a stop
as I watched the massive humanoid fall to the ground. I guess I’m just
completely in awe that this creature even exists. I could see double rows of
teeth as it groaned and yelled in pain. His giant hands not only were the size
of probably my entire upper body but as he reached for the bullet wound on his
head I could clearly see he has two sets of thumbs on both hands. The regular
thumb in its proper place and then the other thumb which was symmetrical to the
normal thumb but on the pinky finger side. I shook my head and came back to
reality. I couldn’t believe this wasn’t some bad dream. This stuff isn’t
supposed to exist, I know I used to be a nerd and into all this type of mythical
stuff, cryptids all of it, yet here it is. What else actually exists?
Skinwalkers? Santa? My thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of an
older diesel truck. I felt panic and relief at the same time as the truck pulled
up with its huge dump bed. It’s coming from a dirt road about a half a mile down
the tree line. It’s all closed in so I assumed it was just a farmer and he’s
stopping by his barn. Apparently this guy gets to go in their territory no
problem but when I do it, it’s an issue. Anyways, it was safe. That’s all that
mattered. We gather our belongings and run out the door to greet the man driving
the truck. It all happened so fast but as soon as we stepped out and he stepped
out, he had his shotgun on us. “Don’t fucking move or ya both are dead.” He
yells out before we could even say a word. I try to explain to him the situation
but every time I try to say something it’s met with another threat. “Where’s the
gun?” he shouts frantically while looking at my pack. “We mean no harm to you,
sir. My gun is in my bag. I’ll happily throw it to you. I just want to get
home.” I said shakily. This man was damn near 7.5 feet tall, his jeans and
t-shirt covered in dark dried blood. The massive gmc 5500 he crawled out of
looked like a ford ranger to a normally tall man. I toss my pack his way, he
grabs it and digs through the bag while keeping his gun on us. He eventually
gets his dirty old hands on my gun. He shoves it in the back of his waistband
and the Virgo in me just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Did you really just put
that in your ass man? We’re trying to get home or call the cops or something. We
were just attacked by giant creatures, what is your fucking problem?” “There
will be no cops, boy. Yeah I heard about your little stroll through the woods.
You sure did a number on Magnus. He’ll be back on his feet in a couple weeks
though. They’re a little more durable than us, well… I shouldn’t say that.” Then
the old man pulled off his sweaty cowboy hat, and tucked in that hat was about a
2 and a half foot long braid of bright red hair. “That was my half brother out
there you decided to shoot… we uh.. we didn’t appreciate that much seeing as
this is our land and all.” he says with his abnormally large head cocked
sideways. My brain swirled with the amount of plot twists that had been going
on. My patience was in the negatives and my blood just began to boil. “So what
then? You just expected us to not defend ourselves from a giant creature trying
to kill us, rip us apart? Just simply give up? Is that what you would do?” I
yelled. He responded the same way any idiot would when they get caught in a
question that requires an answer going against his pride and ego. “Well boy,
I’ll never be in that position now will I, I’d say I’m pretty damn safe out
here. You guys.. not so much. See, I’m not gonna kill you, I’m not gonna shoot
you, none of that. I’m simply gonna hand you over to them. Unless you try to
run, then I’m gonna fill you with buckshot.” as he laughs like a psychopath. My
wife hides behind me only showing her face to see what exactly is going on,
right as he’s finishing up his wheezing laugh. I felt the cold barrel of her gun
against my back, causing me to wince a bit as the metal was cold against my
skin. I had hope though. I completely forgot about her gun. I don’t know, I
guess I thought she dropped it while running. However, this idiot seems to think
he’s completely safe by the way he lets his shotgun point to the ground, looking
up just to be dramatic while he cackles. I knew I had one last opportunity to
try to save our lives, before the inevitable demise from giants tearing our
limbs off and eating us, becomes reality. In a split second, I reach behind me
and unload the entire clip into this slow dumbass. Didn’t even have the reflexes
to move his gun back up. His eyes opened wide before his massive body slammed to
the ground. I walked the 10 feet or so until I was standing right over him
“Well.. you’re not too durable yourself big guy.” I stare down at him as he’s
gasping for air, blood pumping out of his neck and chest wounds. I rolled his
weak body over, tore my sleeve off and retrieved my gun from this giant man’s
ass crack. I wiped it clean, and put it back in my pack. Within 2 minutes of
this whole ordeal, the whooping and hollering began. They know it wasn’t his gun
that went off. I’m sure they’ve been around him enough to know the difference in
sound between a handgun and a shotty. My wife crying and screaming for us to get
in the truck and go is what brought me back to reality. I was in shock, thinking
I was finally free AGAIN. But this time we had a vehicle. We race to get in. As
I was about to jump In the driver’s seat, I noticed in the distance, giant
figures racing to us. I assume they want to mutilate us, and worst of all, they
broke the tree line so it must be pretty serious this time. After getting in the
disgusting truck, we were met with the odor. Small bones with dried pieces of
meat still stuck to them littered the floorboards. Random wires were running
from one side of the dash to the other. Dust made its home everywhere. However,
we were in no place to complain about the transportation. We’re desperately
searching the cab of this truck for the keys and of course, they are nowhere to
be found, and in the middle of all of that, they’re hurling massive rocks at the
truck and this time they’re not missing. We’re they just herding us to the barn?
Is this just some game? Regardless, I jump out of the truck and run to the
massive man’s lifeless body, dig In his pockets and find nothing. “How did this
asshole turn on his truck?” I can’t think. I know the window for our safety is
quickly disappearing. I’m scared and sick to my stomach. Out of pure anger and
rage, I kicked the dead body and kept kicking until my shoes were bloody. I felt
like a wild animal backed into a corner, except I was taking it out on a dead
guy. My mental capacity was struggling. On the last kick to the ribs, I see the
faintest shine in my eyes. There it was. In his t-shirt pocket, just the tip of
the key popped out. And in that time my brief moment of insanity was completely
justified. I yanked that key out of that pocket so fast and I felt as though God
was watching out for us because it started right up, not some bullshit out of a
horror movie where it takes ten tries. I put the pedal down as far as it would
go and just kept going. The giants are hurling rocks but I’m able to swerve
around and fuck with their aim and to our relief there it was, the freeway. We
were free, we made it. We won. As I turn off the dirt road and smash right
through the barbed wire fence to get on to the freeway, I can see 4 of them
hovering around their dead relatives and two that kept chasing us a little more.
Fortunately, they knew they couldn’t keep up and just stopped about a mile away
from the barn. We could still hear them yelling very loudly, anger and pain were
both very apparent in their hollering. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about their
pain and I sure as fuck would have taken more of them out of I had the ability.
But we were safe. We both began laughing and crying. She held onto me tight. We
didn’t even have words, we both were still very much still processing the past
30 hours now that we weren’t running for our lives. As you could imagine we
called the police and as much as we knew they wouldn’t believe us we had no
choice but to tell them everything. They looked at us like we’re just high, got
lost in the desert, and just had a bad trip. Regardless, they had to take into
consideration my car, the arm we discovered on the trail, and the dead wanna-be
Hagrid. I imagine his “relatives” took his body, but the shells should still be
there as well as the blood that poured onto the ground around him. Within two
days we were informed the police had nothing to do with the investigation. We
then were put in contact with a gentleman from the FBI as well as a couple
agents from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. We had to sign a lot of paperwork to
keep our mouths shut, really no choice in that, however they offered to give us
a settlement for that tragic day. Basically, they were paying us to keep our
mouths shut and to be completely honest, I was just fine with that. I wanted to
put all of this behind me and never think about it again. Truly the most
traumatizing event in my existence. I don’t feel guilty about killing the guy, I
was protecting my wife and myself. I now just struggle with the uncertainty of
everything. Are we safe? Are there more creatures out there? I felt like I just
wanted to stay home forever. A few weeks go by and we begin to settle into our
normal routine, our anxiety is calming and things seem to get better. I’m more
grateful for my life, for the food I get to eat, for the things I do have. You
don’t realize how good you have it until you’re about to lose it all. I just
wanted to be thankful and grateful for my wife. We both talked about it and
decided to put it behind us and move on and live the life we deserve. We relax a
little after our discussion, have dinner and go to bed. I put my head to rest on
my pillow and my mind can’t help but wonder. From my old nerd point of view, I
was completely amazed by the giants. This whole time they’ve just survived out
there, in the freezing, the overbearing heat, basically living like it’s still
the 1400s. Were they humans at one point? A gene pool that just broke off? The
thought of this stuff made my heart race and I began to sweat a little. I got up
and cracked the window for the cool air. As soon as I opened that window any
drowsiness I once had was ripped away, there it was again so strong.


IT WAS UNDERNEATH 300+




Three shredded arms and various disemboweled body parts were spread across Billy
Ferguson’s bedroom. They were randomly on the floor near his Hot Wheels cars,
Star Wars toys and Nintendo Switch controllers. The limbs bled out onto his
white Super Mario carpet. One leg was still twitching, and the head of Dylan
Kronkite stared at Billy with lifeless eyes. Little Billy sat on his bed, crying
and hugging his knees. He heard the deep growling and the sounds of bones being
chewed on under his bed. Billy did not know if it was Dylan’s bones being chewed
on or his other friend Hector’s, who was also staying over. All Billy knew was
his older brother Danny was right, a monster did live under his bed. At fifteen,
Danny was six years older than Billy. Danny had an athletic build but does not
use any of that athleticism for good. He just used it for skateboarding and
getting into trouble. Danny loved to torment Billy just like any other older
brother would. Danny would tell Billy about jumping out of the bathtub fast or
he would get sucked down the drain; he also used to tell him if he ate candy,
little candy goblins would come at night, cut up his stomach and retrieve the
candy because he was not ten yet. So, every Halloween or even at the store if
they had allowance money to spend on the weekend or something along those lines,
Billy would reluctantly give Danny all his snacks and treats. He overheard Danny
one day on the phone tell a friend that he was so stupid and would believe
anything. After hearing that and catching Danny and his friends smoking
cigarettes, he quickly told their mom, which led to Danny being grounded for a
month. A day later, Billy and Danny’s mother let Billy have Dylan and Hector
over for a sleepover and Danny was to stay in his room the whole night. Mrs.
Ferguson bought Billy and his friends pizza, junk food, soda and gave them free
range to watch almost anything on Netflix, Prime and Hulu. Billy had it made and
to top it off it was a three-day weekend. For once, Billy was the one winning in
the house and Danny was finally low man on the totem pole. That power was short
lived; as Billy, Dylan and Hector played on the Nintendo Switch, Danny stood in
the doorway to tell the kids not to sleep on the floor because there is a
monster under Billy’s bed. Dylan and Hector were taken back by this, and not in
a good way. Billy, still riding high from after taking his older sibling’s
supremacy, told Danny he no longer believed anything he said and that he heard
him on the phone making fun of him. Billy also added that he would tell their
mom everything Danny had ever done to him if he did not leave, he and his
friends alone. Danny understood but warned them again that a monster lived under
Billy’s bed then exited the room. Dylan was visibly scared, so Billy and Hector
tried their best to ensure Dylan that Danny was just trying to scare them. Dylan
slowly calmed down and the three of them continued to play Nintendo. A few hours
later, Billy was fast asleep in his bed, snoring away like a madman. Dylan and
Hector were asleep on the floor in front of Billy’s bed. They both were on small
mats with pillows and a blanket. Empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers and soda cans
where on the dresser near the TV. The sleepover had worn all three of them out.
Something started smelling Dylan’s foot. This woke him up causing him to look
around Billy’s room. Billy and Hector were just sleeping away as Dylan looked
around in disarray. Dylan pulled his feet under the blanket to give him a sense
of security to ease his mind. He turned his sights to Billy’s spinning night
light. The silhouette of neon-colored superheroes appears and reappear around
the walls of the bedroom. Lying back down on the mat, he closed his eyes and
began his descent back to sleep. A low growling sound woke Dylan back up. Dylan
sat up looking at Billy’s bed. The growling sound is low but heavy and scary.
Dylan tried to get Billy and Hector’s attention but did not want to be loud
either. The low growl is heard again. Dylan’s heart was about to come out of his
chest, he was terrified. He began to wet himself due to the shaking and
inability to not be afraid. Something came over him and he grew a desire to see
what was under the bed. Billy’s comforter covered the front of the bed and
touched the floor. Though his hands shook like he was in zero-degree weather, he
wanted to get over his fear and prove to himself that he was braver than what
his friends thought. Dylan got close to the bed to show himself that nothing was
under the bed. He took a deep breath and lifted the comforter. Where an open
space to see under the bed should be, there in its place are sharp teeth the
size of iPads or tablets with white foam covering all of the teeth. Dylan was
now frozen with fear, unable to say a word. As he began to finally let out a
scream, two reptilian clawed hands appeared from under the side of the bed,
clawing into Dylan while grabbing him. The mouth opens and the teeth began
devouring Dylan; body parts began rolling and falling all over the ground.
Hector woke up to the horrific scene of sharp teeth, slithering lips and lizard
like hands clawing into his friend. Hector’s scream wakes up Billy who also
freezes like stone at the sight Dylan’s dead body. “Get on my bed hurry!” Billy
screamed to Hector. Hector does not make it a foot- the reptilian hands grabbed
Hector, split his body in half and shoved the rest of his body in his mouth.
More blood, guts, intestines and body parts accompanied the rest of them. Billy
just sat on his bed hugging his knees. The reptilian hands slowly slithered back
under the bed. Only sound heard besides Billy’s pounding heart was the gnawing
sounds of bones being chewed on under his bed. Billy looked around his room and
at his door. Though terrified, Billy wondered if he could make it to his door.
He felt if he ran hard and fast off his bed, he could make it out of the room
and to freedom. The scaley clawed hands were gone and whatever was under his bed
was still chewing on bones and human flesh. Billy crouched up on his feet in his
bed. He tried to control his movements; he doesn’t want to waste any energy. He
just needed to get off his bed, turn the doorknob and book it out of the room.
He had to keep playing the scenario in his head and not choke when it was time
to make a move. Billy took one last deep breath, raised out of bed, jumped to
the floor and took a short sprint to the bedroom door. He opened his door,
preparing to exit the room, until one of the reptilian hands grabbed him and
took him to the ground hard. Billy is dazed and his vision is blurry. He hit his
head when he hit the ground and he mostly just wanted to cry from pain, fear and
exhaustion. A large lizard like head slowly stuck his head out from under the
bed. It’s eyes are yellow with glowing red pupils. Saliva and white foam drips
from its sharp teeth. It began pulling Billy towards its opening mouth. Billy
screamed until a familiar voice was heard and Billy stopped moving. He painfully
turned around to see Danny in the doorway. “Let him go.” Danny told the monster.
The monster quickly does what he was told, slithering back under Billy’s bed. “I
didn’t expect him to go that crazy.” said Danny. Billy lost it and began crying.
“That thing killed my friends. They are dead.” Billy said, pulling himself away
from all the bloody limbs. Danny walked in the room, bending down to his little
brother. “We used to move around a lot until you were born. I was able to
control it when I was younger. Mom and Dad thought it was some Act of God or the
devil. I didn’t see how they went hand in hand, but I could make things happen.
Just by thinking about it. For your sake, I stopped using this… power. I did it
because Mom and Dad asked me too. It freaked dad out and that’s why he left. But
Mom begged me to control it which I promised I would. But the older you got, the
more attention you got, you became like a threat to me and something deep within
me, started boiling out. But I was still able to control it. Don’t ask me how.”
said Danny, looking at his brother with honest yet insane brown eyes. “If you
were controlling it, then how did this happen tonight?” asked a terrified Billy
to an insanely calm Danny. “When you got me grounded, something took over me,”
Danny said in a sullen tone and withdrawn, looking almost embarrassed by what
was taking place and then a smile appeared on his face. “I was afraid of what
was happening to me, at first. I realized what I could do with it. What I could
do to people who tested him. That’s why you were my first test subject when I
decided to let go. I would never hurt you or Mom, but everyone else was free
game.” Danny told Billy. Billy just looked at Danny. He was now more disturbed
than ever. Danny was a stranger to him now and he did not know who was in his
room anymore. Danny told Billy that Dylan and Hector did not matter either, they
were expendable. The number of times they had to move when Danny’s ‘gift’
affected their living situation, they were needing to start packing because
Dylan and Hector’s parents would start asking questions soon and the authorities
would get involved. Danny suggested that Billy should start packing anything he
wanted to bring because they were going to have to get going after he called
their mom from her shift at the hospital. All Billy could think when he looked
at his older brother was that he was no more. All that was left was a teenager
who has become committed to embracing the dark power he had to create monsters.
A power that meant danger for anyone that came across Danny, Billy thought.
Billy knew this to be true since Hector and Dylan were killed by the monster
that lived under his bed.


ALABASTER ANGEL 5K+




“This is a matchmaking service?” asked the doctor, a concerned look on his face.
“This is the Garden of Eden,” replied his host with a smile. The doctor looked
around the room with a raised eyebrow and growing discomfort. The elaborate
advertisement for the service promising to “find your perfect partner” had
conjured images of a posh office with cushioned chairs, pictures, profiles, and
employees in business casual attire. Instead he found himself in an artist’s
studio. A stained concrete floor spread across the vestibule to whitewashed
wooden walls. A variety of paintings, everything from portraits to landscapes,
adorned the walls. Some remained half-finished. His eyes lingered on a
particularly colorful impressionist piece. Vibrant green and blue sprung from
its depiction of a verdant garden or forest encased in ice. Violently sharp
icicles hung from blooming flowers. The doctor could almost feel a chill in the
air while looking at it. He forced his attention back to the apparent owner of
the studio he found himself in. “Dr. Charles Ellingson,” he said, extending his
hand towards the woman in front of him. “I know,” she said with a sly grin
spreading across a broad, thin-lipped mouth. “Nice to meet you in person,
Chuck.” He frowned in reply. “I prefer ‘Charles’,” he said, trying to keep his
voice steady. “I’m sure you do, Chaz,” she said without a shred of remorse. “I’m
Vedalya. I answer to Ved, Dalya, Veddy, or any other permutation you can think
of while you are my client.” She turned towards the doorway behind her and waved
him onwards. “This way, please.” As he followed her, Ellingson studied the
strange woman. Jet black hair fell down her back and almost to her knees.
Although not pretty in a traditional manner, there was a certain allure about
the tall, pale-skinned woman. It even seemed to transcend the baggy, nondescript
clothing she wore, splattered with paint and plaster. He put it into words in
his mind, thinking that it was as if someone had used an ancient, Roman statue
as a mannequin in a thrift store. Entering the next room, the point was driven
home further. “These are some examples of my work,” said Vedalya, spreading her
hands to encompass the large room, filled with at least a dozen statues of men
and women. “If you see anything you like, let me know, but I can do better for
you!” The doctor couldn’t place the girl’s subtle accent. If put to the test, he
would have guessed Russian, but there was just something off about it. “I was
under the impression that I was here for the purposes of finding a girl, not a
statue,” he said, growing impatient. His host smirked. “Many of them are girls,”
she said in an enraging, matter-of-fact tone. “I understand your confusion,
though. The ones in here are only examples; too many flaws for the liking of
their commissioners. Let’s continue.” She headed through the forest of statues
to a doorway on their left. As Ellingson followed, he glanced at the stone
figures. If she had carved them, the girl did indeed have talent. They were
exquisitely detailed, but he found the lack of emotion on their faces
off-putting. The dead expressions and closed eyes reminded him too much of the
cadavers back in med school. Many had cracks and chips in them. Flawed, indeed.
The small room of statues did nothing to prepare him for the next room. “Welcome
to my viewing room!” Ellingson’s jaw dropped as he entered a long, narrow
corridor filled to near capacity with female forms. The statues stood along the
sides of a narrow, red carpet like a gauntlet stretching far to his right and
around a curve. The varied sizes, shapes, and colors defied belief. A
goddess-like figure of crystal rose towards the ceiling ahead of him. Across
from her, there was a statue of more normal proportions but formed from pure,
black onyx. From monstrous to benign, the statues took on every shape
imaginable. Had this woman carved all of these?? As he stepped into the hallway
and looked around him, Vedalya stood at his side, a look of pride on her face.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” she asked. “You made all of these?” he asked, his
voice a whisper. “I did,” she said. “But these are for my personal collection.
My workshop is this way.” The doctor followed her down the hallway, his eyes
never leaving the army of statues. He found his gaze straying away from their
faces, though. The lifelike look in their eyes, some stone, some gems, sent a
chill through him. A particularly demonic figure finally struck enough fear in
him to turn his attention to his guide. “Why am I in an art gallery, Miss-“
“Just Vedalya,” she interjected. “No ‘Miss’.” “Why am I in an art gallery,
Vedalya?” he continued. “Your advertisement promised ‘finding my perfect
partner’.” “Because she doesn’t exist, Doctor,” she said, turning her head and
giving him a sidelong wink. “But she will. You see, no one’s ‘perfect’ person
exists in the real world. People have flaws. People have problems. That girl you
see in your mind’s eye, in your dreams, will never be a reality.” “I seem to
notice that people fall in love all the time, though,” said Ellingson as they
reached the bend in the corridor. Turning the corner to their right, he noticed
that the statues were becoming more normal. None of them towered above them or
contained the inhuman traits of the others. “People will not admit it, of
course,” said Vedalya. “Simple infatuation will make them blind to most flaws.
But they’ll always see something; always know something they would make
different. Whether it’s wishing they could be a better cook, hoping they will
stop liking country music, wanting them to have bigger, um, anatomy, or wishing
they would stop frowning every time they caught their reflection in a window,
everyone has something they would change.” “I hear quite often from couples that
they wouldn’t change a thing about their partners,” said the doctor. “Lies,”
said Vedalya, her voice as cold as ice. “Whether they know it or not.” “You make
people seem shallow,” said Ellingson, apparent skepticism in his voice. “On the
contrary,” she said, stopping and turning to face him. “People may think they
know what superficial things they want, but they have to dig deep to find what
they really want; what they really need.” She moved closer and put a finger to
Ellingson’s chin, drawing his gaze up directly into her eyes. He had not noticed
before that she was slightly taller than him. Her eyes shone an icy blue as she
studied him. “And I can tell exactly what they need, even if they cannot.” She
released his head and moved towards the line of statues to their side. “And what
do I need?” he asked, catching his breath. “An interesting case, to be sure,”
said his host. “A doctor filled with fear and doubt; a man perpetually striving
to be better. But you doubt you’ll ever be good enough, right Chuck?” “Now, wait
a minute!” said Ellingson, his voice raising. Vedalya interrupted before he
could continue, “You’ve been betrayed before.” His mouth hung open for a moment
and then snapped shut. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? I wonder what a man like
that could use in his life.” She ran her hand down the carven hair draped across
the shoulder of a statue to their left. She continued on past a few more,
running a finger over one’s arm. “Not the harlot, of course,” she said, moving
away from a figure over-sexualized to the point of ridiculousness. “Too many bad
memories, I would think.” “How do you know these things?” he asked, his voice
low. “I try,” said Vedalya. “Perhaps the doting housewife?” She moved towards a
matronly figure that was like something out of an old sitcom. “No,
too…unimpressive. You want something you can show off.” Ellingson wanted to take
offense. He wanted to say she was generalizing him. He couldn’t. “Not the trophy
wife, either,” she said, bypassing a svelte form that would not have looked out
of place on a fashion show runway. “A bit one dimensional, wouldn’t you say?” “I
would say, as statues, they are all a bit one dimensional,” he replied. His host
ignored him. “Intellectual, adventurer, submissive,” she said, walking by the
next three. “No, no, and no.” “What does this have to do with what I came here
for??” asked Ellingson. “I am not interested in adding to my art collection.”
That was not entirely true. Any one of the statues would be the masterwork of
most artists. Unlike the earlier statues, the expressions on these were animated
and intricate, some joyous, some heartbreaking. “Perhaps,” said Vedalya,
stopping in front of an imposing statue, beautiful and proud, its eyes on some
faraway, invisible horizon. “A queen.” Ellingson could see the royalty in the
figure’s bearing. He could barely stand to look up towards the fierce gaze
blazing out of stone eyes. He almost knelt. “A bit too strong for you, Chuck,”
said Vedalya. “But close.” She leaned down slightly and looked into his eyes
again with a calculating gleam, rubbing her chin lightly. A smile crept over her
face. “I think I know.” “And what do you think I need, Veddy?” he asked,
stressing the nickname. “It’s simpler than I thought,” she said. “And more
complicated at the same time. You need someone that can take that doubt and fear
that drives you and throw it out the window; someone that can pull you back from
the brink when you despair; someone that can make peace with people when you’re
too…you; someone that would never in a million years add to your stress. You
need an angel.” “Sounds too good to be true,” said Ellingson. “Now you’re
getting it!” said Vedalya, her eyes flashing as she shot a finger back towards
him. “It is too perfect to exist, but I can make it real!” Goosebumps ran over
Ellingson’s flesh as he listened to the sculptor in front of him spout madness.
Even though he couldn’t believe what she was saying, her eyes remained
maddeningly lucid. He had seen people go insane before. She didn’t have that
look in her eyes. He decided to humor her a bit longer. It didn’t help that he
was afraid to turn his back on her. She motioned for him to follow again. A
moment later, they reached the end of the statue-lined hallway and stood in a
huge workshop. The walls appeared to be solid marble. Vines and flowers climbed
along every surface and filled planters along the edges. Dozens of huge blocks
of stone surrounded them. The perimeter of the room was lined with pristine
blocks of every type of stone one could imagine. In the center of the room,
frames and ladders surrounded half-revealed, rough-hewn statues. Dust and debris
littered the floor. “Now, Chuck,” she said. “I wonder what type of stone your
little angel could possibly be made of.” She moved to the edge of the room and
began to study the massive hunks of rock as carefully as she did the statues
themselves. She ran a hand over one with a coarse, speckled surface. “Granite?
No, far too rough. Too difficult.” She moved on to a translucent, white block.
“What are you feelings on marble?” “I don’t have any feelings about marble,” he
said, getting tired of the act when she almost certainly already knew what she
wanted to use. “No feelings? Well, we can’t do that, then. Too predictable
anyways.” A tan, striated stone was next. “Sandstone? Too impermanent.” She
bypassed the next two without comment. “You don’t seem like an obsidian man,”
said Vedalya, passing by a shimmering black pillar. “What do you mean by that?”
asked Ellingson. “Too many sharp edges,” said his guide with a leer. “But
this…this is something I can work with.” She stopped in front of a block of snow
white stone. Seeing it, something about it intrigued the doctor. Perhaps it was
the way the light reflected off of it or the softness it exuded, but he stepped
towards it and slowly ran a hand down its surface. If he didn’t know better, he
would have thought it felt warm. He thought he felt a dull thud echo from inside
it. “What is it?” asked Ellingson, his voice awed. “Alabaster,” said Vedalya
with suppressed glee. “I like this one,” he said. “So, Doctor Chuck,” said
Vedalya, moving between him and the stone. “I just need your confirmation and we
can continue the process of finding you your perfect woman.” “Do you put women
through this same rigmarole when they call you looking for a man?” “Well, if
you’re into guys, I could take you down the other wing of my gallery. I don’t
judge.” “I’m sure you do,” said Ellingson. He thought about just turning around
and leaving, his distrust of his host mounting, but he kept looking behind her
at the towering, ivory block of alabaster. He didn’t know what drew him to it,
but it was irresistible. He had stopped believing this was anything other than
an elaborate con, but, for some reason, he had to see it out to the end.
“Clock’s ticking, Doctor,” she said. “Fine,” he said. “I have no idea what the
hell is going on here, but go ahead with whatever. How much is this going to
cost me?” A broad, sadistic grin grew on Vedalya’s face. “Only a drop of blood,
Chuck.” “What??” Without warning, she shot her hand towards him, fingers
splayed. For a moment, he was unaware of what had happened, but then felt a
sharp pain on his arm. Looking down, he saw that one of her fingernails had cut
his arm. Blood was already beginning to flow from the wound. Before he could
react, Vedalya had put her finger to his arm and collected a small amount of
blood. “What was that for?!” roared Ellingson, slapping a hand onto his wound.
His host merely smiled. “Witness the wonders of a dead world, Doctor,” she said,
lightly touching the crimson droplet to the flawless surface of the alabaster.
He was about to yell more, but then something strange begun to happen. From the
spot where her finger had touched, veins of crimson began to crawl along the
stone, radiating outwards. As he watched in awe, the lines sunk into the surface
of the stone. Loud cracks echoed across the room as the veins of blood permeated
the stone, leaving a web of fissures across its entirety. Vedalya back away from
the block as the sound became a deafening staccato. Then, all at once, the noise
stopped. “What’s happening?” asked Ellingson. The artist remained silent. He was
about to ask again when the shattered stone of the block gave way all at once,
collapsing to the floor in an ivory landslide. For a moment, the air was thick
with dust and he could see nothing. Then, as the air cleared, his jaw dropped as
he saw the vision before him. A perfectly formed statue of a woman stood where a
solid block had been not a minute before. He could not believe what he was
seeing. Even compared to the masterpieces he had already seen, this sculpture
was flawless. She stood in stark, white glory, hands folded over her heart. A
light, flowing robe covered her body. Snowy curls surrounded a bowed face that
seemed to be asleep with eyes lightly closed and mouth slightly open. “She’s an
angel,” said Ellingson, giving voice to his thoughts without realizing it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think he finally gets it!” said Vedalya to an audience
of statues. “What now?” he whispered, still frozen in amazement. “Now you wake
up. Oh, and I really should have mentioned that you only have four days. Sorry.”
Everything around him went black in an instant. Somewhere, in the distance, he
heard a loud crack and the sound of his own scream. Charles Ellingson awoke to
the blaring sound of his alarm clock. His eyes shot open and he saw that he was
in his own room and it appeared that everything was normal. He slammed a hand
onto the sleep button of the alarm clock and rolled over painfully in the bed.
He took a few minutes to make sure he was in the real world again. He was never
one to have dreams as vivid as the one he had just awoken from, but he supposed
the night before must have gotten into his subconscious. Dragging himself out of
bed, he felt a dull pain in his arm. He looked at it, almost expecting to see a
scar, but he only saw a slight red mark. He must have banged it on something in
his sleep. As he got ready that morning, he thought back to the day before. He
had found an odd flyer in the mail from somewhere called the Garden of Eden. It
had promised their service would find a person’s perfect mate, much as the girl
in the dream had said. “Vedalya,” he muttered, half-amused and half-regretful.
After another day of work in at the plastic surgery center, he had been drained.
Yes, some of his work was important and life-saving, but the majority of it he
found…uninspiring. At one time, fresh out of med school, he had had passion. His
faith in humanity had faded since then, though. After a few drinks that night,
he had decided to amuse himself by calling the number on the flyer. He thought
he would get a laugh out of it at least, although, deep down, he knew he
wondered if it might actually result in him meeting someone. He had gotten
neither though, as the phone at the other end rang once and then an automated
voice informed him that the number had been disconnected. There was no winning.
After another drink he had stumbled to bed and passed out. Apparently the
combination of the two things had formed the insane dream. Ellingson was almost
ready to head out the door of his spacious, two-story home when the doorbell
rang. He sighed, put on his jacket, and went to see who it was. Apparently, he
had not moved quickly enough because the doorbell rang three more times in quick
succession. He hoped that this was important. Opening the door, he found a
delivery man with an annoyed look on his face standing beside a large crate. “Do
you want the package or not, buddy?” asked the man. Ellingson looked at his
shirt, hoping for a name tag, but finding only the name of the company: MPS.
Apparently customer service was not their strong point. “What’s in it?” asked
the doctor. The crate was taller than he was. “Not my job to know,” said the
delivery man. “Just my job to get it here fast. I did that and more. The thing
weighs a ton.” Ellingson quickly signed for the package and the man wheeled the
crate into the center of his round entry hall, dropping it unceremoniously and
heading for the door. “You’re not going to help me open it?” “Hell, no,” said
the most unhelpful delivery man in the world before hurrying out to his truck.
Ellingson closed the door as the vehicle sped out of the driveway. He thought
about leaving it until that night to open. He was already going to be a few
minutes late because of the delivery’s horrible timing. But, looking at the
crate in the middle of the floor, curiosity crept into his mind. His only
surgery that morning was a facelift. It could wait. Not having a crowbar, he dug
through the mass of tools in his closet before finding a large, heavy
screwdriver and a hammer. He figured it would work well enough. Wedging it
beneath the top of the crate, he was amazed at how easily the thick plywood came
apart. He set the hammer on the floor, finding the screwdriver worked well
enough. As soon as he pried the last nail from the top board, the sides of the
crate came apart and fell to the floor. His heart skipped a beat as, before him
in his own house, he saw a statue of a woman carved from pure alabaster. The
screwdriver slipped from his hand and he was forced to steady himself on a
pillar, his hands shaking. There was absolutely no mistaking the form from his
dream the night before. The folded hands, flowing hair, and dress blowing in an
imaginary breeze were all the same. He didn’t know how long he stood staring
before he came to his senses and noticed a small piece of paper among the fallen
plywood. He steadied himself, picked it up, and saw one sentence, written in an
elaborate script. “What you put into your work, put into her.” The note was only
signed with a large “V”. He thought he knew what that stood for. The word “work”
snapped him back into reality for a moment. His eyes flicked to a clock on the
wall next to him and he saw that he would be at least half an hour late for
work. He stared at the snow white statue for a moment more and then pulled
himself away from her. He had to get away from this and get his head right. He
had to focus on work. As he closed the door behind him, he hoped he could. The
first appointment, a forty-something socialite was, as expected, infuriated by
his tardiness, but he could not care less. Although Steadville, Tennessee, where
he lived, was not a small city, his plastic surgery center was the only one in
it. Any others were hours away and he was better than any of them anyways. So he
believed, at least. He spent the entire pre-surgery process trying to forget
about what was waiting back at his house. He did as best as he could and,
eventually, his hands finally calmed. During the surgery, as usual, his focus
was like a laser. Just because he didn’t believe in what he was doing did not
mean he was going to do a poor job. The job paid the bills. The surgery was
almost completely uneventful until the very end. As he had almost finished
putting in the first stitch, his focus on how much smoother his patient’s skin
was, when it reminded him of the unnatural smoothness of the angel in his
entrance hall. His hand trembled for a moment, just enough to make him
uncertain. “Nurse,” said Ellingson. “Could you finish the stitches for me?” She
raised an eyebrow towards him. It was a strange thing for him to not do
everything himself. “I just remembered I have something very urgent to do.” The
nurse shrugged and took over. It was just as well. The one thing he had never
learned how to do well was tie off stitches. He was horrible with knots. A short
while later, he was headed back towards his office when he ran into Kendra
Goodson, his assistant. “Miss Goodson,” he said, stopping her in her tracks.
“How many appointments do I have this afternoon?” “Only three, Mr. Ellingson,”
she said with a broad smile. “Do you need me to shuffle them around?” “Just
making sure,” he said. “I may need to leave early today.” “Anything I can help
with?” she asked eagerly. There was a hint of innuendo in her voice. Ellingson
sighed internally. Kendra’s propensity for flirting with male coworkers was an
ongoing saga that had caused two employees to leave the center. For the last
month, he had been the new object of her attention. Trying to persuade her to
act professionally had been unsuccessful and there were veiled threats of a
wrongful termination lawsuit if she was fired. To be fair, she was a fairly good
assistant, so he just dealt with it. Never trust the pretty ones, he thought to
himself. “No, just some personal issues,” he replied. The remaining three
appointments were just consultations that went by in a blur. He meant to leave
after the last one, but something kept him there. He wanted more time to think
about what had happened the night before. Before he knew it, it was actually
past when he normally left and went to the gym. He decided to head to the pub a
few blocks from the center. Maybe it would calm his nerves at least. It was
almost ten at night when Ellingson returned home and pulled into his driveway.
His nerves had not settled as much as he had hoped. As he unlocked the door and
pulled it open, the alabaster form greeted him. Walking towards it, he shut his
eyes tightly, wondering if it would be gone when he opened them again. It didn’t
work. He leaned closer to her, stumbling slightly. He had not been that close to
the statue before. It was even more remarkable up close. There was no trace of
tool marks on the surface. The perception of softness was uncanny. A thought
occurred to him that he had no reason for. He lowered his head towards her torso
and turned an ear towards the hands over her chest. Carefully, he put his ear to
the cold surface of the stone. He held it there for several moments, wondering
what he was doing. Then, from somewhere deep within the stone, like something
out of a dream, he heard it: the beat of a heart. He pulled away slowly, telling
himself he had only imagined it. He didn’t dare put his ear back to the stone.
He began to retreat from the statue and head upstairs to his bedroom, but
stopped a few steps away. What he did next, Ellingson had no reason for. He
turned, timidly approached the statue, and gave it a light kiss on the cheek.
Realizing what he had just done, he abashedly hurried upstairs. It did not take
him long to fall asleep. In his dreams, he saw a vision of a face he had not
seen for an eternity. He felt the autumn breeze on his face as he walked down a
sidewalk at Steadville Community College with a girl. She was quite plain,
possibly a bit odd-looking, but he still didn’t care. He still loved that girl.
The vision shifted to much later. It was the same girl, but she was now
unrecognizable, a vision of artificial beauty. As she walked away from his door,
she turned back for a split second to say something. Her lips parted. Ellingson
thought he knew what he was about to hear. He was wrong. “May I presume you got
my delivery?” came a voice Ellingson had not expected to hear. The vision melted
around him and he saw Vedalya at the top of a short stepladder painting a mural.
He looked around and saw that he was in a far different room than he had been in
his previous dream. His first observation was the complete lack of exits. The
second was a bizarre structure in the center of the room. “Do you like it,
Chuck?” asked the artist. “It’s my newest project: a Sanctum of the Western
Crossroads! Normally old temples are the only place you find them, but I thought
I’d make my own; even with a few personal touches.” Ellingson studied the object
in the middle of the room. It was a pitch black signpost with arrows spiraling
downwards in every direction. His eyes tracked the direction of the arrows and
saw that each one pointed to a section of wall that had been sectioned off. All
of them were blank except for the one that Vedalya was currently painting. “What
does that mean?” he asked. She hopped nimbly down from the stepladder and landed
without a sound on the stone floor. “The Crossroads are where you go when you
die, Chuck,” she said, walking towards the post in the middle. “And then,
whatever afterlives you think you’ve earned show up on the arrows.” She grabbed
the post below the arrows and swung around it like a gleeful child. “Oh so many
possibilities! Nokturne! Vice! The Silver Green!” She pointed towards empty
sections of wall as she listed supposed afterlives. “But this one is the most
interesting,” she said, moving towards the section she had just finished
painting. Ellingson followed her over to it. He saw an aerial view of a great
chasm carved into a gray and darkened wasteland. It ran in a jagged ring around
a huge tableland filled with trees and greenery. “It’s like paradise being kept
away from the rest of the world,” said Ellingson, enthralled by the painting.
From deep within the chasm, blue and red light emanated. “That is Perdition,”
said Vedalya. “At least one of the perceptions of it. Everyone there sees it
differently, but the key is that it’s a ring. It’s infinity.” She hovered a
finger over the chasm, indicating the hint of blue light coming from its depths.
“You see, for every good thing you did in life, you get a period of your own
personal paradise.” “And the red?” “Your own personal hell for all the bad
things,” she said, grinning. “And then it repeats. So, if you were a good
person-“ Vedalya moved her finger along the chasm. The red turned to blue
beneath her hand. “-you get a lot of good times. You can guess what happens to
the bad guys,” she said, moving her hand back and turning the light a burning
crimson. “What would your Perdition be like, I wonder?” “Alright,” said
Ellingson, not wanting to think about the question. “What are you and what am I
supposed to do with the statue in my house?” “I’m an artist, Chuck,” said
Vedalya with feigned exasperation. “As for your little angel, I left you a note,
didn’t I? Don’t tell me the big, important doctor didn’t figure it out. That
means you entirely wasted a day. Now, you’ll have to hurry up.” “Just tell me!”
yelled Ellingson. He grabbed the girl by the arm and spun her towards him.
Whether she was just a dream or something else, he was becoming sure she wasn’t
quite human. He immediately regretted his actions as the large woman in front of
him shook his hand off and, in an instant, had her hand around his throat. He
felt his feet lift off the ground as Vedalya loomed larger in front of him than
he would have thought possible. She pressed his back to the wall, dead in the
center of her landscape of Perdition. He had heard that you did not feel pain in
a dream. If that was true, it was no dream. Her fingers dug into his neck as he
gasped for air. His limbs flailed helplessly, finding no respite. The artist
holding him leaned closer, the infuriating grin never having left her lips. “Bad
move, Chuck,” said Vedalya. “In my studio, I run the show. Understand?” He
nodded as best as he could. “Excellent.” She dropped him to the ground, where he
collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath. He had been right. She wasn’t human.
“As for your question,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to tell you. It wouldn’t be
sporting of me to leave you clueless. What do you put into work, Chuck?” “Time,”
he muttered, rubbing his neck gingerly. “Effort. Resources.” “Think
more…metaphorically,” she said. “More physically.” She bent down and rubbed one
finger over his forehead. He recoiled at her touch. She waved the finger in
front of his face. He saw the glint of moisture and he suddenly understood.
“Sweat,” he said. “And?” “Blood.” “And tears,” she said. “I’ll give you the last
one as an apology for the…unpleasantness there. I may have been a bit hasty,
Chuck. You seem like an alright guy for the most part.” She extended a pale hand
down to him. He ignored it and struggled to his feet. “So, I have to put blood,
sweat, and tears onto the statue?” he asked. “Yep,” she replied. “Put enough
into her and she’ll turn human. She’ll be your perfect woman, made especially
for you by the greatest artist to ever exist: me. It can’t be from you, of
course. And you can’t kill anyone. That would encourage the wrong behavior;
people slashing their wrists and all that messiness.” “And I have four days?”
“Three now.” “What happens after that?” he asked, barely wanting to know. “Well,
then your little angel crumbles to dust and you’ll have nothing left,” she said
with a sigh. “Nothing but a mess to clean up and the Mark of Eden on your soul.”
“What the hell is the Mark of Eden?” he asked, a chill running down his spine.
“Maybe I’ll tell you next time,” said Vedalya. “See you soon, Chuck.” She
snapped her fingers and the lights went out. Ellingson might have imagined it,
but for an instant, he thought he could still see a streak of red emanating from
the mural on the wall. Charles Ellingson woke up the next morning feeling as
though he’d been hit by a truck. Like the day before, he told himself it was
just a dream, but the tremors in his voice and his hand made it plain that he
was beginning to doubt it was just in his head. Shifting to the side of the bed,
he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He hurried out of bed and into the bathroom,
looking at his neck in the mirror. While there were no obvious wounds, he
noticed a few red marks on his throat that had not been there before. They
looked like they had come from fingernails. After getting ready for work, he
steadied himself before heading downstairs. He hoped he had just imagined
getting the statue the day before. Maybe he would go down and there would only
be empty tile in his entrance hall. He knew that would be for the best, but a
small voice, deep down, told him that he wanted it all to be true. If it
required blood, sweat, and tears, so be it. Ellingson quickly silenced that
voice and went downstairs. There, just as it had been all of yesterday, was an
alabaster statue awaiting him. His heart sank in his chest as he tried to avoid
looking at it as he moved towards the door. He had almost avoided it, but as he
opened the door and went to close it behind him, his gaze landed square on the
face of the statue. He froze in place. For a moment, he saw her as if she really
was alive. That snow white hair would be a fiery red. Her skin would be pale,
yes, but perhaps not as pale as alabaster. If her eyes opened, they would be a
sea green. No, they would be like emeralds. Maybe a light blue? Ellingson shook
himself out of his reverie and slammed the door shut harder than was necessary.
He saw his neighbor across the street give him an odd look as he also left for
work. Ellingson just smiled, nodded, and waved. Everything was perfectly normal
even though it was not. The day in at the plastic surgery center went by
quickly. Most of his cases were purely superficial, but there was one patient
that had been there for minor facial reconstruction following a car accident.
That was the sort of case that kept Ellingson going. Even if half of his job was
giving wealthy clients larger breasts, there were also the people that actually
needed help. As he left for the gym, he mused that those people might be the
blue in his Perdition. He pushed the thought out of his head immediately. There
was no such thing as Perdition. Normally, Ellingson spent about an hour in at
the gym after work, but, that day, he did not particularly want to go home.
After two and a half hours, he was sore, exhausted, and about to be kicked out
at closing time. The next to last occupant of the gym was a short girl with a
heavy, fake tan. Ellingson had her pegged as some kind of sorority girl. As she
was wiping down the equipment she had just gotten off, her cell phone began
playing a loud pop song ringtone. Ellingson raised an eyebrow as she answered
the phone, grabbed her things, and scurried out of the gym, all while carrying
on a loud, animated conversation with whoever was on the phone. As he was
getting ready to leave, he noticed that the girl had forgotten her towel and
left it draped over the equipment. He deliberated between calling after her to
tell her and just leaving it so someone else could deal with it. He settled on
the latter and packed up his things. He was just about to leave when the dream
from the night before came back to him. The entire time he had been working out,
he had been able to force everything from the previous two days from his mind,
but it all came flooding back. What had that tall, creepy woman said, again?
Blood, tears…and sweat? Ellingson looked back at the soiled towel draped over
the seat at his side. While two competing trains of thought battled in his head,
his eyes scanned the area. There was, for the moment, no one watching. Seeing no
one, one side of the argument won out. He quickly grabbed the towel and walked
out of the gym. He figured it would only take a small amount of sweat to prove
the dreams were a complete fiction. Then, he could safely ignore them, knowing
he was safe from any kind of consequence; any kind of…mark. When he got home
that night, he threw his gym bag onto the ground, bypassed the statue in his
entryway, and acted as though everything was normal. He made a light dinner,
cleaned up, looked over some case notes while watching the evening news, and
prepared to head upstairs to bed. At the foot of the stairs, he stalled. He’d
test the statue tomorrow, he had decided. Or, maybe, he would do it the next
day. He had already put his foot on the first step when he pictured the icy blue
eyes, long, black hair, and sadistic grin awaiting him when he closed his eyes.
He had to do it now. He had to be able to prove it was all bullshit before he
went back to the Garden of Eden. Ellingson steeled himself and walked over to
his gym bag. The scent of sweat hit him as he opened it. For a moment, he
thought he might just wash the contents of the bag and be done with it. That
moment was very fleeting. He grabbed the damp towel and marched over to the pale
sculpture in the center of his entryway. He looked it over again; the
flawlessness; the beauty of it. His heart beat loudly in his chest. Finally,
with a decisive stroke, he swept the towel over the frozen, snowy hair. He let
the cloth hang at his side as he stared. For a moment, nothing happened. He
began to shake his head and turn away, knowing it was a farce, when he noticed
something impossible. The pale stone he had touched with the towel slowly turned
to off-white. Then, it turned pink. Finally, it turned a vivid crimson.
Ellingson’s entire body trembled as he brought the cloth to the statue again. He
spread it more widely and touched it to the figure’s hair, as if he was drying
it. Removing it, the rest of the stone hair slowly turned red, like a fire
spreading through a stone forest. Looking closely, he could see that the hair
still stood rigid like stone, even as the fiery red ran across the hair falling
down her back. With his hands shaking almost uncontrollably, he raised the towel
above her in two hands and wrung it. A stream of sweat, far more than he would
have expected, fell onto the alabaster form. As the liquid struck her, the hair
softened and fell like water around her face. Ellingson’s breath caught in his
throat as a droplet ran down her forehead and over one eye. It continued down
her face like a teardrop. Where it ran, the stone turned from ivory to the color
of flesh. Ellingson’s courage finally broke and he jumped back from the stone
form. His back struck a pillar and he began to breathe heavily, his head
spinning. He could see the statue’s hair flowing in some impossible breeze, but
could not believe it. It couldn’t be real. As he continued to hyperventilate,
the world around him grew fuzzy. His eyelids lowered with an angel in front of
him. Darkness took him. Another vision of the past came to him in his dreams:
walking into a classroom at Steadville Community College; shaking hands with a
man that would quickly become his mentor; thinking that perhaps not being able
to afford going to his dream college wouldn’t be so bad after all. The vision
shifted to the future, where he saw the same professor being led away in
handcuffs by the police. It was never made public exactly how much he had stolen
from the college, but rumors set the number very high. Ellingson made eye
contact for a fraction of a second before turning away and storming into the
lecture hall. The room he entered was very definitely not one he remembered from
school. A now-familiar figure loomed in front of him. “Who are you?” he asked,
his voice revealing that he was ready to believe the answer. “I’m Vedalya,” she
replied. “I didn’t think you’d have forgotten my name already, Chuck.” She
smirked and walked away. Ellingson realized he was back in the workshop she had
originally taken him to. The artist herself had approached one of the
half-finished statues in the center of the room and began to work on it with a
chisel. “You know what I mean,” he said, catching his breath and approaching
her. “What are you?” “I’m glad you at least got her hair done,” said Vedalya,
ignoring him. “I mean…that red! It would have been a shame if you’d never seen
that! You really have got to see the backside on her, though! Talk about a
masterpiece if I don’t say so myself.” “What are you?!” screamed Ellingson, his
voice echoing through the workshop like thunder. “What is this freak show?!”
Vedalya’s expression turned dour at the outburst. Fear replaced anger in him
immediately. He should not have done that. “If you’re going to be rude,” said
Vedalya. “I’ll have to teach you a thing or two.” With a swift motion from her
hand, a vine running along the wall snapped off of the surface and whipped
towards him, wrapping around his wrist. With another flick, his other hand was
caught in the same manner. Within seconds, his body was entangled in vines and
being lifted off the floor. Even through the terror, he couldn’t help but be
thankful there was no hand around his throat. “I am an artist,” said Vedalya,
moving towards him. She seemed to grow larger with every word and every step. “I
was the greatest shaper of flesh in the entirety of the frozen garden!” Her skin
began to grow paler and more like stone. “I am the Hand of Eden.” He couldn’t
tell how tall she had become as she stood eye to eye with him dangling in the
air of the workshop. “I am the Aspect of Creation!” At her last word, the flesh
that had become so much like stone fractured, cracks spreading like a web, the
noise echoing through the workshop. From the crevices across her skin, small
vines began to emerge. Her hair, long enough to reach the floor, began to move
of its own accord. Ellingson, usually a bastion of reserve, let loose a scream
that could not be contained. A lock of jet black hair shot upwards and wrapped
around him face, suffocating his cries. The aspect put a finger to her cracked
lips and quietly shushed him. “I told you,” she said. “I’m in charge here.
Please be quiet.” The lock of hair released from his head and lightly floated
back towards the floor. “I understand your surprise, but I’m not going to hurt
you. Well, except for the thing last time. And the vines might be a bit tight.
Sorry.” “What the hell does that mean?” whispered Ellingson, careful not to
raise his voice. “The Aspect of Creation?” The monstrous woman rubbed her chin
for a moment, meandering away from him. “That,” she said. “Is a long answer.
But, I think we have time.” She turned back towards him and crouched down,
resting on her haunches. He couldn’t help but notice that her clothes, which had
been baggy before, now stretched taught over her entire form. “You see, Chuck,
there used to be cities. And there used to be living gods in those cities. Then
the gods died. Very sad.” She got up and circled a statue of an androgynous
figure that had to be one of the gods she was talking about. “Then, something
brought the gods back; back to a sort of half-life. And to keep this half-life
going, they need souls.” “How do they get souls?” said Ellingson, barely
audible. “That’s where the aspects come in,” she replied. “We go around looking
for people who want to play our games. Or, in my case, wait for them to come to
us.” He remembered the number he had drunkenly called, hoping for his “perfect
partner”. “And once they’ve agreed to the test, they’re pretty much our
playthings. Sometimes, people pass the test. They get to keep living their
little lives, sometimes with a parting gift.” “The ones that fail?” “The mark of
a god is stamped onto their souls,” said Vedalya, her voice somber. “And we
die?” he asked. The aspect smirked. “Eventually yes,” she said. “But,
surprisingly, most aspects just let you keep on living. You’ll die one day. And
when that happens, the mark makes your soul go right to Eden or Sautoras or
Zatan’nataz, whoever. And the shadow gods keep going and going and going.”
Vedalya snapped her fingers. The vines around Ellingson let loose all at once.
He dropped to the ground, but landed on his feet, barely keeping his balance.
Looking up, he found the aspect bent down, huge blue eyes a foot away from his.
His breath caught in his throat. “Any more questions, Chuck?” “What happens
then?” asked Ellingson, forcing the words from his mouth. “What happens without
a soul?” “Oh, Chuck,” she said, shaking her head and bringing a finger up
towards his chin. “You don’t really want to know.” The tip of her finger cracked
open and a vine extended from it. The winding plant crawled up his jaw line and
around his neck like a snake. His courage, already near its breaking point,
finally vanished. He tore the vine from around his neck. He ran. Adrenaline
fueled him as he sprinted out of the workshop and into the gauntlet of statues.
The eyes of the statues followed him as they flew by, shifting in stone faces
and driving him onward. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his
chest as he reached the end of the hallway and raced through the entrance hall
filled by statues with dead faces. He saw a wooden door at the other side.
Without a second thought, he threw it open and stepped out into a dead world.
Ellingson found himself in a monstrous cavern. The sound of thundering water
echoed off of frozen stone walls. High above him, the roof of the space looked
like solid ice, allowing cold, blue sunlight though, softly lighting the cavern.
Below his feet he could feel half-rotted planks of wood. Looking down, he could
see through the holes of an ancient boardwalk and into an infinite abyss below.
As a crack appeared in the wood beneath his feet, he jumped backwards and into
the doorway of the studio, forgetting the danger and praying for solid footing.
From that relative safety, he gazed out into a dimly lit city. It became
apparent that the building he had just vacated sat on a huge, elevated platform
hanging above a gaping sinkhole. His eyes followed a great waterfall up the wall
of the pit and to an underground river flowing through a crumbling metropolis.
Stone towers rose up towards the icy ceiling. Cascading tributaries wove their
way through the ruins. And, there, on an island at the very center of it all, a
brilliant, emerald garden sprouted in the faint light of the frigid grotto. As
he looked more carefully, Ellingson saw that every flower, branch, and blade of
grass was coated in a layer of shimmering ice. “Behold,” said a familiar voice
from behind him. “The frozen Garden of Earthly Delights. The ancient city of
Eden.” Ellingson knew he should be afraid. He knew he should probably be running
out onto that boardwalk and into that dark, frozen city, but he had just noticed
shapes moving among the ruins; shapes that shouldn’t be moving. They weren’t all
human. “What are those things?” asked Ellingson, not daring to turn around. “The
wealth of Eden was in magical stones,” said Vedalya. Her voice, tinged with a
disturbing unease, came from a lower point than he expected. “They were said to
hold the power of one of the makers of the universe: Life itself. When used on
flesh and blood, the stones could heal almost any ailment short of death. When
used on a statue, it could breathe life into the very stone.” “Why do they look
like that?” “At first, you see, they were used by great artists,” she said.
“They made living art, greater than anything ever seen. Then, as things always
do, they were used for darker, stranger things.” “Like what?” “You’re standing
in the red light district of Eden, Chuck,” said Vedalya. “The stone-brothels of
Eden could make anyone with money anything they desired and then bring it to
life.” “My God,” said Ellingson, noticing several of the shapes on bridges
connecting the solid ground with the floating platform. He could see them much
more clearly. He wished he couldn’t. Some he could tell were bizarre works of
art. Others, he could see were created as nightmarish sex dolls. A horrifying
few could have been either. “Do you remember how I told you the gods are now
dark versions of themselves?” asked Vedalya. “Yes,” he replied, his voice
quaking. “Most of them cast dark shadows while they were still living.”
Ellingson barely heard her. A huge construct had come around the corner of
Vedalya’s studio and moved towards them, towering above him. Eyes, mouths, and
appendages covered a pillar of living stone. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”
The sun shining through the ice above him went dark. For a moment, he could
still hear the thunder of the waterfall and the shuffling of stone that was not
quite stone. Ellingson came to on the floor of his entryway, his entire body
aching. He sat in a puddle of sweat on the cold tile. Feeling something digging
into his back, he reached beneath him and pulled out the hammer that was still
sitting on the floor. He tossed it across the room. It had to stop. Whatever was
happening to him had to stop. He wouldn’t survive any more nights like this. He
forced his eyes open and he saw the alabaster statue with crimson hair sitting
in the center of the floor. There was only one way to stop it. He finally
believed. That day at work was like a blur. He was sure at the end of it that he
had done at least two surgeries and had met with several people, but damned if
he could remember any of it. Reality was like a blur. It was like the real world
was the dream now. Those minutes or hours in the statuary in a dead city beneath
the ice felt so much more real. But he still had a job to do; one that had
nothing to do with the living. It was the only thing that was important. As the
center closed that night, Ellingson remained behind. He waved the nurses and
receptionists goodbye. His assistant, Kendra, gave him an odd look, knowing that
it was unlike him to stay late. She stalled as the other employees left and
approached him the instant they were alone. “I know something’s bothering you,
Doctor Ellingson,” she said. “Something serious. You know I’m always here if you
need to talk to anyone.” She slid closer to him and put a hand to his shoulder.
Looking into her dark, blue eyes, the doctor almost gave in and told her
everything. Maybe if someone else in the real world told him just how crazy he
was, it would break the spell hanging over him. Instead, he brushed her hand off
of him and turned to walk back into his office. “Why are you like this??” Kendra
said from behind him, the strain in her voice barely contained. “All I try to do
is help you, Charles!” Silence hung in the room for half a minute before he
turned back towards her and spoke. “Do you know why I became a plastic surgeon,
Miss Goodson?” he asked. After getting no reply other than a blank stare, he
continued. “I had a girlfriend back in school that was quite plain, to say the
least. I was happy. She wasn’t. She got a lot of work done one summer; came out
looking like a model; someone else altogether, but she was happier. I thought I
could do the same thing and make people happy like that.” “You do that,” said
his assistant. “Come the end of the last semester, right before I started my
residency, it all fell apart. Turns out she’d been cheating on me for years. For
a while, I blamed the new face.” “That’s your big revelation?” asked Kendra.
“Never trust the pretty ones?” “No,” said Ellingson. “Because whatever she
turned into was there all along, with or without the face. The lesson is not to
trust anyone.” With that, his assistant sneered, spun around, and marched out of
the office. As she made her way to the parking lot, Ellingson reflected on the
part he hadn’t said; the part that really drove the point home. During that last
night, he had told her she was the same as his professor after he stole all of
that money. Out on the sidewalk, as she stormed out, she spun around and threw
one last dagger. “Who do you think paid for all this?” she had asked, motioning
to her face. As soon as the taillights of the last car had disappeared down the
street, he made his way to their blood storage. As he opened the refrigerator,
he eyed the bags of blood hungrily. He felt like some sort of vampire or ghoul,
but desperate measures had to be taken. As he felt the cool air strike him, he
began to pull out the plastic bags of crimson liquid and place them gently into
the gym bag he had brought with him. He knew he couldn’t take too many or
someone would quickly notice. But he couldn’t take too few. He had to finish
this tonight. He couldn’t take any chances. He couldn’t have to go back to that
cursed studio any more than need be. He stopped after taking three of the bags
out. Would it be enough? He wondered how many variables could be in play. What
if someone had died and it did nothing? He swallowed hard and grabbed a fourth
bag. His eyes flitted over the contents of the refrigerator one last time as he
closed it, hoping it was enough. Pulling himself away from the blood storage, he
grabbed his gym bag and walked briskly towards the exit of the building. It
wasn’t long before he was back in his home and paranoid took over again. He
closed the blinds on every window in the house. He turned on exactly the right
number of lights to look as though he was simply having a normal relaxing
evening, not wanting to be disturbed. He thought about turning off his phone,
but would that seem suspicious if someone called him? He briefly thought about
how he would explain how he had met the strange woman who was suddenly living
with him. He couldn’t just hide her inside the house. He had to see her in the
sunlight. As a hundred questions swirled inside his head, he finally made his
way back to the entrance hall, where, sitting on the tile around his angel were
four bags of blood. He gripped a chef’s knife in one hand, deciding that
subtlety had gone out the window at this point. He knelt in front of the statue
that would soon not be a statue. This was more than freeing this girl from the
stone. It was more than preventing his soul from being consumed by a half-dead
god. It felt like his redemption. It felt like what his entire life had been
leading to. Slowly, dramatically, like a ritual in a long ruined temple, he
lifted the knife, then the first bag of blood, and slashed through the top. He
lifted the open bag above the alabaster form and poured. The blood seeped down
through the crimson hair and over the stone face. As it did, Ellingson saw the
liquid begin to absorb into the stone, disappearing within seconds. The face
that, aside from a thin streak, had just been pure white was now the color of
pale skin. Being unable to resist, he put a finger to one cheek. It still felt
like stone. He grabbed the next bag. At the second application of blood, the
change in color continued down the torso of the statue. The hands folded over
her heart looked almost alive. Half of the thin robe she wore had changed to a
light gray. Ellingson had to resist touching her again. There was still too much
stone; too much that could be damaged. “Please,” he whispered softly to the
empty room. “Please let this work.” Again he slashed open a plastic bag and
lifted it over the statue. As the crimson droplets ran down stone skin once
again, her legs, barely visible beneath the flowing robe, lost their ivory tone.
The robe itself brightened into bright silver, shimmering in the light of a
chandelier high above the entryway. Ellingson back away and took in the form in
front of him. The snowy white of the alabaster had been completely erased. The
only colors remaining were the pale tone of the skin, the silver of her
garments, and the brilliant red of her hair. The doctor grabbed the final bag of
blood off of the ground and slashed it open, his heart beating like a drum. As
soon as the stream touched the “statue”, a crystal-clear transformation flowed
like water from top to bottom. The rigid stone gave way as the flesh softened
and the fabric of her robe draped, fluttering to the floor. Ellingson backed
away as the stone cheeks flushed with color. He knelt on the floor in front of
his angel and watched her eyes, waiting for them to open at last. He waited…and
waited…and waited. Nothing was happening. Ellingson’s entire body quaked, panic
inches from setting in. He pulled himself closer and brought his face close to
the hands folded across her chest. He slowly turned his head and placed his ear
on them, listening closely. He could feel that the outer surface had turned to
flesh, but just beneath it, there was still unyielding stone. That was not what
he was searching for. From much nearer than before, just beneath the surface, a
heart softly beat. He frantically look around him on the floor, praying that one
of the bags still contained even a droplet of blood. He grabbed one after
another, gazing into the clear plastic, and grasping them as if trying to
squeeze the blood from nothingness. The final bag fell to the floor with a dull
plop and panic finally came. Whatever strength Ellingson had left in his legs
left all at once and he fell to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting the figure
standing vigil in the center. A nonsensical babbling left his mouth as he stared
up in the shining crystals of the chandelier above. He could feel the last day
closing in. Anything could happen that would ruin everything. He might get
arrested for stealing blood. He might be in a car accident. Hell, he could even
oversleep. His eyes jumped from the light above to the pale face of the statue
hovering over him. The peaceful countenance, even as motionless as stone,
brought him back to some semblance of sanity. He did the only thing he thought
might help. “I’m sorry,” muttered Ellingson to the girl beside him. “I’m sorry I
didn’t bring you to life. You can forgive me, right?” He almost thought he could
see a flicker of motion; of assent. “Of course you can,” he said. “You’re an
angel after all.” He took a deep breath and the panic began to subside. “Story
of my life, you know,” said Ellingson. “Nothing’s ever good enough. Always one
step away from perfect. I didn’t want to be a plastic surgeon in the beginning.
I wanted to be a heart surgeon. I wanted to save thousands of lives and be that
guy everyone wants to be their doctor.” He stayed there, lying on the floor and
looking up at the closed eyes. “Top of my class,” he said. “Not that it’s that
hard in Steadville, but still. I got accepted to John Barons University. I had
everything in the palm of my hand. Everything except money. My parents said it
was too expensive and that Steadville Community College would give me a full
scholarship. Guess where I ended up. Right back in this pit of a town that I
wanted out of.” Ellingson finally picked himself off the floor and sat there
beside the statue. The wavering in his hands and voice had almost left entirely.
“And after everything that happened; the scandals, the drama, the bullshit;
where do you think was the only place that would hire me? That’s right. The
prodigal son returns.” He reached out to touch her again, but thought better of
it. “I should give you a name,” said Ellingson. “But not yet. When you open your
eyes and see me, the first thing I do will be to give you a name. I promise.”
With that, he stumbled upstairs and headed for bed. If he had listened closely,
he might have heard the beating heart beneath the alabaster flutter when he
mentioned giving her a name. Ellingson wasn’t afraid when he found himself back
in Vedalya’s Sanctum of the Crossroads. He was past fear. He stormed through the
room towards where she was putting the finishing touches on the bottom of a
mural, back to the form he had originally met her in. He noticed that every
other space on the wall was already painted. “You were really close there,” she
said without turning, taunting him half-heartedly. “Why do I suspect that it’s
not a coincidence that I was that close to making her real?” “Are you accusing
me of something?” asked Vedalya. “Of course not,” said Ellingson, arms crossed
and eyes defiant. “So, back to normal? No stone skin? No vines?” “Would you like
that?” asked the girl, turning around and gently putting down her paintbrush.
“No, I don’t particularly like doing that. It’s only for effect once in a
while.” She walked over to him and turned around, admiring the finished
painting. “And what’s this one?” he asked. “Glorygon,” she said softly. “The
afterlife of heroes, kings, and saints.” The mural depicted a shining, gilded
street lined with elaborate palaces and enormous mansions, all pure gold, all
sitting beneath a pitch black sky. “I like it better than Perdition, I’ll give
you that,” said Ellingson. “Got a chair? I think I’ll just close my eyes and
wait to wake up this time.” Vedalya smirked briefly and then produced a small
stepladder. “Will this work?” she asked. There was something different about her
compared to the previous visits. She seemed more human. “Works for me,” said the
doctor. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it,” said the artist and he took a seat. For a
moment, both of them were silent. Ellingson glanced once more at the newest
painting. It was gorgeous. “I wanted to go to Glorygon,” said Vedalya quietly,
sitting on the floor and leaning against the signpost in the center of the
floor. “That’s why me and my sister came to Eden; to be the greatest artists of
all time; to find our glory.” “You were human?” asked Ellingson, shock in his
voice. “In Eden?” “All of the aspects were human, once,” she said. “And I was an
artist, but my sister was always better than me. The critics loved her. They
said she was the greatest, and no matter how well I did, I got judged against
her. Her paintings were the most insightful. Her statues were the most flawless.
So, I made a change.” “You stopped being an artist?” he asked. “Not really,” she
replied. “I packed up shop in the art district and moved to the center of the
platform here. I started the greatest stone-brothel Eden had ever known. I may
not have been able to make things as pretty as my sister, but I could make
things that people wanted. I could make things that people would pay for. So,
while she was busy being a great starving artist, I was over here raking in
money for giving people whatever freakish thing they desired.” “Was it worth
it?” asked Ellingson. The girl deliberated for a moment before answering.
“Maybe, I still could have found a way to Glorygon,” she said. “Maybe I could
have looked Eden in the eye and told her I wouldn’t help her take souls. Maybe I
could have asked for help.” She swallowed hard. “It wasn’t worth it.” As silence
hung in the air, Ellingson asked the question she hadn’t answered the last time.
He needed to know. “What happens if I lose my soul?” She closed her eyes,
sighed, and smiled darkly. “When you reach the Western Crossroads, part of your
soul is the price you pay to gain entrance to an afterlife; the same part that
the gods consume under the mark. And if you can’t pay the price, there’s only
one path open.” “What is that?” asked Ellingson, already knowing full well.
“Perdition,” said Vedalya. “And for people that seek out the aspects, especially
those that fail their tests, Perdition is rarely merciful.” “Gods help me,” he
whispered. “The gods don’t help anyone anymore,” she said. “Those days vanished
twelve thousand years ago.” “And what about you?” asked the doctor. “I’ve helped
too much already,” said Vedalya. “Eden doesn’t like losing souls. Go, Doctor
Ellingson. Go back home and get your angel. And maybe look into a new
profession. You don’t seem very happy right now.” That morning, Ellingson woke
up feeling more rested than he had in years. He was still nervous, of course. He
would be cutting his time close. But, at least, he had hope. He had purpose.
Fear was a distant memory as he got ready for work and headed to the door. As he
passed the figure in the entryway, he gave it a small kiss on the cheek and
whispered farewell. Perhaps, soon, he would get a reply while doing the same
thing. He was cautious entering the center, watching the eyes of the employees.
He wanted to make sure no one was watching him out of the corner of their eye.
If they had caught him stealing blood the night before, all bets were off. But,
making his way to his office, he was greeted normally by everyone. As he sat
down at his desk, he was already looking forward to leaving that night with one
final prize. Then, there was a brisk knock on his door. “Come in,” said
Ellingson, forcing his voice to be steady. His assistant, Kendra, entered the
office and quickly closed the door behind her. Ellingson’s blood went cold. “One
of the nurses noticed that we seemed to be missing a few units of blood this
morning, Doctor,” she said. A gleam in her eye told him that this was not going
to go well. “So, I thought to myself, ‘who do I know that has been acting oddly
all week?’” Rage began to build in Ellingson’s chest. He should have fired this
girl a long time ago. “So, I took a peek at the security tapes from last night
and guess who I saw going to and from the blood storage with a big bag.”
“There’s an explanation for that, I assure you,” said Ellingson, trying to come
up with that explanation. Then, in an instant, a plan came to him. He would have
to play it perfectly, but he could salvage the day. He thought. “I’d love to
hear it,” said Kendra. “Or else I might have to turn you in, unless, of course,
you could make it worth my while not to.” He suddenly felt no qualms about his
new plan. “If you must know,” he said. “I have been experimenting with a new
treatment at home that can almost reverse the effects of aging. I needed blood
samples to test my theory on. If it works, I’m going to make millions on it. You
can’t tell anyone!” Seeing the look in her eyes, he had no doubts that it was
going to work. “I want in,” she said. “Or else I’m turning you in for stealing
medical supplies.” “If this works, no one will care about a few packs of blood,”
he countered. “Get out of my office.” “I’ll tell them you’re sexually harassing
me,” she said. “I’ll say we’re sleeping together!” “No one here will believe
you.” “It doesn’t matter if they do!” said Kendra. “When the authorities come in
it will be my word versus the thief’s!” “You wouldn’t even be able to stomach
what I’m doing,” said Ellingson, his voice like ice. “Try me!” she said. “Let’s
go see it!” “Now?” “Yes, now,” she said. “I’ll follow you to your house.”
Ellingson sighed and got up, a metaphorical gun to his head. The two of them
exited the office and headed for the exit. As they went by the receptionist’s
desk, the doctor briefly told them to cancel his appointments for the next hour.
It might be longer than that if things went according to plan. Behind him,
Kendra leaned over and whispered into the receptionist’s ear. “We’ve got some
business to attend to,” she said, winking. Ellingson saw her plan. She wanted
everyone to know that they had left together in the middle of the day. If he
really did have a money-making treatment, it built up her extortion scheme. If
she happened to disappear, well, he’d be the only suspect. It was a smart plan.
In fact, there was only one flaw in it: she didn’t know he had nothing to lose.
Nothing except his soul. She followed him back to his house in her car. She had
apparently had time to plan this out and did not trust them to ride in the same
car. Accidents could happen. As they exited their vehicles and headed for the
door, she got in a final jab. It would be her last. “Remember, Charlie,” she
said, making his blood simmer. “If anything happens to me, they’ll know it was
you. So, just let me see what this million dollar idea is and we can get on with
our lives, okay?” “It should be right inside,” said Ellingson, holding the door
open. “Ladies first.” Kendra gave him a doubtful look, but, assured in her plan,
she stepped into the entryway. Only a square of light from the door was
illuminated, the window blinds all still shut tight. She took a few steps
inside. “You have lights in here, right?” she said impatiently. “Which way is
it?” “Right in front of you,” said Ellingson, flicking on the lights and
shutting the door behind them. He silently clicked the lock. The entrance hall
was suddenly illuminated. His beauty stood, perfectly still with hands folded,
only feet in front of Kendra. Her jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. “This is
your stupid project?!” she yelled. “This is a statue! This is-“ Her voice caught
in her throat as she studied it further. She had initially seen it as a normal
statue due to its stillness, but as her eyes made their way down her form,
Ellingson knew she was seeing the softness of the skin and the silver robe
swaying in the air. She was so awestruck by it that she didn’t even hear the
faint sound of metal scraping tile. “What is this, Ellingson?” said Kendra, her
voice hushed. “Is this a real girl?? Why is she like that?!” She turned around
to find the doctor with a chef’s knife leveled at her throat. The blade was
still stained by a few droplets of dried blood. The steel glinted in the light.
“That is my angel,” he said. “And now, you’re going to head into the kitchen and
we’re going to talk.” Kendra’s eyes went wide as she saw the intensity in his
eyes. She had no idea what was going on any more. Her plan had fallen apart. The
doctor led her into his kitchen and made her sit in one of his high-backed
chairs. He swiftly opened a drawer and grabbed a roll of twine, the only thing
he could think of. As fast as he could, he grabbed her arms, yanked them behind
the chair and tied them as thoroughly as he could. “I apologize for my poor
hospitality, but you have really put me in a bind here,” he said, not intending
the pun, but snickering nervously anyways. “You see, this is the last day I have
to make her real. I’ve done so much already. But I need more.” “More what?”
“Blood, sweat, or tears,” said Ellingson. “I’ll take what I can get. I don’t
suspect I have much time thanks to your little act.” He grabbed the back of the
chair and dragged her into the entrance hall, a couple of meters from his angel.
“All it would have taken was one more day, but you could not leave well enough
alone!” His voice rose to a maniacal pitch. “You’re insane!” screamed Kendra.
“Blood is not going to make that thing come to life!” “She was stone yesterday
morning,” said Ellingson, swinging around the chair and looking her dead in the
eyes. “Pure, white stone. And look at her now!” Tears had begun to well up in
Kendra’s eyes, fear and inevitability setting in. He spun around towards the
motionless form. He could almost hear its heart beating in anticipation. She
wasn’t going to judge him for this. She knew it was necessary. She didn’t want
to crumble to dust. “Where did you get that thing??” “In a dream,” he said,
speaking like he was in a trance. “In an artist’s studio, in a far away city, in
a dream. I got it from a place where there are half-dead gods and living fetish
statues and afterlives with golden streets.” He fell to his knees in front of
the figure and looked up at the still-closed eyes. “I really need to think up a
name first. I don’t suppose you’d have any suggestions, eh?” He turned around to
give Kendra a questioning glance and found the chair empty, the kitchen twine
unbound on the floor. He really was horrible with knots. Before he could act, a
massive blow came to the back of his head. Lights exploded in his skull and the
world began to blur. He slumped forward, his arms flailing. He barely registered
that one of his hands had latched onto the wrist of his frozen angel. Blinding
fear filled him as he tumbled backwards onto the floor, dragging her with him.
He was almost ecstatic when the heavy weight of stone landed fully on his torso.
He could feel at least one broken rib, but there was not a crack on her. The
room was beginning to fade as he saw a hammer hit the floor out of the corner of
his eye. He saw Kendra hovering over him and his love, hands over her mouth, in
a state of shock. As she stood shaking, tears fell from her eyes and landed on
silver fabric. In the final seconds before his vision faded to black, Ellingson
felt the weight of stone on him lighten. He heard a breath being taken and a
torso swell. He felt the fevered beating of a heart that was not his own. And,
at the last instant, before the room dissolved entirely, he saw the flash of
bright green eyes opening for the first time. The sorrow in them broke his
heart. He awoke in a familiar studio with marble walls and climbing vines. As he
looked around, he was surprised to see that the massive stone blocks and
half-finished statues were nowhere to be seen. Looking to the center of the
room, he saw Vedalya leaning against a towering statue that he recognized
immediately. It was the same one he had seen in his entryway each of the last
four days. However, this one was still a snowy white. “Well,” said Vedalya. “You
got your girl, Chuck.” She smirked coldly. “I’m impressed. I’d be more impressed
if you hadn’t kidnapped a girl to do it or if you hadn’t gotten your skull
broken in the process, but, hey, credit where credit is due.” “That’s it?” asked
Ellingson. “I’m not marked?” “Nope,” she said, licking a finger and wiping a
blemish off the statue. “You: one. Eden: nothing.” “So why am I back here?” he
asked. “Haven’t you taunted me enough?” “I just feel kind of sorry for you,
Chuck,” said Vedalya. “I wanted to offer my condolences.” “Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m probably going to be locked up now? She’ll wait for me. I know she
will. Just let me out of this god damn dream world so I can see her!” “Oh,
she’ll wait for you. I have no doubt about that,” said the aspect, looking at
the floor, avoiding his gaze. “But this isn’t a dream.” “What is it?” asked
Ellingson, his heart turning as cold as the walls of Eden. “You took a big shot
to the head there,” said Vedalya. “You won’t be waking up from this one.”
“Wait,” he said. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” “I doubt you’ll survive much
longer,” she continued. “So, I thought I’d give you a memorial to your perfect
woman.” She backed away and threw both hands at the ivory statue in a dramatic
fashion. “This can’t be happening!” said Ellingson. “I put too much into this!
This was going to change everything in my life!” “It did,” said Vedalya. “Just
not how you expected. I’ll leave you two alone.” The Aspect of Creation began to
head for the door, leaving the doctor with the image of his love, but stopped
just at the threshold. “Charles?” “What??” he asked, faint hope glimmering. “If
you happen to see a blank sign on the Western Crossroads when you reach it,” she
began. “Yes?” “Wait,” said Vedalya. “Just wait. Eventually, she’ll be along. The
Silver Green will call.” “What does that mean??” said Ellingson, only to find
himself alone in the studio with his statue. He stumbled over, feeling his head
and ribs throb with pain. He knelt, he leaned his head against the folds of a
stone robe, and he screamed. He didn’t stop screaming. In the hallway of the
Steadville Hospital, a police officer walked down the hall and nudged another
that was waiting by the door to a patient’s room. “How’s the scumbag?” he asked.
“Internal bleeding in his head, they think,” replied the second officer. “Broken
rib did something in his guts, too. They don’t think he’s going to last too much
longer.” “Serves the bastard right,” said the first officer. “Kidnaps the girl
he was having an affair with, ties her up, and threatens to kill her? Yeesh.
How’s the girl doing?” “She gave her statement then went home about half a
second later,” said the second. “Looked like she’d seen a ghost the whole time.
How does a piece of work like this guy get these girls?” “Girls?” “Yeah, the
guy’s girlfriend came in about an hour ago,” he said. “Poor thing looked like
she’d been hit by a train. She’s still in there with him. Really, though, how’s
he get a girl like that? She looks like a goddamned angel.” In the hospital room
behind them, a slender figure stood vigil over the motionless form of Charles
Ellingson as he lay dying in the bed. The dim light of fluorescent bulbs
illuminated hair like fire. The flickering green of the life support monitors
shone off of skin like alabaster. Moonlight flowing through the blinds reflected
off of eyes that glowed like emeralds. She didn’t speak. She didn’t touch him.
She’d never learned how to mourn or comfort or console. She hadn’t been alive
that long. She just did what she had always done. It was the only thing she
knew. She waited and watched and wished she had a name.


THE LITTLEFORK BODYSNATCHERS 1K+




Over the past few decades, a disturbing rumor has spread throughout the
backwoods settlement of Littlefork. People there tell tales of so-called
“alternates,” who kidnap and impersonate the small town’s residents. Taking the
form of their victims, they appear human at first glance. But the alternates
possess uncanny facial features like dead, bulging eyes and unusually long
limbs. Of course, none of this concerned Dr. Emma Wilton. She was in search of
another Littlefork legend: the ivory-billed woodpecker. Once the largest
woodpecker in the US, the bird was now considered extinct by most
ornithologists, Emma included. Although the last official sighting of the bird
occurred in 1941, some in the area claimed to have seen a large bird with shiny
black plumage not unlike those of the ivory-billed woodpecker. Emma made the
trip to Littlefork alone, stopping first at the town’s only hotel. An old,
rickety porch wrapped around the front of the building. There two older men sat
in wicker chairs with smoldering cigarettes between their fingers. They watched
Emma with a blank stare. Smoke spilled from their lips. Inside, a portly woman
sat behind the counter. She sighed as Emma approached as if annoyed that she
actually had to work. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Yes. I booked a room. It
should be under Robert Monroe,” Emma said. The woman blinked long and slow.
“You’re not Robert Monroe.” “No. But the room was booked for two people.”
“That’s right,” the receptionist said. “And I’m the second person. I’m Emma
Wilton.” “I see,” the woman said, “And where is Mr. Monroe?” “He decided not to
come.” “Why not?” “That’s personal.” Emma forced a smile, but it was hard to
hide the irritation in her voice. “Well, I can’t let you stay in the room. It’s
booked under his name.” Emma sucked her teeth and glanced around the dingy
interior of the hotel. Aside from the two men out front, the place was dead.
“Meaning no offense, but this doesn’t look to be a busy hotel.” “None taken,”
the receptionist replied dryly. “What are the chances someone would come to the
hotel and correctly guess the name of a guest?” The fat receptionist pushed a
greasy strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged. “Company policy. You can call
him if –” “No,” Emma said quickly. “You must have his number on file. How about
you call him? Okay?” With a sigh, the woman picked up the phone and dialed
Robert’s number. While they waited for him to pick up, Emma paced around the
lobby. She stopped by a bulletin board, which only had two papers pinned to it.
One was a flier for a local concert scheduled for two months ago. The other was
a wrinkled notice about a missing girl. According to the faded, black letters,
the girl’s name was Ashley. She had disappeared two years ago at the age of
sixteen. Sad. But again, it was none of Emma’s concern. While the receptionist
dialed Robert’s number a second time, the old men from the porch entered. “Don’t
get many visitors,” said the first. He was missing most of his teeth, and his
breath reeked of tobacco. “Not safe around these parts,” said the second. He had
thin, shriveled lips that seemed to stretch to the edges of his face. He pointed
to the missing person poster on the bulletin board. Emma offered a polite smile.
“I’m just here for the forest,” she said. “That’s exactly the place you need to
avoid. There’s a killer in those woods. Done skinned poor Ashley, and she ain’t
the only one,” the toothless man said. “Not so. Wasn’t no killer,” the other
said. His friend shook his head and sighed. “They say she was seen in the
neighbor’s barn. But she wasn’t nothing but a cheap copy. A fake.” An alternate.
Emma had heard the tales, but she didn’t have the energy to argue with a couple
of old men. “Yes, well, I will be careful. Thank you for your concern.”
Fortunately, Emma was called over by the receptionist, who happily informed her
that she could not reach Robert. Having left him a message, the receptionist
told Emma she could leave her luggage and walk around the town in the meantime.
It was just as well. She had had enough of the hotel and the irritating people
inside it. With a camera slung around her neck, Emma decided to venture into the
forest for an early start on her research. The ancient woodland encircled
Littlefork on all sides. Like a fetid, green shadow, it lurked behind every
building and at the end of each road. However, there were no entrances into the
Littlefork Forest. They had all gone unused and overgrown with vegetation.
Gnarled branches crossed over one another like a wall of mossy veins, and from
the earth rose tall reeds of grass that hid the forest interior from view. Just
behind the hotel, Emma found a small gap in the trees. Petite as she was, she
managed to slip through without much effort. Yet, just as she disappeared into
the shaded woods, Emma felt a cold gaze on her neck. She glanced back and saw
the men from the hotel watching her. Their faces were blank and expressionless.
She thought nothing of it. Emma had more pressing matters on her mind. After her
conversation with the receptionist, she began to think about Robert Monroe. An
esteemed ornithologist like herself, Robby was a silver-tongued man with a
chiseled jaw and piercing, blue eyes. And whether by luck or sheer force of
will, he was also the sort of man that acquired anything his heart desired. So
it wasn’t long before Emma fell under his charms and into his bed. In between
their frequent bouts of lovemaking, Emma and Robby found time to collaborate on
academic ventures. Even professionally, they had chemistry. Their interests and
ideas always complemented one another, and together they had published a few
papers. So, as their personal and professional lives faded into one another,
Emma found herself thinking about Robby at all hours of the day. And in time,
her thoughts turned to the future. This would not be a problem for any other
couple in a relationship. However, from Robby’s perspective, they were not in
fact in a relationship. Therefore, when Emma began discussing her desire to have
a daughter one day and how lovely their own children might look, Robby decided
to set the record straight. He also decided it would be healthy for them to go
their separate ways. Emma cursed herself for being so oblivious. Part of her
hoped this search for the ivory-billed woodpecker would train her to be more
attentive. Yet, as she looked around at the expansive canopy of trees, she saw
no creatures, not even a squirrel or a sparrow. She listened for the repetitive
tap tap tap of a woodpecker’s beak. But Emma heard only a soft, sighing wind and
the groan of shifting branches. Woodpeckers have a particular fondness for dead
trees. So Emma followed a path of decay to deeper and darker sections of the
woods, where hollowed oaks and twisted beeches lay in toppled wrecks. Shadows
played against their shattered bodies as the sun descended into evening. While
Emma gazed around in search of the bird, she noticed a rustling among the trees.
At first, she thought it might be the rustle of a creature in the canopy. But
whatever made the sound was bigger. As it moved through the forest, it shook
entire trees so that their rotten trunks bent and snapped. Emma could even feel
the ground tremble as the beast drew near. Backing up slowly, Emma raised her
camera. Through the lens, she glimpsed a small fraction of what lumbered through
the trees. At once, she grew sick from that oozing and unwholesome form riddled
with scabrous growths and hair-like filaments. The creature uttered a gurgling
moan. Panic filled her, and she staggered backward in fear. As a fleshy tendril
reached towards Emma, her foot slipped on a twisted root, and she tumbled down a
hill. The hill was not so tall or steep to warrant concern. However, when Emma
fell backwards, her head struck the corner of a jagged rock. The last thing she
remembered before her vision went dark was the crunch of her camera beneath her.
No doubt concussed from the head trauma, Emma passed between bouts of waking and
unwaking. And in that limbo between dream and reality, she saw herself carried
away by a looming mass of writhing flesh. It wrapped her in its moist appendages
and stroked her belly in a swift, obsessive circle. Although terrifying to look
at, the creature was not evil in itself. On the contrary, it doted over her
well-being with warm, gentle touches not unlike a mother with her child. Once
Emma came to, she found herself in a cave on a bed of moss. Moonlight shone
through a hole in the stone ceiling. It fell on her like a pale spotlight upon a
stage. Yet, as far as Emma could tell, there was no audience watching her. The
comforting environment eased her nerves to a small degree. Emma found herself
able to rationalize all that had happened. She told herself the beast was
nothing more than a mangey bear. Frightened, she had tripped and fallen through
the hole in the cave ceiling. All that nonsense about being tended to by a
fleshy monster was nothing more than a dream. Indeed Emma felt completely calm
and rational. Her only concern was the gash atop her head. But judging by the
dried clumps of blood in her hair, the wound had already clotted. In addition,
Emma still felt sick to her stomach. No doubt, it was a lingering effect of that
revolting and wholly imagined nightmare. A low chatter rumbled through the cave,
and Emma saw a shadow play against the walls. She looked around for her camera
but found it was missing. “Hello?” she said. There was no reply. “Is someone
there? I’m hurt.” But no one answered. Emma got to her feet. Her stomach
flopped, and her head dizzied. Regardless, she pushed ahead. She had to get back
to the hotel. No doubt, the receptionist would have something snarky to say. But
she needed proper medical care and a bed. Hopefully, Robby had returned the
receptionist’s message. As Emma stumbled down the dank passages of the cave, she
came upon a group of childlike drawings scrawled in chalk. Under the slanted
moonlight, these drawings depicted happy families with wide, goofy smiles.
Innocent as they were, there was something off about the drawings. The family
member’s forms and expressions were stretched and skewed as if the artist did
not fully understand the human body. What’s more, there was a sketch of some
other form. Not by any stretch of the imagination could it be confused with a
human. Long, cystic limbs surfaced from spotted globs of flesh while lidless
eyes bulged from sparsely hairy masses. It was not certain what this abomination
had to do with the grinning families, but it was certain Emma had seen it
before. Emma pressed on through dank and dreary tunnels. She followed broad,
smoothed out paths that coiled this way and that. She trudged past cold, inky
pools whose depths she could not fathom. All the while, her head ached, and her
stomach panged. She clutched her gut. It was bloated and firm. After a seemingly
endless sequence of passages, Emma came upon the exit. The first morning light
peaked above the horizon, penetrating the forest in pale swaths. Had she really
been in the cave that long? It didn’t matter. Emma had entered the forest from
the east. If she followed the rising dawn, she could find her way back to
Littlefork. Just then, a guttural bellow erupted behind her, and Emma heard the
dull scrape of flesh against stone. At once, she ran into the forest as fast as
she could. She ran without looking back, knowing she wouldn’t like what she saw.
And yet, despite her desperation, Emma could only run so fast and so far. Her
feet were heavy, and her stomach throbbed with acute pain. When she could force
herself no longer, she leaned against the trunk of a rotted birch and gazed down
at the source of her pain. Her belly was massive. She pulled up her shirt to get
a better look. Blue veins struck sharp paths across her skin. And although there
was no obvious sign of injury, that didn’t rule out the possibility of internal
bleeding. Judging by the size of her gut, the bleed was serious. Without help,
it would certainly prove fatal. Emma placed her hand on her stomach and thought
of Robby. All she had wanted was love and the joy of a child. But now Robby was
gone, and she would bleed to death in some forsaken forest, afraid and alone.
But Emma was not alone. As if reaching out for her hand, an infant limb
stretched against the walls of Emma’s abdomen. She stared at her stomach in
disbelief. But there was no denying what she had seen and felt. Something was
inside of her. The sudden pregnancy shocked Emma so much that she had almost
forgotten why she had run into the forest in the first place. Behind her, the
branches groaned and cracked. A mucousy heap of changeable limbs dragged itself
into view. On its raw and oozing flesh, gaping eyes peered down at Emma. And
though she saw no mouth that could utter a sound, Emma heard a shapeless baying
as if of some great and terrifying hound. By now, Emma knew there was no point
to running in her current condition. She wouldn’t make it far. Already her body
tensed with vicious contractions in an attempt to expel the growing parasite. So
she fought back by flinging both rocks and obscenities. But by the sound of it,
the creature was hurt more emotionally than physically; for it merely suffered
Emma’s attacks with a disappointed whimper. Although the revolting beast did not
leave, it at least kept its distance. Its engorged eyes peered through the
crooked trees while its tentacled limbs twisted and snapped. It was waiting.
Another contraction sent shivering pain through her loins. She felt something
burst between her legs, and a gush of hot liquid spilled onto the ground. The
writhing mass of contorted limbs cooed with delight. Emma staggered to the
ground. Birth is never a pleasant affair, but her pain was too sharp, too quick.
Blood oozed down her thighs, soaking her trousers red. Tremors ran through her
arms in tune with the violent pangs that wrenched her gut. And it took all her
strength just to slip out of her clothes. When she did – to her horror – she saw
a pair of pink, wormy hands forcing their way into the open air. Emma bit her
tongue to suppress the screams rising in her throat. But she could not resist
the swelling current of terror and skin-splitting pain. As the parasitic child
exorcised itself from her bleeding womb, her tortured wailings reached greater
and greater heights. Emma watched helplessly as the nearly human child ripped
her cunt into a long and literal gash. By then, her agony had exceeded the
limits of her perception so that each new injury was a mere wisp lost amid a
hellish conflagration. There seemed no end to the torment. But in time her
trials finished, and before her lay a raw and mewling infant. The small creature
looked up at Emma with eyes not unlike her own. It studied her briefly and
mimicked her exhausted expression. And below the child’s left ear, she noticed a
pair of black moles. It was a feature she had only ever seen in the mirror. But
there was something off about the child’s appearance. Its lifeless eyes sat too
many inches apart, its limbs reached too far, and its familiar smile stretched
too wide. Only at a glance could that thing be called human. Just then, the
lumbering mass beyond the trees issued a long bellow. Answering its command, the
newborn scurried into the forest, dragging its shriveled afterbirth with it.
That was the last Emma saw of it. As for the malformed beast, Emma was not safe
just yet. The bristly heap of flesh peeled back the trees and pulled itself
towards her. Emma grabbed her clothes and rose to her feet. Hot gore spilled
down her legs, and a dreadful ache smoldered inside her. But she would not let
the beast take her again. “Leave me alone!” she screamed and threw a rock. Emma
didn’t even wait to see if the rock hit. She bolted as far and fast as her feet
would carry her. For well on an hour, Emma jogged through the trees. When she
could jog no more, she decided to walk. And when she could not walk, she stopped
to dress. There was still a small trickle of blood, but for the most part, her
wounds had clotted. Dawn had bloomed in slanted shades of orange and red. A cool
wind blew against Emma’s face, and the trees swayed to and fro. The only sounds
were of the squirrels chattering, the sparrows tweeting, and an incessant tap
tap tap. Emma craned her head to stare up at the trees, and it was then she saw
it: the ivory-billed woodpecker. The regal bird hacked away at a dead oak with
its strong, straight bill. Its feathers shone red, white, and lustrous black.
The long-lost bird was a beauty to behold, but all Emma could feel in the moment
was contempt. In time, Emma found her way out of the forest and onto a narrow
dirt path. She followed the long and lonely road back to Littlefork. There the
townspeople called her an ambulance and sent her on her way. She did not tell
them what she had endured. Nor did she tell the doctors at the hospital. They
would not believe her. They would not understand. Following the traumatic events
in the woods, Emma entered a state of intense apathy. Her memories were now so
full of pain. To avoid feeling them, she had learned not to feel at all. That
night had changed her, and in her darkest hours, Emma wondered whether the
monster had stolen her humanity as well as her womb. A week after the event took
place, Emma received a phone call. It was Robby. “Emma, I just heard the news.
Are you okay?” he said. “Yes,” Emma said. She did not want to talk about it,
least of all with him. “I’m doing better now.” “I am glad to hear that,” Robby
said. “So it’s all true then? What happened? I got a call from the hotel one day
and then the next …” “We really don’t need to discuss it,” Emma said. “You made
clear how you feel about me.” Robby scoffed. “Just because I don’t want a
serious relationship doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you. And of course I’m
worried! The police said they found you naked in the woods.” “What? What are you
talking about? Police?” “I know it’s embarrassing, but you don’t need to lie to
me,” he said. “You attacked some lady and tried dragging her into the woods.
They took you to a psych ward.” “That wasn’t me.” “I’m surprised they let you go
to be honest.” “Robby, that wasn’t me. When did this happen?” “A couple days
ago. But —” Emma hung up the phone. She did not doubt Robby’s story, but she did
not want to hear it. She already knew the truth. Someone had attacked that lady.
Someone was in the psych ward. A second Emma. A copy. An alternate.


I GREW UP IN BELFAST DURING THE 1970S. THERE WAS SOMETHING FAR WORSE THAN GUNMEN
STALKING THE STREETS. UNCALCULATED!




It was tough coming of age in West Belfast during the early 70s, that’s for
sure. I’m not making excuses for myself but – like many in my generation – I was
caught between a rock and a hard place. I grew up in a working-class Catholic
family and like many others we struggled. My old man was a joiner by trade and
often couldn’t find work, while my mother worked as a school dinner lady to help
pay the bills. I was the middle child and the only boy. I loved my three sisters
but they often did my head in back in the day. All five of us lived in a small,
terraced house with an outdoor toilet. Again, that wasn’t unusual for the time.
We were poor but so was almost everyone we knew, and we were a tight-knit
community. Back then people really did look out for their neighbours. We lived
on a side street off the Catholic Falls Road, only a few hundred yards away from
our Protestant neighbours on the Shankill. My parents weren’t political but were
avid church goers and insisted that we regularly attended mass at Clonard –
every Sunday like clockwork. Nevertheless, we were taught to respect the other
community and to never engage in sectarianism. I actually did have some
Protestant friends when I was young. They had it a bit better than us but not
much. There were more jobs on the Protestant side but they still lived in small
terrace houses like us. We knew they were different from us, but this usually
only became an issue when the 12th July came around and the Orange marches took
place. That brought out the worst in people and reminded us of the deep divide
in our city. Nevertheless, for all the hardships I had a good early childhood,
but everything changed during that fateful summer of 1969. We heard about the
trouble on the news, but then the violence was outside of our front door. People
we knew were rioting – fighting hand-to-hand in the street and throwing petrol
bomb with a wild fury. The police came down the road in their armoured cars and
the loyalist mobs came piling after them, tossing bombs through windows and
burning houses as they came. And then the gunfire began – the heavy rattling of
machineguns and sharp crack of rifles. I remember the whole family hiding under
our kitchen table as the screaming mobs fought tooth and nail on the road
outside. My parents tried to reassure us, but we could tell how scared they
were. I reckoned it was only a matter of time before they attacked our home, but
the riots ended when the British Army arrived, dividing our two warring
communities with barbed wire and bayonets. Hundreds were forced out of their
homes, burnt out and left to retrieve whatever meagre possessions they still had
in carts and coal vans. The riots were horrific but we hoped the army’s arrival
would be the end of it. But sadly, the ’69 riots were a mere prelude to the
years of bloody conflict to come. The Troubles had begun and our lives would
never be the same. I was 12 years old. So, my formulative years were dominated
by the conflict on the streets where I lived – but again, this doesn’t make me
unique and does not explain why I’m sharing my story here. Honestly, I shouldn’t
be speaking about this at all. It’s been more than half a century since the
events, but there’s still a risk. Both the British government and Irish
republican movement could still come after me. But the truth is, I’ve kept this
secret for too long and I want to clear my conscience before it’s too late. So,
let me take you back to the violent summer of 1972, when I was a young lad of 15
trying to survive on the perilous streets of West Belfast. After three long
years of the Troubles violence had become common place to the extent it was
almost normalised. The Army came into our areas heavy-handed, beating and
arresting our friends and neighbours and tearing homes apart in their house
searches for guns and explosives. There was trouble almost every time the Brits
came in as local youths pelted the troops with bricks and bottles. And then
there was the IRA – hooded gunmen who attacked the soldiers with guns and bombs,
as both sides turned our area into a warzone. Gun battles on the streets and
bombings in the city centre were an almost daily occurrence as the Provos went
all out to smash British rule. Unsurprisingly, the Protestants weren’t too happy
about this upsurge in violence and threat to their supremacy. The unionist
politicians made firebrand speeches, calling for total war against the IRA and
its support base. And meanwhile, loyalist paramilitaries decided to take the law
into their own hands, unleashing their rage upon innocent Catholics, shooting
them dead on the streets or worse…kidnapping unfortunates and brutally torturing
them to death inside their hellish romper rooms. Yes, it was a very dangerous
time, but somehow life went on. I’d managed to avoid the worst of it for those
three years. I must give credit to my parents for keeping me on the straight and
narrow. They were strict and I often hated them for it, but looking back now I
understand why they did it. My mother and father had little interest in politics
and when they did vote it was for moderate nationalist candidates. They had no
time for the IRA and condemned their use of violence as deeply sinful and going
against Catholic teachings. Some of my friends had joined the Fianna – the IRA’s
young wing, but my father warned me in no uncertain terms to stay away from the
Provisional’s recruiters. Besides, I was still in school at this point and doing
well academically. I had dreams of escaping the violent streets of Belfast and
attending university on the mainland. But alas, things didn’t work as I’d hoped.
I believe it was Trotsky who said – ‘You may not be interested in war, but war
is interested in you.’ And bloody hell, he was right. I remember it was a
Saturday afternoon, not long before the short-lived ceasefire, followed by the
carnage of Bloody Friday and the massive invasion of nationalist areas by the
Army during Operation Motorman. But on that particular afternoon there was a
brief respite in the violence, and we savoured the opportunity to enjoy the
sunshine and relative peace. I was out with my best mate Sean – well, I thought
he was my friend at the time, but sadly I was mistaken. On that day we were
messing about, kicking a football against a wall in the back alley behind my
home street, dreaming of one day playing in the Cup Final or some nonsense like
that. It was a time of innocence, but this was the day my childhood effectively
ended. I had just scored a ‘goal’ past Sean, smashing the ball between the
painted posts on the red brick wall and shouting in celebration while my friend
groaned in frustration. That’s when we heard it – the loud rat-a-tat of
machinegun fire. This wasn’t unusual but it still made us jump as the gunfire
was unsettling close. Sean and I instinctively ducked into cover behind the bins
as we heard more gunshots and men shouting in both English and Irish accents. A
moment later, a man ran down the alleyway towards us. He was about six foot tall
and wore denim jeans, a black bomber jacket and had a balaclava covering his
face, with crude eye holes cut out so he could see. I felt fear when I looked to
his gloved hands and saw that he carried a Thompson submachinegun. We stood
frozen to the spot, watching on as the gunman removed his mask to reveal his
face. To my surprise I recognised the man as Maccers, a young lad from the next
street along – only a few years older than Sean and I, but already a leading
member of the local IRA unit…a gunman with a fearsome reputation for street
violence and sniper attacks on the Army. The tommy gun in his hands was still
smoking from its barrel, indicating that he’d just carried out a shooting.
Maccers sprinted up to me and – to my utter shock and horror – shoved the
submachinegun into my shaking hands. I looked up, silently pleading for mercy
but seeing nothing but stern, uncompromising eyes staring back at me. “Take it!”
Maccers cried, his spittle hitting me in my face. “Take the gun and hide it. Do
it now for fuck’s sake! If the Brits catch me with it I’ll get 10 years!” I knew
right then that I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If I refused to
take the gun and Maccers got lifted, word would get back to his IRA comrades and
there would surely be repercussions. On the other hand, if I did take the gun
and the Brits caught me, then I would be the one going to prison. I had only
seconds to think and so made a snap decision. “Okay.” I said, awkwardly taking
hold of the cold metal weapon and almost dropping the gun due to its heavy
weight. “Good man,” Maccers said with a wink, “I’ll come back for it in a few
days.” And then he ran, tearing along the alleyway and soon disappearing from
sight. I looked to Sean in shocked confusion. Not a word was said, but in an
instant we both darted to the back door leading to the small courtyard at the
rear of my house, slamming the wooden door shut behind us. We’d done so just in
the nick of time, as a moment later we heard the heavy stomping of boots on the
asphalt and shouts in a variety of different English accents. “Army, halt! Stop
you Mick bastard!” I was terrified that the soldiers would kick open my back
door and catch us red-handed, but thankfully they continued charging down the
alleyway in pursuit of Maccers. I breathed a deep sigh of relief, looking to
Sean as he mouthed – “Fucking hell, that was close!” I didn’t swear much as my
parents wouldn’t tolerate bad language, but my friend’s words seemed appropriate
given the situation. “What are you going to do with it?” Sean asked. I shook my
head, trying to work through my panic and think. “My ma’s got some old potato
sacks in the kitchen cupboard. I’ll wrap the gun up in one of those and hide it
under the toilet. No one will find it there.” “Fair play.” Sean answered in
apparent agreement. I began to calm down after all the excitement. I was still
as scared as hell to be fair, but my rational brain told me this was an
unfortunate one-off event. I thought Maccers or one of his comrades would come
back for the tommy gun within a day or two and that would be the end of it. But
of course, I was wrong. I’d been dragged into the violence against my will, and
there was no way back. Days passed and no-one came for the gun. I heard rumours
that Maccers was on the run so had no idea if or when I would see him again. My
fear was palpable as all the possible scenarios went through my head. I was
unable to sleep at night, lying on my hard mattress in my tiny box room,
twisting and turning as I struggled to control my breathing. I felt a terrible
darkness coming over me during the early hours, a primal terror which threatened
to overcome me. This was the beginning of the living nightmare, as the entity
made its initial advances upon me, but I didn’t realise this until much later.
My biggest fear at this point was that my parents would find the gun hidden
under our toilet. But, as it turned out, this was the least of my concerns. I
was walking home from school on the Wednesday afternoon, passing by the security
cordon on the edge of the city centre, constructed in an attempt to keep the
bombers at bay. I drew suspicious glares from the troops manning the barricade,
young men in helmets and flak jackets, carrying SLRs and scanning the street and
the crowds nervously, expecting an attack at any time. The tension, fear and
hatred was always present on the streets of Belfast at that time. This deadly
atmosphere had almost become normalised after three years, but of course it was
anything but. I was walking through Corn Market when I got lifted. It was the
police who detained me rather than the army, as a dark blue armoured land rover
pulled up on the pavement beside me. Two uniformed constables jumped out, their
guns holstered as they approached me. The lead officer – a burly man with a
thick moustache – spoke to me in a booming Ulster accent. “Come on son, you know
the drill.” The two constables proceeded to roughly frisk me, supposedly
searching for weapons or explosives. I didn’t resist. Searches like this were
routine and I was subjected to them on a regular basis. I wasn’t carrying any
contraband on me so expected to be released without further comment, but instead
the moustached constable nodded towards the rear door of the land rover. “The
Sergeant wants a word with you son. In there.” I experienced a moment of raw
panic, glancing over my shoulder in search of an escape route. “Come on son,
don’t be doing anything stupid. The Sarge just wants to talk.” My panicked brain
quickly went through my options, but I soon realised I had none. The policemen
had been as respectful as I could expect – they hadn’t threatened me or used any
sectarian slurs – but still, going into the back of a land rover rarely ended
well. Nevertheless, I doubted I would be able to outrun the peelers and so I
reluctantly did as I was told. I shakingly climbed into the back of the heavily
armoured vehicle, jumping as the heavy door was slammed shut behind me. A single
figure sat in the rear of the car – a heavy-set, middle-aged man wearing a beige
trench coat along with a scruffy shirt and tie. He sported an unkempt beard and
glared down on me with intense eyes. To my surprise he held out his hand for me
to shake and he addressed me by my name. This was the moment I knew I was
fucked, because it meant this wasn’t a random arrest – the police had
deliberately targeted me. “My name is Sergeant Johnston,” the policeman said,
speaking in a gruff and deep voice. “I work for the RUC’s Special Branch. Do you
know what that is?” “Yes.” I answered with a gulp, a cold chill running through
me. The Special Branch was notorious in my community as their main
responsibility was gathering intelligence to combat terrorism, and that meant
running informers. Johnston nodded his head in satisfaction at my answer. “Good,
that’s good. This will save us a lot of time. Let’s get down to brass tacks
son.” I watched nervously as he deftly reached into his coat pocket and removed
a polaroid photograph which he held up to the light so I could see. My heart
froze when I saw the image before me – it was the tommy gun lying upon the
unwrapped potato sack and sitting on the ground outside of our back door. My
dark secret had been discovered. I was left speechless, looking to Sergeant
Johnston with fear and guilt in my heart as I waited for him to speak. “We know
you hid the submachinegun for the IRA. I had the boys take this photo earlier
today. Right now, we have a platoon of soldiers ready to move onto your street
and raid your house. They’ll find the gun and bullets back in the spot where you
hid it. You and your whole family will be arrested. Possession of an illegal
firearm is a serious offence, particularly if we slap an ‘intent to endanger
life’ charge on top of it. You’re looking at five to ten years in prison.” “But
it wasn’t my fault!” I cried out rather pathetically, “I had no choice!”
Sergeant Johnston held up his hand to silence me. “It’s all right son. I’m here
to help. There’s another option. I call off the raid and the Provos pick up the
gun as planned. They’ll be grateful to you, and you’ll volunteer to do other wee
jobs for them – delivering packages and messages…that sort of thing. We’ll meet
up regular somewhere like this – far away from your street and where nobody will
see us. You’ll tell me what you’ve seen and what’s happening in your area. Wee
tips to help us build up a picture…to help us save lives. We’ll even pay you a
few quid for your trouble. Some money to help out your family.” I felt sick,
hardly believing what I was hearing. “You want me to become a tout?” I cried.
The police sergeant seemed angered by my outburst, speaking his next words
through clenched teeth. “I want you to help stop terrorists from committing
shootings and bombings. You’ll be safe as long as you act smart. It will never
get back to the IRA. And besides, what other choice do you have? Do you want to
go to college and get out of this hellhole, or would you rather spend the next
few years in a cage?” My head was spinning by this point as my whole world had
been turned upside down in a matter of minutes. Sadly, I knew Johnston had me
over a barrel. I would have to do as he said. “Okay,” I finally answered, “What
do you want me to do?” Johnston smiled, slapping me on the back as he said –
“Good lad! Let’s get you to work.” The demon made itself known to me that very
night. I think it had always been there, circling on the periphery and waiting
for its opportunity to break through into the mortal realm. Somehow it was
connected to me and fed off my pain and fear. So, after my encounter with
Sergeant Johnston, this monster was ready to feast. I’d excused myself from
dinner by feigning illness and going to bed early. I couldn’t face my parents
and sisters after what had happened and I doubted I would have been able to eat,
as my stomach was in knots. I had trouble sleeping but must have eventually
dropped off due to sheer exhaustion. I remember waking suddenly in the middle of
the night. Often I would be awoken by explosions during the night, but on this
occasion the city was quiet. Nevertheless, I felt a raw panic surging through me
as I opened my eyes and struggled to breathe. I tried to sit up in my bed but to
my horror discovered that I couldn’t move. My entire body was paralysed from the
neck down and I’d become an impotent prisoner inside of my own body. I tried to
open my mouth and cry out for help but could produce no sound. My family were
only yards away but had no idea I was in danger. But what had done this to me?
My terror only increased when I realised I wasn’t alone in the room. I turned my
head ever so slightly, looking through the blackness to see a dark figure
standing in the corner glaring down upon me. My heart beat fast in my chest as I
looked upon my captor. I couldn’t see his face or make out any of his features,
only seeing a shadow in the shape of a man. I knew straight away that the
intruder wasn’t a mortal man however, thinking back to my Catholic upbringing –
the scriptures…warnings of demons and dark spirits. Evil beings that walked the
Earth. He didn’t speak to me directly. In fact, I don’t believe he even had a
mouth. Nevertheless, the beast was inside my head and I could hear his foul
words – talk of death and suffering, of terrible evils beyond my comprehension.
And then he stopped feeding words into my head and instead showed me images –
terrors still to come, as all my shame, guilt and fear spilled out. Suddenly I
found myself in my home street during daylight hours, my hands cuffed behind my
back as I watched a platoon of heavily armed soldiers and policemen breaking
into my house, smashing up my family home and dragging my parents and sisters
out as they executed a heavy-handed arrest. My father glared at me as they led
him out and shoved him into the back of a waiting land rover. His look was one
of disappointment and reproach, and I couldn’t meet his gaze for more than a few
seconds. I knew this wasn’t real – it was merely a false reality shown to me by
the demon, but the intense guilt and shame I experienced was genuine, and it
almost broke me. I heard the monster’s vile cackling in my head and realised it
was taking a perverse satisfaction from my suffering, growing ever stronger from
my pain. I feared the beast would destroy me right there and then but instead it
left, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived and leaving me alone in my dark
bedroom. To my immense relief I regained control of my body and shot up on my
bed, dripping with a cold sweat as I scanned the room in a panic, making sure
that the beast had really left. I had survived my first encounter with the demon
but somehow I knew it would be back for more. Everything looks better in the
daylight and I was greatly relieved to see the first glimmers of sunshine at
dusk. I rationalised the events during the night, telling myself I’d suffered
from a vivid nightmare brought on by the trauma of my situation. But of course,
I was still trapped in a deadly web, stuck between the RUC and IRA.
Nevertheless, the situation played out pretty much as Johnston had predicted. I
was approached on the street the next day by a mean-faced teenager I hadn’t seen
before. He told me to wait in the back alley and have the ‘package’ ready. I did
as I was told, shaking with nerves as I held the heavy weapon in both hands.
Thankfully the young Provo soon arrived and grabbed the gun from my trembling
hands. He gave me a further order before departing, saying – “Maccers wants to
see you. Come to the club at 6.” And then he left. The club in question was an
unlicensed shebeen run by the IRA and not far from where I lived. I retched on
my way there, my nerves shot. I had to compose myself before entering the bar,
my nostrils suddenly filled with the stench of tobacco smoke and stale alcohol.
I soon found Maccers sitting at the bar, drinking from a pint of Guinness and
puffing on a cigarette. He smiled when he saw me approach. “Here he is! The man
of the hour! Take a stool and I’ll buy you a pint.” Technically I was too young
to drink and my parents certainly wouldn’t have approved, but I didn’t dare to
refuse Maccers and could use the stout to calm my nerves. Maccers slapped me on
my shoulder as I took a sip and he continued to sing my praises. “You did well
son. Saved my skin, that’s for sure. The republican movement owes you a debt.” I
nodded my head, taking another gulp before I forced out my next words. “I want
to do more…to help the cause.” I met Maccers gaze and saw a change in his
expression. For a terrifying moment I thought he was onto me. But instead he
turned around to face a third man who sat in a booth facing the bar, silently
listening in on our conversation. He was an older man wearing a brown suit and
peaked cap whilst nursing a glass of whiskey. His expression was deadly serious
and I could tell that Maccers deferred to him. The older man didn’t speak but
merely nodded his head, and this was the only approval Maccers needed. “Good
man,” he said whilst shaking my hand, “the movement can always use new
volunteers. We’ll be in touch.” And so that was the beginning of my double life.
The IRA had me running errands, delivering packages and messages to safe houses
and drinking dens, and once a week I met with Johnston and reported what I’d
seen and heard. I hated keeping this terrible secret from my family and lived in
constant fear of being found out. I’d become an informer or ‘tout’ in Belfast
vernacular. This was just about the worst thing you could be in my community.
Even those who opposed violence still didn’t co-operate with the police or the
Brits. If my treachery was discovered…well, let’s just say that my young age
wouldn’t save me. The nights were the worst. I continued to tell myself that the
demon was simply a figment of my imagination, but as time went on, I felt less
sure. The dark entity didn’t appear before me for many nights, but I always felt
its presence and feared the beast was merely biding his – or its – time. I
reached breaking point after one tense encounter with Sergeant Johnston in the
back of his parked car off Royal Avenue. Something had been playing on my mind
for a while and so I forced myself to ask the question, even though I wasn’t
sure I wanted to hear the answer. “How did you know where the gun was hidden?” I
enquired sheepishly, thinking back to the incident that had started me down this
dangerous path. Johnston snorted before responding. “Come on son. You’re a smart
lad. Who knew about the gun, other than you and Maccers?” My heart sank as the
painful truth was confirmed. “Sean,” I muttered, “the bastard sold me out.” “I’m
afraid so son,” Johnston replied, “the wee hallion got caught breaking into
houses. He didn’t hesitate in giving you up to save his own skin. That wee shite
isn’t your friend.” That night I was consumed with anger and pain as the
confirmation of my best friend’s betrayal hit home, and I was on the brink of
losing all my faith in humanity, hardly caring whether I lived or died. It was
then – while I was at my lowest point – that the demon returned, ready and eager
to feast on my negative emotions and exploit my greatest fears to push me to
breaking point. It began as before, with me waking in the early hours and
finding myself paralysed, unable to move an inch and completely at my captor’s
mercy. I turned my head to face the beast, descending into a state of absolute
dread as I cast my eyes upon its dark form. As before, it appeared as a black
shadow in the shape of a man. But somehow the creature seemed larger and
stronger than before, towering over me like a God dominating a mere mortal. I
didn’t even resist as it entered my head and filled my mind with horrific
images, and then it spoke. “SEE YOUR FUTURE. SEE YOUR DEATH.” boomed the unholy
voice. Suddenly I found myself in the middle of the Falls Road with chaos and
anarchy all around me. I soon realised I was in the midst of a riot, unwisely
standing in the middle of a pack of local youngsters as they attacked a line of
soldiers blocking off the road ahead. The troops held shields to protect
themselves from a barrage of bricks and rocks as the teenagers unleashed their
rage upon them. All of a sudden, a long-haired kid stepped forward with fire in
his hands, tossing a lit petrol bomb towards the Army lines. The bomb exploded
against the line of shields, forcing the soldiers back as they fought the
flames. The rioters cried out in triumph at their small victory, but then a
soldier moved into the front, the shield line temporarily breaking to allow him
to drop down on one knee and fire. The rubber bullet tore through the air at
great speed. I saw it coming but had no time to react. It hit me square in my
head, resulting in a blinding pain as I fell backwards, landing heavily on the
asphalt…and then everything went black. I found myself in another nightmare. My
whole body hurt and I could not move, soon discovering I was tightly bound to a
chair. I opened my swollen eyes and bore witness to my horrific surroundings. I
was tied up in a windowless back room – a tattered Union Jack hanging on the
wall and a group of half-a-dozen thuggish men standing before me. All stank of
alcohol, their muscular arms adorned with loyalist tattoos and their faces
screwed up with pure hatred. They snarled, swore and laughed sadistically as the
advanced upon me, savagely beating me with fists and snooker cues. I felt every
painful blow, screaming out for mercy but finding none. I was close to passing
out when they finally stopped beating me. I hoped they’d had enough and would
let me go, but then their leader – a huge man with a deep scar across his face –
smiled cruelly as he withdrew a rusty butcher’s knife. I screamed as the blade
cut into my skin…the pain so great that I lost consciousness. Another place and
time. It was cold and wet, the sun rising on the grey horizon. I was half naked
and down on my knees in a muddy bog, my hands bound behind my back as I looked
to a hole dug in front of me. To my horror, I realised this was my own grave. I
felt a cold metal barrel against the back of my skull and heard a stone-cold
voice in my ear. “You have been found guilty of treason by the Irish Republican
Army.” announced the gunman, “Your sentence is death.” I sobbed, my whole body
shaking uncontrollably as I pleaded for my life. “Please…please don’t do this!”
“May God have mercy on your soul.” There was an almighty flash and an explosion
inside of my skull, my vision fading to red as I collapsed into my shallow
grave. With that I was thrown back to reality, lying frozen on my bed as the
shadowy beast leaned over me. It had no eyes, but its hateful glare burnt
through me all the same, and I could hear its sick laughter inside my head, even
though it had no mouth. It had shown me my worst nightmares and fed off my
terror, but still the beast wouldn’t let me go. Why should it, when tormenting
me brought it so much pleasure? But for tonight it had satisfied its fiendish
appetite, leaving me alone in the dark. I shot up from my bed, my instinct
telling me to scream until I stopped myself, not wishing to wake my family. It
couldn’t go on like this. If I didn’t die on the streets, the demon would surely
finish me off, draining the life out of me bit by bit. I resolved to speak with
Johnston and put an end to all this, although of course it wasn’t that easy. I
recall the conversation I had with my handler at our next meeting, as we sat
together in a quiet café in the city centre. I told him everything, describing
the demon’s appearance in my bedroom and the terrible visions it had subjected
me to. I pleaded for him to release me from my obligation, but of course he
thought I was mad, practically laughing in my face. “You’re losing the plot son.
I’ve seen it before. Undercover men start to have nightmares and lose track of
what’s real. You need to pull yourself together lad! Play it cool and you’ll be
fine, but if you keep acting like this, the Provos will catch you, and you know
what that means!” I didn’t argue with the police sergeant after that. I knew it
was pointless. I was on my own – left in a deadly struggle for survival against
both men and demons and with no means of fighting back. I honestly didn’t know
how it would have ended had it not been for the bizarre occurrences that
followed my next meeting with Johnston. This was when the terrible truth was
revealed to me – that of the shadowy links between military intelligence and
dark entities from the immortal realm. When Johnston picked me up in his car
that day, I thought we would go through the usual debrief and exchange of money,
but this wasn’t the case. I was shocked at my handler’s appearance, his eyes
bloodshot and his hair and beard matted and dishevelled. When he spoke I could
smell the alcohol on his breath. The sergeant had always been on the scruffy
side for as long as I’d known him, but now he looked strung out and close to the
edge. I feared the stresses of the job were getting on top of him. He started up
the engine as soon as I got in, saying – “We’re going for a wee drive son.” I
felt a cold sweat, frightened by this unexpected turn of events. “Where are we
going?” I asked nervously. There was a lengthy pause before the policeman
answered. “Palace Barracks in Holywood.” he eventually confirmed. This was a
place I’d never been before and his answer didn’t make me feel any better. I
remained silent for a moment, looking out the car window and watching the armed
troops and bombed out buildings. “Why?” I asked. “Can’t tell you. Its
classified.” “Seriously?” The sergeant shook his head as he continued driving.
“I guess you deserve to know the truth. I’m not happy about this, not one bit. I
reported your story to my boss…all the shite about the demon in your bedroom.
Should have left it out of my report, but I didn’t. Next thing I know they’re
asking me to bring you in. There’s some English prick who wants to meet you…”
“An Englishman?” I interjected, losing my patience. “Who is he? What does he
want with me?” “Don’t know. Some toff called Stanley Black. No-one can tell me
who the arsehole works for…MI5 or MI6 maybe. They just told me to bring you to
the barracks so he can talk to you. That’s all I know son…” I felt light-headed
and sick to my stomach. “Please don’t take me there. I want to go home.” I
pleaded. “There’s no choice son,” he answered solemnly, “Don’t worry, I’ll look
after you.” His words brought me some small comfort but I was still extremely
anxious and my instincts told me this wouldn’t end well. We entered the barracks
through the security gate, directed by the sentries to the basement below the
main building, where we descended down the stairs as a heavy door was shut
behind us. We were met by a stern-faced military policeman wearing a red beret
and with a sub-machinegun slung over his shoulder. He opened a steel shutter
door and motioned for us to enter. Inside sat a middle-aged man with neat dark
hair and piercing eyes, dressed in an immaculate pin-stripe suit. He smiled
amicably, exerting an almost snake-like charm as he held out his hand and spoke
to me in a clipped, upper-class English accent. “Good afternoon young man, it’s
a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for coming.” I reluctantly shook his
hand, wondering what the hell he was going on about. He was trying to put me at
ease I suppose, but why? “Please take a seat.” Mr Black said, whilst pointing me
towards the table and chairs in the middle of the room. “Would you like a soft
drink or cup of tea?” I shook my head in the negative, reluctantly sitting down.
“You are excused Sergeant Johnston,” Black said curtly, whilst casting a
disparaging look towards the policeman. “Please wait outside until we’re
finished.” The sergeant didn’t look happy but he left the room nonetheless,
leaving me to the mercies of the enigmatic Stanley Black. The Englishman sat on
the seat across from me, retaining his friendly pretence as he continued to
talk. “Well young man, I imagine you’re wondering what you’re doing here? I
won’t beat about the bush. I’m not interested in the work you’ve done for
Sergeant Johnston. That sort of thing is a bit below my pay grade. What does
interest me is your experiences with the supernatural entity. You know what I’m
talking about, don’t you? The shadow that visits you at night?” I nodded my
head, my anxiety levels increasing as I feared where this was going. “Why don’t
you tell me about it?” he prompted. I took a deep breath before beginning my
story. Mr Black listened with great interest, occasionally stopping me to ask
for clarification or additional details. I felt drained by the time I’d finished
telling my dark tale, but my interrogator was clearly very excited.
“Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.” he exclaimed, “As you can probably tell,
I have a special interest in paranormal events such as yours. I want to tell you
lad, you are special. In my experience there are very few people able to connect
with the other side in the way you have done.” I shook my head in disbelief,
hardly believing what I was hearing. If the hell I was living through was
special, then I yearned to be normal. “I know you’re scared, my boy.” Mr Black
continued; his intense eyes entirely focussed upon me. “But I’m here to help
you. This next part won’t be easy, but it must be done.” I didn’t have time to
respond as suddenly the door to the interrogation room swung open and the burly
MP from before marched inside, slamming the door shut behind him. I heard
Johnston shouting and banging on the other side of the door and realised they’d
locked the policeman out. And in that moment I panicked, realising I was in
grave danger. I jumped up from my chair but was instantly grabbed by the soldier
and roughly manhandled to a second door, leading to an adjoined room. I kicked,
screamed and swore but the guard was too strong for me, bundling me through the
doorway where fresh horrors awaited. The second room was larger than the first.
There was a mirror at the far end, which I guessed was a two-way set up for
observation. There were no table or chairs inside however – but instead a
medical gurney firmly secured to the floor and complete with leather straps. I
looked to the gurney in horror, also seeing a medical attendant standing
diligently beside it, wearing scrubs and a surgical mask and looking upon me
with dark, emotionless eyes. I continued to fight as the guard dragged me
towards the waiting gurney. He was assisted by the medical man and between them
they held me down, securing me to the bed. I was now at the mercy of Black’s
men. “What are you going to do to me?” I cried in a panic, as the fear almost
overwhelmed me. They didn’t answer. The guard left the room by yet another door,
securing and locking it behind him. Meanwhile, the attendant waited patiently
until I heard a muffled voice through a speaker mounted to the ceiling. I
recognised Stanley Black’s voice, realising he was directing events from behind
the glass. “You may proceed in your own time doctor.” I swore I could see a
wicked glint in the doctor’s cold eyes as he withdrew a syringe from his pocket
and searched for a vein in my bound arm. “You should try to relax. This will go
easier if you’re calm.” he said. I reacted with pure fury, spitting out my angry
response – “Fuck you!” The vile doctor merely smirked before saying – “Suit
yourself.” And then he stuck the needle into my right arm. To this day I don’t
know what they injected me with. God only knows what was in that hellish
concoction. I remember feeling woozy almost straight away, having a strange
sensation like I was slipping out of my own body. I must have lost consciousness
for a time as everything went black. I can’t say how long I was out for, but
when I reopened my eyes he was there. The demon – the shadow beast – was
standing in the corner of the room, its dark shape illuminated by the artificial
lights. I gasped in horror as I looked upon the monster in disbelief. I’d never
seen it before in the light – but its form had not changed. The beast had no
mouth, no eyes…no physical features whatsoever. It was simply a shadow shaped
like a man. But despite its lack of expression, I could tell the demon was
furious. I turned to the doctor and saw the sheer terror in his eyes when he saw
the demon. Whatever Mr Black had told him, clearly it was a lie. He screamed and
broke, running to the door and frantically trying to work the handle, only to
discover he was locked in. The doctor banged his fists against the metal door,
screaming – “Dear God! Let me out! Let me out damn you!” But it was already too
late. The shadow monster unleashed a hellish, banshee-like wail – so loud and
high-pitched that I feared it would burst my eardrums. And then it charged with
all the fury in hell – tearing across the room at lightning speed and
surrounding the doctor within its dark form. I could only look on in horror as
the monster literally sucked the life out of the screaming man, his skin turning
a deadly shade of white and his face frozen in a macabre death mask as his
lifeless body fell to the hard floor. Its terrible task completed, the demon
turned towards me, growing ever stronger as it fed off my terror. I thought this
was the end for me, as the last of the fight left my body. But then the door
swung open and two men stormed in. The first was the MP brandishing his Sterling
SMG. The second was Sergeant Johnston. He wasn’t meant to be in here, but nobody
could stop him. The demon seemed taken aback by the intrusion, retreating to the
far corner of the room. The soldier foolishly chased after him as Stanley Black
screamed new orders through the speaker. “Engage! Neutralise the entity!” The
soldier opened fire, spraying his target with bullets. I don’t know what he was
thinking as the rounds simply passed through the shadow’s form, slamming into
the wall behind it. But his suicidal assault created a distraction. Johnston ran
to my side, frantically working the straps with his shaking hands. “Don’t
look…Don’t look at it…God help us.” he muttered fearfully as he struggled to
free me. Suddenly the gunfire stopped and I heard the guard scream, dropping
dead as the shadow overwhelmed him. A second later and the last strap came off,
setting me free. “Fucking run!” Johnston screamed. I didn’t need to be told
twice. We darted for the open door as the demon wailed, chasing after us to
finish what it had started. Somehow we made it, Johnston slamming the heavy door
shut and turning the key in the lock. And then he brought me into the control
room where Stanley Black stood, watching the carnage through the two-way mirror.
We heard the trapped demon screaming in fury, so loudly that all the light bulbs
inside shattered, shrouding the interrogation room in darkness. Mr Black flicked
a switch on his control panel and a second later the emergency lights came on.
But the demon was gone, having retreated back to its own realm and leaving two
dead bodies in its wake. The cavalry came soon after, as a squad of heavily
armed troops arrived and took Johnston and me into custody. They placed us in a
holding cell, me still in a state of shock and Johnston in a wild rage. I don’t
know how long we were in there for, but eventually Stanley Black came to see us,
although he spoke through the slit in the cell door to prevent the furious
Johnston from getting him. “Gentleman, what happened today was a tragedy. But we
must make these sacrifices in our quest for discovery.” “You’re a fucking
lunatic!” Johnston screamed, “I won’t let you get away with this!” “Now now,
Sergeant Johnston,” Black said with a coy smile, “Please don’t be rash. You must
realise that I know people in the Provisional IRA. I’m sure you wouldn’t want
your details falling into their hands…” he paused briefly and looked to me. “And
you young man, you wouldn’t want your neighbours to learn you’ve been working
for the police, would you? No no gentlemen, I think its in your best interests
to forget this ugly incident ever occurred. I would strongly advise you never to
speak of this again.” We both knew right there and then that he had us by the
balls. We left the barracks and Johnston drove me home. Neither of us spoke a
word until he dropped me off. Before I got out of the car, Johnston put his hand
on my arm and said – “I’m sorry I got you into this son. Take care of yourself.”
And that was the last time I ever saw him. For months after I feared the demon
would return to haunt me in the night, but it never did. I guess it found
another poor unfortunate to attach itself too. I suppose I should feel some
gratitude to Stanley Black for setting me free, although this certainly hadn’t
been his objective. But still, I didn’t feel safe as the bloody conflict dragged
on. I left Belfast as soon as I turned eighteen and made a new life for myself
away from the war-torn streets of Belfast, but I could never forget what I’d
seen and heard during the hellish summer of ‘72. As for the other participants
in this story – unfortunately they all met with violent ends in the years to
come. Sean was gunned down in a loyalist drive-by shooting, Maccers died when a
bomb he was carrying exploded prematurely, and Sergeant Johnston was ambushed
and shot one morning on his way to work. I grieved for all three, feeling they
were all victims of a conflict they hadn’t chosen. Still, part of me feared
their violent deaths weren’t a coincidence, and perhaps a shadowy cabal was
eliminating the witnesses to the supernatural incident. I thought they would
come for me next, but this never happened…And then there was Stanley Black. I
never knew what happened to him – that was until I read an account from a former
British officer describing yet another botched experiment in the occult. This is
how I learnt of Mr Black’s demise as he was struck down by one of the dark
spirits he’d summoned into our world. I felt a grim satisfaction upon hearing of
my torturer’s violent death, but it terrifies me to think of what other horrors
were unleashed during those chaotic times and whether they still stalk our
mortal realm, waiting for the opportunity to strike. I can only pray that the
terrible mistakes of those dark days are never repeated.


THE CHICKEN MAN 8.5K+




On the first night Julie laid eyes upon the shadowy ‘Chicken Man’, there was a
steady downpour. The figure, who was distant enough to seem beetle-like to
Julie’s eye, lurched steadily towards her family’s barn. The Chicken Man would
appear on every night of a full moon, and walk into that very barn where the
animals were kept. Julie would grow up and watch this mysterious man in awe,
making sure to look at the barn from the living room window almost every full
moon. The barn stood firmly in the prairie countryside, casting a large shadow
into the night, casting awe upon Julie as she would gaze at it. 12:15 – 12:30…
That was the Chicken Man’s time, and he would stroll into the looming barn,
disappearing into its large shadow in that time. Julie’s straight edge
traditional parents, who grew well into the gray hair phase, supposed there
would be a time they would have to explain everything to their youngest child.
Julie always was an energetic, curious kid after all. Her first bout of
questions came as no surprise at all, during a pancake breakfast on her 9th
birthday. “Dad, Dad, I almost went out there last night.” Julie exclaimed,
covered in a mess of wrapping paper. Maple syrup appeared to be knotting her
golden blonde hair. Julie’s father almost dropped his fork. It was not the fact
that she knew about the Chicken Man or was asking questions that scared him, but
the specific statement she made. “Don’t talk to him Julie. He, he…” Julie’s
father sat in a rut of thought for a moment, thinking of ways to ward his
daughter off from a confrontation. “He’s not a nice fellow. He don’t wanna be
bothered, you hear?” He lectured, now having a finger pointed at Julie. The
mother of the family sat silently next to her husband, hoping, worrying that he
was careful in his explanation. Down at the further end, Julie’s two older
brothers sat looking at each other, mischievously grinning. They already knew of
the Chicken Man, they have heard this talk before. “Don’t you wanna know why
they call him the Chicken Man, Sis?” hissed Ryan, the middle child of the
family. Now the family sat in silence, with the oldest brother Charles beginning
to act in a cool, disinterested manner. He poked at his mash potatoes, with his
fork as his sword as his father watched uncomfortably. Just as the old man
opened his mouth to begin speaking, Julie exclaimed “… Because he takes the
Chickens! That’s why!” Julie’s father dropped his fork again, this time it fell
all the way to the ground rather than onto his plate. A loud and dramatic fall,
to accommodate the sudden shock in the old man’s head. His daughter was smarter
than he realized, and he supposed it was about time he had a child who showed
early signs of brightness. He slowly turned to his daughter with the expression
of intrigue stuck to his face. “How’d you know that Julie?” He turned and looked
at his wife, who upon immediate notice began to shake her head at him. “Because
every time before he comes, you put chickens in there and then they’re gone the
next day!” Julie rambled excitedly. “In July, you put Ruffles, Mustard, and one
of the brown chickies in there, and the next day they were gone!” Julie now
seemed to be upset, her tone of voice carried an air of accusation. “And, and in
September you put Sunshine, Peckington, and Goobly in there… and they were gone
the next day! Where did they go Dad, does the Chicken Man take them somewhere
nice?” Julie’s father sighed, putting one hand in his face, and the other almost
accidentally in his mashed potatoes. He had told Julie before about naming the
chickens… and sure, he guessed the chickens were going to a nicer place. Most
people referred to heaven as that, such as when his dog passed as a kid, and his
mother would say “She’s in a better place now, Son”. Nonetheless, the fear of
his daughter eventually seeking to confront the Chicken Man lurked in the back
of his mind. He supposed he would have to think of a better explanation. A
better explanation… when there’s time… The old man thought staring into a
picture frame on the dining room wall. Covered in morning sunlight, the father,
holding back tears, stared into his lost first born son’s eyes, solidified by
the glass covering his picture. Yes… he has known the Chicken Man all too well.
He was not going to let Julie go down that same dreadful path, the one that he
watched before she was born, still terrifying his frail mind to this day. “Yes…
they go to a better place, honey. Don’t worry about it.” The old man said
softly, still gazing into the photograph which only served as a reminder of dark
days. Outside the mist of thought clouding his brain, he heard his daughter
blurting out questions machine gun style, with all of them flying right out the
window rather than into his ear. “Dad, Dad, did you hear me”? His daughter kept
asking, probing for his attention. Her father turned to look at her slowly, just
coming back to now. “…What now?” He asked. “Why does he come at the same time?
Between 12:15 and 12:30?” Julie’s father sighed, he could feel his brain going
back into a depressive haze now. One last time that morning, he replied
“…Because that’s his time Julie. That’s his schedule.” And that was the last
talk of the Chicken Man that morning, and for quite some time. During Julie’s
adolescent years, her pique interest shone through as a love for animals. She
had gotten a puppy for her tenth birthday, a border collie named Peaches. She
and Peaches loved to roam the prairie surrounding the farm. The old man would go
on to buy some new friends for Julie, or ‘farm animals’ as he so thought to call
them. Julie and Peaches went on to befriend all of them, from the new goats, to
the rabbits, to the cow who she named ‘Sadie’. Julie grew up as an outcast in
her small countryside school district. She did not do well making friends with
humans, discovering that animals made for much more understanding companions. As
she gave her heart to the animals, feeling affection from them as well, it was
not long before another thought popped into her head around the time she was 13.
A natural thought for an animal lover to have. Thoughts of veganism. She knew
her parents would be initially shocked when she turned down her first plate of
boiled chicken, and they would maybe even refuse to accommodate her new diet, as
stubborn and traditional as they were. She also knew her older brothers Ryan,
who was 15 then, and Charles who was 16 would never let up on the vegan jokes.
Regardless, Julie would go on to shrug all of this off. Her parents did refuse
to feed her for a while, so she lived off of salad. After about a month, they
began to accommodate, realizing this may not just be a phase. Her brothers of
course began their onslaught of vegan targeted bullying, but they got tired of
it after about two weeks. Julie lived as a flower child. Her days were full of
roaming the prairie farmland with Peaches, laughing into the wind, filling her
head with childhood memories anyone would hope to never forget. Yep, it was all
roses, except for one dark corner of her mind that never went away. That
mysterious figure, the Chicken Man, who came every full moon, and snatched her
friends, her chickens. That barn always carried a mysterious air to her, and
despite trying to stay out of it as much as possible during her adolescence, she
went on to watch that barn at night. Almost every full moon, she would be
perched on the couch, looking out the window as the dark, round figure strutted
with grim ease and lethargicness towards the barn. Rain, hail, lightning storms,
it did not matter. If there was a full moon, The Chicken Man would come during
his time. Her memories of the Chicken Man always gave her a childlike sense of
mystery that lurked on the family’s farm. She wouldn’t mind watching that ghoul
come every full moon for the rest of her life, if it were not for one thing that
Julie could not get over. The chickens, her friends that would disappear. Julie
cared about them too much, and as her love for animals grew, and she began to
develop a career interest in being a veterinarian, Julie knew she had to find
out where the chickens were going. So she hatched a plan, a plan that would
oppose the words her father had lectured to her on her 9th birthday. It was a
cold night in November, winds were roaring atop the flat prairie land. There was
no rain on this night, only a full moon. Tonight, Julie would seek redemption,
or at least understanding. Her father had told her that the chickens went to a
better place, but she was old enough at this point to understand what the geyser
meant. Being 15 came with all sorts of grim understandings, perhaps the first
thoughts of a potential afterlife, and what in the world that could possibly be.
For Julie, the age also came with a new sense of courage, which allowed her to
take action in her plan. She would not directly confront the Chicken Man, as she
honestly assumed her worst fears to be true; the Chicken Man was likely
dangerous. This was not a confirmed likelihood, but Julie tended to fear the
worst. Growing up a social outcast does that to people, and she had no shortage
of anxiety. Rather, Julie would watch and wait until the Chicken Man’s time was
over, and it would become her time. As the Chicken man was leaving, Julie
planned to watch him in an effort to observe the condition of the chickens. Were
they slung in a burlap sack, writhing in pain as they struggled for space with
one another, or were they gently placed in grates? Julie hoped for the latter.
She sat on the couch with a bag of vegan crackers, waiting in the night for the
Chicken Man’s time as she ran through possible scenarios in her head. The
Chicken Man ran seven minutes late that night, which was unusual to Julie, who
has kept track of this most of her life. Her pupils shone in the moonlight as
she sat in a dreamy gaze on the couch. She now could see the dark figure of the
Chicken Man, who always seemed to be in a dreary, zombie like state of limping.
He lurched slowly across the flat prairie ground, and Julie could always observe
him for about three minutes until he finally dissipated under the giant, looming
shadow of the barn. Just barely, his round outline could be seen entering the
doors to the barn. Julie shuddered watching him, and somehow she got a better
look at his figure then she ever had. He seemed abnormally round in both the
face and the torso. It did not look normal for a normal human being, and his
large head seemed to come naturally with a hunchback. Once again, Julie
shuddered as new nightmarish images manifested in her mind. Julie sat in an
anxious rut, waiting to watch the Chicken Man leave. She now felt scared… of
what could happen if she was spotted. This man, who was shown to be misshapen
and deformed could take rather violent action upon discovery of her actions.
Casting aside all anxiety momentarily, Julie reassured herself of her mission.
To protect all living things, as they were all created equal. If she ever joined
PETA like she planned to one day, she would tell them about her courageous
chicken rescue story. Just as the clock struck 12:29, the Chicken Man slowly
limped out of the barn, beginning to make his leave. Julie studied him as hard
as she could from just the sight of the window. He did not appear to be carrying
anything. Having her final thoughts of animal rescue stories at PETA fundraising
lunches, she stood up with courage. This Chicken Man required further
investigation. Julie grabbed one item silently out of a kitchen drawer, a
flashlight, which she knew to be rather dim. She slid on some green flower flip
flops, and slowly, quietly opened the back door. Ever so gently, Julie slid the
back door shut, and realized her hands were trembling. Julie knew it was
obviously fear that coursed through her veins. She suddenly realized she had no
current sight on the Chicken Man, and he could be right behind her. Waiting to
take her to that better place that her father mentioned. Once she swallowed her
fear momentarily once again, and began to creep across the field slowly, she
gazed up into the starry clear sky. She has wished for rain then and there, that
it may conceal her efforts. However it was just her and the wind that blew her
blonde hair in the night. Julie crept around the backside of the barn. She
planned to come around the side and be behind the Chicken Man’s vector of
movement. Then, she could observe unseen. She executed her move around the barn,
sticking close to its tan wooden walls, feeling mud squeezing between her toes.
Upon turning the final corner, Julie was almost in front of the barn. She
decided to hang by the corner in case the Chicken Man were to suddenly turn
around. The corner would provide her with a sense of escape, which gave her the
final grace of courage to look forward into the night, giving her the best view
of the cryptid man she has ever had. The Chicken Man was even rounder than she
thought, even more deformed than she could imagine. His head was almost as big
as his torso, with both body parts being the shape of an oblong oval. This was
one plump man. Secondly, Julie noticed that the Chicken Man was dressed rather
formally, in a slovenly homeless type of way. He wore a dusty old suit jacket
and suit pants, which Julie could just make out to be light brown amidst the
darkness. He also had on a normal sized fedora, which seemed way too small for
his abnormally large head. This ghoul appeared to Julie as a homeless man
begging for money in a ragged suit, as if to create the illusion that he might
actually be wealthy. The final thing she noticed, or rather did not see at all,
was captive chickens. They were nowhere in sight. There was one thing visibly
carried by the Chicken Man, and it explained his limp stride in full. A
traditional cane, curved, full of wood chips and all. No burlap sack, no crates,
no chickens. At all. It struck a concerning and fearful thought into Julie’s
mind, as she stood trembling, clutching the corner of the barn. Are the chickens
dead in there? Did he kill my friends? Julie suddenly grew antsy to check in the
barn, but she was smarter than that. She could not make a move towards the front
of the barn, where the doors were located, for she would be easily visible if
the Chicken Man were to… Julie shrugged the anxiety away once more. She took
deep breaths and watched the Chicken Man’s back grow smaller and smaller, his
faded suit less and less visible. Finally, like a mirage fading away, darkness
enveloped the monstrous figure of the Chicken Man, and the farm’s age old
mystery had disappeared into the darkness once again. He would be back in a full
lunar cycle. Hesitation did not hold back the young girl, and she dashed through
the barn doors, which were left ajar by the Chicken Man. She would ask herself
if he always did that, but rather her mind was on the lives of her beloved fowl
friends. The Chicken Man did not have them, therefore two possibilities existed
in Julie’s mind. The chickens were dead in the barn, or alive. A classical
Shrodinger’s Cat scenario, at least for the single moment of anticipation. What
Julie saw however, defied the possibilities for any logical scenario of such
sorts. There were no chickens to be seen. Julie, who stood frozen in confusion,
then began a visual scan of the room. Fallen feathers, knocked over buckets and…
blood stained the hay. Lots of blood. No chickens, but enough red to serve as a
velvet walkway. Racing thoughts scoured the jam packed highway that ranged
across Julie’s mind, but answers were not among those thoughts. What could
possibly have happened to those chickens? Julie paced the barn, examining the
feathers, and the buckets, and… and the blood. She held back tears, for all her
common sense confirmed what anyone would know, that sprawl of gore was from the
chickens. Julie shifted slowly towards the barn doors in a daze. She kneeled
down in a whimpering fright, before she was shocked by beams of sudden light.
Across the dark shrouded prairie, she noticed the light pop on in her kitchen
out of the corner of her eye. Natural instinct, which Julie preferred to follow,
would tell her to hide outside until whoever was up would return to bed. No one
possibly knew she was out here, unless they checked her empty bed, which she
assumed was unlikely. In the midst of rational thought however, her emotions
swelled up in her. Violently like a volcano erupting, Julie suddenly took action
upon her emotions. She had hoped the person in the kitchen was her father, and
she was going to demand answers for this murder. Her father never thought much
of animals, Julie noticed he looked at them with dollar signs in his eyes. It
always disgusted her, and she was finally going to yell some sense into him,
even if it awoke her two dimwit siblings. After a series of angry steps across
the mud filled farmfield, Julie opened the unlocked back door, with no
hesitation or sense of subtlety at all. Immediately, her father turned around
with a sense of alarm, almost dropping the ice cream he had bandited from the
fridge. As Julie stood in the doorway, huffing and puffing with rage fueled from
the questions she would be demanding answers for, her father stood staring at
her with an expression as blank as Julie was furious. Suddenly, the man in her
father’s head took a stand as the realization came to him: what night it was,
her daughter being outside, the time that has just passed on the clock… “Julie,
what did I tell you all these years?” Julie’s father shrieked as he walked
towards her, not giving a damn about rousing anyone in the household. “What did
you do Julie? What did you just do?!” The old, fearful man’s hands now gripped
his daughter’s shoulders tightly. Fear of what may have just happened canceled
any logical thought from occurring, and he only demanded answers. He gripped his
daughter as tightly as a tug of war, with his eyes in a demanding and horrified
glare, almost popping out of his head. Julie rebelliously slapped her father’s
hands, but his grip was too firm to remove them. Finally, she ceased her
struggle, and looked furiously into her father’s worrisome eyes. “What happened?
What happened to those chickens?!” Julie began to tremble, and began her
struggle against her father’s cold, steel grip once again. “There was blood!
Blood! Blood everywhere, Daddy, they’re dead!” Julie stopped her struggle once
more, and suddenly anger and confusion became tears and sorrow. Julie’s knees
became weak, and she began to fall slowly to the ground. Upon seeing the
distraught state of his daughter, the old man let up a bit, releasing his stone
cold grip. Julie’s back slid down the nearest kitchen wall, and balled up in a
downpour of tears. “Honey…” The old man said sympathetically, yet still with an
undertone of strictness. “Please, those chickens had to go… Julie… just please
don’t ask alot of questions…” Upon hearing her father’s pleas, the volcano of
emotions boiled once more, slowly rising up… and up… until they swelled in her
head, lava pouring out her ears. With a burst of anger, Julie yelled in a
sorrowful rage “ANSWER FOR THE CHICKENS!” Immediately, she thrust her elbow back
with every intention of banging the nearest wall, making a demanding statement
to her father. The elbow thrust seemed to almost shake the entire house if not
just that damn wall. In the next moment, Julie was greeted by a sharp pain to
the head. She was so woozy, the sound of glass shattering on the floor
dangerously close to her did not even strike her ears. She did however notice,
the pale gasping expression on her father’s face as he dropped immediately to
his knees next to her. To her surprise, her father seemed to be in tears not
over her injury, but over whatever item lay on the ground. It was a picture of
the brother Julie never met, the long lost first son, Theodore. Julie stood up
slowly, and it seemed that the blow to her head rerouted her mood strings
completely. She gazed down at her father, seeing he was whimpering, grasping the
picture in his hands. His hand bled, running thick blood down his arm. The old
man was in a state of intense grief however, and did not seem to care one bit.
Julie kept opening her mouth to speak multiple times, but the desperate state
that she was seeing her strong willed father in for the first time kept her
mouth shut. Now in the brief moment of awkward grieving, her mind began to
loosely throw pieces together in a concoction that may make sense… “Dad.” Julie
muttered shamefully. There was no reply from her father, just the silent,
constant weep of a defeated old man. “Dad.” She went about once more. One more
time, there was no reply, and she suddenly grew impatient despite the sorrowful
atmosphere. “Dad.” She now pronounced firmly, being sure to grab his attention.
Her father still said nothing, but she at least got a look from him, as he
slowly turned his droopy face towards her. With her father on his knees before
her, she had a sense of being the bigger human, and gained a sense of
vindication. “Dad… I know you don’t like to talk about Theo…” The expression on
her father’s face turned from one of pure sorrow to a stone cold stare. He truly
did not like talking about Theo. “You never talk about him… and neither does
Charlie… Whenever I ask him, he gets mean and fights me off…” Julie said,
maintaining her temporary strong will. “Does… does his death… and the Chicken
Man…” Julie was now losing that confidence as the look on her father’s face
became one of someone who was about to commit murder. Nonetheless, she forced
her question out of her throat in a coarse mutter. “Do they have something to do
with each other?” Julie’s father not only looked, but truly was in that moment,
defeated. His face dropped down, not uttering a word. Julie stood there, seeing
the state of discomfort her words had put her father in. It made her
uncomfortable as well. This period of awkwardness was brief however, and her
father suddenly looked up, with a shrill glare coming from his now serious eyes.
“Bedtime. Go. Go to bed. Now.” He got up, and once again wrapped a stone cold
grip around his daughters shoulders. Blood stained Julie’s shirt. He was once
again the bigger man now. “Let’s go. Let’s go. Bedtime.” Julie struggled. She
hadn’t had ‘bedtime’ since she was about twelve, and this sudden imposing of
authority irked her. As she felt the grip get harder and her father getting more
serious and sinister in his demands, she finally lashed out with one more
rebellious slap. “Ok, fine, I’m going.” She said, accepting defeat. Julie
stomped up the stairs to her bedroom, the sight of chicken blood and her
defeated father lingering on her mind. She would not receive answers to her
questions tonight. Julie’s relationship with her father was unsteady for that
entire lunar cycle. They had barely made eye contact at the dining table
anymore. The mother had noticed this, but knew better than to ask her husband
questions involving such matters. The dimwit brothers Ryan and Charlie noticed
as well, but as if they cared. Questions pestered the mind of Julie for that
time, poking at it, causing little bouts of insanity. Her anxiety was really
getting the best of her, and she could look in the mirror and tell she has not
been herself as of late. It was not until one cold December day, she would have
her question partially answered. Every now and then, Charlie and Julie would
hike through the nearby fields. In the Summer, these fields would be ripe with
corn and vegetation of all varieties. She had noticed her parents farm had
become increasingly bountiful throughout her adolescence, growing taller corn
each year. However, it was just bare fields for the prairie land during
December, but the chats Julie had with her brother on these hikes made it worth
all the while to her. Charlie was a reserved, yet tough character, and Julie
rarely had a chance to talk with him one on one. Peaches would come on the walk
with them, but she would not really count as part of the conversation, would
she? Julie would also invite Ryan to come, but he would be nose deep in the
latest comic book he has obtained as usual. Julie had followed closely behind
her tall, oldest brother as the sun set on the prairie horizon. Peaches wandered
off nearby, but would follow them when she noticed she was getting far enough.
Julie admired her oldest brother. He was always the first volunteer when papa
needed a farm hand. She always admired his muscles, gleaming in sweat under the
sun as he chopped wood on a hot summer day. Julie could usually go and talk to
him about anything, except for that one thing. Theodore. It is true, Charlie’s
reaction upon even hearing the mention of his dead older brother’s name was one
of disgust. He was an escape artist when it came to backing out of these kinds
of conversations. However there they were, brother, sister, and dog alone in the
prairie fields that sunset. It was now or never for these kinds of questions. In
the most unusual moment however, right as Julie opened her mouth to utter
menacing mentions of Theodore to her oldest brother, Charlie looked dead at her
and said something that held shocking relevance in her mind. “He ate them.”
Charlie said with a mischievous grin on his face. Julie gave Charlie a confused
gaze. “Wha? Who ate what?” She asked, somehow knowing what this was about in the
dark depths of her fragile mind. After a momentary chuckle, Charlie met his
sister’s gaze. “The Chicken Man, I know you know about him.” Charlie said
reassuringly. “He ate the chickens. I heard you screaming at Dad a couple weeks
ago.” It was all making sense in a horrifying way that Charlie perhaps did not
intend to Julie. “You guys… aint good at keeping quiet like that.” Julie stopped
walking. Disturbing images flooded her mind. The blood. The feathers. The round,
misshapen, disturbing figure that limped zombie-like into their barn every full
moon. Moreso, she was extremely surprised Charlie had made mention of the
Chicken Man so suddenly. Julie was wrong before. If there was any time to ask
questions, now surely this was the time right here. “He…” Julie muttered, and
then swallowed. “He… ate them?” “Yep.” Charlie replied, not seeming to give a
damn about animal life at all. “He ate them.” Julie wanted to puke for a second.
She knew she had to regain her composure however; there were important questions
to be asked. After glancing at Peaches to make sure she was in range, she then
looked at her brother, horrified by the realization. “Wh… Why?” She muttered,
holding back tears provoked by images of her sweet friends being devoured by
that fat homeless looking character. “Why would anyone do that?!” She was now
growing angry, seeking redemption for the fallen fowls. Charlie sighed and
looked up at the stars, which were slowly beginning to fill the sky. Moral
dispute filled his mind, and he debated whether to tell his sister what she
would eventually find out anyways. Either way, she was growing too curious for
her own good… Charlie knew about her sneaking out that night. He had heard the
entire conversation between Julie and their Dad. With a clear mind, and knowing
what needed to be done, Charlie looked at his sister and asked “Welp, you ready
to hear some crazy shit?” Julie stared at her brother blankly, nodding her head,
eager to have her many questions answered. Charlie lowered down to his knees,
and put forth a hand motion urging Julie to join him. So she did, and Julie
crouched down, ready for her brother to spin her a tale as he used to do when
she was very young. However this tale was far more grim… and far more serious.
Charlie’s face turned ice cold as he began his dark story. “So way, way before
you were born, and, I think I was like a really little kid, Dad made a deal with
The Chicken Man.” Charlie now had Julie’s full attention, and she was ready to
make a grab at any pieces that could help her finish the puzzle. “Our farm
wasn’t doing well for a long time. We couldn’t grow anything, and Dad said we
got screwed over with the soil. There was radon contamination, or something like
that. Either way, we weren’t growing jack shit, and we weren’t making jack shit
for money either.” Charlie swallowed and paused for a grim, brief moment before
continuing. “Dad said this guy came onto the farm in the middle of the night.
Right as he was looking for ways out, ways to sell the farm and make a new
living, this weird guy comes knocking on the door in the dead of night. Somehow,
he knew the situation we were in. He could tell the farm was failing, and could
see the low quality of the very few crops we did have growing. This weird guy
claimed to have some sort of power, said he wasn’t from around here, and told
Dad he wanted to make a deal. None of the local restaurants would accept
business from the freak show because, well, he was a freak show. So this guy was
hungry all the time, he had nowhere to eat.” “So he eats the chickens? Dad lets
him eat the chickens?!” Julie interrupted hastily. “Ah, lemme finish, sis.”
Charlie said calmly in an effort to bring his sister down a bit. “The deal they
made was, that if Dad left him three chickens on the night of each full moon,
that this guy would ‘bless’ the land, and we would grow hella crops. Like, a
shit ton.” Charlie paused for a moment. “…And it worked, I guess… It fuckin’
worked…” He was now nervously rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. He
looked at his sister’s face to make sure she was not too shocked, but she was
indeed. “So, but, like, does he just eat them whole? Alive? Right there on the
spot?” Julie asked, rapid fire, machine gun pace. “He does, right? That’s why
there was the blood!” “Calm it, Julie.” Charlie said now, hardening his tone of
voice. “It has to be done… I can’t explain why, but it does. Just trust me.”
Julie was now extremely frustrated, and understandably so. She was tired of
being shorted out of an explanation, and that was exactly what her brother was
doing here, again. Just like her father had done not too long ago. Once again,
emotions flared up in her, being sent to her head and bursting like fireworks.
Julie stamped her foot down. “No, you have to tell me! How come you get to hear
about all of this but no one will tell me?!” Tears started in her eyes, throwing
off the balance of professionalism she tried to maintain. “Does Ryan Know? Did
Dad tell Ryan? How come he told you guys?” “Shhhhh.” Charlie put his finger over
his sister’s lips. “Ryan don’t know. I only know because…” Charlie once again
began that nervous, unsure swallowing motion until he swallowed that giant
baseball of hesitation. “I only know because I’ve seen shit. That’s all.”
Charlie then suddenly got up and turned towards the direction of the farm.
Without saying another word to his sister or even throwing her a look, he began
back towards home. Julie however, as multiple occurrences have proved, was
smarter than the average bear. She had recognized this type of reaction from her
brother before. It was the same as… the same as if she had brought up Theodore.
She knew now, more than before, that the death of the brother she never met, and
this Chicken Man were somehow related. “Charlie!” Julie called out in one last
desperate attempt as her brother was getting farther and farther across the
field. Charlie stopped slowly, turning around even slower and gave her his dim,
last bouts of attention. “What happened to Theo?” Julie should have expected
what came next. Charlie took off back towards home without a word, stomping at a
fast paced walk. It seemed he would not mind leaving his sister now to find her
way home alone, there was too much on his mind. Julie got up, rallied peaches,
and took off after her brother. “Wait, don’t leave me!” Perhaps it would have
been better if Julie were not to have heard the tale from her brother. It only
made the resentment and anger towards her father grow over the next weeks. In
her mind, animals lives were more important than stupid crops. All he did was
make money from them anyways, and money is pointless and materialistic. Julie’s
anger continued to grow, the dinner table conversations becoming less and less
talkative until there was no talking at all. The next full moon was approaching
in a couple of nights, and it was in this time that Julie would brew her next
plan. On the next full moon, after Julie’s father traps her friends in the barn
to be inevitably destroyed, Julie would go on a rescue mission. She would
release the chickens, hiding them somewhere safe for the time being. She hoped
that if the Chicken Man came once and saw that there was no bounty for him to
harvest, he would assume the deal was off. And there would be no more sacrifice.
Her father would have to get over it, and she knew that he would eventually
forgive her for anything anyways. The key element was time. Time took a steady
path for weeks, and Julie would be counting down every day until that one full
moon. Watching the calendar, the weather report, her plan becoming clearer and
clearer, building the courage slowly. Her father would throw stone cold stares
across the kitchen table. Julie would now meet him with an even more frigid
gaze. Her friends had been murdered. And she was going to put an end to her
father’s ‘deal’, and send this Chicken Man off to another business. For good.
The day had finally come. The hand of the grandfather clock, right next to
Julie’s roost on the couch moved especially slow all day, and Julie would spend
most of the day standing out in the prairie, scouring the land like a sentry
turret. About every hour, she would walk inside and look at the grandfather
clock, possibly grabbing a glass of lemonade when she did. Aside from that
occasional, short distance stroll to the living room, it was her and Peaches
roaming the farm boundaries. She did not look the part, but Julie was looking
for places to hide three chickens. Her parents would notice her odd behavior
that day. First her mother, who notified her man of the house of their
daughter’s estranged inaction. Around five in the evening that day, Julie was
approached by her father in the field. She had sensed him coming as he stepped
out the door, feeling her resentment grow larger as he came closer. A strong
feeling that came on too hard to ward off, even if she tried. Once again, in the
dark corners of her recently emboldened brain, she knew what her father was
coming to speak about. Both he and herself knew what day it was. “Julie,” the
old man said sternly yet apologetically. “I think we should have a talk.” Julie
was disgusted upon hearing the word ‘talk’. Did any child look forward to
‘having a talk’ with their parents? The dreadfulness is tenfold if the
relationship is strained, as was the dying tether between Julie and her old,
dried up dad. Julie turned to look at him, before sarcastically pushing out a
“Yes?” Julie’s father looked at the ground, not sure how to begin. Regardless,
he did anyway. “Charlie told me you know about the deal. The Chicken guy eating
the chickens. I knew that bastard would eventually anyway.” It was now becoming
evident to Julie that this ‘talk’ was not a good idea. At the sly mention of
chickens being eaten, Julie’s anger grew, and it was hard to like directly into
the face of the beast, her father. Her father continued to speak in the
background. “Chickens… Making deals… Your mother and I…” but it was all blurred
by Julie’s ears, like someone screaming from a distant room. She wanted nothing
to do with her father anymore… She remembered this more and more as the old man
continued to preach what Julie perceived to be blasphemous lies. The courage
Julie had grown on a fateful night on the last full moon was once returning to
her, and if her father was not going to shut up himself then… Julie was just
going to have to do that for him. “No!” Julie turned around and screamed. “No,
no, no, no, NO!” Julie shoved her father, and kept shoving him harder and harder
with each exclamation of ‘No!’. Julie was set on executing her master plan to
save the chickens, and there was nothing her father could say at this point to
change her stalwart mind. “You had your chance to make things right!” Julie
said, tears forming in her eyes. Her father stood speechless and surprised at
Julie’s righteous outrage. “All you had to do was stop feeding it chickens! All
you had to do!” Julie had to get away, or she would break down into tears. She
turned and ran, with Peaches barking in alarm, before running after her. Peaches
was a loyal dog, and would not leave her master while she was crying. The
geyser, with tears now in his eyes as well, dropped down to the ground
miserably. He gripped the fresh prairie grass, watching his tears fall onto it
like dew in the morning. There was so much he wanted to say to his distraught
daughter, yet so much the trapped old man knew he could not. “Julie! You don’t
understand! I’ll tell you everything!” As the Old man tried to project his voice
across the field, it seemed his words would disappear into the prairie mist,
just as the figure of his daughter became less and less visible. He would not
see her again for the rest of the night, as he would not have another chance to.
Now, there was no one to interrupt Julie’s plan, and fate was set into motion.
Julie hid from her father for the rest of the day. She did not come in for
dinner either, but she did find a plate of spaghetti and meatballs left out for
her on the porch. Julie’s mother would always leave a plate out when Julie would
hide in the field as a kid. As Julie scarfed down the plate of Italian gourmet
and reminisced about times she ran away as a kid, a great idea spawned in her
child-like mind. See, when Julie ran away as a kid, she would really just hide
out in the foggy prairie at night, only a stone’s throw from the farm really.
Her parents became better and better over time at tracking her down, catching
onto the rhythm of her hiding spots. One night however, Julie would find solace
in a spot unbeknownst to her parents; the cellar. It was accessed by two metal
doors on the ground, right outside the kitchen window. As the cellar provided
Julie with safety from her parents in the past, it would provide the chickens
with safety from the monstrous Chicken Man that night, or so that is what the
intelligent Julie planned on happening. Her crafty idea came in the nick of time
as well, as nightfall was already well upon her, and the Chicken Man would
arrive in three hours. Julie watched from the shelter of a lone apple tree as
her father walked to the barns, securing the chickens in their death trap. As
she watched in disgust, the sound of Julie’s mother suddenly pierced her ears.
Sounding worried and anxious, Julie’s mother called for her daughter’s return
from the front porch. Julie found enduring this to be unusually tough, but she
was determined on this night. Julie withstood the cries from her mother for
several minutes, not even noticing her father’s return to the front porch. Upon
arrival, he hushed Julie’s mother, consoling her in his arms, whispering sweet,
sweet nothings. Julie watched, knowing her call to action was coming soon. Once
her parents went back inside, and once the lights in the house went off, she
would swoop in to ensure freedom for the animal kingdom. Well, at least a share
of the animal kingdom. However, freedom would have to wait, as yet another
unexpected occurrence would pitch a fork into Julie’s plan. Julie watched her
parents walk inside, giving her an initial burst of excitement. That joy would
be killed almost immediately, as her father walked right back through that very
door onto the porch once more. This time, he had brought a couple items with
him, and upon closer examination, Julie was able to identify these items. The
first one was a wooden chair from the kitchen table, clear and easy to see with
the porch light, which was just turned on. The second item was a little smaller,
but Julie could still make it out. There was no mistaking her father’s shotgun,
and she has seen it so many times before. Julie was the only one out of her
siblings who had never held the shotgun before; she had seen Ryan and Charlie
hold the gun, and even shoot it many times before. It posed a threatening
presence… Why would Julie’s father bring a shotgun to search for his own
daughter? Julie, now confused beyond belief, and quite a bit frightened, started
to panic. The old geyser was sitting in clear view of the barn, shotgun in hand.
Locked and loaded. A gritty look and cold eyes that said he was ready to kill.
There was no shot Julie was getting anywhere near her objective now. That was
the train of thought until once again, genius swelled in the brain of Julie.
Light a lightbulb popping out of her head, she looked over at peaches, who sat
quietly next to her master, and hatched another idea. Julie picked up a stick,
and noticed Peaches immediate attention, signified by rapid wagging of the tail.
Winding up her right arm, Julie began to prepare to throw the stick, leaving
Peaches in a fit of craze and excitement now. Then, performing one of the oldest
tricks in the book, Julie extended her arm quickly, retaining the stick in her
hand. Julie pretended to throw the stick, but that was far too good of an excuse
for Peaches to take off running. With the direction of the pretend throw being
past the house, peaches ran in the opposite direction of Julie, drawing her
father’s attention immediately. “Peaches!” Julie’s old man cried, taking off as
fast as an elder could towards the dog’s location. This was Julie’s chance to
take action, and her retained air of courage did not let down in this situation.
Julie made it over to the back side of the barn swiftly, tip-toeing through the
prairie grass, covered in evening dew. She quickly celebrated, quietly pumping
her fist in the air. The rush of victory was short lived however, as she
observed her father quickly return to the wooden chair on the porch. She was
back to ground zero, and still had no plan to free the chickens. It was just
Julie, the liberator of animals, locked in a cold hard stare down with her
father, the murderer of chickens. The interesting facet being that Julie could
see her father, but remained hidden to the eyes of the old geyser. He only
stared in her direction, not seeing much with clarity through the veil of night.
As the clock hit eleven-thirty at night, and her father still sat on the porch,
Julie began to panic. The next fifteen minutes were ridden with anxiety. If he
did not go away, she had no way of rescuing the chickens. This scenario would
leave the frightened Julie with two options: stay behind the barn and
potentially face the demonic Chicken Man, or run back towards the house to be
spotted by her father. She pondered on her options with haste until she saw it
was eleven forty-five. Now, the once determined Julie sat defeated, and has
given up any hope of being able to save the chickens that night. She would just
have to try again another time… is what Julie was thinking until she took one
more look at the front porch. At one point, about an hour beforehand, Julie’s
father whipped out an old flashlight and began scanning the prairie nightscape
back and forth, like the sprinkler heads hidden not far underneath the field.
Julie saw this flashlight now rolling on the ground. That sign, along with her
father’s head being cocked back, nose towards the sky, told Julie her father was
obviously asleep now. Finally, she let out a deep sigh and checked the time
again. It was eleven fifty- four. Julie began to panic, she thought of what
could happen if the Chicken Man were to possibly come early. In her mind it was
now or never, and she began to take action. Running around the corner of the
barn and right into the doors, Julie got to the chickens faster than she could
even think about what she was doing. Her instincts were taking over, and they
were doing well in helping her accomplish her goals. Julie normally despised
crates, but upon seeing the one her father used in the corner of the barn, she
decided it was the fastest way to transport her feathered friends. Since she was
saving their lives too, she thought they could tolerate the crate for a couple
of minutes. Julie corralled the chickens into the crate, and immediately took
off towards the cellar doors. Many fears streamed through her mind during her
run across the prairie, which seemed to take forever. Looking back and forth,
Julie could not tell what she feared worse: the chicken man showing up, or her
father waking up. Just as the fears were accumulating into too much for her mind
to handle, Julie arrived at the cellar doors, adrenaline still pumping through
her pulsating veins. In one fell swoop, Julie opened the cellar doors, unleashed
the chickens into the enveloping shadows of the farm’s basement, threw down some
seeds for the fowls to eat, and closed the cellar door, all so quietly. She
snuck around to the back door, which was safe from the view of her
overprotective, and possibly murderous father. With her animal-like instincts
kicking in once again, she reached under the outdoor mat to grab the spare key
without even thinking about it. Julie moved cat-like through her house, quietly
as a mouse. Creeping up the stairs, it was hard for her to contain her
excitement. Julie did not even want to think about her success until she reached
her bed, but she found herself giggling to herself anyways as she was going down
the hall. Julie opened her bedroom door quite loudly by accident, however she
could not find herself caring. She plopped down into her bed, with the most
wicked smile on her face. Suddenly however, noises of an old man treading
through the house downstairs interrupted her victorious train of thought. Her
father had woken up and come back inside. Luckily however, he had no awareness
of the happenings of that night. Slowly but surely, Julie heard her father make
his way upstairs, and slowly open her door. Her geyser of a father walked over
to his daughter slowly, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m so glad
you’re back… I love you.” the sleepy old man whispered gently. After a brief
pause, Julie’s father departed from her area of rest. Julie’s wicked smile
returned, as her plan was a success, and her father had no clue. Tonight, the
young flower child did not even care about looking out the window at the Chicken
Man, she just knew he would have one disappointing and rather hungry night.
Everything seemed to be peaches and cream at that moment, but Julie still had
much to learn, and the strand of fate she set in motion that night was lying in
wait, dying to be played out. The sun shone bright over the prairie that very
next morning. Julie was woken by rays of light beaming through the cracks of her
sleepy, still closed eyes. Sleepily and slowly descending down the stairs, Julie
was soon greeted by the yawning expressions of her family. “Good morning!” the
dimwit brothers Charlie and Ryan exclaimed. Julie laughed upon hearing this.
Julie’s mother turned around. With a gleaming ray of sun sparkling in her eyes
and hospitality in her voice, she greeted Julie warmly. “I made tofu eggs and
tofu bacon this morning, just for you.” Julie’s mother paused for a second, and
sniffled. “Thank you for coming home Julie.” Julie blushed, melting from the
barrage of warm greetings. Even her father looked up from the newspaper and gave
her a warm smile. She sat down and looked around the table. As disgusting as the
dimwit brothers were, slobbering on their breakfast as they ravaged it like
starving dogs, and as boring and close minded her aging parents seemed, Julie
was happy to have her family. Happiness filled Julie’s heart for the first time
in what seemed like forever. Laughter surrounded the table, and tales were spun
from each and every family member. The spree of quiet family dining sessions had
finally ended, and once again, Julie lived in a warm and happy environment. That
is, she finally lived once more in a warm and happy environment, right up until
just that very moment. There was a knock at the door. A menacing, slow knock
that repeated three times. Julie’s father froze. His fork, which held tofu eggs,
now dropped to the ground, splattering fake egg meat across the floor. The
mother of the family, usually calm and forgiving, started to whimper and tear up
as she looked at the horrid expression on their fathers face. Julie observed
everyone. Suddenly, the knock came again. Julie thought nothing of it, just a
visitor in the morning if anything. She looked at Ryan, who by the wide
expression on his face, seemed to be just as confused as Julie was. However,
Charlie looked as if he had just choked on his food, his face turning pale.
Julie knew not what to expect from that point. Julie’s father stood up slowly.
“No…” He whimpered. The old man immediately fell down to the ground on his
knees. He shrieked as if he was experiencing night terrors, although he was wide
awake. “No, please God, please God no…” the old man whimpered, going through
what seemed to be a living nightmare. Julie’s mother sat at the table shaking,
rocking back and forth, praying the hail mary ever so softly. There was yet
another, menacing, demanding knock. This one is much louder than the previous
ones. Julie finally stands up. “Guess I’ll get it.” Julie says awkwardly, with a
mystifying sense of innocence. Immediately, Julie’s father stood up. It only
contributed more to Julie’s confusion. The old man composed himself, and with
red eyes and a raspy voice, the geyser sputtered “I’ll… I’ll get it.” The old
man walked slowly towards the front door. The mother’s whimpering slowly got
louder, until she burst into shrieking tears of horror. “What the hell is going
on?” Julie finally demanded. “Yea, someone care to explain?” Ryan reiterated
naggingly and innocently. Charlie started to sputter sounds out of his mouth,
but it was as if he was too afraid to say anything at all. “Ch… Ch…” “Ch…
Chick…” Charlie murmured. Their father got closer to the front door, limping
like a zombie. The mothers shrieks got even louder, and ever more horrifying.
The sweat dripping down Julie’s face intensified, now soaking her shirt.
“Chicke…” Charlie tried to get his sentence out of his mouth, but was unable to,
as the shock of fear paralyzed his tongue. That was, until their father finally
opened the front door, immediately directing all attention to the round,
monstrous figure whose silhouette now shone in through the beams of the morning
sun. “Chicken.. Man.” Charlie finally forced out, with his words being too late,
as Julie was already in realization of who the figure at the door was. The
chicken man, in his dusty old suit and small top hat, let out a spiky toothed
grin as wicked as the grin bore by Julie the night before. “May… I…. come
iiiiiiiin?” The chicken man said in a raspy, evil, bullfrog-like voice. Julie’s
father, saying nothing the whole time yet speaking speeches with the horrid
expression on his face, simply stood aside and let the chicken man in. It seemed
like the fat, abnormally oblong structure of the chicken man almost didn’t allow
him to fit in the door. Yet there he was anyway, making his way into the living
room, fitting perfectly through the door. Making everyone’s worst nightmares
come true. The Chicken Man slowly sat down at the breakfast dining table. He
pulled a cup of tea, which looked to be old, cold, and musty out of his dirty
suit jacket. Then, as the Chicken Man took a long, gargled sip from his dirty
and cracked tea cup, he beckoned the others to join him at the table by waving
his decrepit hands. The entire family, both those who knew and those who didn’t
know what was going on, were all frozen with fear regardless. They all complied
with the Chicken Man’s beckons. Gathered, like the last supper at the round
table of death, Julie’s family sat in complete silence with their guest of no
honor. The Chicken Man’s eyes darted from body to body ravenously, looking at
each member of the family breakfast like they were breakfast themselves. Julie
knew not what was going on at that exact moment, but in the dark back alleys of
her thinking mind, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to loosely paint a
picture of demise. Like an ominous storm cloud reigning up above, turning the
landscape into a black and white movie, the Chicken Man’s presence was not one
of gleeful greetings and fun filled stockings. No, as Julie observed the
terrified look on the face of her normally stalwart father, it became clear that
the Chicken Man sat at their family breakfast table with evil intentions
breeding in his demonic imagination. Silence shrouded the room as if it were an
essence swirling around the family and the demon. Julie noticed something. Her
father sat there trembling, and the rate of this trembling was increasing by the
second. It seemed the tension from the situation was weighing on his shoulders
by the minute. Because of this, Julie made another bright observation in her
child-like mind. Her father and the Chicken man have likely met before, and they
have bad, bad blood. After many moments of strife as the man of the family
stared at the menacing chicken man, it seemed Julie’s father would take this no
more. The old man slammed his hands on the table. He swiftly stood up, causing
the tears of panic in his eyes to fall to his chest like rain. “What do you want
from us?” The old man cried out in fearful desperation. “We put the chickens
out! We put the chickens out! We put them…” The old man’s head slammed down into
his arms. He slumped back into his chair, and cried. Julie had never imagined
her father, who was like a brick wall all her life, could cry like this. “Wha…
wha…” Julie’s father murmured, just barely uttering legible words as he wept,
gazing at the floor as if there were a hole six feet deep in front of him. “What
do you fuck… what do you fucking what from us?” That was the last sentence the
old and now hopeless man would utter through his broken lips, at least for that
moment. He simply slinked down to the floor shrieking tiers of sorrow and pain,
clutching himself as if he were his own newborn child. Rolling on the floor was
also made visible, and it was observed by Julie, the brothers, and the mother of
the family, which was now a family in awe and utter shock. Julie had not
imagined her father could ever appear this way, in this manner, but there were
certainly people in the room who remembered a time when it was possible.
“Cha-ha-ha-haaa!” The Chicken Man chuckled, almost spilling his grotesque
beverage onto the family dining room carpet. “Cha-ha-haaa! Chaaaa-ha-ha-haaaaa!”
The sound of laughing intensified in Julie’s ears now. She was confused, more so
than ever before in her budding life. All of the confusion, along with the
raunchy, obnoxious chuckle of the Chicken Man ringing in her ears, as she
watched her once brave father now lie defeated on the floor… No. Julie would
make a move in her mind, one set toward taking action. Who else in the room was
going at the time? The boggling question for her at the moment was, what was
really going on in the room at that time? There was no clue, and Julie knew she
had no time to think. Confrontation was inevitable, and she primed her wobbling
knees in an effort to stand up at least twice before she finally rose. Julie
then pointed her finger at the Chicken Man. The demon’s nasty round of chuckles
slowed down to a stop, as he suddenly became intrigued by the little girl who
was brave enough to make a stand to him. He stood in attendance, curious to hear
her words. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” Julie said demandingly.
“How do you know my daddy? Why is he crying on the floor like that? What did you
do to him?” Julie’s questions, which were coming rapid fire at the Chicken Man
in a sense that gave him no time to offer a response, were suddenly halted by a
loud “Ahem!” from the ominous Chicken Man. With his large, creepingly round body
looming in the kitchen and blocking out a large portion of the sunlight, the
Chicken Man raised his finger to speak. “Ya fatha knows why i’m here, darlin’.”
The Chicken Man now began to rub his hands together. “Cha-ha-haa….” “What do you
mean? What are you talking about?” Julie asked as if she was a navy general now,
stepping up to take the bold role in the family. However, as the Chicken Man was
a vile being, he had seen much worse and paid no homage to the attitude of a
young, tasty looking girl. Daisy, who had been sitting outside the front door
squealing ever since the Chicken Man arrived, was now letting out a periodic
bark. She scratched at the door, as if the animal was making an attempt to come
inside and save the humans. Nonetheless, the Chicken Man, whose identity as a
human, animal, or fucking demon were unkown, had plans that would not be
disrupted by a canine. Still rubbing his skinny fingers against each other and
flashing his nasty yellow teeth in his spiky grin, the Chicken Man began to
speak once more. “I’ll let ya fatha do all the explaining as to why I’s be here
later on. As fah now… I get to choose the most tasty looking one of ya’s,
cha-ha-haaaa…” Julie immediately staggered back, startled out of her mind.
Images of her father rolling on the ground, her brother Charlie walking away
from her in the corn fields, and her long dead eldest brother ran through her
mind faster than Daisy was scratching on the door. In her mind there was now no
mistaking what had happened, and the Chicken Man’s words had just all but
confirmed her beliefs about why nobody talks about Theo. Right before the last
piece of the puzzle fit into the map being drawn in her mind, Julie felt a
finger press against the top of her head. “Eeeeenieeee…” The Chicken Man said in
a laughing voice, placing his finger upon Julie’s head. He then moved his finger
off Julie slowly, and moved it to her crying brother Ryan’s head just as
menacingly. “Meeeeeenieeeeee…” The Chicken Man then went over to Charlie, who
was looking up at him furiously with tears in his eyes, trying to hide the fact
that he was trembling. Charlie felt the Chicken Man’s finger on his head now.
“Miiiiiineeeeeey… Cha-ha-haaa…” Skipping over the adults in the dark room, the
Chicken Man’s finger went back around to Julie’s head. “Mo.” The Chicken man
said now in a dark, menacing tone. The amount of agony in the room for the next
minute was immeasurable. Julie slid down onto her knees, realizing what was
about to happen, knowing she was powerless in the situation. Her dimwit brothers
Ryan and Charlie sat next to each other. Both were trembling, yet oddly enough
they had opposite facial expressions. Ryan was balling his eyes out in
confusion, while Charlie had never looked so furious in his life. The mother
balled her eyes out likewise. The father still lay defeated on the ground. All
the time the Chicken Man went around the three children playing roulette with
what all of them finally knew was their lives. “Catch, A, Tigah…” The game went
on, and Charlie, who had been accumulating steam not just in the past couple of
minutes but from the years past in his life, was about to let all of that steam
loose. Charlie rose out of his seat and ran at the Chicken Man before he
finished the game of meenie miney mo. At that exact moment, the old man rose up
in the fastest manner since his early twenties, and lunged for Charlie.
“NOOOOO!” the old man shrieked with Julie on the floor in utter horror. What
came next only a few people in the room could predict. A giant worm-like tongue
with razor sharp teeth forming a circle on the tip of it, shot at bird speed out
of the Chicken Man’s mouth. The teeth engulfed themselves around Charlie’s head
like a shark, and immediately blood spewed all over the kitchen walls like a
meat grinder with a sprinkler attached. The monstrous beast of a tongue which
was big enough to abnormally stretch the Chicken Man’s rubber jaw, continued to
move down Charlie’s body. Blood. So much blood sprayed onto the family members
and their precious furniture. The dog barked loud outside the front door, and
was scratching fast and hard enough to carve wood off of the door which served
as an obstacle to the animal. There was nothing anyone in the room could do.
They all watched, sitting or on the floor, watching in abhorrent fear or balling
their eyes out, or both. They all watched as Charlie was consumed in a
cannibalistic manner, painting the house with his remains. The Chicken Man
slurped up the second born son of the family like it was broth with a
straw.Drank until there was nothing left, and suddenly the brother Charlie did
not exist anymore. After the monstrous tongue of the Chicken Man submerged back
down his gaping throat at full force, the room suddenly became quiet. Every
member of the family was pale in the face, with both their eyes and mouths wide
open. They never knew their jaws could drop as far as they did, nor were they
coherent enough to realize it. The Chicken Man pulled an oily beige handkerchief
out of his old suit jacket, and began to pat his face with it in a mocking
manner, as the blood didn’t seem to be coming off at all. Suddenly, Julie’s
mother shrieked loud enough to come off as a banshee in a graveyard. The Chicken
Man chuckled one last time upon hearing the shriek, which was mixed with sobs
and had not even managed to garner the attention of even one person in that
family. Not even the mother herself had realized she was screaming. The Chicken
Man flipped his cane up in the air and let it elegantly fall into his ashy, old
man hands. He pressed his cane on the floor and bowed before his hosts, not even
bothering to remove his dusty fedora. “I bid y’all folks, adieu.” The Chicken
Man remarked before making his jolly old way back out the front door. When he
opened the door, Daisy immediately slid past the Chicken Man’s leg and into the
kitchen. The damn dog began lapping up blood off the tile floor. Julie and her
mother let out equally loud banshee shrieks that time. Nobody in that home, at
least out of who was remaining, was alright at all for a whole two weeks. Two
people had the worst of it and two people were left in the dark. Those being
left in the dark included Ryan and Julie’s mother. Julie and her father carried
the worst of the muck, with dark thoughts being stuck to their shoulders day and
night. Julie on one hand, felt as if she was responsible for the loss of her
dear brother Charlie. After all, Julie was a smart girl, and had very well
suspected that the reason for the Chicken Man’s appearance that morning was that
she had removed his offering from the ritual site. It was the only thing that
was different that night from every single other night this demon has walked
their property. The old man, on the other hand, carried a different weight upon
his shoulders. The old man was smart as well, as to be expected from a father of
many children and a hard working farmer. Julie’s father had very well put a
picture together in his mind of what happened. He knew Julie removed the
chickens. All her bickering about wasting animal lives in the previous months,
all to lead up to this. However, the old man also partially blamed himself, and
justifyingly so. He never told Julie about the Chicken Man, and what really
happened to his first son Theodore. This all would have been prevented if he had
just told her, Charlie could still be alive. And so even though it was far past
too late to do so, the old man decided it was time to tell Julie the entire
story of the Chicken Man, and the demon’s involvement in her family’s history.
On the night of exactly two weeks after Charlie was brutally devoured, the old
man and Julie ran into each other in the kitchen. They were both looking to
drink water, since they were dehydrated from crying for two weeks straight.
However, the coincidence of thirst would allow an opportunity for the father and
daughter to sit down and have a much needed talk. “Julie, I-” “Dad, I’m sorry,
I’m so, so sorry…” Julie said sobbingly, cutting off her father from putting out
the first verse of the talk. “I took the chickens out of the barn, I killed
Charlie dad, I did it-” Julie’s father immediately put his hand over her mouth.
He leaned in close and hugged her tight, hushing his daughter as she began to
sob tears of grief into the old man’s shoulder. “Don’t ever say that. Please,
don’t ever say or think that Julie.” Julie’s father said in a sympathetic and
soft tone, leaning in close enough to almost be whispering into her ear. “Look
sweetheart, I should’ve told you so long ago.” the old man said with tears
returning to his eyes for the ten billionth time that day. “It’s my fault baby.
I never told you about the Chicken Man, about what he did to Theo, about how
he-” Julie’s father stopped suddenly when he realized how hard he was now
clutching his daughter. His voice had gone from sympathetic and sorrowful to
angry and regretful, and that was not what the old man intended for this talk
with his sacred daughter to be like. The old man loosened his grip and slowly
rose, leaving his daughter out of the comfort of his arms. The old man pulled a
chair from the kitchen table aside, and then pulled another one for his
daughter. “Julie, sit down, we need to have a talk we should have had long ago.”
Julie’s father said softly, toning down his angry voice as he beckoned his
daughter to sit in the chair that he pulled aside for her. Julie reluctantly and
still sobbing, slowly sat down in the chair. Her shirt was soaked as she had
been using it to wipe her face so often. Julie’s father wiped his forehead, let
out a deep sigh as if to ward off any more future tears, and began to tell the
story of the Chicken Man and Theodore. “Me and your mother started on this farm
a long time ago. Long before you were ever born Julie. But we weren’t successful
at first. No, not for a long time. Theodore was the first kid born, and we were
having trouble feeding him, let alone we couldn’t even pay the bills.” The old
man wiped more sweat from his forehead and then continued on with his sorrowful
story. “We couldn’t grow jack shit. Me and your mother tried everything.
Different fertilizer, different crops, different soil, ah hell, none of it did
fucking shit.” Julie was not used to her father cursing this much in front of
her. It made her listen even more to what he was saying. “One night, this
monstrous looking freak comes to us in the middle of the night, scares the shit
out of me and your mother. He sees the condition the farm is in, and he tells us
some bullshit, or what me and your mother thought was bullshit at first, that
the land we live on is hallowed ground, or something like that. I’m talking, of
course, about the Chicken Man.” “Why did the Chicken Man come to you? What did
he want?” Julie asked very curiously. “The Chicken Man wanted to make me an
offer. Well, really, it’s more like the Chicken Man wanted to coerce me into a
pact. A pact which I was a fool for taking Julie, I’ll tell you that. The offer
he gave was that he would make our lands rich as long as we supplied him with a
blood sacrifice. The blood sacrifice was the fucked up part. What the bastard
wanted was one child every five years… or a couple a’ chickens every month.
Obviously, you know me and my mother went with the chickens. We would never
sacrifice one of our children.” “But, what happened to Theo then?” asked Julie,
which was the very wrong question to be asking at that time. “Well hold on now
sweetheart. Me and your mother would never, and I mean never ever, sacrifice one
of our dear children. I was gonna get to Theo.” The old man wiped the sweat from
his head again. He grabbed the fifth of Jim Beam which had been resting in his
waistband just about every hour since Charlie died, and took a swig straight
from the bottle. The old man let out a sigh, and after seeing that his daughter
would stay nice and quiet, continued with the history of the family. “We came
through on our side of the deal with the Chicken Man, and he came through on his
part of the deal. Every month we left some chickens in the barn for that fucker
to gobble up, and our crops bloomed like motherfuckers. This went on for years,
and its kind of like us and the Chicken Man lived in some kind of fucked up
mutual agreement. Eventually, as the crops grew more and more, and me and ya
mother made more and more money, I began to get cocky. Full of myself to the
brim. I started to think to myself, who is this chicken guy, and why do we need
him anyways? Was he really to credit for the success of my crops and the growth
of my wealth, or was it really just me all along?” The old man took one last
long wipe at the nervous sweat building on his forehead, took a long hard
swallow and looked his daughter directly in the eyes. “Julie… let’s just say,
you don’t cheat the Chicken Man.” Julie wiped the sweat off of her own forehead
this time, took a long hard swallow and looked back into her father’s eyes,
eager to hear the rest of his story. “I tried to cut him out. It didn’t go well.
The morning after I didn’t leave the fucker his blood sacrafice, he showed up at
our doorstep. Just like he did two weeks ago. Charlie was but a young child… he
saw what happened. Poor, sweet young Theodore got eaten. He didn’t deserve it
Julie, he didn’t…” The old man began to sob again. Julie went close to comfort
him but she was brushed back into her chair. Something had suddenly come over
the old man, where he realized how important it was for his daughter to hear
this story. Therefore, he would forbid all emotion to portray the history to her
accurately. “We were a broken family, just like we are now. Me and your mother
wanted to see the Chicken Man dead. We tried to think of any way to get back at
him. The worst part is he wouldn’t give us the five years, even though he…
consumed our child.” The old man put his hand on Julie’s shoulder and looked her
in the eyes intensely. As if he was about to tell her the most important thing
he has ever said to her. “We did nothing about it. Not a single thing. We
continued to give him his chickens, bowing in submission, out of fear. It was
like, thanks for eating our beloved son, you bastard! Here’s your goddamn
motherfucking chickens!” Julie tried to calm her father down. He was angry, and
once again was clutching her shoulder too hard for her own comfort. Julie was
worried, particularly about what her father had just said to her. She did not
know if this was a good time to try and calm her father down, or to try and
confirm what she thought was going on at that moment. “Dad, you’re gonna let it
go again, right? You’re not gonna put us in more danger, right?” Julie said,
with her being the one that was clutching her father’s shoulder too tight this
time. Julie’s father looked her in the eyes slowly. Julie couldn’t help but
think that there was nothing left inside of the old man after losing two
children to a monster of a being. It was as if he was on his last legs. Julie
could tell he was acting strange, and that he was going to do something drastic
in the future. But she accepted what he said anyway. “I’m… I’m gonna take it
again, of course honey.” Both Julie and her father let up their grips on each
other’s shoulders, which was undeniably too tight for both of them. Two weeks
have passed. It was the morning after the Chicken Man’s night. Julie, who did
not bother to watch for him last night as she was too depressed, immediately
noticed something was up that morning. Julie’s mother sat at the breakfast table
shaking and murmuring. Her father sat there with hate in his eyes, and a shotgun
in his lap. Ryan came down the stairs not long after Julie. He picked up on the
same observations immediately and began to cry. Julie murmured her last words to
her father, with her voice quivering. “Da’, wha, what’s going on… What is about
to happ-” There was a familiar knock on the door. This would be the second time
Jullie would ever hear it, and the third time for her father, who was very
familiar with the knock by now. Immediately, without responding to his crying
daughter, the old man rose from his chair quickly, grabbed his shotgun, and
marched furiously towards the front door. In what seemed to be one fell moment,
the old man swung the front door open with no hesitation, lifted the shotgun to
point it at the hulking figure of the ominous Chicken Man, and fired the
shotgun. The sound of the blast rang in the ears of everyone within the house.
The dog barked at the Chicken Man’s corpse on the ground. Julie was in too much
shock to pay deep attention to anything in detail, but she heard her father
crying and screaming synchronously at the Chicken Man’s bloodied body. Bullet
holes riddled the dangerous deity. But before anyone could think about anything,
whether it be celebration over the Chicken Man’s death or sorrow for the lost
siblings, the same fat and spiky worm tongue that devoured Theodore and Charlie
shot out at rapid speed and began to slaughter Julie’s father, on the very
doorstep to their home. Blood splattered all over the front of their home, and
the inside. None of the remaining family members could take it. They all stood
there watching helplessly, frozen in shock. The only one who took to action was
the brave Daisy. After barking relentlessly, Daisy lunged at the Chicken Man.
This brought Julie to at least be able to yell. “No! Daisy!” Julie shrieked out
in a last hope effort. The poor animal was immediately devoured. The sharp teeth
of the gargantuan tongue sank into her and ripped her to shreds as bits of the
dog fell down into the Chicken Man’s tormentous gullet. Julie now had no
conception of reality, or what was happening. She was permanently scarred. Next,
Julie and her mother would watch little Ryan be torn limb from limb in their own
living room. The Chicken Man went slow with him, as the shrieking cries from
Julie and her mother seemed to entertain the Chicken Man in a sick way. Until
the girls lost their voice from screaming too much, the Chicken Man would
continue to gorge on Ryan’s organs. Intestines were ripped to shreds,
splattering blood all over the walls. The crunchings of Ryan’s bones competed
with the screaming of his family members. Ryan’s blood stained brown hair fell
to the ground. Another member of the family claimed by the Chicken Man. As the
hulking, bloodthirsty figure of the Chicken Man, with blood completely covering
his mouth and lips began to walk towards Julie’s mom, the mother and daughter
exchanged final looks. It was a look as if to say I love you, and goodbye.
Julie’s eyes were filled with tears as she tried to say I love you back, but it
was too late. Her mother’s eyeballs rolled on the ground, and her heart burst
blood all over the family heirlooms. Julie’s mother was eaten by the Chicken Man
in front of her very own eyes. The last member of her family, gone. The Chicken
Man pulled his dirty glass of tea out of his suit jacket as he began to lumber
towards Julie. The monster took a bloodthirsty sip. Julie was not phased.
Nothing could scare her anymore. Seeing her family die before her very eyes made
her extremely light. She had no life to live anymore, and nothing was worth
seeing to her in this world. Nothing would be for the rest of her sad, chaotic
life. The Chicken Man approached closely. Julie said her last goodbyes to the
world around her. Right as the monstrous tongue emerged to completely end her
life and feast on her remains, it probed her curiously and delicately, as if
taking a sniff. Then, fascinatingly enough, the massive worm tongue recessed
back down the Chicken Man’s throat, without causing any harm to Julie at all.
“Hmm…” The Chicken man whispered, looking up into the ceiling, rubbing his chin.
Julie looked up at him, loathing the fact that she was still alive, wishing the
monster before her would consume her soul already. Finally, the eyes of the
frightened girl and the bloodthirsty Chicken Man met. “I hate vegans.” The
Chicken Man grunted. He flipped his old wooden cane, and bowed. He then turned
around and went on his jolly good way back out the front door. Julie looked to
God and screamed.


THINGS DARKER THAN MAN 9.3K+




It was 3.00 AM on July 17th, 2004 when I found myself outside the site of the
seventh murder in four weeks. My partner Jim McAllister and I had been the first
responders to this particular incident, the first two to survey the carnage
before the forensics team and clean-up crew made it to the scene. We had
followed a twisted breadcrumb trail of broken glass, debris and blood up to the
master bedroom, where we found the mutilated body of the occupant, torn in half
and adorned with tattered linen and ruby-tinged goose feathers. Her name was
Sally McMahon. She was a seventy-four-year-old woman who, according to her
neighbours, lived alone and seldom had any visitors. There was no reason for
anyone to have so much as let their dog run amuck through her garden, let alone
kill her; yet here we were. We had ruled out the idea of it being an animal
attack after the first victim’s post-mortem; a local farmer who we found torn to
pieces in his ransacked kitchen. Initially, we had put it down to being a bear
or even a particularly aggressive wolf, but that was before a spooked sounding
forensic pathologist from the local hospital called in to Sheriff Alverson’s
office to gravely relay to us that the bite marks found on the farmer’s body
were thoroughly baffling. Allegedly, the corpse was covered with human teeth
marks, and more alarmingly, teeth marks that were deemed “unrecognizable”. We
had all hoped that the following incidents- when they happened- wouldn’t turn
out the same way. That they were animal attacks, or that the post-mortem would
yield different results. Of course, even by this seventh murder, some officers
who were on the scene were still throwing around the idea that these were all
just the work of one very aggravated bear. I had been standing outside the
house, taking long, frequent drags on a cigarette and listening to the chatter
of the other officers as the faulty streetlight above me played a fierce tug of
war with the night. The detective assigned to the case, Donald Evans, emerged in
the doorway and began to walk toward me, his face ashen, even in the mottled
orange glow. “Officer Lemanski?” “Uh…call me Mikhail.” I said, extending my hand
out to shake his. “You’re Detective Evans, right?” “Yeah, that’s me. It’s my
understanding that you were one of the first responders?” “That’s right.” I
said, my words muffled by the smoke that exited my mouth in a ghostly wisp. “I
get that these incidents are… uncommon around these parts, to say the least. But
I need you to tell me if you or Officer McAllister noticed any details that
stood out from the other crime scenes.” I forced my mind to delve back into the
last hour and a half. Jim and I had entered the house at around 3:10 AM, firstly
noticing an upturned cabinet and broken glass strewn at the bottom of the
staircase. Upon reaching the landing, we found yet more ravaged furniture and
broken glass, and more than that, a thick crimson trail of blood that led into
the master bedroom. My mind drew a blank. “It was gruesome, but nothing that
really stands out from the oth…” The handprints. “There were handprints on the
ceiling.” I said. “What?” Evans nearly choked. “There were bloody handprints on
the walls and on floor. But there were some on the ceiling too.” “You… you sure
they were handprints?” Evans stammered. “Sure as I am that we’re having this
conversation right now. Bloody handprints. Pronounced too. Wasn’t like the perp
threw the victim up there or anything like that. You can go and check for
yourself.” “I… How did… shit.” Evans jogged back to the house and disappeared up
the stairs. I looked over at Jim, who had been sitting on the hood of the car
and staring into space ever since the forensics team had got here. The case was
weighing on him, I could tell. With each passing incident, he grew quieter. His
mind was on something, though. The handprints on the ceiling had thoroughly
frightened and confused the hell out of me. All of the murders up until this
point had been grisly but none had really possessed any anomalous details aside
from the lack of fingerprints and the bizarre teeth marks, both of which we were
all used to by now. I was about to attempt to make conversation with Jim when
Evans rushed back out of the house. He looked even more somber than he had
before, almost sickly. “You were… right about the handprints. We’re gonna take
samples and see if we can identify the perpetrator from that.” He almost sounded
choked up. “Right.” I didn’t have much hope for that. No attempts at DNA
fingerprinting or blood sampling had progressed the case at all in the last
three weeks. “The forensics team are saying… are saying that the corpse is
covered in bite marks.” “Human?” “Probably. We’ll have to wait for the
post-mortem. Could still turn out different, we don’t know yet.” We knew. We
knew all too well. Evans spoke with the same vain expectation that the other
local officers did, and it was becoming apparent that there was no way to
downplay this as something less serious than it was. There was a person out
there doing this; someone who was savagely butchering people, seemingly without
reason. These were serial killings, yet the words “serial killer” had yet to be
used by our Sheriff or even Detective Evans. “You and McAllister can head home.”
Evans said, defeat lurking beneath his gruff, authoritative tone. “It’s been a
long night and the forensics team will be here for a while.” I wished Evans good
luck in the hunt for any further evidence and motioned to Jim to get in the car.
I looked back at the house as I turned the vehicle at the end of the street,
knowing that soon, the dawn would pull the obsidian shroud from the street, and
the townspeople would awaken to yet more unanswered questions. A week later, my
exhausted brain was jumpstarted one slow morning by a phone call whilst I was at
my desk. I didn’t recognize the number. “Mikhail Lemanski. Who am I speaking
to?” “Hi, Mr. Lemanski. This is Alice Corman from the Jefferson Herald. I was
wondering if you had any additional information on the ongoing investigation
into the string of murders in Torkton?” Her words were a shot of adrenaline that
went straight to my head. “I…” “Or perhaps any clarifying comments on today’s
story that could make it to a later publication?” “How the hell do you know
about this? How did you get this number?” I barked sternly. “Three days ago, we
received detailed information about a series of killings in Torkton. Do you read
the newspaper at all, sir?” As if on cue, the most recent copy of the Jefferson
Herald was slammed down in front of me by the exasperated Sheriff Alverson, the
bold headline perched arrogantly atop the cheap, fragile paper. “Terror in
Torkton; The Sawney Bean Murders” I looked up at Alverson’s scowl and then spoke
into the phone; “Uh… excuse me for one minute.” I ended the call immediately and
set the phone down. I perused the article with growing disgust, already put-off
by the tasteless reference to the Scottish cannibal in the headline; “In the
early hours of July 17th, Jefferson county police were called to the scene of a
suspected home invasion, only to be met with a grisly discovery; the mutilated,
cannibalized body of Sally McMahon (74). This is said to be the seventh in a
string of similar horrific incidents that the authorities have been keeping
quiet, as not to frighten the citizens of Torkton.” Looking further down the
page, I saw my last name appear, as well as Jim’s. I looked up at Sheriff
Alverson in shock. “What the fuck is all this?!” I exclaimed. Alverson’s steely
gaze persisted; “I was hoping you’d know.” He said dryly. My mind raced; “I
never told the press shit. I know that this is the kind of stuff that they love
to sink their teeth into. Especially round here where nothing happens and…” A
thought popped into my head. Jim. He had left his gun and badge on Alverson’s
desk the day after the seventh killing, and no one had been able to contact him
since then. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would’ve tipped off the press
about this whole ordeal, because no one else at the scene- no matter how
harrowed- had been quite as out of their minds as Jim was. It seemed like the
ever-irate sheriff had read my mind. “You think this was McAllister?” “Looks
that way. The only other person who would’ve been liable to let any information
escape the scene was the lady who called it in, and we made a point not to give
her all the details after finding out about the bite marks. We spared those
details from past witnesses, too.” “Well no one in this fucking precinct has
heard from him since last week’s incident and no one has been able to contact
him. Is he married, Lemanski?” the sheriff asked. “No.” “Kids? Girlfriend?” “He
lives alone, Sheriff.” I said, my voice descending into an unimpressed monotone.
Yeah, Jim had just up and left. His personality had been melting away ever since
the case was opened; it wasn’t like him at all. But Alverson was, and had always
been, an uptight, neglectful son of a bitch. In the eight years that I’d worked
here, he’d never once made a real effort to get to know me or any of the other
officers for that matter, despite the fact that he had very little else to do.
Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder because he was laid off from a big shot
position in Seattle or something, but it’s not like his dismissive, cold self
would ever tell me that story. I knew what was about to come out of his mouth.
“Well Lemanski, you know the dipshit better than anyone else here, so it falls
on you to pull him out of wherever he’s holed up and talk to him.” “With all due
respect, Sheriff” I said, almost gagging on my words. “What would I even say to
him? The papers have already printed…” Alverson cut me off. “You tell him
whatever you gotta tell him. Have him head down to the Jefferson Herald and tell
them that forensics screwed up and that it was an animal attack. I can’t have
these bastards making us look like we aren’t handling this, so they’re gonna
pull that goddamn headline right now. This is a quiet town and I don’t want
those fuckin’ Hoover boys down here. Cannibalism. Jesus Christ.” Alverson was
perhaps the only human being in the world who still used the term “Hoover boys”
to describe the FBI after 1969. There was a joke about his ever so confidently
spoken out-dated lingo amidst the officers, unbeknownst to him. I shot up from
my desk, unwilling to tolerate the unanswered “what if’s” of the situation.
“Sheriff, what if they don’t pull the headline? What happens then? What if they
don’t retract their statements?” Alverson, ever angry, stared at me with an
expression that suggested that he was about to blow his top again. He shook his
head as his mind attempted to come up with some kind of solution. “Right, we
interview every single man… no, every single person above the age of sixteen in
Torkton. We get officers out there going door to door, demanding mandatory
questioning for every man or woman, boy and girl above sixteen years. They can
tell anyone who refuses that they will be immediately put down as a suspect. I
can’t… I cannot have the local people think we aren’t handling this.” It was all
to do with how we appeared, not what we were actually doing. Bastard. Sure, it
mattered that the people of Torkton felt like we were confident and assured in
the way we dealt with things, but the fact of the matter was, we weren’t
handling it at all. We were taking blind swings at an invisible assailant who
had us all scared shitless. “Sheriff…” I began. “Go find McAllister.” He
grumbled. I pondered arguing for a second, and then decided that there was no
way I was winning this fight. “Alright.” I’d tried contacting Jim earlier in the
week to no avail, so I knew that my only real option was to head to his place;
that is, if he hadn’t packed all of his belongings together and jumped on the
next plane to the east coast. As Alverson sauntered back to his office, I
hurriedly tidied the small mess of papers on my desk and headed out to the lot,
opting to take my own car instead of one of the precinct’s vehicles. I felt a
weight upon my shoulders, as though the thick, humid air was pressing down on
me. Jim’s sudden absence was simply another rung on this ladder of stress; I was
already thinking non-stop about what I had seen, and when I’d once again find
myself staring at another grisly picture just like it. The rainclouds began to
spit as I drove through the downtown area, their dark grey forms harbingers of
an oncoming thunderstorm. Jim lived in an apartment complex about four miles
away from the station, fairly close to the edge of town and far enough away from
the centre for very few cares to be given about any renovations that it may have
needed. I had only ever been there once to drop Jim off when his car was in for
repairs, but it wasn’t hard to find. The rain hammered down aggressively on the
exterior of my car, the relentless metallic banging making me feel as though I
was trapped inside a tin can at a shooting range. I pulled into the parking lot
and grabbed an anorak that had slipped from the seat to the foothold in the back
of the car, thinking of what exactly I would say to Jim, that was of course if
he hadn’t locked himself in his bathroom and… well, y’know. That wasn’t an idea
that I was particularly fond of entertaining. I exited my car and walked briskly
to the door of the apartment, dialling his room number into the panel by the
door and hitting call as the rain lapped hungrily at my shoes. “Jim, it’s
Mikhail. If you’re in there, open up. I’m not here to drag you back to Alverson.
Just here to talk.” Nothing came through the receiver. Looking across the lot, I
saw Jim’s car parked in the looming shadow of a pine tree. I tried calling
again, this time trying to sound noticeably irritated. “I know you’re in there,
man. It’s been a shitty week for everyone who’s on that case, but I’ve gotta
talk to you. Besides, it’s coming down out here and I’m cold as all hell. Open
the damn door.” The receiver crackled suddenly, and a hoarse voice spilled from
the speaker; “Mikhail? Jesus, I… Yeah, uh… come on up.” I pulled the door open
and wasted no time in bothering myself with the elevator; I dashed up the stairs
to the second floor, and marched down the corridor to his room. The door was
open slightly, the deadbolt resting on the frame. I had barely even rapped on
the door twice before Jim pulled it open, his eyes wide and a revolver in his
right hand. “For Christ’s sake!” I flinched and almost fell backwards at the
sight of the weapon’s maw staring me in the face. Jim lowered it and spoke
through deep breaths and an apparent lump in his throat; “I had to make sure it
was you, Mike.” “You heard me on th- whatever.” I said, perplexed by Jim’s
evidently rampant paranoia but unwilling to make him feel any more uncomfortable
than he already was. “It’s me, man. It’s me. What the hell is this all about?” I
asked, gesturing at the weapon. “You better come in.” He said. I followed Jim
into his dimly lit apartment. I had expected it to be far messier than it
actually was; there were no takeout boxes littering the floor or sloppily
stacked up on top of one another, and no offensive smells emanated from the
kitchen. Jim had clearly been drinking, however. On his coffee table sat a
quarter full bottle of cognac, next to a cheap looking whiskey glass. “How long
you been working on that?” I said with a spiritless chuckle. “Couple days, I
guess. Strong stuff. You want any?” His words swayed like a tree in the breeze.
“I’m good. Jim, I’m gonna be frank with you, I came here from the station. I saw
the newspaper and Alverson needs you to get in touch with the Jefferson Herald
and tell them to pull that head…” “Fuck Alverson.” Those were not words spoken
by the liquid voice in his blood. They were assured, steady, and serious. “Fuck
Alverson and fuck his callous bullshit. He’s handled this about as well as a
blind shrew in a knife fight. I wouldn’t even dream of bringing what I found out
to him because he’d have me in jail before I’d even got the whole story out. And
believe you me Mike, I found some stuff out. I found some goddamn stuff out.”
“What did you find out?” I asked, bewildered. “You’re gonna think I’m just a
drunk asshole who snapped at the sight of too many spilled internal organs. But
you’re my closest damn friend here, and I trust you’re gonna listen to me.” “I’m
listening.” I said. “Firstly, yeah. I did give the Herald that information, and
there is no way in hell I’m having them pull the story. No one is safe here, and
they need to know what’s going on so they can take as many precautions as they
can. The killer has no connections to any of the victims. Anyone could be the
next casualty.” “Hold on… you think you know who the killer is?” He gave me a
steely, sincere look. My blood ran cold as disbelief flooded my veins. Jim was
completely serious. Somewhere inside my head, logic and fantasy were locked in a
fierce duel, and fantasy was winning. “Jim.” I said through nervous breaths. “Do
you know who the killer is? If you do, how the hell did you find out?” “I’m not
a detective, Mike. Shit, I’m barely a police officer. But, I think I might
actually have some idea.” “Go on.” Jim poured himself another shallow glass of
cognac. “I used to frequent a bar downtown; The Fox Hole, you know it. There was
a retired old park ranger who would always be there on Friday nights, and he had
a catalogue of stories from his time, and we’d all sit around and listen to him.
One night, I wanna say about six months ago, he told a story that he said was
his last call before he retired. It happened last year. Went like this; a hiking
party of about six people got stranded in the deep woods in Mount Pilchuck State
Park, wandered off the trail by accident I guess. Two of the six people came
back. Two. A woman named Estelle Palmer and a man named Reuben Grundy. Grundy
was in a hell of a state when the rangers found them, allegedly said that he had
no idea where the other four people had gone, that they had wandered off into
the night. Here’s where it gets even weirder. Palmer said that the night before
they had been found, there were still three of them, another man I think. Palmer
had been in and out of sleep, and swore that she saw Grundy follow the other guy
into the woods when he was going to piss or something. The man never came back,
but Grundy did ten minutes later. She said he looked different; thinner, taller,
and insisted that he’d had blood all around his mouth. She’d felt this
overwhelming fear and just pretended like she was asleep. Of course, her story
was written off as delirious rambling.” Jim cleared his throat and took another
swig; “Something about the story just kinda gave me a genuine feeling of dread
that none of this guy’s other stories had quite done. Then, the old bastard puts
the cherry on top; a week later the US forest service finds remains in the woods
with what were presumed to be human teeth marks on them, but they’re so
pulverized that they can’t place exactly who they were. Grundy and Palmer are
both interviewed again but nothing comes of it; Palmer even tells the same story
and says that she knows what she saw, but they write it off again. I told the
old man before closing time that night that he’d scared the hell out of me but
that I didn’t believe him, and he just looked at me with this deadpan expression
and said; ‘Look it up, son.’ So, I did, and whaddya know? It happened. Multiple
different news sources covered the story. It fucking happened. Was barely
covered on TV. “Right?” I started. “But Pilchuck State Park is huge, the
surrounding area is…” “Reuben Grundy lives in Torkton, Mike. He owns a ranch.”
He fumbled around with a mess of documents on the coffee table. “Estelle Palmer
used to live in Torkton too, literally a quarter mile down the road from Grundy.
She’d lived here her whole life, by the look of things.” “Are those… police
records?” I asked. Jim gave me an irritated side eye and continued. “Point is,
after she came back from that expedition, she moved four towns away. Packed up
and left in about a week, sold the farmhouse she lived in to someone who’d been
on her ass about buying it for years. Her childhood home, from what I read.
Whether or not Reuben Grundy was responsible for those people disappearing, she
saw something happen in those woods that made it so she couldn’t even stand to
be near him.” Logic struggled onwards in its ongoing battle inside my brain. It
strained and strained, but superstition’s blade was far too sharp. “Maybe she
was a whack job.” I said. “You know what townie folks are like, live in the same
place all their lives and…” “Clean bill of mental health.” Jim exclaimed, waving
a crumpled medical record in my face, clearly taken from a local clinic. “No
history of schizophrenia, depression, BPD or even so much as a panic attack. No
prescribed medications. It’s entirely possible that we could put what she saw
down to hunger, dehydration or on the off-chance maybe even the delayed effects
of a hallucinogenic trip. But the fact of the matter is, this woman up and left
in a matter of days after that incident. It’s not like Torkton’s right next door
to Mount Pilchuck, either.” Jim dropped the medical record to the floor and
shakily pulled up another document. He was excited, or terrified, or both. “So,
look here. Her new address is in May Creek.” “Jim, Jim… you’re chasing a
rollercoaster of a story here…” I said. “If we take this to Alverson he’s gonna
give us a whole spiel about how we’re idiots and then take it upon himself to
re-hire me just so he can fire me. We take it to Evans and he’s gonna think
we’re on a wild goose chase, because he’s a guy who deals with career criminals
in Seattle and the odd home invasion. He’s probably been with the force for
what, two, three years? Face it, Mike. Our higher-ups are stuck scratching their
heads and we might actually have a lead. I know it sounds crazy, I know it’s a
long shot, and its dumb luck that I heard that story, but we may have an actual
suspect.” In the moment, Jim’s obsessive joining of the dots had rendered me
dumbfounded, unable to think straight; “So you’re saying…” “The killer is Reuben
Grundy” Jim blurted out. “Maybe I am just another drunk asshole who wishes he
was a big shot detective and maybe I’m completely wrong, but if there’s even a
chance that I’m right, we have to do something.” Jim had a point, even in the
midst of his fanatical behaviour. Alverson didn’t care and Evans, despite
leading the charge, was being eaten up by his own fear. I saw it screaming
behind his eyes the night of Sally McMahon’s murder. “Alright, what’s the plan?”
I asked. “We visit Estelle Palmer in May Creek and we ask her about Grundy.” Jim
said through shaking breaths. “What he was like, if he seemed different during
or after the hiking trip, all that jazz. If we can convince her to help us
beyond just talking to us, then maybe we actually have a chance at communicating
it to Evans.” “Either that or she chases us out of her house with a double
barrel for even asking.” I said dryly. “Ever the pessimist.” Jim retorted. I
laughed. “Get some fresh clothes on, sober up and let’s get our asses to May
Creek.” Jim and I arrived at Estelle Palmer’s residence in May Creek an hour
later, having backtracked along numerous roads due to the exhausted GPS in my
car. We parked across from Palmer’s house; Number Five, Fairbank Street. The
place was not at all what I had anticipated; I had expected us to pull up next
to an overgrown lawn brimming with tall weeds, and a crudely arranged patio that
led up to a dingy porch with a grimy screen door. Perhaps there would have been
a sign hammered on to the wall made of plywood, and scrawled on it in red paint
would have been the words; “Trespassers will be shot”. It was nothing like that,
if anything it was not unlike any of the other idyllic looking houses in May
Creek. The lawn was a healthy burst of green, each blade of grass seemingly
trimmed down to exactly the same size, and just by the curb lay a toy truck that
must have belonged to a child. Jim swept his hair out of his eyes and opened the
door of the car; “Well, here goes. We either get our answers or we get a door
slammed in our faces.” We approached the door, peering through the living room
window and catching sight of a woman sitting in a reclining chair, watching a
young boy of no more than three years of age playing on the floor. She looked up
as Jim rang the doorbell and stood up to exit the living room, motioning to the
toddler to stay where he was. Estelle Palmer swung the door open, a sense of
immediate irritation glinting in her eyes. She was about thirty-eight years of
age, with long dirty blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Noticing her
annoyance, I began to speak. “Mrs. Palmer…” “Miss. I’m not married.” Estelle
said. “Right. Miss Palmer…” Jim took over. “My name’s Jim McAllister and this is
Mikhail Lemanski. We don’t mean to upset you but we’re…” “Cops?” She snapped.
Jim was visibly surprised. “I figured. Where you from? Sultan? Don’t tell me
you’re from Seattle?” “Torkton.” I said. Her glare narrowed even further. “It’s
our understanding that you used to live there.” “Yes. What’s it to you?” She
seemed even more defensive now. “We came to enquire about…” Jim struggled over
unnecessary eloquence, even though he fully expected to receive the cold
shoulder. Miss Palmer’s irritation reached its peak and she began to shut the
door. “It’s about Reuben Grundy.” Jim finally managed. She stopped and peered
through the crack between the frame and the door. Her annoyance had dissipated,
and worry flooded her eyes. “You can come in.” She finally said, ushering us
inside. The interior of the house was as picturesque as the exterior, the
staircase adorned with paintings of famous North American mountains, the kitchen
clean and well organized. Estelle led us into the living room, where the boy,
who I presumed to be her son, looked up at us with that wide-eyed, curious
expression that is so common in young children. “Baby, go play in your room,
okay?” Estelle said to the boy. He looked down at the plastic dinosaur he was
playing with, then back at his mother, before picking up the toy and sauntering
down to the end of the hallway. Before Jim or I could get a word out about her
sweet her kid was, her worrisome expression returned. “I haven’t seen Reuben in
over a year.” She said. “When I moved here he used to call my cell five times a
week before I changed numbers. Didn’t tell him I was moving here, of course I
didn’t. What the hell’s he done?” “It’s not what he’s done.” I said. “It’s what
we think he might have done.” “Miss Palmer…” Jim started. “Please, it’s just
Estelle.” She said softly, seeming far less vexed by our presence than she had
been minutes before. “Estelle” Jim said. “The situation is this; my friend and I
have reason to believe that Reuben Grundy may be linked to a series of a violent
serial killings in Torkton. However, it’s little more than a hunch and the
police investigation has been a complete mess from the outset, so we need your
help. It’s my understanding that you knew Reuben for most of your life?” Estelle
sat down in the reclining chair, motioning for us to sit down on the couch. “My
whole life, yeah. His old man, Scott, owned this ranch down the road from my old
house, and he inherited the whole place when Scott passed. We were in the same
grade at school. He was always a smart, worldly guy, knew a whole lot about
nature and cared a lot for the animals he reared on the ranch. Could name every
damn plant in the woods.” She chuckled as she reminisced. “Throughout your
childhood, did he ever seem “off” to you at any point?” I asked. “No, never. Not
once did I have him pinned as the outcast, or the weirdo kid. Everyone in high
school loved Reuben.” “I have to ask about the hiking trip.” Jim said. “Four
people disappeared and you and Reuben were the only ones who came back. You
moved away a week after. What the hell happened?” Estelle’s voice quaked as she
spoke, fear mingling with the worry in her eyes. “Reuben…” She trailed off,
straining against the painful memories to force the words out. “Reuben changed
on that trip. We were a week into it and there was clearly something strange
going on with him. Usually he’d be musing about conifer trees and mountain
lions, but he barely spoke, and when he did, the way he talked was fragmented
and hoarse, like he’d forgotten his own native language. He seemed irritated
when we tried to talk to him. He didn’t talk about much, but when he did… when
he did, he said…” Her words crumpled to the floor again. I leaned forward; “What
did he say, Estelle?” “He said he was hungry.” An electric current surged down
my spine. The silence rang in my ears like the whining aftermath of an
explosion. “I’d hear him at night. He’d sit out by the fire longer than anyone
and mutter to himself. Saying things like “God I’m so fucking hungry” in this
voice that I’d never heard come out of him before. When it became obvious that
we were lost… that’s when people started disappearing. First Becca, then Miguel,
then Ruth, and then Nick, the night before we were found. When Nick disappeared,
I saw Reuben follow him into the forest. I didn’t hear anything, but Reuben came
back later without him. He looked different; Sickly, pale, skinny, taller
somehow. And I… I swear to God he was covered in blood.” I looked over at Jim,
who was staring intently at her. Jesus Christ, you drunk bastard. You brilliant,
drunk bastard. You might actually be onto something. “Maybe I was delirious,
maybe I was. He looked the same as ever the next day, when the park rangers
found us. I just couldn’t shake this feeling that I was still in danger, though.
He talked in that cracked, hoarse way still. The police paid it no mind, wrote
it off as the effects of dehydration and wrote my story off as a mirage. I moved
as soon as I could when I got home. Stayed with my mom in Olympia for a short
while before I found a place here in May Creek. Like I said, maybe I was crazy.
I’m not saying Reuben Grundy definitely killed those people, but I am certain
that something in those woods got inside of him and made itself a home. And I
don’t think it ever left.” Jim’s intense concentration turned to slight
confusion; “What do you mean ‘something’?” Estelle gave a half smile, as though
she were embarrassed. “I’m not one to believe in folk tales, Mr. McAllister.
Never have been, even when my old man tried to scare me to death with them when
I wasn’t much older than my son. But Reuben was always the same up until that
trip, and he changed so suddenly. Call it what you want; a spirit, a sickness,
the call of nature, whatever. Something took ahold of Reuben. Took him away. I’m
not saying that if you investigate him you’ll definitely find the answers you’re
looking for. But you might want to try.” Noticing that Estelle was on the verge
of tears, I grabbed Jim’s arm and said; “Thank you so much for your help. We
should probably get going and leave you in peace.” “Estelle” Jim said
tentatively. “I don’t suppose we could convince you to come with us…” “No.” She
interjected. “I can’t see Reuben ever again, not after what I saw in those
woods. He doesn’t know where I live, but I still lock every door and window at
night, still watch the footage from the security camera every morning. Sometimes
I think if I met him again it would lay some ghosts to rest, but something tells
me those ghosts are real damned stubborn. I can’t put myself in danger. I’m the
only thing that Robert has.” She motioned down the hall toward her son’s
bedroom. Jim looked as though he were about to persist in his argument, but he
simmered down quickly. “Thank you for your time, Estelle, sincerely.” Jim said
as we stood up and walked to the door. “We’re gonna go give Reuben a visit. And
we will find out who’s doing this, I promise.” “Thank you.” Estelle replied.
“Good luck.” She silently watched us walk down the driveway to the car, a solemn
look in her eyes. Perhaps she was reliving all those memories, or perhaps she
thought she had just sent us further into something we would regret being a part
of. I looked over at the house one last time as I started the car. Through the
living room window, I could make out a blurred picture of Estelle cradling her
son in a tender embrace. We drove. I pulled the car up to Torkton Police Station
at 6:15 P.M, having convinced a particularly irate Jim to stop off there first.
I told him to wait in the car while I briefly went to talk to Alverson.
Apparently, he’d at the very least done a good job of rounding up the local
populace for questioning, as I had to sift through a chattering crowd of
townsfolk who were gathered outside and inside the station. I ran to Alverson’s
office, rapping sharply on the door. “Who the hell is it?” Came a gritty,
aggravated yell. I opened the door and my gaze met Sheriff Alverson’s cock-eyed
stare. “Where the fuck have you been, Lemanski?” “Have you interviewed a man
named Reuben Grundy?” I asked, ignoring him. “Who?” Alverson said. “Reuben
Grundy. Rancher from the North end of Torkton.” “Fuck should I know?” Alverson
said, taking an aggressive swig of his coffee. “Officer Barnett has a checklist.
Go ask her. Now where in God’s name have you been? You get McAllister to pull
that article?” I slammed his door and ran to the front desk, where I found
Officer Barnett busying herself with an excel spreadsheet. I nearly collided
with the desk, startling her. “Eve” I said, letting out a long-held breath.
“Have you interviewed a man named Reuben Grundy yet?” Visibly confused by my
urgency, she pulled up the records and perused them for about ten seconds. “Uh…
looks like we had him in a couple hours ago. We cleared him, he’s not down as a
suspect.” “Christ… where’s Detective Evans?” “Monroe.” She said absent-mindedly.
“Something came up from another case and he left a few hours …” “How long did
you have Grundy in the interview room for?” My words were ablaze with
insistence. “Five minutes, in and out.” Barnett replied. You’ve gotta be fucking
kidding me. They didn’t even ask him about the hiking trip. “Thanks.” I dashed
out of the station, feeling the mystified eyes of the townspeople boring into
me. Jim was waiting in anticipation, craning his neck around as I ran toward the
car. I threw the door open and clambered inside. “They cleared the bastard two
hours ago. Evans is in Monroe. We’re heading to Grundy’s place.” “Let’s go.” Jim
said. His tone was crawling with nerves. He had clearly expected it to come to
this, but now the reality of it was sinking in. Fear brewed underneath my
adrenaline rush. The sun began to exhaustedly sink below the distant mountain as
we sped through Torkton, painting a crimson outline on the remaining clouds. The
stench of dread began to creep in through the cracked passenger side window with
every inch that the sun receded. I began to wish it would take longer to get to
Grundy’s ranch. Anything to stave off the terrible gut feeling. “So, Evans went
to Monroe? What for?” Jim asked, obviously desperate to break the silence.
“Barnett said it was another case. Whether or not that’s a lie… I don’t know and
I don’t care. He’s shit scared and he’s not here, which makes him useless.” I
replied. “What about Alverson?” “He wasn’t even doing so much as ushering the
interviewees in. Just asked me about whether or not the Herald had been
convinced to pull the front page. We’re on our own, Jim.” As I said that, the
row of buildings on North Avenue disappeared and Grundy’s ranch came into view,
sitting less than a quarter of a mile down the road from where we were. I could
see a modest looking, well-kept one-storey house that sat at the head of a
sprawling two, perhaps three acres of land that I assumed all belonged to
Grundy, as all throughout the grassland were grazing cattle, and out behind the
house stood a barn, towering proudly over the tiny abode in all of its rustic
glory. Doing our utmost to compose ourselves, Jim and I parked the car at the
end of the gravel driveway, preparing for what would hopefully be our final
visit of the day. We walked up to the front of the house, trepidation hanging
like a meat hook on the otherwise calming summer breeze. I knocked on the screen
door and squinted through the glass. From the end of the hallway emerged a man,
standing about six-foot four. He made a slow jog toward the screen door and
pulled it open enthusiastically. He was as tan as one might expect a rancher to
be, dressed in tattered jeans and a polo shirt, and looked to be in his late
thirties. He had thinning brown hair that stuck out in tufts from underneath an
ill-fitting baseball cap, and a subtly auburn coloured beard. He gave a smile,
his eyes glinting a little. “Can I help you boys?” He asked, his voice a
chipper, gravelly song. I was thrown off for a second. I had expected a
weathered, malnourished looking man covering his face with a wide brimmed hat. I
had expected an inhuman rasp. I had expected him to tell us to leave him alone.
Jim jumped in. “My name’s Off… uh… Detective Cal Mariano, and this is Detective
Dave Crowley. We’re here regarding the town-wide questioning of the residents of
Torkton?” Grundy chuckled nervously, his brow wrinkling. “Oh, right… there must
have been some mistake. The police already interviewed me a few hours ago.” “We
understand sir, and we’re very sorry to trouble you.” I said, joining Jim in
playing the role of ‘Detective Crowley.’ “See” Jim said. “It’s a big operation,
and the Torkton police department are swamped, as you might imagine.
Unfortunately, they missed a couple of vital questions when interviewing a few
people, and they’ve sent us round to get extra details.” “Oh right, of course.”
Grundy said, his expression softening a little. “By all means, come on inside.”
Jim and I stepped into the hallway as Grundy closed the door. Inside, the
temperature was cool, yet an unpleasant smell sat in the air. I heard the door
lock behind us. Had the door been locked before? I couldn’t remember. “Hope you
boys’ll forgive me for the smell.” He laughed. “Got a rat infestation at the
moment, and the bastards keep dying in the walls an’ underneath the floorboards.
I try to keep the stench away as best I can ‘til I can dig ‘em out.” “Right on,
man.” I said, humouring his conversation. “Had a problem with rats myself about
a month ago.” Grundy led us to his kitchen, which seemed to be the biggest and
most impressive room in the otherwise small house, with a large granite counter
spanning its entire length, and a state of the art cooker sitting in the middle.
On the counter was a hefty pile of raw meat. “Christ.” I remarked. “That all
from your cattle?” “Yessir.” Grundy exclaimed with pride. “All locally sourced
to this very ranch. The butcher shops downtown love this stuff.” “I’ll bet.” I
said. “Now, Mr. Grundy, you mind if Detective Mariano and I ask you some
questions? Shouldn’t take long.” “Sure. Have a seat.” Grundy said, gesturing to
the kitchen table. He leaned against the counter, turning his attention to the
pile of meat. He still hadn’t asked to see our badges. “I’m listenin’, boys.
Fire away.” “Torkton station clocks your interview at about five minutes,
correct?” I asked. “Yeah, real quick in and out. Think they wrote me off because
well… I don’t have a record and I mean, look at this place. I’m busy all the
time, ain’t got kids to help me around the ranch.” Grundy replied. “Of course,
as far as criminal charges go, your record’s completely clean, Mr Grundy.” Jim
said. “Mhm.” Grundy picked up a meat cleaver and began hacking at the steak. The
instrument came down with a resounding thwack, separating a piece of the
animal’s flesh from the rest of the flank. “I suppose we’re here to ask about
the hiking trip you took in April of 2003 with a party of five other people.” I
said. Grundy exhaled loudly as though he were sighing, however he didn’t turn
around or stop what he was doing. The cleaver came down again. Louder this time.
“Oh, of course. I was a little surprised myself that they didn’t ask.” “Well,
let’s start with a general question.” I began. “What happened? What’s your
story?” “Huh… Got lost on the sixth day of the trip. We’d intended it to be a
long trip anyhow, but we ended up having a hell of a time finding the foot of
Mount Pilchuck and found ourselves lost in the woods with no idea which
direction we were supposed to go. Becca disappeared on the first night that we
got lost.” He paused, falling into a reminiscent chasm for just a moment. “And
did you know Becca well?” Jim asked. “Known her since high school. We were gonna
get married this year.” There was a pain in his voice. This isn’t our guy. Shit.
This isn’t our guy. “I’m sorry.” I said. “That must have been diff…” I was cut
off by the startling sound of the cleaver making contact with the cutting board,
slicing cleanly through another piece of meat. Much louder than before. “Yeah. I
try not to think about it. It got… hazy after that, real hazy. There was this
pain.” It sounded like he was struggling through his sentences now. “Pain?” I
asked. “Started in my head. Clouded my… vision.” “How long did the ‘pain’ go on
for?” Jim asked. The electric current I had felt in Estelle’s living room sprung
to life again. It was like a blade this time, grazing my spine with serrated
teeth. I thought I had become accustomed to the stink of the dead rodents, but I
knew what that smelled like. This was something different. Something that
carried a far more bitter scent. Hope you boys’ll forgive me for the smell. “Two
days. Spread to my hands and feet. Felt numb after that. And then… I guess I
felt…good.” Grundy said, his voice assuming a strange grating quality. He
brought the cleaver down again, the abrasive thud accompanied by the wet sound
of tearing meat. Grundy turned around to look at us. He seemed paler than he had
before, his posture slightly crooked. The glint in his eyes was gone. “What do
you remember about the disappearance of Nick Lee, the night before you were
rescued?” I enquired. He paused, setting the cleaver down. Had I blacked out?
His cheekbones now seemed sunken. His eyes were even darker. His fingers were
freakishly long and thin. An eerie silence waltzed with the tension that had
clouded the kitchen. “It was just animals, at first.” His voice was a sickly
rasp. “What?” “When I came back from the trip. It was just animals; coyotes,
mountain lions, prairie dogs. None of my own cattle.” “What the hell are you
talking about?” My mouth was dry. The stinging scent of decomposition couldn’t
be ignored. “It was just animals until the feeling came back. There was
something in those woods, boys. Something that called to me. Something that
wouldn’t let me die. Something that told me….” Grundy’s voice was no longer a
rasp. It sounded like a ghostly moan, as though his voice were wrapped up in a
violent gale. His eyes were cold black pits. His teeth were unnaturally long,
forming yellow daggers in his mouth and forcing his face into a mocking grin.
Jim stood up, backing away. “Told you what, Mr. Grundy?” “Something that told me
to eat.” Grundy finally said. Despite his unnatural tone, his voice was somehow
cold, matter of fact. “I killed the people on that hiking trip. I knew all of
them, and I killed them and ate their flesh.” Grundy said. Oh my God. Oh my
fucking God. Estelle was right. There was no logical resolution to what had
seemed like a crazy hunch. We were two idiots, in over our heads. “Why… Wh….”
Jim could hardly speak. “I tried eating animals and raw meat until that….
feeling came back.” He began circling the table. “That’s when I began breaking
into houses. People I didn’t know, people I did know, some I liked, some I
didn’t care for. I tore them all apart.” I stood up and stumbled away next to
Jim as Reuben Grundy stalked toward us, his sharp canines protruding. “Why are
you telling us this?” “Because…” his icy tone slowly began to thaw. “… they can
do what they like with me now. They can fry me, they can commit me as another
criminally insane nut, because they think they can control me like every other
guy that went out and killed young girls because mommy was too rough on them. It
helps them sleep at night to know that those sick bastards are all just human
beings that they can control, one way or another. But this rage inside me? This
power?” A thick rope of drool fell from his mouth and pooled on the floor.
“There are things darker than man in this world, boys. In the soil, in the
mountains, in the trees, in some dark corner of a big city. It might make you
feel better to believe that other people are the cruelest thing this life has to
offer, but I’m afraid that just isn’t true.” Grundy’s mouth was unnaturally
wide, the bed of spikes inside no longer resembling anything remotely human. A
small glimmer sat in the centre of his black eyes, like a tiny, brilliant star
inside a black hole. Hunger. Jim and I dived in opposite directions as Grundy
lunged at both of us, an animalistic howl erupting from his throat. I heard a
chair collide with the counter as I scrambled to my feet, coming face to face
with the creature that had been-or still was- Reuben Grundy. Any disbelief I had
could not be justified. This nightmarish picture was here in front of me, and it
was very, very real. Just as his maw opened again and another monstrous groan
emitted from within him, a gunshot rang out and Grundy doubled over in pain,
screeching with the ferocity of a thousand banshees. Jim stood behind him, his
pistol drawn. Grundy twitched violently, the motion producing a sickening
crunch, as though one of his bones had broken. Without a moment’s hesitation,
Grundy jumped from the floor to the ceiling and took off down the hallway to
what I had assumed to be the staircase to the basement, skittering like an
insect. His harrowing howl echoed through the house like another angry gust of
wind. Drawing my own weapon, Jim and I gave chase. The door to the basement hung
wide open, and any vaguely pleasant smells in the house were now being eaten
alive by the very clear aura of death. This wasn’t the smell of a rat problem,
that was for sure. For about ten seconds, the house resounded with clattering
and screaming coming up from the basement, and as soon as it had begun, it
suddenly ceased. Dead silence. I exchanged a terrified glance with Jim. “I wish
I was still drunk.” Jim grumbled shakily. We cautiously crept down the stairs to
the basement, the light dwindling more and more with each step. My hands were
gripping the pistol so hard that my knuckles had turned white and an oasis of
sweat had sprung from my palms. Jim fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a
flashlight, turning it on and allowing the beam to illuminate the pitch
blackness. The beam pierced the void that sat in the doorway, creating a tunnel
of light that led our eyes to a sight that confirmed what I had feared the
moment that smell had hit me. The floor of the basement was piled with remains
of all kinds; animal, human, arms, legs, insides. Some had clearly been dragged
down here no more than a few days ago, and some were weeks-maybe even months-
old, left on the ground to decay and denied a real burial. A shuffling sound
from off to the left grabbed our attention, and Grundy stepped back into view,
his metamorphosis having advanced even further. He stood well over seven feet
tall, his rib cage protruding as though his skin were vacuum packed around it.
His face was now ghoulishly inhuman, his eyes like hollow pits and his teeth
like battle scarred tusks. Reuben Grundy perched like a gargoyle atop his morbid
spoils; a king of the dead in his hall of treasures. He spoke, a baritone growl
sitting underneath his strangled voice; “Sorry. The… refrigerator down here is…
broken.” A sick smile spread across his face, and it was enough to tip Jim and I
over the edge. We just started shooting, and we kept on shooting until both of
our weapons had completely run out of bullets. When our eyes were no longer
obscured by the obnoxious muzzle flashes, the flashlight fell on what was
seemingly the lifeless corpse of the beast that Reuben Grundy had turned into.
We were both shocked; having expected him to attempt to flee the basement or at
least jump out of the way. The twisted monster now lay still among his quarries.
The entire Torkton police department arrived half an hour later, and the deeply
panicked, white faced Detective Evans arrived another half hour after that. The
whole clean-up operation took the best part of an entire week, but that first
night was a harrowing ordeal, even for those who didn’t have to scrape up the
remains or lay eyes on the creature that was responsible. If it had been any
other case, I would have relished the look of horror on Sheriff Alverson’s face
when he knew quite how badly he had handled everything, and the realization that
he would have to deal with “those fuckin’ Hoover boys” when a black SUV pulled
up outside the crime scene. The expression on his face was one shared by
everyone who had to wrap their heads around the fact that the near eight-foot
tall monster that was dragged out of that basement had been, at one point,
Reuben Grundy. I was glad that the case had been closed, but I felt very little
in the way of catharsis. Jim and I had come face to face with the unknown, and
the unknown had filled our heads with something unforgettable. There are things
darker than man out there; things we can’t control the way we can control the
Dahmers and John Wayne Gacys of the world. We may have put an end to Reuben
Grundy’s otherwise never-ending hunger, but whatever was inside him is still
tearing its way through the forests and the mountains, searching for another
viable host to infect with the burning rage it carries with it. I’m not so sure
that we can always fight what we don’t understand.


A SHATTERED LIFE 5.1K+




I don’t know when you’re going to read this, but I can tell you when it started:
I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me. It was
beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it
hid, there were no trees; where it crept closer, there was no grass; through the
arc it leapt at me, there was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all. As
it struck, I felt the distinct sensation of claws puncturing me somewhere
unseen; somewhere I’d never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso
seemed fine and I wasn’t bleeding, but I knew I’d been injured somehow. As I
fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less. I was vaguely tired, and
it was hard to focus at times. The solution at that early stage was easy: a big
cup of coffee helped me feel normal again. For a while, that subtle drain on my
spirit became lost in the ebb and flow of caffeine in my system. You could say
my life began that week, actually, because that was when I met Mar. She and I
got along great, though, to be honest, I’m pretty sure I fell in love with her
over the phone before we even met. It was almost as if the strong emotions of
that first week made the entity fight back—it was still with me, latched on to
some invisible part of my being. The first few incidents were minor, and I
hardly worried about them. The color of a neighbor’s car changed from dark blue
to black one morning, and I stared at it before shaking my head and shrugging
off the difference. Two days later, at work, a coworker’s name changed from Fred
to Dan. I carefully asked around, but everyone said his name had always been
Dan. I figured I’d just been mistaken. Then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I was
peeing in my bathroom at home when I suddenly found myself on a random street. I
was still in my pajamas, pants down, and urinating—but now in full view of a
dozen people at a bus stop. Horrified, I pulled up my clothes and ran before
someone called the cops. I did manage to get home, but the experience forced me
to admit that I was still in danger. The entity was doing something to me, and I
didn’t understand how to fight back. Mar showed up that evening, but she had her
own key. “Hey,” I asked her with confusion. “How’d you get a key?” She just
laughed. “You’re cute. Are you sure you’re okay with this?” She opened a door
and entered a room full of boxes. “I know living together is a big step,
especially when we’ve only been dating three months.” Living together? I’d
literally just met her the week before. Thing was, my mother had always called
me a smart cookie for a reason. I knew when to shut my yap. Instead of causing a
scene, I told her everything was fine—and then I went straight to my room and
began investigating. My things were just as I had left them with no sign of a
three month gap in habitation, but I did find something out of the ordinary: the
date. I shivered angrily as I processed the truth. The entity had eaten three
months of my life. What the hell was I facing? What kind of creature could
consume pieces of one’s soul like that? I’d missed the most exciting part of a
new relationship, and I would never understand any shared stories or in-jokes
from that period. Something absurdly precious had been taken from me, and I was
furious. That fury helped suppress the entity. I never imbibed alcohol. I drank
coffee religiously. I checked the date every time I woke up. For three years, I
managed to live each day while observing nothing more than minor alterations. A
social fact here and there—someone’s job, how many kids they had, that sort of
thing—the layout of nearby streets, the time my favorite television show aired,
that kind of thing. Always, those changes reminded me the creature still had its
claws sunk into my spirit. Not once in three years did I ever let myself zone
out. One day, I grew careless. I let myself get really into the season finale of
my favorite show. It was gripping; a fantastic story. Right at the height of the
action, a young boy came up to my lounger and shook my arm. Surprised, I asked,
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” He laughed and smiled brightly. “Silly
Daddy!” My heart sank in my chest. I knew immediately what had happened. After a
few masked questions, I discovered that he was two years old—and that he was my
son. The agony and heartache filling my chest was nearly unbearable. Not only
had I missed the birth of my son, I would never see or know the first years of
his life. Mar and I had obviously gotten married and started a family in the
time I’d lost, and I had no idea what joys or pains those years contained. It
was snowing outside. Holding my sudden son in my lap, I sat and watched the
flakes fall outside. What kind of life was this going to be if slips in
concentration could cost me years? I had to get help. The church had no idea
what to do. The priests didn’t believe me, and told me I had a health issue
rather than some sort of possession. The doctors didn’t have any clue. Nothing
showed up on all their scans and tests, but they happily took my money in return
for nothing. By the time I ran out of options, I’d decided to tell Mar. There
was no way to know what this all looked like from her side. What was I like when
I wasn’t there? Did I still take our son to school? Did I still do my job?
Clearly, I did, because she seemed to be none the wiser, but I still had a
horrible feeling that something must have been missing in her life when I wasn’t
actually home inside my own head. But the night I set up a nice dinner in
preparation, she arrived not by unlocking the front door, but by knocking on it.
I answered, and found that she was in a nice dress. She was happily surprised by
the settings on the table. “A fancy dinner for a second date? I knew you were
sweet on me!” Thank the Lord I knew when to keep my mouth shut. If I’d gone on
about being married and having a son, she might have run for the hills. Instead,
I took her coat and sat down for our second date. Through carefully crafted
questions, I managed to deduce the truth. This really was our second date. She
saw relief and happiness in me, but interpreted that as dating jitters. I was
just excited to realize that the entity wasn’t necessarily eating whole portions
of my life. The symptoms, as I was beginning to understand them, were more like
the consequences of a shattered soul. The creature had wounded me; broken me
into pieces. Perhaps I was to live my life out of order, but at least I would
actually get to live it. And so it went for a few years—from my perspective.
While minor changes in politics or geography would happen daily, major shifts in
my mental location only happened every couple months. When I found myself in a
new place and time in my life, I just shut up and listened, making sure to get
the lay of the land before doing anything to avoid making mistakes. On the
farthest-flung leap yet, I met my six-year-old grandson, and I asked him what he
wanted to be when he grew up. He said, “Writer.” I told him that was a fine
idea. Then, I was back in month two of my relationship with Mar, and I had the
best night with her on the riverfront. When I say the best, I mean the best.
Knowing how special she would become to me, I asked her to move in. I got to
live through what I’d missed the first go-around, and I came to understand that
I was never mentally absent. I would always be there—eventually. When we were
moving her boxes in, she stopped for a moment and said she marveled at my great
love, as if I’d known her for a lifetime and never once doubted she was the one.
That was the first time I’d truly laughed freely and wholeheartedly since the
entity had wounded me. She was right about my love for her, but for exactly the
reason she’d considered a silly romantic analogy. I had known her my whole life,
and I’d come to terms with my situation and found peace with it. It wasn’t so
bad to have sneak peeks at all the best parts ahead. But of course I wouldn’t be
writing this if it hadn’t gotten worse. The entity was still with me. It had not
wounded me and departed like I’d wanted to believe. The closest I can describe
my growing understanding was that the creature was burrowing deeper into my
psyche, fracturing it into smaller pieces. Instead of months between major
shifts, I began having only weeks. Once I noticed that trend, I feared my
ultimate fate would be to jump between times in my life heartbeat by heartbeat,
forever confused, forever lost. Only an instant in each time meant I would never
be able to speak with anyone else, never be able to hold a conversation, never
express or receive love. As the true depth of that fear came upon me, I sat in
an older version of me and watched the snow falling outside. That was the one
constant in my life: the weather didn’t care who I was or what pains I had to
face. Nature was always there. The falling snow was always like a little hook
that kept me in a place; the pure emotional peace it brought was like a panacea
on my mental wounds, and I’d never yet shifted while watching the pattern of
falling white and thinking of the times I’d gone sledding or built a snow fort
as a child. A teenager touched my arm. “Grandpa?” “Eh?” He’d startled me out of
my thoughts, so I was less careful than usual. “Who are you?” He half-grinned,
as if not sure whether I was joking. Handing me a stack of papers, he said,
“It’s my first attempt at a novel. Would you read it and tell me what you
think?” Ahh, of course. “Pursuing that dream of being a writer, I see.” He
burned bright red. “Trying to, anyway.” “All right. Run off, I’ll read this
right now.” The words were blurry, and, annoyed, I looked for glasses I probably
had for reading. Being old was terrible, and I wanted to leap back into a
younger year—but not before I read his book. I found my glasses in a sweater
pocket, and began leafing through. Mar puttered in and out of the living room,
still beautiful, but I had to focus. I didn’t know how much time I would have
there. It seemed that we had relatives over. Was it Christmas? A pair of adults
and a couple kids I didn’t recognize tromped through the hallway, and I saw my
son, now adult, walk by with his wife on the way out the door. As a group, the
extended family began sledding outside. Finally, I finished reading the story,
and I called out for my grandson. He rushed down the stairs and into the living
room. “How was it?” “Well, it’s terrible,” I told him truthfully. “But it’s
terrible for all the right reasons. You’re still a young man, so your characters
behave like young people, but the structure of the story itself is very solid.”
I paused. “I didn’t expect it to turn out to be a horror story.” He nodded.
“It’s a reflection of the times. Expectations for the future are dismal, not
hopeful like they used to be.” “You’re far too young to be aware like that,” I
told him. An idea occurred to me. “If you’re into horror, do you know anything
about strange creatures?” “Sure. I read everything I can. I love it.” Warily, I
scanned the entrances to the living room. Everyone was busy outside. For the
first time, I opened up to someone in my life about what I was experiencing. In
hushed tones, I told him about my fragmented consciousness. For a teenager, he
took it well. “You’re serious?” “Yes.” He donned the determined look of a grown
man accepting a quest. “I’ll look into it, see what I can find out. You should
start writing down everything you experience. Build some data. Maybe we can map
your psychic wound.” Wow. “Sounds like a plan.” I was surprised. That made
sense, and I hadn’t expected him to have a serious response. “But how will I get
all the notes in one place?” “Let’s come up with somewhere for you to leave
them,” he said, frowning with thought. “Then I’ll get them, and we can trace the
path you’re taking through your own life, see if there’s a pattern.” For the
first time since the situation had gotten worse, I felt hope again. “How about
under the stairs? Nobody ever goes under there.” “Sure.” He turned and left the
living room. I peered after him. I heard him banging around near the stairs.
Finally, he returned with a box, laid it on the carpet, and opened it to reveal
a bursting stack of papers. He exclaimed, “Holy crap!”—but of course, being a
teenager, he didn’t really say crap. Taken aback, I blinked rapidly, forgiving
his cussing because of the shock. “Did I write those?” He looked up at me with
wonder. “Yeah. Or, you will. You still have to write them and put them under the
stairs after this.” He gazed back down at the papers—then covered the box. “So
you probably shouldn’t see what they say. That could get weird.” That much I
understood. “Right.” He gulped. “There are like fifty boxes under there, all
filled up like this. Deciphering these will take a very long time.” His tone
dropped to deadly seriousness. “But I will save you, grandpa. Because I don’t
think anyone else can.” Tears flowed down my cheeks then, and I couldn’t help
but sob once or twice. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d become in my shifting
prison of awareness until I finally had someone who understood. “Thank you.
Thank you so much.” And then I was young again, and at work on a random Tuesday.
Once the sadness and relief faded, anger and determination replaced them. After
I finished my work, I grabbed some paper and began writing. While the weeks
shifted around me, while those weeks became days, and then hours, I wrote every
single spare moment about when and where I thought I was. I put them under the
stairs out of order; my first box was actually the thirtieth, and my last box
was the first. Once I had over fifty boxes written from my perspective—and once
my shifting became a matter of minutes—I knew it was up to my grandson to take
it from there. I put my head down and stopped looking. I couldn’t stand the
river of changing awareness any longer. Names and places and dates and jobs and
colors and people were all wrong and different. I’d never been older. I sat
watching the snow fall. A man of at least thirty that I vaguely recognized
entered the room. “Come on, I think I finally figured it out.” I was so frail
that moving was painful. “Are you him? Are you my grandson?” “Yes.” He took me
to a room filled with strange equipment and sat me in a rubber chair facing a
large mirror twice the height of a man. “The pattern finally revealed itself.”
“How long have you worked on this?” I asked him, aghast. “Tell me you didn’t
miss your life like I’m missing mine!” His expression was both stone cold and
furiously resolute. “It’ll be worth it.” He brought two thin metal rods close to
my arm and then nodded at the mirror. “Look. This shock is carefully
calibrated.” The electric zap from his device was startling, but not painful. In
the mirror, I saw a rapid arcing light-silhouette appear above my head and
shoulder. The electricity moved through the creature like a wave, briefly
revealing the terrible nature of what was happening to me. A bulging leech-like
mouth was wrapped around the back of my head, coming down to my eyebrows and
touching each ear, and its slug-like body ran over my shoulder and into my very
soul. It was a parasite. And it was feeding on my mind. My now-adult grandson
held my hand as I took in the horror. After a moment, he asked, “Removing it is
going to hurt very badly. Are you up for this?” Fearful, I asked, “Is Mar here?”
His face softened. “No. Not for a few years now.” I could tell from his reaction
what had happened, but I didn’t want it to be true. “How?” “We have this
conversation a lot,” he responded. “Are you sure you want to know? It never
makes you feel better.” Tears brimmed in my eyes. “Then I don’t care if it
hurts, or if I die. I don’t want to stay in a time where she’s not alive.” He
made a sympathetic noise of understanding and then returned to his machines to
hook several wires, diodes, and other bits of technology to my limbs and
forehead. While he did so, he talked. “I’ve worked for two decades to figure
this out, and I’ve had a ton of help from other researchers of the occult. This
parasite doesn’t technically exist in our plane. It’s one of the lesser spawns
of µ¬ßµ, and it feeds on the plexus of mind, soul, and quantum
consciousness/reality. When details like names and colors of objects changed,
you weren’t going crazy. The web of your existence was merely losing strands as
the creature ate its way through you.” I didn’t fully understand. I looked up in
confusion as he placed a circlet of electronics like a crown on my head in exact
line with where the parasite’s mouth had ringed me. “What’s µ¬ßµ?” He paused his
work and grew pale. “I forgot that you wouldn’t know. You’re lucky, believe me.”
After a deep breath, he began moving again, and placed his fingers near a few
switches. “Ready? This is carefully tuned to make your nervous system extremely
unappetizing to the parasite, but it’s basically electro-shock therapy.” I could
still see Mar’s smile. Even though she was dead, I’d just been with her moments
ago. “Do it.” The click of a switch echoed in my ears, and I almost laughed at
how mild the electricity was. It didn’t feel like anything—at least at first.
Then, I saw the mirror shaking, and my body within that image convulsing. Oh.
No. It did hurt. Nothing had ever been more painful. It was just so excruciating
that my mind hadn’t been able to immediately process it. As my vision shook and
fire burned in every nerve in my body, I could see the reflected trembling
light-silhouette of the parasite on my head as it writhed in agony equal to
mine. It had claws—six clawed lizard-like limbs under its leech-like body—and it
cut into me in an attempt to stay latched on. The electricity made my memories
flare. Mar’s smile was foremost, lit brightly in front of a warm fire as the
snow fell past the window behind her. The edges of that memory began lighting
up, and I realized that my life was one continuous stretch of experience—it was
only the awareness of it that had been fragmented by that feasting evil on my
back. I’d never managed to be there for the birth of my son. I’d jumped around
it a dozen times, but never actually lived it. For the first time, I got to hold
Mar’s hand and be there for her. No. No! That moment had shifted seamlessly into
holding her hand as she lay in a hospital bed for a very different reason. Not
this! God, why? It was so merciless to make me remember this. I broke down in
tears as nurses rushed into the room. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to
experience it. I’d seen all the good parts, but I hadn’t wanted the worst
part—the inevitable end that all would one day face. It wasn’t worth it. It was
tainted. All that joy was given back ten thousand fold as pain. The fire in my
body and in my brain surged to sheer white torture, and I screamed. My scream
faded into a surprised shout as the machines and electricity and chair faded
away. Snow was no longer falling around my life; I was out in the woods on a
bright summer day. Oh God. I turned to see the creature approaching me. It was
the same absence of meaning; the same blank on reality. It crept forward, just
like before—but, this time, it hissed and turned away. I stood, astounded at
being young again and freed from the parasite. My grandson had actually done it!
He’d made me an unappetizing meal, so the predator of mind and soul had moved on
in search of a different snack. I returned home in a daze. And while I was
sitting there processing all that had happened, the phone rang. I looked at it
in awe and sadness. I knew who it was. It was Marjorie, calling for the first
time for some trivial reason she’d admit thirty years later was made up just to
talk to me. But all I could see was her lying in that hospital bed dying. It was
going to end in unspeakable pain and loneliness. I would become an old man, left
to sit by myself in an empty house, his soulmate gone long before him. At the
end of it all, the only thing I would have left: sitting and watching the
falling snow. But now, thanks to my grandson, I would also have my memories. It
would be a wild ride, no matter how it ended. On a sudden impulse, I picked up
the phone. With a smile, I asked, “Hey, who’s this?” Even though I already knew.


A PECULIAR KIND OF MADNESS 3K+




I’d always known that my great-grandma was an orphan, but in late October of
last year, she decided to tell me the truth about what happened to her family.
We were visiting her for her birthday. It was a tradition in our household; a
road trip we knew in the back of our minds we’d take only a few more times. She
was turning ninety-eight, so that was just the cold hard truth of the matter. In
my childhood, the journey to central Iowa had been a fun and light-hearted
affair, but now my brother and parents could only maintain strained politeness
as we met up and hit the road together. Each of us knew that this trip might be
our last. For several hours, we drove through vast open farm fields that
stretched from horizon to horizon. My great-grandma’s house was down a narrow
dirt road off a wide dirt road off a gravel tractor lane. As a city boy, it was,
more or less, the most remote possible dwelling I could imagine. She was born
there, had lived her entire life there, and would soon—well. As we parked in an
open muddy rectangle and stepped out to stretch our legs, the constancy of the
place surrounded me. Every single year of my life, this house and its land had
been exactly the same. The sky was open blue, the earth was a sea of waving
gold, and the wind was a smooth river of cool warmth. There was never anything
to mar those three pillars of sensory experience except the house, the barn, a
defunct old tractor, and the bell. The bell was a simple thing raised high on an
old metal crook. It sat out in the fields about a quarter mile from the house,
serving as a measure of the wind. If a storm was coming, the bell was supposed
to ring, a necessary precaution in tornado country. The only problem was, the
bell and its crook had rusted over long ago. Every time I got out of the family
van from age five to age twenty-six, I glanced that direction and felt a sense
of unease as my gaze fell upon that decayed artifact. This time, at age
twenty-seven, I looked over and saw that the bell had been scraped and polished
clean of rust. It glinted in the sunlight, practically daring me to look at it.
I followed my family inside while struggling with a feeling of dread that I
couldn’t articulate. Who had cleaned the bell? And why? I tried to stop thinking
about it as we gathered in the kitchen and said our hellos. My great-grandma was
making tea, and shooed off our attempts to help. She was a frail woman for whom
movement was difficult, but she’d never let that stop her. “The Wi-Fi password
is on a note in the living room,” she told us with unquestionable authority. “Go
stare at your phones and the tea will be ready in a moment.” My brother and I
did as we were told, but my parents turned on the television instead of looking
at their phones. For a few minutes, we stayed in our separate worlds, only
returning to the present when my great-grandma brought in the tea. And we had a
nice time. That night, when everyone else was long asleep, I happened to open my
eyes and see a glow under the door of the guest room I shared with my brother.
My parents were in a different room and would not see the same light, so it was
up to me to investigate. Quietly, so as not to wake him, I crept out and down,
finding my great-grandma still awake. She sat in her big jade-leather chair, her
gaze on the television. She asked me without looking my way, “You don’t fall for
this stuff, do you?” “What, like ads?” She pointed her thin little arm at the
nearby couch. “Sit.” I sat. “I’m going to tell you a family secret,” she said
softly, finally looking my direction. “It’s for you, and possibly for your
brother, but not your parents. Do you understand?” I didn’t, not fully, but I
nodded. “You know I was an orphan for a time. Born in this house, lived with my
family, but then raised by an uncle after it happened?” She didn’t wait for my
nod. “I was ten years old that night. It was my birthday.” My mother had gotten
me a small cake about the size of your fist. I looked forward to that cake every
year, since we didn’t exactly have sweets bounding about back then. It was
eleven cents, so rather expensive, but my mother got one for every one of us on
our birthdays no matter what she had to scrimp or save. All year long, I saw
Mary get her cake in January, Arthur get his cake in March, Eleanor in June,
Clarence in July, then Ruth a week after Clarence. Then it was months and months
until me, the odd one out, on October 29th. I was so excited for that cake. As
the days rolled closer, as the morning dawned, as the hours inched by, I hopped
around the house like a bunny rabbit. But I wasn’t allowed to eat it until well
after supper. I stared at the clock, so I know. Yes, that one on the mantle
there, the brass and chrome one. Same one. But I stared at the clock, so I know:
night fell at six forty-one. That was the moment bright orange stopped glinting
off that clock and my mother rose to light a lamp. I looked up at her. “Now?”
She smiled and shook her head. My brothers and sisters complained in a chorus in
support of me, but she just shook her head at them. “Too soon, and she’ll ruin
her supper.” Father came in from the fields not long after that, dirty and tired
as all get out. He ate in silence while we chattered endlessly about what type
of cake it would be. Under the frosting, who knew? It might be raspberry,
vanilla, or even chocolate. We grew silent as father neared the cleaning of his
plate, an event which would mark the end of supper. Four pieces of meat and
bread remained, then three, then two… any moment now…! He stopped at the last
piece, holding it unmoving above the remaining dollop of gravy. We turned our
heads. It was the bell. The bell was ringing out in the fields. Father grunted,
then put the last piece of his food back on his plate before rising. He opened
the front door; we braced ourselves for the wind, but none came. He spat on and
held up a finger to the night air, then shook his head. He moved back into our
lamplight and sat. Arthur asked, “Is it gonna storm?” Mary asked, “Is there
gonna be a tornado?” My mother shook her head, smiled at us, and told us not to
worry. No wind meant no storm. But that bell kept ringing. My father dipped his
last piece of food in the gravy and prepared to eat it despite the constantly
ringing bell—but then sighed and put it back down. He motioned to Clarence.
Clarence was the oldest, so he understood. He was nearly a man himself, and
tying the bell would be no problem. He grabbed a candle, protected the flame
with his hand, and headed out the open front door. My brothers and sisters and I
piled up to the window; opening it, we found nothing but absolutely still chilly
air. We watched his little spot of light move out around the house and into the
fields in the direction of the bell. The clanging metallic sound stopped,
finally, and the candle’s little flame hovered next to it for a solid minute.
“Why’s he taking so long to tie it?” Ruth asked. Eleanor suggested, “Maybe he’s
having trouble making a knot. Knots are tough.” We watched for another minute or
two before—and I know how this sounds—the little flame in the distance began to
rise. Slowly, smoothly, straight up. We followed it with our eyes, exclaiming
the entire time, as it moved out of sight beyond the roof overhang. The bell
began ringing again. “His knot must have come loose,” Arthur said. Our parents
came to look at our insistence, but there was nothing to see by then. Father
motioned to Arthur. Happy to help out, Arthur grabbed a full lamp rather than a
candle. He hurried out the front door, around the house, and into the fields
while we watched from the window. The lamp was easier to see, and we were
absolutely certain he reached the crook. As the lamplight hovered there, the
bell stopped ringing. At that point, we had no reason to think anything was
amiss. Maybe the wind had just blown a wisp of burning candle string up into the
sky and Clarence had gotten lost in the dark. He would see the lamplight, find
Arthur, and they would both come back. The rising little flame we’d seen had
just been a fluke. Only problem was, staring out into the autumn night, we still
felt no wind at all. We stared at that unmoving light for a strangely long
period of time. What was he doing out there? Was he calling for his brother? Why
couldn’t we hear him, if so? Our parents looked away for a moment, and in that
instant, the lamp went out. We children bleated, but by the time they glanced
back, there was nothing to see. There was only darkness. The bell began ringing
again. My father began grumbling, but there were no more sons to send outside.
He narrowed his eyes with thought, then handed Ruth, the oldest girl among us,
our main lamp. Our mother laughed. “Ruth, be a dear and go find your silly
brothers.” Ruth was a little hesitant, but she accepted the lamp. Leaving us in
darkness without it, she headed out around the house and into the fields. This
lamp was brighter, and we could actually see her carrying hand and her white
pajamas in a small lit halo. On the way there, she regularly called out,
“Clarence… Arthur… you two lost?” About halfway to where the other two lights
had stopped, her calls went instantly silent midsentence. “Clarence… Arth—” It
wasn’t that she’d given up yelling. The sound reaching us had simply stopped
completely. We could still see her carrying the lamp, still see her hand and
pajamas, still see her turning this way and that. She even raised the house lamp
near her face and we saw her shouting into the darkness. We just didn’t hear
anything—nothing except that constantly clanging bell, growing faster in pace
and louder in urgency. Mary, Eleanor, and I looked up at our parents with
fearful gazes. My father shook his head, speaking for the first time that night.
“So there’s wind out there after all. The air is like a river inside an ocean.
It’s movin’ fast out there, carrying her voice away. But we can’t feel it here.”
My mother seemed worried, but she nodded and accepted that. We saw her accepting
it, so we gulped and believed it, too. We all glued our eyes to that open
window. Ruth reached the bell, and, in that stronger light, it entered our view
unmoving at the exact same time we heard it stop ringing. Ruth looked this way
and that, clearly concerned. She seemed to silently yell a time or two before
moving closer to the motionless bell. A half-tied rope hung from the crook, an
indication that someone had attempted to tie it, but we couldn’t see Clarence or
Arthur anywhere near her. She put the lamp down on the ground to free her hands
for tying the rope the rest of the way, but that mostly hid the light among the
low-lying recently harvested stalks. We waited, breaths held. The air held in my
lungs started to burn. At long last, we were forced to breathe again. Ruth’s
light continued to sit there, barely visible between the broken plants. “What’s
taking so long?” Mary asked. Eleanor said, “I hope she’s alright.” Father told
us, “She’s fine. Damn kids are just playing a game with us.” Our mother nodded
in agreement. “Eleanor, go fetch your sister, will you?” Eleanor shook her head.
“No way! It’s scary out there!” “It’s just a game. You’re not playing a game
with us, too, are you?” “No.” Eleanor gulped. “Then go get your sister and
brothers. Tell them to come back in.” It was pitch black out there, and almost
the same inside with us, save for one lone candle. Trembling, Eleanor took our
last candle and crept out into the night, scooting along the side of the house
to stay as close to us as possible. Shakily, she called, “Ruth? Arthur?
Clarence? This isn’t funny anymore.” Now it was we who sat in the dark. As
Eleanor began to move further away with the last of our light, we tensed. Father
eyed the open front door, and mother softly moved to close and latch it. I
wondered what they meant by that move, because how were the others supposed to
get back in? But I supposed they’d unlatch it if anyone came back and knocked.
Mother moved away from us in search of more candles. Through it all, the bell
kept ringing out in the dark. Increasingly scared, I held Mary’s hand tightly
and yelled out the window, “Be careful, Elly!” She must have happened to cross
that invisible silent threshold at that moment, because she turned around in
surprise and stepped closer. “I heard your voice go quiet, but there’s no wind!
Papa’s wrong!” She stepped away again. “See, when I pass this point, my—” She
held up the candle to show us that her mouth was still moving, but we heard
nothing. Come to think of it, her hair wasn’t moving, and we hadn’t seen Ruth’s
pajamas billowing in any wind. I asked father, “What’s doing that? What’s making
it quiet out there?” “It’s just a game,” father insisted. “They’re all lying.
She’s just pretending to make noise so it looks like she’s being silenced.”
Eleanor reached the bell; father’s grip on my shoulder squeezed to nearly
painful. She reached down for the lamp Ruth had left; lifting it with one hand
and holding the candle with the other, she approached the clanging bell. “See?”
Mary whispered to father. “The candle’s not going out even though she’s not
protecting the flame. There’s no wind out there.” “But the bell is ringing,” he
said gruffly. “So there is wind.” Eleanor kept looking left and right as if
she’d heard something; slowly, she reached the bell, which was hanging unmoving
from the crook. But we could still hear it ringing. Next to me, Mary began to
cry. “It’s a game,” father said angrily. “It’s just a game they’re playing.”
Eleanor threw the lamp at something in the darkness. We saw the lamp crash,
shatter, and go dark, but heard nothing. She raced toward us, candle in hand,
but the flame went out because of her haste. We waited to hear her approaching
or screaming, but nothing followed. The bell continued to clang. We waited in
terrified silence. Mother returned with a candle for each of us, and we sat
vigil at the window. Nothing and no one moved. For hours, the bell clanged
without wind. The night remained pitch black. The bell clanged, and clanged, and
clanged, driving deeper into our ears with each passing minute. Near midnight,
we broke. Father was beyond agitated. “Mary, go find your brothers and sisters.”
“No!” she cried. “I’m not going out there!” Mother glared at her. “You have to.
This game has to stop.” Urged on by both of them, Mary burst into tears and
climbed out the window. Holding her small candle, she inched out into the
fields. Her sobs went quiet as she passed that same point out in the darkness;
her flame reached the bell, and the ringing stopped. Her flame snuffed out. We
held our breaths. The bell began ringing again. Father clenched his fists. “Go.”
I turned and saw he was looking at me. I suddenly realized I was the only child
left in the house, and I felt horribly alone. Everything in me shrieked against
the thought of going out into that cursed night. “No.” My mother wavered in
place. No longer adamantly in line with my father, she began to cry, too. “What
are you doing?” he demanded. “It’s just a game. There’s nothing to be scared
of!” She screamed and demanded, “Why do you keep saying that? Why have I been
helping you do this?!” He grabbed her and shouted in her face, “Because we
haven’t been sending our children to their deaths! That’s not what’s happening!“
She pushed his hands away and ran for the window. Pushing past me, she tumbled
out and ran screaming toward the still-clanging bell; not out of fear of father,
but out of terror for her children. “Arthur! Clarence! Ruth! Eleanor! Mary! For
God’s sake, where are you?!” He growled and leapt out after her, yelling, “We
didn’t kill them! Everything is fine!“ They both continued shouting until they
passed that point in the dark—and all went silent. Except for the bell. Twice
more, it stopped ringing, and twice more, it began again. In panic and terror
beyond reason, I closed and latched the window and pushed all of the furniture
against every entry to the house. I curled in a cupboard holding the last candle
up to my face as it slowly melted its way down toward my fingers. I was alone.
Somehow, I was alone. We’d all seen the danger and stared right at it as it
happened, but one by one they’d all gone out there anyway. I’d been surrounded
by a full band of siblings my entire life, and now I was completely and utterly
alone in a house in the middle of nowhere. By the length of my candle, it was
three in the morning when the knock came at the door. I trembled, but did not
make a sound. The knock sounded again forty heartbeats later. It was louder this
time. I shook, holding my candle tight. The third knock was more like a
tremendous crash or kick, and I heard the door explode inward. Sixty heartbeats
of silence passed… and then the floorboards creaked. Something in me told me to
put out my candle for fear of it being seen through the cracks in the cupboard,
but I didn’t dare. Not darkness. I couldn’t handle darkness. I would scream if I
did, so I kept it lit. Slow quiet steps moved through the house. Whoever it was
seemed to be pausing and listening at times; at others, they would rush forward
to a random spot in a sudden frenzy and then stop abruptly. Four hundred
heartbeats after that, the bell began ringing again. But this time, it rang from
inside the house. It rang from the kitchen. It rang from near the bed. It rang
outside my cupboard. Clang, ten feet away, clang, five feet away, clang, right
up against the cupboard door— And then it opened. I sat expectantly, mouth open
and eyes wide, as I waited for my great-grandmother to continue. After a bit, I
realized that was it. “But what’d you see?” She shook her head. “That’s not the
point. I’m here, so obviously I survived, and a young man like you doesn’t need
to know what horrors walk this world outside the paved cities of man.” Gulping,
I asked, “You’re not just pulling my leg? This really happened?” “Yes.” Her gaze
went distant by television light. “But here’s what I want to tell you, and what
you should tell your brother. The thing that opened that cupboard door and
stared at me from the dark—the thing that hoped to wait out my candle before the
coming of dawn—had a bell tied to one of its teeth with a blood-soaked rag, such
that it would clang when its mouth was opened for hunting. Somehow, some way,
some heroic poor soul managed to tie a warning bell to that thing before they
died. We heard that warning bell all night long, and yet my entire family walked
out there one by one. We didn’t listen because we didn’t want to listen. My
father knew what he was doing halfway through, but he didn’t want to accept what
he’d already done, so he did even worse to continue living the lie.” I narrowed
my eyes. “What are you saying?” She grabbed my hand briefly. “Fear will tell you
to put your candle out, but your head will tell you to keep it lit. Don’t give
in to fear. You keep it lit, you’ll get through this.” Turning my head, I became
aware of a sound in the distance. “Is that… is that the bell? I was so caught up
I didn’t notice. How long has that been ringing?” She just clenched her fist and
turned back to the television.


WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE STARS GO OUT 7.61K+




The red lights are only making the pain worse. It is an immense,
earth-shattering pain, in my midsection and in my head. I try to move, but I
can’t; I try to speak, but I can’t do that either. It hurts too much, and my
voice obeys me no more than do my joints or my muscles or my bones or my mind.
And yet still there is movement. I can feel myself being lifted up and placed on
something – a bed, maybe, or – no. A gurney. “Alright!” one of the EMTs says,
and several others then roll me into the back of an ambulance, and climb in
behind me. But I’m already fading fast, and feeling an inexplicable heat, by the
time those doors are shut. One EMT, a blonde woman, shoots me a curious little
look, just as I’m slipping away, and says aloud, “Wait. Wait, I think I know…
”…we’re made of that stuff, right?” I turned around. There was a woman there,
red-haired and about my age, give or take, and she was alarmingly beautiful. But
how long she’d been staring at the exhibit alongside me I had no idea. ”I’m
sorry?” ”I said ‘you know we’re made of that stuff, right’?” She nodded at the
museum wall, which depicted in detail the births and life cycle and deaths of
stars. I pursed my lips. ”We’re… made of stars?” ”Yep. Isn’t it awesome?” She
stepped up beside me and moved her arm across the diagram as she spoke. “I just
watched a documentary about it last night. Stars are just fusion factories held
together by their own gravity. They start off fusing hydrogen to helium, and
then they keep going on and on, fusing heavier and heavier elements until
they’re fusing the heaviest stuff. Then they exhaust their fuel and collapse
under their own weight, and they blow off their outer layers and pretty much
shower the galaxy with all these random elements, some of which are eventually
used to create life.” ”Huh.” ”Yeah. I’m Robin, by the way.” She extended her
hand, and I shook it. ”Uh, hey. Brian. Nice to meet you.” There was an awkward
pause before I said, “Alright, I got one for you. If you replaced the sun with a
black hole, what would happen?” ”Depends on its mass.” ”Nope! The answer is –
drumroll please – nothing. I mean everything would get dark and cold, but we
wouldn’t fall in. Earth’s orbit would remain entirely unaffected.” ”IF the black
hole had the same mass as the sun.” ”What?” ”What you said would only be true if
the black hole in question happened to have the same mass as the sun. Which it
wouldn’t, because the sun isn’t massive enough to collapse into a black hole.”
”Oh. Damn.” ”Yep. Me one, you zero. Sorry, pal.” ”Alright.” I said. “You’re on.
Whoever gets the most points by closing time buys drinks.” She smiled at that
and punched me in the shoulder, just light enough not to sting. ”Alright, loser.
Come…” “…on,” the EMT says. There is a flurry of activity around me, and there
are voices, too, and blinding lights, and a cooling down of that monstrous heat.
One of the paramedics is looking me over. Then he looks to another colleague –
the blonde woman – and he shakes his head, slowly. “This one’s gone, Rachel.”
But she continues running tests, running diagnostics, placing a soft hand on my
arm in case I’m awake enough to appreciate the comfort. I am. Barely. But I’m
fading fast, and that heat is coming right on back as I do. “Not yet he’s not,”
she says. There’s pain in her voice that she does her fruitless best to conceal.
“I already lost one earlier, Todd. I’m not losing…” ”… another one!” Robin said,
and I laughed and agreed and we rushed to the back of the line. ”See? Told you
you’d like Ferris Wheels. Can’t believe you’ve never been on one before today.”
She shrugged. “Never thought they were as extreme as roller coasters, so I
wasn’t interested.” ”Well they’re not supposed to be ‘extreme.’ Ferris Wheels
are for all the parents waiting on their kids and sick people trying to relax
their stomachs so they don’t puke funnel cake all over the pavement.” ”And
adorable young couples, apparently.” And just then we were waved into the next
seat. We sat ourselves down, and moments later the great wheel began to groan
and protest and, finally, to turn; it dragged our cart around its underside and
then lifted it up, up, up to the top of its crest, where we could see the whole
city at twilight, and the ships in the harbor that were backlit red with the
setting sun, and the clouds that were lined at their tops with just a little bit
of starlight. Robin snuggled up next to me and put her head on my shoulder, and
I put my arm around her waist. For a moment then I could’ve sworn the empty seat
in front of us move on its own, and furrowed my brow. But then Robin spoke.
”Thank you for being here with me,” she said. I didn’t respond with words;I just
kissed her on the head and held her tight, as the Wheel began taking us… “…down
on the eighteen hundred block of Gardersdale,” one of the EMTs says. “Yeah.
Yeah. Another one, I know. Hell of a fucking night, isn’t it?” The conversation
is muffled again in short order. I’m drifting in and out, but the jostling of
the room and the sound of an engine tell me we’re still in the ambulance. The
other paramedics, for their part, continue running tests and checking my vitals,
and as they work I try to remember what’s happened. But it hurts. Dammit, does
it hurt, almost as much as that rushing heat, and the effort is further
disrupted when the ambulance hits a bump in the road and I nearly spill out of
the gurney. But Rachel puts her steadying hand on my chest and says, “Hang in
there, Brian. We’re almost…” ”…there!” Robin pointed at the interstate ramp, and
I took the turn and put St. Thomas Vineyard away in the rearview. ”Still can’t
believe Mason got married,” I said. “He’s only known that girl for what, a year?
Less?” Robin shrugged. “They were in love.” ”They hardly knew each other! They
don’t know if whatever they’re feeling is genuine, life-long love or just new
relationship googley-eyes that hasn’t worn off yet. I guarantee it – and I’ll
put money on this – they’ll be done within a year. Just watch.” ”You don’t know
that,” she said. There was a brief pause, and then she added, “We’ve been dating
for two years.” ”So?” ”So… how far off do you think we are?” I shrugged. “I
don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it.” ”You haven’t thought about it? At
all?” ”I mean of course I’ve thought about it. I just… I don’t know if we’re
ready, you know?” I looked over at her, but she just stared out there at the
rain with her chin in her palm. So I continued. “Think about it like this:
people prepare their whole lives for jobs, right? They start going to school as
soon as they can talk, and they’re not done till they’re in their twenties, and
it’s all so they can get a piece of paper that says ‘hey, hire my ass, I’m smart
enough to work.’ But marriage? Nobody trains for that shit. People just hook up
and say, ‘hey we’re twenty five, or twenty eight, you’re cute, I’m cute. Let’s
spend fifteen thousand dollars on a giant ceremony and then live as glorified
roommates for five years until we’re both fat and hate each other and get
divorced because neither one of us knew or cared how much work this thing would
require.” There was a longer pause then, before she said, with a degree of
seriousness I wasn’t in the least bit prepared for, “Is that where you think
we’re headed? ‘Glorified roommates?’” Quickly I calculated an avenue of retreat.
But I calculated wrong. “No! Not you,” I said. “Not us. I mean most people, you
know? Most people just dive in and either get divorced or stick it out till
someone gets heart disease. The divorce rate is more than fifty percent now in
the US. But the ‘I-don’t-love-you-anymore’ rate? Shit, that’s probably close to
ninety by the time everyone hits middle age. I just want to make sure you’re the
right person, you know?” If ever there were words I wish I could’ve taken back,
it were those twelve. She said nothing, but I saw her reflection in the window,
and the little tear that welled up in the corner of her eye said more than words
ever could. ”Listen, I… that came out wrong. I just meant-” ”Can you drop me off
at my car, please?” ”I thought you wanted to come over-?” ”I don’t feel good.
Please?” And we drove in silence for a while, as the rain picked up its pace and
fell in sheets and in torrents. After another twenty minutes I made the turn
onto my street and parked, and once I did she got out without so much as a
glance and walked across the road to her own car. I ran to follow. ”Robin,
wait!” I grabbed her lightly by the arm. It was slick with rainwater. “Talk to
me. Please?” ”What do you want?” I blinked. ”I want you to talk to me. I just
s-” ”No. I mean with us. Where do you want this to go?” ”Where do I want this to
go? I want to be with you! Listen, I didn’t mean to imply that – that I don’t
want that. I just want us to be smart about it. You know?” ”Well maybe love
isn’t something you can calculate on a fucking spreadsheet, Brian!” She was
shouting over the cacophony of the storm. “Maybe it’s just this thing you feel,
you know? And maybe it doesn’t make any damn logical sense. Maybe it’s not
supposed to. But that’s part of what makes it special; it’s an adventure; it’s a
‘jump off a cliff with me’ type of thing. And yeah, sure. Not everyone survives
the fall, I guess. But if you find the right person, then-” ”A ‘jump off the
cliff with me’ type of adventure? Come on, Robin! We’re not writing up a damn
dating website profile here; this is real life! There are kids involved, and
finances, and house buying, and mortgages and all that shit! Not every day is
some cute little romance comedy. This is half your life we’re talking about.
Two-thirds, even. Okay? All I meant was that you have to be prepared for it. I
just-” ”I thought we were prepared.” ”What do you mean?” She dug through her
purse for a moment, and then held up a ring that was brilliant even when covered
in the rain. I felt my heart skip at least a full beat. ”Is that, um-” ”It was
my mom’s,” she said. “She gave it to me before she died. She said, ‘find your
partner in crime, Robin. Find someone who’ll sweep you off your feet. And jump
off a cliff with you.’” There was a pause before she added, “And at the time she
said it I thought I knew exactly who that person was.” I tried for a moment, but
I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there was no combination of words in
the English language that could be strung together to right this ship.
”Good-bye, Brian.” She kissed me on the cheek, and rubbed the back of her hand
on down it. And then she turned and got in her Civic, and drove off until I
couldn’t see her tail-lights at all through the pouring of the… “…rain’s comin’
down hard, boys,” another of the EMTs said. “Careful when you unload him.” There
were grunts of acknowledgement, and then the back of the ambulance flew open and
the sound of the storm utterly exploded into it; I felt the rush of wind, and
the rain pelting my skin in sheets, and together they helped a bit with the
oncoming heat that still I couldn’t place. And then I felt movement. The gurney
dipped and hit pavement while the paramedics held me down. And then there were
shouts, and lights, and running feet, and then the hospital door… ”Open?!” I
shouted. The man behind the counter shot me a look. But I shouted it again, over
the sound of rainfall and through the glass. “I said, are you open?!” And then
he pointed at the sign saying the opposite, and went back to reading. But I
wasn’t taking no for an answer; I dug out my wallet and pulled a twenty from the
fold, and slapped it flat up against the glass. Within seconds the paper was
soaked with rainwater. But it got his attention, and he rolled his eyes, and the
door clicked and whirred and slid open. ”Make it quick, man.” ”I know, I know. I
will. Thank you so much.” I ran down the aisles and then, true to my word, made
it back to the counter in less than a minute. The man put down his book, and
processed the sale. ”Date night?” He said, as he bagged the card after the
flowers. I smiled a bit. ”Something like that.” And then I thanked him and ran
back out to my car, and got inside, and took out the card and scribbled on its
inner sleeve the words, ‘Jump off a cliff… “…with me, with me!” A doctor running
alongside the cart motioned to some nurses in the hall, and they ran to follow.
He turns to the EMTs. “Is he stable?” “He’s slipping. Heart rate’s falling,
breathing slowing. Not good. Mumbled something about being too hot earlier, but
if anything his temperature’s too low.” Someone shows the doctor a chart. He
reads it as he runs, and his face is grim. “Shit. Alright,” he says. “Let’s…”
”…move!” I shout at the car I’m passing. “Just a little rain, assholes.” But it
wasn’t. It was a lot of rain. Sheets and buckets and torrents of it, in fact;
it’d long since turned the dirt to mud, and it swept up against my windshield
like ocean surf, and the road was slick with little rivers of it than ran on
down past the pebbles. I was going far, far too fast for such conditions. But I
didn’t… “…care about that,” the doctor said. “I just want to get his fluids up.
Rachel!” The woman from the ambulance runs up and discusses my condition in
harsh whispers with the doctor. As I fade, and as the damn heat floods on back
in, it becomes impossible to hear what they’re saying. But it’s abundantly clear
from the body language that she hasn’t yet give up… ’…hope for a reunion with
these guys?’ ’Well, Bolan and Snake say they’re against it, entirely. So that
doesn’t bode well. But on the other hand, Sebastian’s said on multiple occasions
that he’s willing to do it for the fans. And look what happened with Guns N’
Roses! Few years ago nobody wouldn’ve thought they’d get back togeth-‘ I
switched the radio off, and then wrapped both hands around the wheel with such
force the knuckles turned white on the grip. The car hit seventy miles per hour.
Seventy five. Seventy nine. The windshield wipers were flying, but they weren’t
going fast en- *”FUCK!” I slammed my foot on the brakes as the lights of
activity in the road came in out of nowhere from the rain. The car jolted and
shuddered and fought for traction with the pavement, and I felt the tires squeal
and the metal of the car grind in… “…protest.” “I don’t care if he wants to
protest!” the doctor snaps back. “You tell him to wait in the damn lobby like
everyone else!” The nurse accepts her orders and heads back out into the
hallway. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “You can’t see him until-” “Until what?!
That’s my son in there! That’s my son! That’s-” and then there’s a scuffle of
feet, and more shouts as a security guard drags my father from the wing. Rachel
pauses as she hears the shouts, and then her eyes well up a bit with tears, and
she looks at my face and appears to realize something. But she doesn’t say what.
The shouts continue, but they fade. And so do I. And in comes the heat as I do.
“That’s my son!” Dad says. “That’s my boy! Let me see my boy! Stop! Please…!”
”…stop!” The police officer had both hands up as my car barreled towards him.
“Stop! Stop the car!” Finally there was a jolt and a shudder as the tires gained
control at last, and the car slammed to a halt. Both the officer and I sighed in
relief, and then he approached my window and tapped the glass with his knuckle.
I lowered it. I shouted over the rain, “I’m sorry, sir! Roads are crazy out
here. You okay?” He ignored the question. “I’m gonna need you to sit here for a
bit, okay?” He said. “Just until the accident’s cleared up.” ”Accident?” ”Its
bad.” He nodded in the direction of the wreckage, and then he said again, “Just
sit tight! We’ll waive you over when there’s an open lane.” And then he ran off
into the storm. I scanned the scene. There was a man on the side of the road, I
saw, sitting on the pavement with a poncho for the rainfall and his head in his
hands. His SUV was totaled; the front end was bent and twisted and hideously
mangled. But the other car was in far, far worse shape than that. I squinted
hard, and could only make out panels of white amidst charred black chunks of
metal and the force of the rain. But it was enough. It was a Civic. Oh, God. Oh,
God, no. No, no, no. I got out of the car and left the door hanging open in the
rain, and then I ran forward, at least until the officer caught sight of me and
ran back over and grabbed me by the shoulders. ”Hey!” He said. “I told you to
wait in the car! What’re you-” ”ROBIN!!” I shouted over him. “ROBIN!” And then I
saw it; a fleeting glimpse of movement, a white sheet flipped on a gurney. A
strand of red hair fell from the right side and hung there as the EMTs carted
away the body. ”ROBIN!” I screamed. “That’s my girl! That’s my girl!” The
officer was confused and stunned and did the only thing he could think to do –
drag me back to my car. ”No! Stop!” I was inconsolable but in no shape at all to
resist. “Stop, please! That’s my girl! Let me see my girl! Please, stop!” One of
the EMTs, covered in blood from the waist up, turned to look at the spectacle.
But then someone shouted her name. “Rachel!” The doctor says. “You with us, or
what? Let’s go!” She blinks as she stares at me, and then says, “Uh, yeah.
Sorry. I just realized, this guy was-” “Just get the charcoal, please? We don’t
have time.” And she does; she runs off to fetch exactly that. And then I feel a
hideously invasive sensation – a tube is being placed in my nose, and then I
feel it falling down, into my throat. I’m too weak to gag, but I somehow manage
to clench my fist. A nurse sees the movement, and he holds me down to steady me.
“Whoa, whoa…” ”…Whoa, whoa, you okay, man? My roommate stumbled back as I threw
open the door. I charged past him. “You’re comin’ in hot!” He said again. “You
good, bro?” But I ignored him. I went to the bathroom, and I leaned up against
the sink for a long moment, and I grabbed my temples and set my jaw and sobbed
without a sound; aching, wracking, heaving sobs. I heard a knock. ”Hey, man,” he
said. “You good, dude? Anything I can like, get for you? Or-?” ”I’m fine,” I
managed. It wasn’t convincing in the slightest, but I didn’t care. I opened up
my phone. There was a text from Robin there, from this morning. It read, ‘I love
you,’ and they were all at once the most beautiful and the most painful words
I’d ever read. ‘I love you.’ I love you, too. I’m coming. Hang on, baby. I’m
coming. Then I backed out, and found my dad in the contacts list, and typed, ‘I
love you, Dad.’ Moments later I got a response: ‘I love you too, son! You okay?’
But I ignored it, and then I threw open the cupboard, and I grabbed an old…
“…bottle of pills,” a nurse said. “Swallowed the whole damn thing. Lucky his
roommate called it in when he did.” But the doctor is incredulous. “Well. That
remains to be seen, now, doesn’t it?” Then he turns to the door. “Rach-” And she
pushes it open with her elbow before he finishes. “I got it, I got it. I’m
here.” “Alright!” He says. “Fingers crossed, people. Let’s see if we can’t save
a psycho!” There are isolated chuckles. Rachel, though, almost snaps at her
superior for the insult, but then someone says, “Here we go!” And then there is
thick, wretched black stuff funneling down that tube and down into my throat.
I’m almost desperate enough, but not quite strong enough, to resist it. I can
feel it sliding, and hitting bottom, and pumping, and pulsing. My heart rate is
erratic; my breathing is erratic; my ability to comprehend the situation is
every bit as erratic. I struggle as much as I can against the restraints, but
all my effort and all my strength of arms musters up not more than the faintest
whimper. But Rachel hears it. She moves to my side, and she holds my head, and
says, in soft enough a whisper that only I can hear the words, “Don’t follow
her, Brian. Don’t follow her. Please, Jesus. I need him here. I need this win.”
But I begin to fade all the same. One by one, as the spikes on the EKG slow to
sporadic pulses, I see the nurses turn to each other and shake their heads. One
by one by one, that is, until there is only a trembling Rachel there, and she’s
holding on for me tight enough for everyone in the room. “Call it,” the doctor
says, just as the darkness swirls in and I feel like I’m starting to fall away.
The conversation carries on as I pass. “Two thirty two AM,” one nurse says. But
I can hear Rachel screaming in protest – “No! He’s not gone! There’s still time,
there’s still time to save him, there’s still…” But she’s wrong. I’m already
gone. Her voice, and her face – those things are behind me as I pass. They’re
fading away into the darkness that’s consuming me, and swallowing me whole, and
throwing me to the winds. And just when the magnitude of the situation dawns on
me – then comes the heat. There are monstrous amounts of it. It rips and tears
and scorches and scalds, and had I the ability to scream out or even to breathe
I would’ve done so until my throat was hoarse. But then there is a new pain. A
different pain. A hand reaches out of the blackness, and it grabs my left-side
forearm with such mighty force that the resulting pain eclipses that of the
heat, and the nails of that hand rip right through the flesh. And then I’m being
pulled, and there is a rushing wind. It is cool and refreshing and beautiful,
and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. I blinked. The darkness was gone, and
the heat with it, and that sensation of being devoured. Instead, those things
had been replaced with starlit clouds as far off in every direction as the eye
could see. But my arm stung like hell all the same. I looked at it. There were
nail-marks, I saw. Four deep cuts beneath the inner wrist and a fifth on the
side, in the shape of a hand. They bled a bit. And then I heard an all too
familiar voice. “You okay?” I stood up, slowly, and I turned, holding my damned
stinging arm while I did it, and said, “Robin. Robin, w-what was that? That
darkness? And the heat, and th-” “Its where you would’ve spent your eternity,
Brian, had I not pulled you out.” I had no words other than the weakest,
“Thanks.” “You know,” she said, holding her own arm. “Suicide’s not exactly what
I meant by ‘jumping off a cliff.” I blinked again, and took a long, deep breath.
“Yeah. I guess I didn’t think things through.” “Not sure you fully realize how
much of an understatement that is.” “Well, maybe I don’t. But you know what? I’d
do it again, Robin. I’m serious.” She nearly rolled her eyes, but I doubled down
on the sentiment. “What I said? Out there on my street? I’m sorry. I mean it,
I’m sorry. You were right. Love isn’t about taxes or headaches or just
tolerating each other until we’re seventy. It’s like your mom said. It’s about
sweeping your girl off her feet. It’s about jumping over cliffs with someone,
and not knowing where you’ll land, and not caring, as long as you get there
together. And if this is where we land, wherever this is, I’m okay with that.”
And I leaned in for a kiss. But she stopped me with her hand before it landed,
and I opened my eyes. “I can tell you’ve been working on that speech for a
while,” she said. “Over and over again In my head, in the car, until… until I
got to the scene of the wreck.” I looked at the ground, and then back up at her.
“And I realized, right then, that if you fucking left the earth itself than I
would, too. So here I a-” “I was wrong, too.” She cut me off. “W-what do you
mean?” “About love. I was wrong. My mother was wrong. It’s not just about crap
you see in rom-coms and greeting-cards, Brian.” Again I blinked. “I know that! I
know, it’s – it’s something you feel in your heart; that defies logic and
reason. Not something you can put on a spreadsheet. Like you said earlier.” She
sighed a bit, and then said, “Can I show you something?” “Uh, I guess so. Sure.”
And then she took my hand, and Infinity rolled in and faded back out, and all of
a sudden we were somewhere else entirely. “Are we -?” “On the Ferris Wheel? Yep.
Turn around.” I did, and there we were, past Robin and past me, on the seat
above and behind us. I remembered it like yesterday; we were staring out at the
whole city at twilight, and the ships in the harbor that were backlit red with
the setting sun, and the clouds that were lined at their tops with just a little
bit of starlight. I rustled in my seat a bit and it moved, and past Me saw it
and looked like he was about to speak. But before he did, past Robin said “Thank
you for being here with me,” and got a kiss on the head. “What do you see?”
Robin said. “Us. A year ago and change. I remember that day like it was
yesterday. Your mom had just died, so I took you here. To get your mind off
things.” “You did. That was the first day in months I’d felt truly safe and
truly at peace. That was love.” “I know it was. And I still love you, just the
s-.” “It’s a kind of love,” she said, cutting me off again. “And it’s absolutely
beautiful when it lasts. But can I show you something else?” “Uh… okay. Yeah.”
She took my hand again, and again Infinity itself rolled in and out like the
tide, and then we were somewhere else. The hospital, it looked like. St.
Joseph’s. “What do you see here?” I looked around. Nurses running up and down
the hallway. Doctors reviewing notes and talking to their patients. “I don’t
know. A hospital.” She nodded in the direction of a particular room. “Look in
there.” So I did. There was a woman on the cot. She was emaciated and hairless
and deathly frail, and the Doctors inside were shutting off the last of the
machines. “A dying woman,” I said. “Looks like cancer.” “Yep. And what about
there?” I looked down. There was a nurse crouched down in front of the same door
and talking to a girl – eight or nine years old, if I had to guess – in silly
voices. The girl had been crying, but the nurse managed to make her smile a bit,
even as her mother died on the other side of the door. “Looks like a nurse
comforting a little girl.” “That’s right,” Robin said. “And that little girl
will remember that nurse for the rest of her life – even if they never meet
again or so much as exchange names – as the lady who came to her in her darkest
hour and made her smile.” She turned to me. “That’s love, too. Just as beautiful
and just as precious as what we had.” “What’s your point?” She didn’t answer;
she just stuck out her hand with a sad smile, and I took it. Infinity faded in
and back out a third time. And then we were in the waiting room. “See that?”
Robin pointed to the corner of the room, and I squinted. “Oh hey! What’s Dylan
doing here?” “He called the ambulance when you didn’t come out of the bathroom,”
she said. “He knew something was wrong, and when they drove you off he followed
them here. Been standing there ever since, asking for information on you every
time a nurse walks by. He’s starting to annoy them.” I watched my roommate for a
bit, and sure enough he grabbed a nurse, and asked her a question that I
couldn’t hear. She said something pleasantly dismissive, and he nodded, and then
leaned his head back up against the wall and closed his eyes. “Wow. I uh, I had
no idea he cared that much.” “That’s love, too, Brian. Would you do the same for
him?” But she held out her hand again before I could answer, and I took it. For
a fourth time Infinity blinked. And then I was in the emergency room, looking
down on myself. I was covered in vomit from the charcoal and the pills, but I
was still, too. Deathly still. Most of the nurses and the doctor were still
walking out the door. But Rachel wasn’t. She was crying openly now, and making
no effort to hide it. She reached for something. A needle, it looked like, or a
syringe. “What’s she doing?” “You’ll see soon enough,” Robin said. “But that
there? That’s also love.” She held out her hand once again and said, “One more.”
And I took it. And then we were in the parking lot of the same place. The rain
was coming down harder than ever. “Turn around,” Robin said. And I did. And then
I stopped; There were no words. It was my father in his car. He was holding a
Bible up to his chest with both hands, and he was crying in a way no child
should ever have to see their father cry. “And that there?” Robin said. “That’s
the kind of love that can move mountains.” I put my hand up against his window.
He didn’t seem to notice. “He can’t see you, Brian. Not from there.” I wiped my
eyes with the back of my hand. “Okay,” I said. “I get it. I fucked up.” And then
she released my hand, and all of a sudden we were back in the clouds again,
under the stars. I wiped another tear before it fell. “So now what? It’s too
late for me to go back down there. I’m already gone.” Robin took another step
forward, and said, “Maybe not.” And she put her hand on my temple, and my eyes
rolled back. And then I saw it. *Rachel and I are on a beach. Our child is
playing out in the surf, and the sun hits her hair just right, and for a moment
it is made of gold. And then the image fades, and another one takes its place. A
birthday party. I have silver hair at my temples. Rachel does too. But it
doesn’t matter. Our little girl is turning ten. And then that image fades, too,
and is replaced by another, and another, and another; each one yielding another
moment where someone loved someone else enough for it to break through the
clouds and be seen forever, even if the moment itself lasted only for a
heartbeat. Finally there is an image of Rachel and myself on a porch as old as
we are, and she holds my hand and says, “I’m glad you didn’t follow her.” And I
say back, “Me too,” and I kiss her on the head. And then Robin pulls back her
hand, and there we were again, standing out there in the clouds together. “How
did you do that?” I asked. She shrugged. “Time has nearly no meaning in this
place. I’ve been here for a while, Brian, and yet the doctors haven’t even left
your operating room. Don’t think too much about it. Just think about what you
want.” “That,” I said. “Was… was that my future?” She shrugged again. “Could be.
I don’t know what you saw, and I don’t need to know. Was it enough?” I nodded,
and she stepped forward again, and said “Then go and get it.” “I’ll miss you too
damn much.” “Well there’s nothing wrong with missing someone,” she said. “That
just means love lasted a little longer than what ignited it. So go ahead and
miss me. You owe me that much. Feel the loss; stand up to the storm like a man,
and memorize the pain, and learn it inside and out, and let it roll over you in
waves and run its course. And then one day you’ll wake up and realize you have
scar-tissue where the skin used to be, and you’ll be stronger than the grief
ever was.” “I can tell you’ve been working on that speech for a while.” “Like I
said. I’ve been here for a while.” And then she kissed me, one last time, and
for the briefest moment all the little scars and cuts and scrapes and nicks in
my heart were filled up and made whole, and she said, “You’re made up of the
stars, kid. Now go light up the world.” And then she was… “…gone, Rachel. Okay?
I’m not gonna tell you aga-” But I shot upright before the doctor could finish
the thought, and I gasped for air when I did and grabbed at my chest with more
strength than I’d had in hours. There was a needle in it; a bolt of life to the
heart, and Rachel broke down in tears when she saw me. “Well I’ll be damned,”
the doctor said. “Welcome back to the land of the living, son. And Rachel?” She
turned around. “Good work, kid. Made me proud.” And he left, and she turned back
to me and tried to hide a smile while she did it. “Hey there. How’re you
feeling?” “Better than dead.” There was a pause before I added, “Hey. I’m glad
you got your win.” She took my hand and squeezed it. For a moment she paused
when she saw a scar below the wrist that looked like the result of fingernails
dragging through flesh. But then she dismissed it and said, “I am too. And
you’ll get yours. Okay? I promise you will.” I said, “I know.” And with that she
got up and left the room to go save someone else’s life, while I took out my
phone, and opened up the most recent text, and hit reply. ‘Am now.’


THE SUICIDE ENGINEER 13.85K+




I recently received an email from Andrew that contained a recording of his
podcast that, to my knowledge, never aired. There was no explanation as to why
he had sent it to me. There was just a request that I distribute it. When I
tried to call him to find out what was happening, I was unable to get through.
The call didn’t go to voicemail; it just beeped twice and hung up each time that
I tried. Over the last few days I’ve called multiple times and have gone over to
his house twice, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Whenever I would try to
upload the podcast to a website as he requested, there would always be an error
message. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to properly upload. Because of
this, I wrote a transcript of the recording so that I could instead distribute
that. This is the first time that I’ve ever done anything like this, so I’m sure
that there are some errors in formatting. Andrew, if you’re reading this, please
let me know that you’re all right. —– ANDREW TALBOT On April 18, 2022, Carolyn
Blake committed suicide. Her body was found when her downstairs neighbor
reported water leaking through the ceiling. Thinking that there was a burst
pipe, the landlord had knocked at Carolyn’s door for nearly twenty minutes to
try to gain access to her apartment. It was easier to go in through her floor
rather than through the complaining tenant’s ceiling. She didn’t answer, and
after checking with his lawyer that this qualified as an emergency allowing him
to enter without permission, he unlocked the door using his master key and went
in to perform the repair. The landlord discovered her body in the bathroom. She
was lying fully clothed in the bathtub with her wrists slit. The water had been
left running, and it poured over the side of the tub like a waterfall as it
drained into the floor vent and soaked into the floor and wood trim. I didn’t
know Carolyn. It’s a small town, so I may have passed her in a store or bumped
into her in a restaurant, but I don’t remember if something like that did
happen. I’d like to say that her death had an effect on the community. Maybe
people holding a memorial, or even asking the town council to improve the way
mental health programs were handled to help prevent this sort of thing from
happening again. That’s what I’d like to say. What actually happened was, well,
nothing. Carolyn’s death was just a blip on the radar that the vast majority of
people didn’t even register. One of the exceptions to this was Ray Carsten. I
had known Ray since first grade, and while we had never been particularly close,
we had always been on friendly terms. When he called me three days after
Carolyn’s suicide, I quickly agreed to meet him at the same Denny’s that a large
group of us had gone to after every home baseball game in high school. [AUDIBLE
CLICK, FOLLOWED BY A SHORT HIGH-PITCHED BEEP] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Fuck. I
think… [Short pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Okay, maybe not. It might have just
been… [Short pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Ray told me that he had known Carolyn
for a few years. They worked in the same office, and they had grown particularly
close while working on a project that had been assigned to them. One thing led
to another, and they began a relationship. The problem was that Ray was married.
Happily married, as he put it. I have my doubts about that since in my
experience happily married people don’t tend to have long term affairs, but
that’s what he told me. Because of this, he was worried that she might have left
something behind that could expose their affair and get back to his wife. At
some point she had introduced him to her mother, and he had convinced the
elderly woman to let him help with going through Carolyn’s things and getting
the necessary arrangements made. This had allowed him to rummage through her
late lover’s possessions with impunity. Her mother had been grateful for the
assistance and had thanked him profusely for it, if you can believe it. Ray had
managed to check everything except for Carolyn’s cellphone. It was password
protected, so he wasn’t able to find out what was on it. That’s why he came to
me. [SHORT BURST OF STATIC THAT CUTS OFF THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT SENTENCE]
ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) …arted this podcast about electronics and technology, I
never thought that it would lead to old acquaintances asking me to go through
dead people’s phones. That’s what Ray wanted me to do, though. He didn’t just
need me to unlock the phone. That would only have gotten him so far. Carolyn had
frequented multiple social media platforms, and she used dozens of different
apps that he knew of. What he needed was for me to go through everything and
make sure that all mentions of the affair were removed. At first I refused. I
was polite about it, but just the thought of doing what he was asking disgusted
me. He kept pressing. He told me that he had already wanted to end the affair
and had planned to do so, but she took her own life before he was able to. He
said that if the relationship was exposed it would hurt not just his wife, but
also their two children and they didn’t deserve to have that happen to them. I
eventually relented and agreed to do what he asked, under the condition that he
give me the phone and not be present while I worked. I had already started to
rationalize things in my head. We’re all exceedingly good at doing that when we
know what we’re doing isn’t right, aren’t we? I convinced myself that since Ray
wouldn’t be seeing anything, I would be protecting Carolyn’s privacy as much as
possible. That’s a load of bullshit, obviously. I would have actually been
protecting it if I hadn’t agreed to break into her cellphone in the first place.
[Pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I don’t know if I’m about to confess to a crime
here. Is it a crime to break into a dead person’s phone? Whether it is or not,
I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t wrong. It absolutely was. It’s just…
It’s just not what’s important right now. [Pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) It
wasn’t hard to unlock the cellphone. All I needed was to hook it up to a
computer and use a program that’s free and easy to find if you know where to
look. Most people would be surprised at how unsecure their supposedly secure
phones are. That goes for most pieces of technology in this day and age, but
you’re not here to listen to a lecture on proper tech security and I’m not here
to give one. I wasn’t sure where to start looking, so I opened the calendar and
began to check appointments and reminders. I didn’t find anything that had to do
with Ray. I moved onto the Notes app and once again came up empty. It wasn’t
until I started digging through her email that I found something of interest. I
probably should have realized that something was off when the inbox was
completely empty. Carolyn had been dead for three days. Anyone that uses their
email for everyday use can tell you that at least one or two spam emails will
get past your filter and wind up in your inbox over a three day period. At the
time I didn’t think of that. I was so preoccupied with hurrying up with what I
had agreed to do that my critical thinking skills didn’t have time to catch up.
When I checked the trash folder, I found hundreds, if not thousands, of
automated notifications that had been deleted. They were from all corners of
social media and content sites: YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Tik Tok, and many,
many more. Every notification was marked as having been read. I did a bit more
digging, and I found that they had all been sent within the span of a week. I
picked one at random and opened it. The notification was for a new comment on a
video that Carolyn had posted, and it wasn’t flattering to say the least. The
poster, screen name YrlGrl, had gone on a rant about how bad the video was and
that they were going to be unsubscribing from the channel because of continued
poor content. That’s greatly cleaning up the language that was used. The entire
post was phrased in such a way that it read like a personal attack. There was a
link to the video in question. I tapped on it and watched the first minute or so
of the video. It was a makeup tutorial that Carolyn had posted. It wasn’t
something that I was interested in, but judging by the number of views it had
and how many followers she had, it was definitely something that many others
enjoyed. Now that I had some context, I scrolled down to the comments to locate
the post by YrlGrl to see if other people had replied to it. I found the post,
but it wasn’t anything like the notification had said. It was instead a glowing
review that went out of its way to praise Carolyn and the content that she
provided. That was odd, obviously, but I figured that there had been two posts
and the negative one had been deleted. I began to doubt that theory as I went
through more of the notifications. All of them were bad, with many of them
bordering on hateful. When I would check the platform they were supposedly
hosted on, though, I would always find a positive post. Something very odd was
going on. I came to an email that was a response to a complaint that Carolyn had
filed with a site administrator about a particularly disgusting comment. The
administrator had sent back a response saying that they hadn’t found any
evidence of harassment, and that they had checked to make sure the comment in
question hadn’t been deleted or edited. They didn’t come right out and say it,
but it was strongly implied that they believed she was making the entire thing
up. She had attached two items to her original email. The first was a copy of
the original notification that she had received. The second was a screenshot
that she had taken of the comment. The image included a number of other comments
as well, all of which were negative. When I tracked down those comments,
however, none of them contained the same message. [LONG BURST OF STATIC. THERE
IS A LOW HUM ACCOMPANYING THE NOISE. THE SOUND MAKES ANDREW TALBOT’S SPEAKING
IMPOSSIBLE TO HEAR UNTIL IT ENDS] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) …wrote on Facebook about
how she was feeling down after the onslaught of negative comments. Her mother
and a number of friends replied to the post, and all of them basically told her
that she had become both a whiner and a disappointment in some extremely
colorful language. The messages were long and intense, and I felt myself growing
more and more sympathetic towards Carolyn. Nobody deserved the amount of abuse
that she was receiving, especially from the people that she was closest to. I
took a break for about an hour. At some point during the process, I had begun to
care less about helping Ray weasel out of his affair being discovered and more
about figuring out just what had caused this avalanche of hatred towards
Carolyn. None of the pieces, especially the comments seeming to magically change
between negative and positive, seemed to fit into a coherent image. [SHORT BURST
OF STATIC. THE HUMMING IS SLIGHTLY LOUDER THAN PREVIOUSLY] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)
…sten to it, but I figured that I’d already come this far. I clicked on the
voicemail and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t. What followed was a
nearly five minute long message from Carolyn’s mother berating her daughter. It
tore into every aspect of her life; there didn’t seem to be any line that the
woman wouldn’t cross. At one particularly horrible point, she stated very
matter-of-factly that the only reason that Carolyn had been born in the first
place was because she hadn’t been able to afford to terminate the pregnancy
after becoming pregnant from a man other than Carolyn’s father. I only managed
to get through half of it before I stopped the playback. I couldn’t stomach any
more than that. The second voicemail was from Ray. She had received it less than
an hour after getting her mother’s voicemail. If the first message had sickened
me, this one made my blood boil. In a very condescending tone, he proceeded to
talk about every flaw he saw in her in great detail. He tore into everything
from her intelligence to her looks to even her lovemaking skills. It was brutal
to listen to. It was almost a relief when he finally declared that their
relationship was over and hung up the phone. I was reaching for my own phone
even before the recording had ended. Friendship be damned, I wasn’t going to
help someone that could be that cruel to another human being. The number was
entered and my thumb was over Call when a thought made me pause. Ray had told me
that he had been getting ready to break off his relationship with Carolyn when
she had committed suicide. According to the voicemail he had left, though, he
had already done so. Why had he lied to me about that? There didn’t seem to be
any point to it. Had he been feeling guilty about his message having possibly
contributed to her taking her own life? I thought back to the mysteriously
changing online messages. I was starting to think that maybe- [LONG PULSING
SOUND, LIKE THE FLOW OF ELECTRICITY. THERE ARE QUIET WHISPER-LIKE NOISES IN THE
BACKGROUND] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I found that Carolyn had downloaded an audio
file the day before her death. A woman’s voice, quiet and level, played from the
phone’s speaker when I tapped on the file. It took me a few seconds to realize
that I was listening to an autonomous sensory meridian response recording, also
known as the much less taxing to say ASMR. For those that don’t know what that
is, it’s basically voices and sounds that are recorded in such a way as to
elicit a physical response from people. You know that odd tingling sensation
that you get sometimes in your head? ASMR recordings are supposed to trigger
that. A lot of people, a lot more than you probably think, use ASMR videos on
YouTube or audio recordings to relax and even fall asleep. They don’t work for
everyone, but many people swear by them and use them as part of their everyday
routine. After the stress that all of the sudden negativity in her life must
have caused her, it was no wonder that Carolyn had looked for something to help
relieve it. Rather than try to explain the recording on her phone, I’d like to
play a portion of it. A quick warning: there’s some questionable content in it,
so if that sort of thing bothers you, I’d recommend skipping ahead until you’re
past it. If I’m able to get this posted I’ll try to leave markers on the
timeline so you’ll know when it’s over. Here it is. I’m not going to reveal the
name of the person who made it or the source it was downloaded from, for reasons
that will be extremely obvious in just a bit. [RECORDED CONTENT BEGINS PLAYING.
IT IS A WOMAN’S VOICE, BARELY ABOVE A WHISPER] WOMAN’S VOICE Sometimes it’s best
to take a step back, take a deep breath, and try to let go of all that stress
that you’re feeling. I know that life can be hard sometimes, and we all have our
personal crosses to bear. It can feel like you’re being overwhelmed, like you’re
being smothered. It’s important to remember that there are always other people
that you can turn to when you need comfort and reassurance. [WHISPERS, BARELY
AUDIBLE, BEGIN IN THE BACKGROUND] WOMAN’S VOICE (cont.) Sometimes we need to ask
ourselves what we would do if we didn’t have those incredibly important people
in our lives. Imagine how lonely that would be. If everyone in your life had
turned against you, what would you do? I think that if everyone was turning
against me, I’d need to take a good hard look at myself. All of those people
couldn’t be wrong. What did they know that I didn’t? What was so wrong with me
that it invited such disdain and hatred? There would have to be something for
everyone to act that way. How about you? Have you ever experienced all of your
friends and family turning their backs on you? If so, did you look deep inside
yourself and figure out why you’re so repellent to others? I think that if it
was me, I would have to decide if the people I cared about were better off
without me in their world. After all, is my one life more important than the
happiness of all those other people? No, of course not. I love my family and
friends. I want them to be happy, much more than I want myself to be. If my
being gone was what would make them happy, then wouldn’t it be better for
everyone if I was just- [FINAL WORD IS LOUDER AND DISTORTED] WOMAN’S VOICE
(cont.) -DEAD? [RECORDING ENDS] ANDREW TALBOT There’s more, a lot more, but I’m
sure that you get the idea. I’m also sure that you know where this is leading. I
tracked down the site that Carolyn had downloaded the ASMR recording from, and
when I played it there it was nothing like the version she had downloaded. It
was instead focused on something called Reiki, which I’m not familiar with but
was clearly not something sinister. [Pause] In the Downloads folder I also found
a copy of a recent bank statement from her online account. It showed that the
account had contained a decent savings until a week before Carolyn’s death. At
that point it had gone to zero. The change in balance was listed as a teller
withdrawal. It was a lot of money to have been taken out in a single
transaction. Because of everything that I had come across so far, I was
immediately suspicious. I went through the phone’s call history for the date she
had downloaded the document and discovered that she had made a call to the
customer service number at the bottom of the statement. The call had lasted over
an hour. It seemed to me that Carolyn hadn’t been the person that emptied her
account, and when she had checked her account and seen that it was empty, she
had called the bank to get it corrected. In her final days Carolyn had been
under assault mentally, emotionally, and financially. It must have been hell.
This assault had obviously been engineered. I just couldn’t see how that would
have been possible. Online posts on major social media platforms that appeared
one way to someone but completely different to everyone else? Audio recordings
that were magically different for one download? And the bank withdrawal had been
a teller withdrawal, meaning that someone had gone into a physical bank location
and taken the money out of the account. How could that have happened? That
wasn’t even getting into the voicemails. As someone who has to regularly do a
lot of research in the tech industry, I knew that the message and recording
changes should have been impossible. It would technically have been possible to
target a single system like that, in this case a cellphone, but to do it in real
time? That’s where it crossed into the realm of fantasy. Even if there was a way
to do it, it would have required a lot of manpower. A huge conspiracy against a
single small town government employee didn’t make any sense. [A COMBINATION OF
DISTORTED STATIC AND LOUDER WHISPERS THAN PREVIOUSLY. THE WHISPERS ARE IN AN
UNRECOGNIZABLE LANGUAGE] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) One by one I went through all the
apps on Carolyn’s phone. I had completely abandoned the original plan of getting
rid of references to her affair with Ray. Instead, I was now solely searching
for other signs that her life and wellbeing had been tampered with. There were a
number of things that I found that I would have dismissed as unimportant if I
hadn’t specifically been looking for oddities. For example, her latest Instagram
posts had significantly less interactions than previous ones had, to the point
that there might as well have been nothing at all. The same went for her Tik Tok
account. Most concerning was that I started to see a pattern emerging on
non-social media apps as well. All of her content suggestions on Netflix and HBO
Max were depressing stories or contained characters that commited suicide. I
tried clicking on a few of Carolyn’s previously watched movies and shows that
weren’t these suggestions, but each time an error message would pop up saying
that the content wasn’t currently available and to try again later. The
suggested shows, however, would instantly start to play. [MORE DISTORTED STATIC
AND LOUDER WHISPERS. THIS TIME THE WHISPERS ARE IN ENGLISH, AND REPEAT THE WORDS
“ONE WAY” OVER AND OVER AGAIN] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I finally ran out of apps
to check with the exception of one. I had been purposely avoiding it. During the
hours that I had been going through Carolyn’s phone, I had been invading her
privacy. As I’ve said already, it wasn’t right and it’s not something that I’m
proud of having done. The last app would take that invasion of privacy one step
further, though. It was the feed and recordings from her home security cameras.
I forced myself to click on the app. There was no doubt in my mind that Carolyn
had been targeted and pushed over and over again until she had finally taken her
own life. I needed to collect every bit of evidence that I could and turn it all
over to the police. I’d probably get in trouble for what I had done, but it was
worth it to have the authorities look into whoever had done this to her. There
were only three camera footage recordings listed on the app. Each one had a time
and date stamp, and all of them were listed as having been captured when a
motion sensor was triggered. All of them were within a few days of Carolyn’s
suicide. Taking a deep breath, I started the first recording. It showed a woman
in her mid to late thirties walking towards the camera. The shot was at an odd
angle, and it took me a couple of seconds to realize I was watching footage from
a doorbell camera. I recognized the woman as Carolyn from her social media
pictures. She stopped a few feet from the camera and dug around in her pocket
before producing a set of keys. As she did so, her face tilted at an angle that
allowed me to see the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted. She
found the key that she was looking for and inserted it into the lock. When she
went to turn it, however, she struggled to do so. She fought with the lock for a
moment before stepping back and looking at the key she was holding. It was now
broken. She stared at it blankly before her face screwed up in anger and she
threw it to the ground. She leaned forward and placed her head against the door.
It was hard to tell from the angle, but I thought that she was crying. I felt
horrible for her. She was being put through so much, and it was clearly wearing
her down. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go through something like
that. The second recording was completely black, and it was impossible to see
anything on it. I assumed that there was some sort of error, but there was still
audio. Either the camera hadn’t properly recorded or it was just too dark for
the camera to illuminate. I could hear a series of odd whispers that were too
faint to make out words. There was also a humming noise that I couldn’t
identify. [Pause] If you’re still with me to this point, I’m hoping that means
that you understand that this isn’t some sort of elaborate joke or prank. I… I
get how this all sounds. It’s about to sound a lot worse. If you already think
that I’m crazy, you’re about to hear something that’s going to set that in stone
in your mind. If you don’t think that, you probably will soon. [MORE DISTORTED
STATIC. IT IS LOUDER THIS TIME. A HIGH-PITCHED MECHANICAL VOICE SAYS THE WORDS
“END ALL”] The third and final recording was from a camera in a hallway. It was
angled so that it was pointing through an open doorway. This was Carolyn’s
bedroom. The bed could be seen on the right side of the opening, and to the left
was a small table or desk with an open laptop on it. The image was that odd
black and white that you get when a security camera is in night vision mode.
According to the time stamp, the recording was taking place at 2:54am the
morning of Carolyn’s suicide. [A LONG MOMENT OF HEAVY BREATHING WITH NOTHING
ELSE IN THE BACKGROUND] The… thing came into view from the left side of the
bedroom. It leaned down from the top portion, and at first I thought that it was
extremely tall. That wasn’t the case, though. I’m going to try to describe it.
I’m sorry if I don’t make a lot of sense while I’m doing so. Every time I’ve
tried to do so it feels like the limits of the English language make it
impossible to do so properly. It was being lowered by thin sinuous tendrils. The
creature itself was… Fuck, how do I put this. It was only a few inches wide, but
was the height of a person. It was like the head and body were just a mask and
covering being manipulated by the tendrils rather than an actual figure. Three
arm-like appendages reached out towards the bed, each ending in thin delicate
strands that acted as fingers. Because of the circumstances of the recording,
with it being so dark and the low resolution of the camera’s night vision, it
was difficult to make out any further details. I was thankful for that. The
creature slowly pulled the blanket off of the bed. It released its grip and
allowed the cloth to fall to the floor. One of the appendages slowly stretched
out through the open door and into the hallway. The fingers touched a thermostat
attached to one of the walls and turned the dial all the way to the left. The
appendage retracted, and the creature pulled back up out of sight. Minutes
passed as the recording continued. I started to wonder if anything else was
going to happen when a pair of legs swung out over the side of the bed. Carolyn
got out of bed, her arms folded tightly over her chest as she visibly shivered.
She went out into the hallway and checked the thermostat. Turning it back to
where it was before the creature had adjusted it, she put a hand on the wall and
leaned against it for a moment. She looked like she was about to collapse from
exhaustion. She gathered herself and went back into the bedroom, picking up the
blanket before getting back into bed. The recording ended. [EXTREMELY LOUD AND
QUICK BURST OF STATIC] I watched it back… I don’t know how many times it was. I
just kept replaying it over and over again. No matter how many times I watched
it, I just couldn’t force myself to accept it. Not really. I’m trying to figure
out how to put this in a way that really explains how I was feeling. It was like
being in a car accident. When it happens, you know intellectually that you were
just in a collision. The evidence is right there in front of you: the twisted
metal, the broken glass, the smell of smoke. Even when you’re staring right at
the wreckage, though, there’s this weird disconnect that doesn’t allow you to
grasp what’s just happened to you. That was what I was experiencing while I
watched the security camera footage on loop. I’m not sure what viewing I was on
when I began to question why it was even happening at all. Why was this creature
pulling off a blanket and adjusting a thermostat? It seemed juvenile, something
on the same level as a college prank. I probably should have put it together
faster than I did, but my mind was still reeling. It wasn’t the actions
themselves that were important. It was the result. The creature was depriving
Carolyn of sleep. That was the last component it needed to push her past her
breaking point. The creature had made sure that all roads led to her taking her
own life. [A SERIES OF TICKING NOISES, LIKE THE SOUND OF A CLOCK TICKING BUT
SLIGHTLY DISTORTED] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I haven’t taken any of this to the
police. That was my original intention, and I would if I thought that it would
do any good. The problem is that none of this can be corroborated. I have, what,
some screenshots that the sites themselves said weren’t accurate and a couple of
grainy videos? From their perspective I would just be the nutjob podcast host
that’s using a tragic event to drum up interest in his show. This is where
Carolyn Blake’s story comes to an end. It’s unfortunately not where the story as
a whole does. Twenty-four hours ago, I found out that Ray Carsten committed
suicide. A single gunshot wound in the right temple. The moment before the
trigger was pulled he was there, and the moment after he wasn’t. I called his
wife to offer my condolences. We got to talking, and I don’t know if it was the
grief or some need to get it off her chest or what, but she told me that the day
before he died a woman had shown up on their doorstep while Ray was at work. The
woman had presented her with a stack of pictures and email records showing in
great detail that Ray had been having an affair. That same woman had then
identified herself as Carolyn Blake. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two
together. The creature from the security footage had gone after Ray, and it had
once again been successful. This morning, I woke up to a text on my phone
alerting me that my checking account was overdrawn. Thousands of dollars were
just… gone. I also received notice that my podcast is currently suspended while
it is being investigated for violating the terms and conditions of the hosting
site. It’s my turn to be targeted. I’m hoping that because I actually know
what’s happening, I will be able to get through what’s about to come my way.
That’s what I hope. There’s no way of knowing what plan the Suicide Engineer has
for me. [STATIC WITH THE SAME TICKING NOISE AS BEFORE. THE NOISE GOES ON FOR
SOME TIME BEFORE THE RECORDING ENDS]


JEFF THE KILLER 11K+




Overview and Synopsis of Jeff The Killer at a Glance
Firstly, for those unfamiliar with the character ‘Jeff the Killler’ the most
widely known Creepypasta on this character can be found here. The story is
usually linked to a version of this image in which the character is shown to be
noseless, with bleached white skin, a leering permanent grin and lank black
hair. For those wanting a quick overview, the story of Jeff Killer goes
something like this: At thirteen years old Jeff ( Jeffery Alan Woods or Jeff C.
Hodek depending upon who you ask, but more on that later) moves with his parents
and brother Lui to a new town. Here, Jeff and his sibling encounter three
bullies and are threatened with knives. Jeff beats these bullies badly, with Lui
taking the blame for the assault and being carted off by the ever reliable
police. Guilt ridden and depressed at having let Lui take the blame for his
actions, Jeff’s day gets even worse when he meets the bullies again and is
horribly burnt in an attack with alcohol and bleach. This burning results in
Jeff being permanently disfigured, his skin bleached white, physically whilst
his mind ‘snaps’. Upon being discharged for some reason (his doctors apparently
attributing Jeff’s insane behaviour to the painkillers he is taking) Jeff
arrives home and proceeds to make a bad situation worse by purposely mutilating
his already disfigured face, cutting a permanent smile into his mouth and cheeks
and burning of his eyelids so that he can always see his face. Jeff then goes on
to kill both his parents and his brother Lui, meeting him with the instruction
‘Go to sleep’ before stabbing him and disappearing on a wider and less
discriminating killing spree, which it would seem, continues to this day.
Jeff The Killer Appearance and Origins >>
According to the Creepypasta explanations Jeff’s fixed grin is due to scarring
he inflicted upon himself, his eyes stare widely because he burnt off his own
eyelids and his skin is lilly white as a result of having been horribly burnt by
bullies with a combination of alcohol and bleach. The ‘photograph’ that
accompanies the many Jeff the Killer stories and which looks like a cross
between Micheal Jackson and a demented dolphin, is widely known not only from
the many derivative creepypastas using the character but die to its widespread
use in screamer videos alongside Jeff’s famous catchphrase ‘Go to sleep’.
However, it seems that the details of exactly how Jeff The Killer ended up with
his hideous appearance corresponding as they do to this image, were retrofitted,
the rationales being written to match the image, rather than the other way
around…
Jeff Photos and Folklore
As with many creepypasta characters there seems to have been an ekphrastic
element to Jeff the Killer’s Creation. What the hell does ekphrastic mean? Well,
basically it means ‘based on or inspired by a work of art’. Now, whilst most
wouldn’t look at the image of Jeff the killer and regard it as ‘art’ it is
commonly agreed the image upon which the story of Jeff the Killer is based
actually predates the words making up his story, meaning that the creators began
with the creepy image and went from there. The story was written to fit the
picture, Therefore to really get a handle on the the origins of Jeff the Killer
it is first necessary to divide the investigation into two parts. First, we need
to look at the origin of the image of Jeff The Killer that accompanied the
original story, not to mention the many derivative stories and memes that have
evolved from it and then look at where the story that grew out of the image came
from. Interestingly, the original ‘Jeff the Killer’ image and its origin has
developed a mythology all of its own, with various competing theories and bogus
explanations being put forward. Let’s have a go at unpicking them. The first
noted appearance of the famous image is from way back in 2005 on pya.cc a
Japanese message board. The image later appeared in a Japanese Youtube video
NNN臨時放送”, a clip identified by some as scary film project, in which names and
ages of future victims are listed. The video was uploaded in August of 2007 and
features a fleeting glimpse of the Jeff the Killer image which can be seen on
screen at the 4 minutes eleven seconds mark followed by the words ‘good night’
which may be an early incarnation of, (or the inspiration for) the famous ‘Go to
Sleep’ catchphrase with which Jeff is associated. That this video without a
backstory or explanation existed before the story or even the name ‘Jeff the
Killer’ surfaced seems to confirm that it was indeed the image that came first.
The association of the image with the name ‘Jeff the Killer’ or any related
title came in 2008 when a user on the forum Newgrounds uploaded the image using
the name Killerjeff with the somewhat dubious claim that the image was a self
portrait depicting him. Shortly following this first association of the
photograph with the name, the first incarnation of anything resembling an actual
story for Jeff The Killer (and featuring the now famous image) was a video
uploaded by Sesseur on October third 2008, with some sources claiming Sesseur
and the previous Newgrounds uploader ‘Killerjeff’ to be the same person. This
original video which notably contained music by Pixies (which may have been the
reason that the video was eventually removed) has been claimed by its creator as
the original Jeff the Killer origin story and indeed does predate the more well
known Creepypasta version of the tale. Additionally it is worth noting that
Sesseur ( consequently cited by most sources as Jeff’s creator) has been
critical of the details given in later incarnations of the story, insisting,
presumably in reference to his original conception of the character, that
bullies were not involved in the accident that led to Jeff’s altered appearance,
but rather that he slipped on some soap whilst carrying acid he intended to use
to clean the drains in his bathroom. Sesseur has also pointed out in his version
Jeff does not kill his parents and brother and even has different real name (
Jeff C. Hodek rather than Jeff Wood). The later Creepypasta incarnations of Jeff
The Killer, upon which the above synopsis is based, also have a somewhat
convoluted history. Despite being very popular, the original version uploaded in
2011 was derided by many as being weakly told and of low quality with many
insisting that the story did not meet the quality assurance standards of the
site. It was eventually moved from creepypasta to a sister site dedicated to
badly written Creepypastas. However, owing to the popularity of the character
this removal prompted many users to simply reupload the story. In an attempt to
placate these fans and to establish a ‘better’ version of Jeff’s story a
competition was launched in 2015 to create a ‘re-make’. The winning story, which
exists in an uncut longer version and a shorter version (edited to fit the
constraints of the competitions word limit) was written by K Banning Kellum is
the version with which most people today are familiar.
Jeff The Killer Creepypasta Story
After weeks of unexplained murders, the ominous unknown killer is still on the
rise. After little evidence has been found, a young boy states that he survived
one of the killer’s attacks and bravely tells his story. “I had a bad dream and
I woke up in the middle of the night,” says the boy, “I saw that for some reason
the window was open, even though I remember it being closed before I went to
bed. I got up and shut it once more. Afterwards, I simply crawled under my
covers and tried to get back to sleep. That’s when I had a strange feeling, like
someone was watching me. I looked up and nearly jumped out of my bed. There, in
the little ray of light, illuminating from between my curtains, were a pair of
two eyes. These weren’t regular eyes; they were dark, ominous eyes. They were
bordered in black and… just plain out terrified me. That’s when I saw his mouth.
A long, horrendous smile that made every hair on my body stand up. The figure
stood there, watching me. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he said it. A
simple phrase, but said in a way only a mad man could speak. “He said, ‘Go To
Sleep.’ I let out a scream, that’s what sent him at me. He pulled up a knife;
aiming at my heart. He jumped on top of my bed. I fought him back; I kicked, I
punched, I rolled around, trying to knock him off me. That’s when my dad busted
in. The man threw the knife, it went into my dad’s shoulder. The man probably
would’ve finished him off, if one of the neighbors hadn’t alerted the police.
“They drove into the parking lot and ran towards the door. The man turned and
ran down the hallway. I heard a smash, like glass breaking. As I came out of my
room, I saw the window that was pointing towards the back of my house was
broken. I looked out it to see him vanish into the distance. I can tell you one
thing, I will never forget that face. Those cold, evil eyes, and that psychotic
smile. They will never leave my head.” Police are still on the look for this
man. If you see anyone that fits the description in this story, please contact
your local police department. Jeff and his family had just moved into a new
neighborhood. His dad had gotten a promotion at work, and they thought it would
be best to live in one of those “fancy” neighborhoods. Jeff and his brother Liu
couldn’t complain though. A new, better house. What was not to love? As they
were getting unpacked, one of their neighbors came by. “Hello,” she said, “I’m
Barbara; I live across the street from you. Well, I just wanted to introduce my
self and to introduce my son.” She turns around and calls her son over. “Billy,
these are our new neighbors.” Billy said hi and ran back to play in his yard.
“Well,” said Jeff’s mom, “I’m Margaret, and this is my husband Peter, and my two
sons, Jeff and Liu.” They each introduced themselves, and then Barbara invited
them to her son’s birthday. Jeff and his brother were about to object when their
mother said that they would love to. When Jeff and his family are done packing,
Jeff went up to his mom. “Mom, why would you invite us to some kid’s party? If
you haven’t noticed, I’m not some dumb kid.” “Jeff,” said his mother, “We just
moved here; we should show that we want to spend time with our neighbors. Now,
we’re going to that party, and that’s final.” Jeff started to talk, but stopped
himself, knowing that he couldn’t do anything. Whenever his mom said something,
it was final. He walked up to his room and plopped down on his bed. He sat there
looking at his ceiling when suddenly, he got a weird feeling. Not so much pain,
but… a weird feeling. He dismissed it as just some random feeling. He heard his
mother call him down to get his stuff, and he walked down to get it. The next
day, Jeff walked downstairs to get breakfast and got ready for school. As he sat
there, eating his breakfast, he once again got that feeling. This time it was
stronger. It gave him a slight tugging pain, but he once again dismissed it. As
he and Liu finished breakfast, they walked down to the bus stop. They sat there
waiting for the bus, and then, all of a sudden, some kid on a skateboard jumped
over them, only inches above their laps. They both jumped back in surprise.
“Hey, what the hell?” The kid landed and turned back to them. He kicked his
skateboard up and caught it with his hands. The kid seems to be about twelve;
one year younger than Jeff. He wears an Aeropostale shirt and ripped blue jeans.
“Well, well, well. It looks like we got some new meat.” Suddenly, two other kids
appeared. One was super skinny and the other was huge. “Well, since you’re new
here, I’d like to introduce ourselves, over there is Keith.” Jeff and Liu looked
over to the skinny kid. He had a dopey face that you would expect a sidekick to
have. “And he’s Troy.” They looked over at the fat kid. Talk about a tub of
lard. This kid looked like he hadn’t exercised since he was crawling. “And I,”
said the first kid, “am Randy. Now, for all the kids in this neighborhood, there
is a small price for bus fare, if you catch my drift.” Liu stood up, ready to
punch the lights out of the kid’s eyes when one of his friends pulled a knife on
him. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, I had hoped you would be more cooperative, but it seems we
must do this the hard way.” The kid walked up to Liu and took his wallet out of
his pocket. Jeff got that feeling again. Now, it was truly strong; a burning
sensation. He stood up, but Liu gestured him to sit down. Jeff ignored him and
walked up to the kid. “Listen here you little punk, give back my bro’s wallet or
else.” Randy put the wallet in his pocket and pulled out his own knife. “Oh? And
what will you do?” Just as he finished the sentence, Jeff popped the kid in the
nose. As Randy reached for his face, Jeff grabbed the kid’s wrist and broke it.
Randy screamed and Jeff grabbed the knife from his hand. Troy and Keith rushed
Jeff, but Jeff was too quick. He threw Randy to the ground. Keith lashed out at
him, but Jeff ducked and stabbed him in the arm. Keith dropped his knife and
fell to the ground screaming. Troy rushed him too, but Jeff didn’t even need the
knife. He just punched Troy straight in the stomach and Troy went down. As he
fell, he puked all over. Liu could do nothing but look in amazement at Jeff.
“Jeff how’d you?” was all he said. They saw the bus coming and knew they’d be
blamed for the whole thing. So they started running as fast as they could. As
they ran, they looked back and saw the bus driver rushing over to Randy and the
others. As Jeff and Liu made it to school, they didn’t dare tell what happened.
All they did was sit and listen. Liu just thought of that as his brother beating
up a few kids, but Jeff knew it was more. It was something, scary. As he got
that feeling he felt how powerful it was, the urge to just, hurt someone. He
didn’t like how it sounded, but he couldn’t help feeling happy. He felt that
strange feeling go away, and stay away for the entire day of school. Even as he
walked home due to the whole thing near the bus stop, and how now he probably
wouldn’t be taking the bus anymore, he felt happy. When he got home his parents
asked him how his day was, and he said, in a somewhat ominous voice, “It was a
wonderful day.” Next morning, he heard a knock at his front door. He walked down
to find two police officers at the door, his mother looking back at him with an
angry look. “Jeff, these officers tell me that you attacked three kids. That it
wasn’t regular fighting, and that they were stabbed. Stabbed, son!” Jeff’s gaze
fell to the floor, showing his mother that it was true. “Mom, they were the ones
who pulled the knives on me and Liu.” “Son,” said one of the cops,” We found
three kids, two stabbed, one having a bruise on his stomach, and we have
witnesses proving that you fled the scene. Now, what does that tell us?” Jeff
knew it was no use. He could say him and Liu had been attacked, but then there
was no proof it was not them who attacked first. They couldn’t say that they
weren’t fleeing, because truth be told they were. So Jeff couldn’t defend
himself or Liu. “Son, call down your brother.” Jeff couldn’t do it since it was
he who beat up all the kids. “Sir, it…it was me. I was the one who beat up the
kids. Liu tried to hold me back, but he couldn’t stop me.” The cop looked at his
partner and they both nod. “Well, kid, looks like a year in juvie…” “Wait!” says
Liu. They all looked up to see him holding a knife. The officers pulled their
guns and locked them on Liu. “It was me, I beat up those little punks. Have the
marks to prove it.” He lifted up his sleeves to reveal cuts and bruises, as if
he was in a struggle. “Son, just put the knife down,” said the officer. Liu held
up the knife and dropped it to the ground. He put his hands up and walked over
to the cops. “No, Liu, it was me! I did it!” Jeff had tears running down his
face. “Huh, poor bro. Trying to take the blame for what I did. Well, take me
away.” The police led Liu out to the patrol car. “Liu, tell them it was me! Tell
them! I was the one who beat up those kids!” Jeff’s mother put her hands on his
shoulders. “Jeff please, you don’t have to lie. We know it’s Liu, you can stop.”
Jeff watched helplessly as the cop car speeds off with Liu inside. A few minutes
later Jeff’s dad pulled into the driveway, seeing Jeff’s face and knowing
something was wrong. “Son, son what is it?” Jeff couldn’t answer. His vocal
cords were strained from crying. Instead, Jeff’s mother walked his father inside
to break the bad news to him as Jeff wept in the driveway. After an hour or so
Jeff walked back into the house, seeing that his parents were both shocked, sad,
and disappointed. He couldn’t look at them. He couldn’t see how they thought of
Liu when it was his fault. He just went to sleep, trying to get the whole thing
off his mind. Two days went by, with no word from Liu at JDC. No friends to hang
out with. Nothing but sadness and guilt. That is until Saturday, when Jeff is
woken up by his mother, with a happy, sunshiny face. “Jeff, it’s the day,” she
said as she opened up the curtains and let light flood into his room. “What?
What’s today?” asked Jeff as he stirs awake. “Why, it’s Billy’s party.” He was
now fully awake. “Mom, you’re joking, right? You don’t expect me to go to some
kid’s party after…” There was a long pause. “Jeff, we both know what happened. I
think this party could be the thing that brightens up the past days. Now, get
dressed.” Jeff’s mother walked out of the room and downstairs to get ready
herself. He fought himself to get up. He picked out a random shirt and pair of
jeans and walked downstairs. He saw his mother and father all dressed up; his
mother in a dress and his father in a suit. He thought, why they would ever wear
such fancy clothes to a kid’s party? “Son, is that all your going to wear?” said
Jeff’s mom. “Better than wearing too much,” he said. His mother pushed down the
feeling to yell at him and hid it with a smile. “Now Jeff, we may be
over-dressed, but this is how you go if you want to make an impression.” said
his father. Jeff grunted and went back up to his room. “I don’t have any fancy
clothes!” he yelled downstairs. “Just pick out something.” called his mother. He
looked around in his closet for what he would call fancy. He found a pair of
black dress pants he had for special occasions and an undershirt. He couldn’t
find a shirt to go with it though. He looked around and found only striped and
patterned shirts. None of which go with dress pants. Finally, he found a white
hoodie and put it on. “You’re wearing that?” they both said. His mother looked
at her watch. “Oh, no time to change. Let’s just go.” She said as she herded
Jeff and his father out the door. They crossed the street over to Barbara and
Billy’s house. They knocked on the door and at it appeared that Barbara, just
like his parents, way over-dressed. As they walked inside all Jeff could see
were adults, no kids. “The kids are out in the yard. Jeff, how about you go and
meet some of them?” said Barbara. Jeff walked outside to a yard full of kids.
They were running around in weird cowboy costumes and shooting each other with
plastic guns. He might as well be standing in a Toys R Us. Suddenly a kid came
up to him and handed him a toy gun and hat. “Hey. Wanna pway?” he said. “Ah, no
kid. I’m way too old for this stuff.” The kid looked at him with that weird
puppy-dog face. “Pwease?” said the kid. “Fine,” said Jeff. He put on the hat and
started to pretend shoot at the kids. At first, he thought it was totally
ridiculous, but then he started to actually have fun. It might not have been
super cool, but it was the first time he had done something that took his mind
off of Liu. So he played with the kids for a while, until he heard a noise. A
weird rolling noise. Then it hit him. Randy, Troy, and Keith all jumped over the
fence on their skateboards. Jeff dropped the fake gun and ripped off the hat.
Randy looked at Jeff with a burning hatred. “Hello, Jeff, is it?” he said. “We
have some unfinished business.” Jeff saw his bruised nose.” I think we’re even.
I beat the crap out of you, and you get my brother sent to JDC.” Randy got an
angry look in his eyes. “Oh no, I don’t go for even, I go for winning. You may
have kicked our asses that one day, but not today.” As he said that Randy rushed
at Jeff. They both fell to the ground. Randy punched Jeff in the nose, and Jeff
grabbed him by the ears and head-butted him. Jeff pushed Randy off of him and
both rose to their feet. Kids were screaming and parents were running out of the
house. Troy and Keith both pulled guns out of their pockets. “No one interrupts
or guts will fly!” they said. Randy pulled a knife on Jeff and stabbed it into
his shoulder. Jeff screamed and fell to his knees. Randy started kicking him in
the face. After three kicks Jeff grabs his foot and twists it, causing Randy to
fall to the ground. Jeff stood up and walked towards the back door. Troy grabbed
him. “Need some help?” He picks Jeff up by the back of the collar and throws him
through the patio door. As Jeff tries to stand he is kicked down to the ground.
Randy repeatedly starts kicking Jeff, until he starts to cough up blood. “Come
on Jeff, fight me!” He picks Jeff up and throws him into the kitchen. Randy sees
a bottle of vodka on the counter and smashes the glass over Jeff’s head.
“Fight!” He throws Jeff back into the living room. “Come on Jeff, look at me!”
Jeff glances up, his face riddled with blood. “I was the one who got your
brother sent to JDC! And now you’re just gonna sit here and let him rot in there
for a whole year! You should be ashamed!” Jeff starts to get up. “Oh, finally!
you stand and fight!” Jeff is now to his feet, blood and vodka on his face. Once
again he gets that strange feeling, the one in which he hasn’t felt for a while.
“Finally. He’s up!” says Randy as he runs at Jeff. That’s when it happens.
Something inside Jeff snaps. His psyche is destroyed, all rational thinking is
gone, all he can do is kill. He grabs Randy and pile drives him to the ground.
He gets on top of him and punches him straight in the heart. The punch causes
Randy’s heart to stop. As Randy gasps for breath. Jeff hammers down on him.
Punch after punch, blood gushes from Randy’s body, until he takes one final
breath, and dies. Everyone is looking at Jeff now. The parents, the crying kids,
even Troy and Keith. Although they easily break from their gaze and point their
guns at Jeff. Jeff sees the guns trained on him and runs for the stairs. As he
runs Troy and Keith let out fire on him, each shot missing. Jeff runs up the
stairs. He hears Troy and Keith follow up behind. As they let out their final
rounds of bullets Jeff ducks into the bathroom. He grabs the towel rack and rips
it off the wall. Troy and Keith race in, knives ready. Troy swings his knife at
Jeff, who backs away and bangs the towel rack into Troy’s face. Troy goes down
hard and now all that’s left is Keith. He is more agile than Troy though, and
ducks when Jeff swings the towel rack. He dropped the knife and grabbed Jeff by
the neck. He pushed him into the wall. A thing of bleach fell down on top of him
from the top shelf. It burnt both of them and they both started to scream. Jeff
wiped his eyes as best as he could. He pulled back the towel rack and swung it
straight into Keith’s head. As he lay there, bleeding to death, he let out an
ominous smile. “What’s so funny?” asked Jeff. Keith pulled out a lighter and
switched it on. “What’s funny,” he said, “Is that you’re covered in bleach and
alcohol.” Jeff’s eyes widened as Keith threw the lighter at him. As soon as the
flame made contact with him, the flames ignited the alcohol in the vodka. While
the alcohol burned him, the bleach bleached his skin. Jeff let out a terrible
screech as he caught on fire. He tried to roll out the fire but it was no use,
the alcohol had made him a walking inferno. He ran down the hall and fell down
the stairs. Everybody started screaming as they saw Jeff, now a man on fire,
drop to the ground, nearly dead. The last thing Jeff saw was his mother and the
other parents trying to extinguish the flame. That’s when he passed out. When
Jeff woke he had a cast wrapped around his face. He couldn’t see anything, but
he felt a cast on his shoulder, and stitches all over his body. He tried to
stand up, but he realized that there was some tube in his arm, and when he tried
to get up it fell out, and a nurse rushed in. “I don’t think you can get out of
bed just yet,” she said as she put him back in his bed and re-inserted the tube.
Jeff sat there, with no vision, no idea of what his surroundings were. Finally,
after hours, he heard his mother. “Honey, are you okay?” she asked. Jeff
couldn’t answer though, his face was covered, and he was unable to speak. “Oh
honey, I have great news. After all the witnesses told the police that Randy
confessed of trying to attack you, they decided to let Liu go.” This made Jeff
almost bolt up, stopping halfway, remembering the tube coming out of his arm.
“He’ll be out by tomorrow, and then you two will be able to be together again.”
Jeff’s mother hugs Jeff and says her goodbyes. The next couple of weeks were
those where Jeff was visited by his family. Then came the day where his bandages
were to be removed. His family members were all there to see it, what he would
look like. As the doctors unwrapped the bandages from Jeff’s face everyone was
on the edge of their seats. They waited until the last bandage holding the cover
over his face was almost removed. “Let’s hope for the best,” said the doctor. He
quickly pulls the cloth; letting the rest fall from Jeff’s face. Jeff’s mother
screams at the sight of his face. Liu and Jeff’s dad stare awe-struck at his
face. “What? What happened to my face?” Jeff said. He rushed out of bed and ran
to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw the cause of the distress. His
face. It…it’s horrible. His lips were burnt to a deep shade of red. His face was
turned into a pure white color, and his hair singed from brown to black. He
slowly put his hand to his face. It had a sort of leathery feel to it now. He
looked back at his family then back at the mirror. “Jeff,” said Liu, “It’s not
that bad….” “Not that bad?” said Jeff,” It’s perfect!” His family was equally
surprised. Jeff started laughing uncontrollably His parents noticed that his
left eye and hand were twitching. “Uh… Jeff, are you okay?” “Okay? I’ve never
felt more happy! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaa, look at me! This face goes
perfectly with me!” He couldn’t stop laughing. He stroked his face feeling it.
Looking at it in the mirror. What caused this? Well, you may recall that when
Jeff was fighting Randy something in his mind, his sanity, snapped. Now he was
left as a crazy killing machine, that is, his parents didn’t know. “Doctor,”
said Jeff’s mom, “Is my son… alright, you know. In the head?” “Oh yes, this
behavior is typical for patients that have taken very large amounts of pain
killers. If his behavior doesn’t change in a few weeks, bring him back here, and
we’ll give him a psychological test.” “Oh, thank you, doctor.” Jeff’s mother
went over to Jeff. “Jeff, sweetie, it’s time to go.” Jeff looks away from the
mirror, his face still formed into a crazy smile. “Kay mommy, ha, ha,
haaaaaaaaaaaa!” his mother took him by the shoulder and took him to get his
clothes. “This is what came in,” said the lady at the desk. Jeff’s mom looked
down to see the black dress pants and white hoodie her son wore. Now they were
clean of blood and now stitched together. Jeff’s mother led him to his room and
made him put his clothes on. Then they left, not knowing that this was their
final day of life. Later that night, Jeff’s mother woke to a sound coming from
the bathroom. It sounded as if someone was crying. She slowly walked over to see
what it was. When she looked into the bathroom she saw a horrendous sight. Jeff
had taken a knife and carved a smile into his cheeks. “Jeff, what are you
doing?” asked his mother. Jeff looked over to his mother. “I couldn’t keep
smiling, mommy. It hurt after awhile. Now I can smile forever.” Jeff’s mother
noticed his eyes, ringed in black. “Jeff, your eyes!” His eyes were seemingly
never closing. “I couldn’t see my face. I got tired and my eyes started to
close. I burned out the eyelids so I could forever see myself; my new face.”
Jeff’s mother slowly started to back away, seeing that her son was going insane.
“What’s wrong mommy? Aren’t I beautiful? “Yes son,” she said, “Yes you are.
L-let me go get daddy, so he can see your face.” She ran into the room and shook
Jeff’s dad from his sleep. “Honey, get the gun we…..” She stopped as she saw
Jeff in the doorway, holding a knife. “Mommy, you lied.” That’s the last thing
they hear as Jeff rushes them with the knife, gutting both of them. His brother
Liu woke up, startled by some noise. He didn’t hear anything else, so he just
shut his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. As he was on the border of slumber,
he got the strangest feeling that someone was watching him. He looked up, before
Jeff’s hand covered his mouth. He slowly raised the knife ready to plunge it
into Liu. Liu thrashed here and there trying to escape Jeff’s grip. “Shhhhhhh,”
Jeff said. “Just go to sleep.” Remember to check out the Jeff The Killer Reboot
of this creepypasta classic.
Dark Images and Darker Stories
Whilst the above explains the backstory of the Creepypasta tale itself, the
question remains, where did the image come from in the first place? Here is
where fact and fiction begin to blur with even the photograph’s origins being
obscured by half truth and myth. For some time it was believed the photograph
was a photoshop manipulated image of a girl identified as Katy Robinson. The
story went that this young girl, who was considered by some internet trolls to
be overweight, was eventually driven to suicide by online bullies. Her image was
then photoshopped and used as the basis for the most widely known Jeff the
Killer image. It’s a tragic story which though it exists entirely separately
from the Jeff the Killer Creepypasta lends Jeff’s image of the bleach skinned
wide eyed smiler, an even more sinister aspect and a legitimate reason to find
the image unnerving, depicting as it did not only a deceased girl, but a victim
of the same species of bullying that the fictional character endures.
Unfortunately, this story also turns out to be nonsense. The Katy Robinson story
and the entire idea that the Jeff the Killer image used the photograph of a
deceased girl as its basis has been debunked. The girl featured in the
photograph alleged to belong to the unfortunate Ms Robinson is actually a girl
named Heather White, who has confirmed that the images alleged to have been
manipulated have nothing to do with the famous image of Jeff the Killer. Another
theory which has gained traction in recent years is that the original photograph
was of an unnamed stickam girl. This girl, who is alleged to have been crying
for attention, was said to have used images in which the flash from the camera
or monitor illuminated and overexposed her face giving it the bleached out white
appearance familiar from the Jeff Killer images. Her image was subsequently
screenshotted and adopted by another anonymous user who then posed as her using
her photograph to ask “Am I pretty?” Responding to what seemed to be naked self
promotion or hunting for sympathy clicks, viewers of the image gradually added
to a thread in which they manipulated the image, so that it gradually became
more and more distorted. These photoshopped images are believed by some to have
evolved into the original Jeff the Killer photographs. Well that’s one theory at
least and currently the one that seems to be given the most creedence. Other
theories as to the image’s origin are that the root image is in fact simply a
manipulated photograph of Jeff The Killer’s original poster Susseur wearing a
latex mask. This is actually what he claimed, though the fact that the image has
been identified in videos and other sources a number of years before he posted
his story makes this claim seem somewhat unreliable. As is the theory that the
image is a manipulation of the ‘overly attached girlfriend’ meme because of the
similarly wide eyed and smiling pose. This theory can be debunked almost
immediately owing to the fact that the meme in question (based on an image of
Laina Morris) features an image from 2012, meaning that it came into existence
long after the earliest known version of the Jeff image and indeed the original
Jeff the Killer story. So far the farthest back anyone has been able to trace
the image is to a Japanese site called pya.cc where two versions of the image
were found, both faces are noseless, though one has added contour shading around
the eyes and the area where the nose would be. It has also been noted that the
two images have different eye shapes, with one looking more like the eyes from a
stuffed toy or cartoon character.
Other Possible Jeff The Killer Influences.
Though they seem to be less widely acknowledged a number of other pop culture
characters have clearly influenced the evolution of Jeff the Killer Most
prominent amongst these is the DC villain and Batman arch nemesis The Joker. Not
only does this character share the clown-like combination of a white face and
maniacal smile, but in Tim Burton’s version (as played by Jack Nicholson) his
face is disfigured by an accident with chemicals, a trope which is also present
in various versions of the Jeff the Killer story. In Christopher Nolan’s version
meanwhile, the noticeably scarred Joker (played by Heath Ledger) is thought to
have deliberately mutilated his own face in order to create the fixed grin,
telling various conflicting stories throughout the film as to how he was scarred
in the first place. Again this is a trope employed in the Jeff the Killer
stories. Both The Joker and Jeff The Killer can trace their origins further back
to the early black and white classic The Man who Laughed in which the tragic
hero has a fixed maniacal smile throughout. Even less discussed is the obvious
influence of Japanese manga (and later movie) character Ichi the Killer who not
only shares virtually the same name as Jeff but has a fondness for knives and
homicide and also sports a badly scarred mouth twisted into a permanent smile.


MR. WIDEMOUTH




During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never
remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight,
and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my
memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my
brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.
Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in
the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on
the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there
is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just
made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams
produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know
they are real. We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of
New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a
family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five
months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the
only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my
father’s place of work. The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents
alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which
meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was
horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things
to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in
boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several
times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of
entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the
corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery. I don’t exactly
recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was
diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he
had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large.
In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his
eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest. “You look kind of
like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books. Mr. Widemouth
stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “Furby? What’s a Furby?” he asked. I
shrugged. “You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet
and feed them, almost like a real pet.” “Oh.” Mr. Widemouth resumed his
activity. “You don’t need one of those. They aren’t the same as having a real
friend.” I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by
to check in on me. “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. “I don’t want
your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.” We
didn’t do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my
books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or
fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. “I
have a new game we can play,” he said. “We have to wait until after your mother
comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. It’s a secret game.”
After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth
slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. “We have to go the the room
at the end of this hallway,” he said. I objected at first, as my parents had
forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth
persisted until I gave in. The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper.
Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth
darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He
then beckoned me to look out at the ground below. We were on the second story of
the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than
two stories due to the incline. “I like to play pretend up here,” Mr. Widemouth
explained. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window,
and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want
you to try.” I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism
darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility.
“It’s a long drop,” I said. “But that’s all a part of the fun. It wouldn’t be
fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce
on a real trampoline.” I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through
thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes.
But the realist in me prevailed. “Maybe some other time,” I said. “I don’t know
if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt.” Mr. Widemouth’s face contorted
into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. “If you
say so,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.
The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. “I want to
teach you how to juggle,” he said. “Here are some things you can use to
practice, before I start giving you lessons.” I looked in the box. It was full
of knives. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth
had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to
touch. “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!” Mr. Widemouth frowned. “It’s
fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it.” I pushed the box away. “I
can’t. I’ll get in trouble. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.” Mr.
Widemouth’s frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under
my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was
under me. I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke
me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one
that I couldn’t see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to
sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early
in the morning, encouraging me to jump. He wasn’t so fun to play with anymore.
My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around
outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being
confined to my room for so long. Exstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out
to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face. Mr. Widemouth was
waiting for me. “I have something I want you to see,” he said. I must have given
him a weird look, because he then said, “It’s safe, I promise.” I followed him
to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house.
“This is an important path,” he explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your
age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You
aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.” I returned to the
house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail. Two weeks after I met
Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck.
I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long
drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be
leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the
creature’s intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise.
For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret. My father and I were
in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time
tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy
drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than
one who was about to spend two days sitting still. “Early enough for you?” he
asked. I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep
before the sun came up. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “This is the
last move, son, I promise. I know it’s hard for you, as sick as you’ve been.
Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends.” I opened
my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth’s silouhette in my
bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the
main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn’t
wave back. Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house
stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few
years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr.
Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree
and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone,
somehow tied to the house that no longer existed. The trail ended at the New
Vineyard Memorial Cemetery. I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to
children.


PSYCHOSIS 10.3K+




I’m not sure why I’m writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess
I’ve just noticed some odd things. It’s not that I don’t trust the computer… I
just… need to organize my thoughts. I need to get down all the details somewhere
objective, somewhere I know that what I write can’t be deleted or… changed… not
that that’s happened. It’s just… everything blurs together here, and the fog of
memory lends a strange cast to things… I’m starting to feel cramped in this
small apartment. Maybe that’s the problem. I just had to go and choose the
cheapest apartment, the only one in the basement. The lack of windows down here
makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven’t been out in a few days
because I’ve been working on this programming project so intensively. I suppose
I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make
anyone feel strange, I know, but I don’t think that’s it. I’m not sure when I
first started to feel like something was odd. I can’t even define what it is.
Maybe I just haven’t talked to anyone in awhile. That’s the first thing that
crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been
idle, or they’ve simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered.
The last e-mail I got from anybody was a friend saying he’d talk to me when he
got back from the store, and that was yesterday. I’d call with my cell phone,
but reception’s terrible down here. Yeah, that’s it. I just need to call
someone. I’m going to go outside. Well, that didn’t work so well. As the tingle
of fear fades, I’m feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked
in the mirror before I went out, but I didn’t shave the two-day stubble I’ve
grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change
my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guessed that I’d run into at
least one person I knew. That didn’t end up happening. I wish it did. When I
went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly. A small feeling of
apprehension had somehow already lodged itself in me, for some indefinable
reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or
two. I peered down the dingy grey hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was
a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building’s furnace
room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it; I bought a
soda from one the first day I moved in, but it had a two year old expiration
date. I’m fairly sure nobody knows those machines are even down here, or my
cheap landlady just doesn’t care to get them restocked. I closed my door softly,
and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea
why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to
break the droning hum of the soda machines, at least for the moment. I got to
the stairwell, and took the stairs up to the building’s front door. I looked
through the heavy door’s small square window, and received quite the shock: it
was definitely not lunchtime. City-gloom hung over the dark street outside, and
the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow. Dim
clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city, hung overhead. Nothing
moved, save the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember
shivering, though I wasn’t cold. Maybe it was the wind outside. I could vaguely
hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew it was that unique kind of
late-night wind, the kind that was constant, cold, and quiet, save for the
rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves. I
decided not to go outside. Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door’s little
window, and checked the signal meter. The bars filled up the meter, and I
smiled. Time to hear someone else’s voice, I remember thinking, relieved. It was
such a strange thing, to be afraid of nothing. I shook my head, laughing at
myself silently. I hit speed-dial for my best friend Amy’s number, and held the
phone up to my ear. It rang once… but then it stopped. Nothing happened. I
listened to silence for a good twenty seconds, then hung up. I frowned, and
looked at the signal meter again – still full. I went to dial her number again,
but then my phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear. “Hello?”
I asked, immediately fighting down a small shock at hearing the first spoken
voice in days, even if it was my own. I had gotten used to the droning hum of
the building’s inner workings, my computer, and the soda machines in the
hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then, finally, a
voice came. “Hey,” said a clear male voice, obviously of college age, like me.
“Who’s this?” “John,” I replied, confused. “Oh, sorry, wrong number,” he
replied, then hung up. I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against the thick
brick wall of the stairwell. That was strange. I looked at my received calls
list, but the number was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it further, the
phone rang loudly, shocking me yet again. This time, I looked at the caller
before I answered. It was another unfamiliar number. This time, I held the phone
up to my ear, but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise
of a phone. Then, a familiar voice broke my tension. “John?” was the single
word, in Amy’s voice. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, it’s you,” I replied.
“Who else would it be?” she responded. “Oh, the number. I’m at a party on
Seventh Street, and my phone died just as you called me. This is someone else’s
phone, obviously.” “Oh, ok,” I said. “Where are you?” she asked. My eyes glanced
over the drab white-washed cylinder block walls and the heavy metal door with
its small window. “At my building,” I sighed. “Just feeling cooped up. I didn’t
realize it was so late.” “You should come here,” she said, laughing. “Nah, I
don’t feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of the
night,” I said, looking out the window at the silent windy street that secretly
scared me just a tiny bit. “I think I’m just going to keep working or go to
bed.” “Nonsense!” she replied. “I can come get you! Your building is close to
Seventh Street, right?” “How drunk are you?” I asked lightheartedly. “You know
where I live.” “Oh, of course,” she said abruptly. “I guess I can’t get there by
walking, huh?” “You could if you wanted to waste half an hour,” I told her.
“Right,” she said. “Ok, have to go, good luck with your work!” I lowered the
phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended. Then, the
droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls and
the eerie street outside just drove home my aloneness in this empty stairwell.
Perhaps from having seen too many scary movies, I had the sudden inexplicable
idea that something could look in the door’s window and see me, some sort of
horrible entity that hovered at the edge of aloneness, just waiting to creep up
on unsuspecting people that strayed too far from other human beings. I knew the
fear was irrational, but nobody else was around, so… I jumped down the stairs,
ran down the hallway into my room, and closed the door as swiftly as I could
while still staying silent. Like I said, I feel a little ridiculous for being
scared of nothing, and the fear has already faded. Writing this down helps a lot
– it makes me realize that nothing is wrong. It filters out half-formed thoughts
and fears and leaves only cold, hard facts. It’s late, I got a call from a wrong
number, and Amy’s phone died, so she called me back from another number. Nothing
strange is happening. Still, there was something a little off about that
conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she’d had… or was it
even her that seemed off to me? Or was it… yes, that was it! I didn’t realize it
until this moment, writing these things down. I knew writing things down would
help. She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background!
Of course, that doesn’t mean anything in particular, as she could have just gone
outside to make the call. No… that couldn’t be it either. I didn’t hear the
wind! I need to see if the wind is still blowing. Monday I forgot to finish
writing last night. I’m not sure what I expected to see when I ran up the
stairwell and looked out the heavy metal door’s window. I’m feeling ridiculous.
Last night’s fear seems hazy and unreasonable to me now. I can’t wait to go out
into the sunlight. I’m going to check my email, shave, shower, and finally get
out of here! Wait… I think I heard something. * * * * * * It was thunder. That
whole sunlight and fresh air thing didn’t happen. I went out into the stairwell
and up the stairs, only to find disappointment. The heavy metal door’s little
window showed only flowing water, as torrential rain slammed against it. Only a
very dim, gloomy light filtered in through the rain, but at least I knew it was
daytime, even if it was a grey, sickly, wet day. I tried looking out the window
and waiting for lightning to illuminate the gloom, but the rain was too heavy
and I couldn’t make out anything more than vague weird shapes moving at odd
angles in the waves washing down the window. Disappointed, I turned around, but
I didn’t want to go back to my room. Instead, I wandered further up the stairs,
past the first floor, and the second. The stairs ended at the third floor, the
highest floor in the building. I looked through the glass that ran up the outer
wall of the stairwell, but it was that warped, thick kind that scatters the
light, not that there was much to see through the rain to begin with. I opened
the stairwell door and wandered down the hallway. The ten or so thick wooden
doors, painted blue a long time ago, were all closed. I listened as I walked,
but it was the middle of the day, so I wasn’t surprised that I heard nothing but
the rain outside. As I stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the rain, I
had the strange fleeting impression that the doors were standing like silent
granite monoliths erected by some ancient forgotten civilization for some
unfathomable guardian purpose. Lightning flashed, and I could have sworn that,
for just a moment, the old grainy blue wood looked just like rough stone. I
laughed at myself for letting my imagination get the best of me, but then it
occurred to me that the dim gloom and lightning must mean there was a window
somewhere in the hallway. A vague memory surfaced, and I suddenly recalled that
the third floor had an alcove and an inset window halfway down the floor’s
hallway. Excited to look out into the rain and possibly see another human being,
I quickly walked over to the alcove, finding the large thin glass window. Rain
washed down it, as with the front door’s window, but I could open this one. I
reached a hand out to slide it open, but hesitated. I had the strangest feeling
that if I opened that window, I would see something absolutely horrifying on the
other side. Everything’s been so odd lately… so I came up with a plan, and I
came back here to get what I needed. I don’t seriously think anything will come
of it, but I’m bored, it’s raining, and I’m going stir crazy. I came back to get
my webcam. The cord isn’t long enough to reach the third floor by any means, so
instead I’m going to hide it between the two soda machines in the dark end of my
basement hallway, run the wire along the wall and under my door, and put black
duct tape over the wire to blend it in with the black plastic strip that runs
along the base of the hallway’s walls. I know this is silly, but I don’t have
anything better to do… Well, nothing happened. I propped open the
hallway-to-stairwell door, steeled myself, then flung the heavy front door wide
open and ran like hell down the stairs to my room and slammed the door. I
watched the webcam on my computer intently, seeing the hallway outside my door
and most of the stairwell. I’m watching it right now, and I don’t see anything
interesting. I just wish the camera’s position was different, so that I could
see out the front door. Hey! Somebody’s online! * * * * * * I got out an older,
less functional webcam that I had in my closet to video chat with my friend
online. I couldn’t really explain to him why I wanted to video chat, but it felt
good to see another person’s face. He couldn’t talk very long, and we didn’t
talk about anything meaningful, but I feel much better. My strange fear has
almost passed. I would feel completely better, but there was something… odd…
about our conversation. I know that I’ve said that everything has seemed odd,
but… still, he was very vague in his responses. I can’t recall one specific
thing that he said… no particular name, or place, or event… but he did ask for
my email address to keep in touch. Wait, I just got an email. I’m about to go
out. I just got an email from Amy that asked me to meet her for dinner at ‘the
place we usually go to.’ I do love pizza, and I’ve just been eating random food
from my poorly stocked fridge for days, so I can’t wait. Again, I feel
ridiculous about the odd couple of days I’ve been having. I should destroy this
journal when I get back. Oh, another email. * * * * * * Oh my god. I almost left
the email and opened the door. I almost opened the door. I almost opened the
door, but I read the email first! It was from a friend I hadn’t heard from in a
long time, and it was sent to a huge number of emails that must have been every
person he had saved in his address list. It had no subject, and it said, simply:
seen with your own eyes don’t trust them they What the hell is that supposed to
mean? The words shock me, and I keep going over and over them. Is it a desperate
email sent just as… something happened? The words are obviously cut off without
finishing! On any other day I would have dismissed this as spam from a computer
virus or something, but the words… seen with your own eyes! I can’t help but
read over this journal and think back on the last few days and realize that I
have not seen another person with my own eyes or talked to another person face
to face. The webcam conversation with my friend was so strange, so vague, so…
eerie, now that I think about it. Was it eerie? Or is the fear clouding my
memory? My mind toys with the progression of events I’ve written here, pointing
out that I have not been presented with one single fact that I did not
specifically give out unsuspectingly. The random ‘wrong number’ that got my name
and the subsequent strange return call from Amy, the friend that asked for my
email address… I messaged him first when I saw him online! And then I got my
first email a few minutes after that conversation! Oh my god! That phone call
with Amy! I said over the phone – I said that I was within half an hour’s walk
of Seventh Street! They know I’m near there! What if they’re trying to find me?!
Where is everyone else? Why haven’t I seen or heard anyone else in days? No, no,
this is crazy. This is absolutely crazy. I need to calm down. This madness needs
to end. * * * * * * I don’t know what to think. I ran about my apartment
furiously, holding my cell phone up to every corner to see if it got a signal
through the heavy walls. Finally, in the tiny bathroom, near one ceiling corner,
I got a single bar. Holding my phone there, I sent a text message to every
number in my list. Not wanting to betray anything about my unfounded fears, I
simply sent: You seen anyone face to face lately? At that point, I just wanted
any reply back. I didn’t care what the reply was, or if I embarrassed myself. I
tried to call someone a few times, but I couldn’t get my head up high enough,
and if I brought my cell phone down even an inch, it lost signal. Then I
remembered the computer, and rushed over to it, instant messaging everyone
online. Most were idle or away from their computer. Nobody responded. My
messages grew more frantic, and I started telling people where I was and to stop
by in person for a host of barely passable reasons. I didn’t care about anything
by that point. I just needed to see another person! I also tore apart my
apartment looking for something that I might have missed; some way to contact
another human being without opening the door. I know it’s crazy, I know it’s
unfounded, but what if? WHAT IF? I just need to be sure! I taped the phone to
the ceiling in case Tuesday THE PHONE RANG! Exhausted from last night’s rampage,
I must have fallen asleep. I woke up to the phone ringing, and ran into the
bathroom, stood on the toilet, and flipped open the phone taped to the ceiling.
It was Amy, and I feel so much better. She was really worried about me, and
apparently had been trying to contact me since the last time I talked to her.
She’s coming over now, and, yes, she knows where I am without me telling her. I
feel so embarrassed. I am definitely throwing this journal away before anyone
sees it. I don’t even know why I’m writing in it now. Maybe it’s just because
it’s the only communication I’ve had at all since… god knows when. I look like
hell, too. I looked in the mirror before I came back in here. My eyes are
sunken, my stubble is thicker, and I just look generally unhealthy. My apartment
is trashed, but I’m not going to clean it up. I think I need someone else to see
what I’ve been through. These past few days have NOT been normal. I am not one
to imagine things. I know I have been the victim of extreme probability. I
probably missed seeing another person a dozen times. I just happened to go out
when it was late at night, or the middle of the day when everyone was gone.
Everything’s perfectly fine, I know this now. Plus, I found something in the
closet last night that has helped me tremendously: a television! I set it up
just before I wrote this, and it’s on in the background. Television has always
been an escape for me, and it reminds me that there’s a world beyond these dingy
brick walls. I’m glad Amy’s the only one that responded to me after last night’s
frantic pestering of everyone I could contact. She’s been my best friend for
years. She doesn’t know it, but I count the day that I met her among one of the
few moments of true happiness in my life. I remember that warm summer day
fondly. It seems a different reality from this dark, rainy, lonely place. I feel
like I spent days sitting in that playground, much too old to play, just talking
with her and hanging around doing nothing at all. I still feel like I can go
back to that moment sometimes, and it reminds me that this damn place is not all
that there is… finally, a knock on the door! * * * * * * I thought it was odd
that I couldn’t see her through the camera I hid between the two soda machines.
I figured that it was bad positioning, like when I couldn’t see out the front
door. I should have known. I should have known! After the knock, I yelled
through the door jokingly that I had a camera between the soda machines, because
I was embarrassed myself that I had taken this paranoia so far. After I did
that, I saw her image walk over to the camera and look down at it. She smiled
and waved. “Hey!” she said to the camera brightly, giving it a wry look. “It’s
weird, I know,” I said into the mic attached to my computer. “I’ve had a weird
few days.” “Must have,” she replied. “Open the door, John.” I hesitated. How
could I be sure? “Hey, humor me a second here,” I told her through the mic.
“Tell me one thing about us. Just prove to me you’re you.” She gave the camera a
weird look. “Um, alright,” she said slowly, thinking. “We met randomly at a
playground when we were both way too old to be there?” I sighed deeply as
reality returned and fear faded. God, I’d been so ridiculous. Of course it was
Amy! That day wasn’t anywhere in the world except in my memory. I’d never even
mentioned it to anyone, not out of embarrassment, but out of a strange secret
nostalgia and a longing for those days to return. If there was some unknown
force at work trying to trick me, as I feared, there was no way they could know
about that day. “Haha, alright, I’ll explain everything,” I told her. “Be right
there.” I ran to my small bathroom and fixed my hair as best I could. I looked
like hell, but she would understand. Snickering at my own unbelievable behavior
and the mess I’d made of the place, I walked to the door. I put my hand on the
doorknob and gave the mess one last look. So ridiculous, I thought. My eyes
traced over the half-eaten food lying on the ground, the overflowing trash bin,
and the bed I’d tipped to the side looking for… God knows what. I almost turned
to the door and opened it, but my eyes fell on one last thing: the old webcam,
the one I used for that eerily vacant chat with my friend. Its silent black
sphere lay haphazardly tossed to the side, its lens pointed at the table where
this journal lay. An overwhelming terror took me as I realized that if something
could see through that camera, it would have seen what I just wrote about that
day. I asked her for any one thing about us, and she chose the only thing in the
world that I thought they or it did not know… but IT DID! IT DID KNOW! IT COULD
HAVE BEEN WATCHING ME THE WHOLE TIME! I didn’t open the door. I screamed. I
screamed in uncontrollable terror. I stomped on the old webcam on the floor. The
door shook, and the doorknob tried to turn, but I didn’t hear Amy’s voice
through the door. Was the basement door, made to keep out drafts, too thick? Or
was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in, if not her? What the
hell is out there?! I saw her on my computer through the camera outside, I heard
her on the speakers through the camera outside, but was it real?! How can I
know?! She’s gone now – I screamed, and shouted for help! I piled up everything
in my apartment against the front door – Friday At least I think that it’s
Friday. I broke everything electronic. I smashed my computer to pieces. Every
single thing on there could have been accessed by network access, or worse,
altered. I’m a programmer, I know. Every little piece of information I gave out
since this started – my name, my email, my location – none of it came back from
outside until I gave it out. I’ve been going over and over what I wrote. I’ve
been pacing back and forth, alternating between stark terror and overpowering
disbelief. Sometimes I’m absolutely certain some phantom entity is dead set on
the simple goal of getting me to go outside. Back to the beginning, with the
phone call from Amy, she was effectively asking me to open the door and go
outside. I keep running through it in my head. One point of view says I’ve acted
like a madman, and all of this is the extreme convergence of probability – never
going outside at the right times by pure luck, never seeing another person by
pure chance, getting a random nonsense email from some computer virus at just
the right time. The other point of view says that extreme convergence of
probability is the reason that whatever’s out there hasn’t gotten me already. I
keep thinking: I never opened the window on the third floor. I never opened the
front door, until that incredibly stupid stunt with the hidden camera after
which I ran straight to my room and slammed the door. I haven’t opened my own
solid door since I flung open the front door of the building. Whatever’s out
there – if anything’s out there – never made an ‘appearance’ in the building
before I opened the front door. Maybe the reason it wasn’t in the building
already was that it was elsewhere getting everyone else… and then it waited,
until I betrayed my existence by trying to call Amy… a call which didn’t work,
until it called me and asked me my name… Terror literally overwhelms me every
time I try to fit the pieces of this nightmare together. That email – short, cut
off – was it from someone trying to get word out? Some friendly voice
desperately trying to warn me before it came? Seen with my own eyes, don’t trust
them – exactly what I’ve been so suspicious of. It could have masterful control
of all things electronic, practicing its insidious deception to trick me into
coming outside. Why can’t it get in? It knocked on the door – it must have some
solid presence… the door… the image of those doors in the upper hallway as
guardian monoliths flashes back in my mind every time I trace this path of
thoughts. If there is some phantom entity trying to get me to go outside, maybe
it can’t get through doors. I keep thinking back over all the books I’ve read or
movies I’ve seen, trying to generate some explanation for this. Doors have
always been such intense foci of human imagination, always seen as wards or
portals of special importance. Or perhaps the door is just too thick? I know
that I couldn’t bash through any of the doors in this building, let alone the
heavy basement ones. Aside from that, the real question is, why does it even
want me? If it just wanted to kill me, it could do it any number of ways,
including just waiting until I starve to death. What if it doesn’t want to kill
me? What if it has some far more horrific fate in store for me? God, what can I
do to escape this nightmare?! A knock on the door… * * * * * * I told the people
on the other side of the door I need a minute to think and I’ll come out. I’m
really just writing this down so I can figure out what to do. At least this time
I heard their voices. My paranoia – and yes, I recognize I’m being paranoid –
has me thinking of all sorts of ways that their voices could be faked
electronically. There could be nothing but speakers outside, simulating human
voices. Did it really take them three days to come talk to me? Amy is supposedly
out there, along with two policemen and a psychiatrist. Maybe it took them three
days to think of what to say to me – the psychiatrist’s claim could be pretty
convincing, if I decided to think this has all been a crazy misunderstanding,
and not some entity trying to trick me into opening the door. The psychiatrist
had an older voice, authoritarian but still caring. I liked it. I’m desperate
just to see someone with my own eyes! He said I have something called
cyber-psychosis, and I’m just one of a nationwide epidemic of thousands of
people having breakdowns triggered by a suggestive email that ‘got through
somehow.’ I swear he said ‘got through somehow.’ I think he means spread
throughout the country inexplicably, but I’m incredibly suspicious that the
entity slipped up and revealed something. He said I am part of a wave of
‘emergent behavior’, that a lot of other people are having the same problem with
the same fears, even though we’ve never communicated. That neatly explains the
strange email about eyes that I got. I didn’t get the original triggering email.
I got a descendant of it – my friend could have broken down too, and tried to
warn everyone he knew against his paranoid fears. That’s how the problem
spreads, the psychiatrist claims. I could have spread it, too, with my texts and
instant messages online to everybody I know. One of those people might be
melting down right now, after being triggered by something I sent them,
something they might interpret any way that they want, something like a text
saying seen anyone face to face lately? The psychiatrist told me that he didn’t
want to ‘lose another one’, that people like me are intelligent, and that’s our
downfall. We draw connections so well that we draw them even when they shouldn’t
be there. He said it’s easy to get caught up in paranoia in our fast paced
world, a constantly changing place where more and more of our interaction is
simulated… I have to give him one thing. It’s a great explanation. It neatly
explains everything. It perfectly explains everything, in fact. I have every
reason to shake off this nightmarish fear that some thing or consciousness or
being out there wants me to open the door so it can capture me for some horrible
fate worse than death. It would be foolish, after hearing that explanation, to
stay in here until I starve to death just to spite the entity that might have
got everyone else. It would be foolish to think that, after hearing that
explanation, I might be one of the last people left alive on an empty world,
hiding in my secure basement room, spiting some unthinkable deceptive entity
just by refusing to be captured. It’s a perfect explanation for every single
strange thing I’ve seen or heard, and I have every reason in the world to let
all of my fears go, and open the door. That’s exactly why I’m not going to. How
can I be sure?! How can I know what’s real and what’s deception? All of these
damn things with their wires and their signals that originate from some unseen
origin! They’re not real, I can’t be sure! Signals through a camera, faked
video, deceptive phone calls, emails! Even the television, lying broken on the
floor – how can I possibly know it’s real? It’s just signals, waves, light… the
door! It’s bashing on the door! It’s trying to get in! What insane mechanical
contrivance could it be using to simulate the sound of men attacking the heavy
wood so well?! At least I’ll finally see it with my own eyes… there’s nothing
left in here for it to deceive me with, I’ve ripped apart everything else! It
can’t deceive my eyes, can it? Seen with your own eyes don’t trust them they…
wait… was that desperate message telling me to trust my eyes, or warning me
about my eyes too?! Oh my god, what’s the difference between a camera and my
eyes? They both turn light into electrical signals – they’re the same! I can’t
be deceived! I have to be sure! I have to be sure! Date Unknown I calmly asked
for paper and a pen, day in and day out, until it finally gave them to me. Not
that it matters. What am I going to do? Poke my eyes out? The bandages feel like
part of me now. The pain is gone. I figure this will be one of my last chances
to write legibly, as, without my sight to correct mistakes, my hands will slowly
forget the motions involved. This is a sort of self-indulgence, this writing…
it’s a relic of another time, because I’m certain everyone left in the world is
dead… or something far worse. I sit against the padded wall day in and day out.
The entity brings me food and water. It masks itself as a kind nurse, as an
unsympathetic doctor. I think it knows that my hearing has sharpened
considerably now that I live in darkness. It fakes conversations in the
hallways, on the off chance that I might overhear. One of the nurses talks about
having a baby soon. One of the doctors lost his wife in a car accident. None of
it matters, none of it is real. None of it gets to me, not like she does. That’s
the worst part, the part I almost can’t handle. The thing comes to me,
masquerading as Amy. Its recreation is perfect. It sounds exactly like Amy,
feels exactly like her. It even produces a reasonable facsimile of tears that it
makes me feel on its lifelike cheeks. When it first dragged me here, it told me
all the things I wanted to hear. It told me that she loved me, that she had
always loved me, that it didn’t understand why I did this, that we could still
have a life together, if only I would stop insisting that I was being deceived.
It wanted me to believe… no, it needed me to believe that she was real. I almost
fell for it. I really did. I doubted myself for the longest time. In the end,
though, it was all too perfect, too flawless, and too real. The false Amy used
to come every day, and then every week, and finally stopped coming altogether…
but I don’t think the entity will give up. I think the waiting game is just
another one of its gambits. I will resist it for the rest of my life, if I have
to. I don’t know what happened to the rest of the world, but I do know that this
thing needs me to fall for its deceptions. If it needs that, then maybe, just
maybe, I am a thorn in its agenda. Maybe Amy is still alive out there somewhere,
kept alive only by my will to resist the deceiver. I hold on to that hope,
rocking back and forth in my cell to pass the time. I will never give in. I will
never break. I am… a hero! * * * * * * The doctor read the paper the patient had
scribbled on. It was barely readable, written in the shaky script of one who
could not see. He wanted to smile at the man’s steadfast resolve, a reminder of
the human will to survive, but he knew that the patient was completely
delusional. After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception long ago.
The doctor wanted to smile. He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the
delusional man. He wanted to scream, but the nerve filaments wrapped around his
head and into his eyes made him do otherwise. His body walked into the cell like
a puppet, and told the patient, once more, that he was wrong, and that there was
nobody trying to deceive him.


ROBERT THE DOLL UNCALCULATED!




In the late 1800s, Thomas Otto and his family moved into a mansion at the corner
of Eaton and Simonton streets in Key West, Florida now known as the Artist
House. The Ottos were known to be stern with their servants, sometimes even
mistreating them. It was the treatment of one such Haitian servant that provides
a twist in this story. This woman was hired to take care of their son, Robert.
One day, Mrs. Otto supposedly witnessed her practicing black magic in their
backyard and fired her. Before she left, the woman gave Robert a lifelike doll
which stood 3 feet tall, had buttons for eyes, human hair (believed to be
Robert’s), and was filled with straw. Dolls that resembled children were not
unheard of during this time, but this one proved to be special. Robert named the
doll after himself and often dressed it in his clothes. Robert, the doll, became
his trustworthy companion. He took it with him on shopping trips into town. The
doll had a seat at the dinner table where Robert would sneak it bites of food
when his parents weren’t looking. Robert would even be tucked into bed with the
boy at night. Soon this innocent relationship took on a strange nature. Soon
after, Robert chose to be referred to by his middle name, Gene, after being
scolded by his mother. He told her that Robert was the doll’s name, not his.
Gene was often heard in his toy room having conversations with Robert. Gene
would say something in his childish manner and responses could be heard in a
much lower voice. Sometimes Gene would become very agitated, worrying the
servants and his mother. She would, on occasion, burst in to find her son
cowering in a corner while Robert sat perched in a chair or on the bed glaring
at him. This was only the beginning. Household objects would be found thrown
across the room, Gene’s toys turned up mutilated, and giggling could be heard.
Whenever these unusual acts took place, Gene always said, “Robert did it!” The
boy took the punishment but always insisted that the blame was Robert’s. As the
mischief grew, more and more servants took their leave as new ones were hired.
The Ottos’ relatives felt it was time to do something. With the recommendation
of a great aunt, Gene’s parents removed Robert from his care and placed him in a
box in the attic. This is where he resided for many years. After the death of
his father, Gene was willed his boyhood home. He decided to live in the
Victorian mansion with his new wife. Gene had become an artist, and felt the
house was spacious and would provide a place for him to paint. He went to the
attic and dusted off his childhood toy. He became attached to the doll despite
his wife’s displeasure. Gene would take the doll along with them everywhere they
went. He even sat in his favorite little chair while Gene and his wife slept
nearby. The Turret Room became Robert’s domain after Mrs. Otto moved him back to
the attic. Their marriage slowly became sour until Mrs. Otto supposedly went
insane and died of unknown reasons. Gene followed soon behind. Robert supposedly
attacked people, sometimes locking them in the attic. People who passed by
claimed to hear evil laughter coming from the Turret Room. For some time, Robert
remained in the empty house by himself until a new family purchased the mansion
and restored it. The doll was once again moved to the attic. This pleased it as
much as the last time. The doll was often found throughout the house. On one
certain night, Robert was found at the foot of the owners’ bed giggling with a
kitchen knife in hand. This was enough to send them fleeing from the home.
Robert was later moved to the East Martello Museum in Key West, where he sits
perched in a glass box. Despite his new living quarters, the doll is believed to
not have given up his menacing ways. Visitors and employees claim they have seen
the doll move. His smile has been known to turn into a scowl. One employee
cleaned Robert, turned off all the lights and left for the night. The next day,
he returned to find lights turned on, Robert sitting in a different position
than the night before and a fresh layer of dust on his shoes. Some say he’ll
even curse you. If you want to take a picture of him, you must ask politely.
He’ll tilt his head in permission. However, if he doesn’t and you take the
picture anyways, a curse will befall upon you and anyone who accompanied you to
the museum. The same will happen if you make fun of him. To this day, Robert
remains at the East Martello Museum in his sailor suit clutching his stuffed
lion, continuing his menacing ways.


SALLY (PLAY WITH ME) 5K+




The summer was nice and warm that year. The sun, as always, brought warmth to
your skin. The light breezes that swept through the neighborhood made the days
not too hot or cold. It was simply perfect weather. But one summer Sally will
never forget. Sally was a young girl, eight years old, long curly brown hair,
and bright green eyes. She was always polite, she never lied, and did as she was
told. Her mother and father simply adored her, they couldn’t ask for a better
daughter. Sally giggled as she played with her friends outside of their home.
Various games like hopscotch and jump-rope. Even dolls and tag. Sally’s mother
smiled warmly at the innocent sight and wiped her hands on her apron, calling
out. “Sally! Come inside now, it’s time for lunch!” Sally looked up from her
doll and smiled. “Okay, mommy!” Sitting down at the dinner table, Sally lightly
bounced in her seat, excited for who knows what. Her mother placed down a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off. Some carrot and celery sticks
on the side, and juice to drink. “Thank you, mama.” “You’re welcome, sweetie.”
As the child began to take hold of her sandwich, her mother took a seat across
from the girl and smiled watching her eat. “Guess what! Your uncle Johnny is
coming over.” Sally looked up and smiled, the corners of her lips had traces of
peanut butter on them. “Mmg! Munle, Jommy??” she repeated through her food. Her
mother laughed and nodded. “Mhm. He’s coming to help daddy with his job, and to
look after you too. Maybe all of us can go to the carnival too!” Sally chewed
the rest of her bite quickly and swallowed. “Can Sarah and Jennie come too?” Her
mother looked up in thought. “Well, that’s up to their mom and dad’s to say. But
if they can, sure!” Again the child giggled and bounced in her seat again, now
even more excited of this year’s summer vacation. Over the course of the next
few days, uncle Johnny drove up to the house. Climbing out of his car, the man
stretched his arms over his head and let out a tired sigh. “Uncle Johnny!” A
small voice chirped, earning the attention of the man. Sally dropped the
jump-rope she was playing with and ran over to the family member, hugging him.
“Hey, Sal! How’ve you been?” He asked lifting the girl up with ease, giving her
a proper hug. The girl giggled and looked back to her friends, who were now
waving in their direction. “I’ve been playing with Sarah and Jennie. Let’s go
inside and tell mama you’re here!” “Sounds like a great idea.” He smiled and
walked inside the house, calling out to the woman. “Marie! I’m here!” He called,
followed by Sally mimicking him. “Mama! He’s here~!” The housewife hurried out
of the kitchen and smiled to see Johnny made it. “Johnny, you got here safe and
sound.” The man placed the girl down on the ground and gave her bottom a pat to
send her off. And hugged the woman. “Of course I did. Why else wouldn’t I come
here safe and sound?” He laughed, walking into the kitchen with the woman. Sally
trotted over to the front door, calling out that she was going back outside to
play. “Make sure you come in before dark!” “Yes, ma’am!” And off the girl went.
As dinner drew near, Sally’s father came home, happy to see his brother was
there as well. Walking in with his daughter, he strolled up to Johnny with a
handshake and hug. “Nice to see you man, how have you been?” He asked crossing
his arms, watching his wife set the table up for supper. Johnny gave a shrug of
his shoulders, fiddling with his thumbs. “Karen and I split up.” “Aw, that’s
terrible, I’m sorry..” Johnny shook his head with a smile. “Nah, it’s alright.
I’m happy, I can move freely without having someone constantly wanting to know
where I am and what I’m doing.” The two men laughed together, making their way
to the table to eat. “Mmm.” “Thank you, I’m glad you like it.” “Mhm! It’s yummy,
mama.” The adults smiled and chuckled from the child’s praise. Plate after plate
was empty, and Sally began to yawn over and over again, rubbing her eyes with
her hands. Her mother smiled and gently rubbed her back. “Looks like someone is
tired. Time for bed!” Sally nodded and hopped off her seat, picking up her plate
and carrying it to the sink. Her mother rose up to take her to bed, but stopped
from John grabbing ahold of her arm. “I’ll take her to bed.” He smiled, earning
one in return. “Alright, thank you John.” The man nodded, watching the woman
make her way to clean the dishes and put up any leftovers. Then looked to see
his brother leave for the bathroom to wash up, and followed after the young girl
to her room. John smiled and closed the door behind him, watching the girl
rummage around through her dresser for pajamas to wear. “You need any help?” He
asked, watching the girl look up and nod. “Okay, let’s see what you got.” The
man waltzed up alongside her and began looking through her various pajamas. “You
got some strawberry printed ones. I bet you’ll smell just like them in your
dreams.” He took the shirt up and showed her, giving it a few deep inhales.
Sally giggled and shook her head, indicating she didn’t want to wear her
strawberry pajamas. Johnny nodded and placed the shirt back, then pulled out
another shirt with a unicorn on it. “How about this one? Bet you’ll ride on miss
unicorn here.” Again the child giggled and shook her head no. The man let out a
small huff before placing it back. Then took out a regular white nightgown. “How
about this? Be able to turn into a princess with this.” Sally’s eyes lit up and
clapped her hands excitedly and nodded. Placing the gown on her bed, he reached
over to her and began to unbutton her shirt. “I can get dressed uncle.” She said
with a smile, looking down at his hands on her shirt. The man smiled back and
nodded, continuing to work his way down her shirt. “I bet you can, but you’re
tired, and why not have some help?” He asked, watching Sally nod a few times.
Once getting her shirt unbuttoned, he slipped it off her shoulders and gave her
tummy a nice poke, making her giggle. He grinned and took a hold of the rim of
her shorts and pulled them down. Finally, the man grabbed a hold of her
nightgown and pushed the opening over her head, making sure her arms could go
through the sleeves. “All done!” He said happily, watching the girl smile back,
giggling when she bounded on top of her bed. Johnny rose up and picked up her
clothes, the door opened up and in walked Sally’s mother coming to tuck her in.
“You ready for bed?” She asked walking around the bed. Johnny looked up and
hurried over to the other side of the bed. “I’ll tuck her in, that okay?” Marie
looked up at him and smiled shaking her head. “Of course not.” She looked down
at her daughter and leaned in, kissing the child on her forehead. “Goodnight
sweetheart.” “Goodnight mama.” Giving the girl a gentle rub with her thumb on
her forehead, the woman took the clothes Johnny had and made her way out of the
room. Johnny smiled to the mother and walked over to the light switch, flicking
it off. He carefully closed the door to her room and locked it. Slowly, he
looked over his shoulder towards Sally. Johnny wore a chilling, crooked smile.
After the next few days, Marie noticed that Sally wasn’t acting herself. She
wasn’t smiling as brightly as she did. She wasn’t chipper and didn’t speak with
the same amount of happiness. Marie took ahold of the child’s hand before she
left to play with her friends, and took her aside. Sally looked up at her mother
with a confused look. “Honey, are you feeling okay?” She asked, kneeling down to
be at the child’s hight. Sally stared at her idly, and slowly began to weep. Her
mother widened her eyes in confusion. “Sally?” “M-mama… I… I didn’t want t-to…”
The girl managed to say though hiccuping sobs. “Didn’t want to do what,
sweetie?” “I-I.. I didn’t want t-to play… I didn’t want to play his g-game…” The
child looked up at her mother and hugged her tight. “H… He touched m-me… A-and
made me t-touch h-him!” Marie frowned and gently began stroking the child’s
hair, comforting her. Lightly shushing her to calm her down. “Shhh, it’s okay.
Mama’s here now.” It was a nightmare, that’s all. The girl had a scary
nightmare. “Everything is fine now, okay? Don’t worry about it anymore.” She
watched Sally look up at her, her breathing chopped up from her crying, and
smiled. “O-okay mama..” Her mother smiled and kissed her forehead. “Now go wash
up, don’t want to play with your friends with a dirty face.” Sally let out a
small giggle and ran off to the bathroom to wash her face. Later that day,
Johnny and his brother came back home from work. Frank sighed, smiling when he
saw Sally wave to him. The father waved back and closed the car door making his
way up to the house. Johnny looked up at Sally as well and smiled, waving to
her. The child’s smile slowly wilted, showing less happiness in it, but waved
back as well. Johnny also walked inside the house, pausing when he heard the
conversation between his brother and his wife. “Sally what??” Frank asked. “She
had a nightmare. A very bad one. She said ‘He’ touched her.” “Well, who the hell
is ‘He’!?” “I don’t know, Frank… But, it was only a nightmare. I just wanted to
inform you of what’s been going on with her and, why she was acting
differently.” Johnny furrowed his brows in anger, his knuckles turning white.
Then, calmed down quickly, thinking fast. He put on a smile on, and walked into
the room, making it look like he just walked into their conversation and rose
his brows. “Whoops.. did I interrupt something?” He asked, watching the couple
shake their heads. Johnny smiled again and thumbed back in the direction of the
car. “I’m going to head to the store, you need anything, Marie?” The woman
smiled and looked towards the kitchen. “Yes, actually. Can you get me some eggs,
milk, bread, and juice?” Johnny nodded, about to leave until he paused. “Sally
wanted to come along too, just wanted to inform you.” Marie smiled. “Thank you,
John.” He nodded again and made his way out of the house. Keys in hand. Looking
out to Sally with her friends, he cupped his hand over his mouth. “Sally!” The
child looked up at him and stared. “Come on, let’s go to the store!” John made
his way over to the car, gesturing for the girl to follow him. Sally sat there
for a moment, then placed her dolls on the grass. “I’ll be back, please watch
over Marzapan and Lilly for me.” Jennie and Sarah smiled a nodded, continuing to
play their game of dolls without her. Sally reluctantly made her way around the
car, climbing into the passenger’s seat, and buckled herself in. “Did mama want
you to go to the store?” She asked. Johnny nodded and put the keys in the
ignition, turning it on and backed out of the driveway. “Yep, she wants me to
get some food for her. Maybe I can get you something too.” He grinned looking
down at the child. Sally nervously smiled back and looked ahead, watching the
scenery pass by. As soon as they got to the road leading to the store, Sally
noticed he wasn’t slowing down to turn into the parking lot. She furrowed her
brows, confused, and looked up at him. “Uncle Johnny, the store is back that
way..” She said pointing in the direction of the whole foods store. But nothing
came from the man. He just continued driving, a very faint smile on his face.
The child sat up and looked past the backseat, watching the store slowly grow
smaller till it was out of sight. Realizing they weren’t going grocery shopping,
the child watched her uncle drive into the small parking lot in the community
park near town. No one went to the park on Sundays. Sally felt nervous, her
breathing quickened, watching the man with wide eyes. Johnny put the car into
park and turned the ignition off, looking to the child. Anger obviously showing
in his features. “You told your mom what happened, didn’t you?” He asked,
watching the girl frantically shake her head no. “You’re not playing the game
right, Sally.” His tone almost had a slight singing to it. The man reached over
and pulled the girl to him, ignoring the struggling she was putting up and her
whimpering pleas. “You said you’d play the game with me, Sally, you lied to me.”
Opening the car door beside him the man climbed out along with the child and
shoved her to the ground, quickly pinning her down. Ignoring the cries and
writhing the child was making. “You have to be punished now for breaking the
rules.” He said in that slight sing-songy tone and began to unbuckle his belt.
“This just in, a couple finds the body of eight-year-old Sally Williams in the
community park. The week-long search is now closed. More tonight at 9.” She
could have sworn she closed her door before climbing into bed. Guess I forgot…
Getting up from the warmth and comfort of her bed, the teen made her way across
the room and shut the door. Before she could climb back into her covers, a creek
outside in the hall rose up. Was her parents up? They must have checked on her
to see if she was asleep or something. As soon as she got her legs covered up,
the teen froze to hear a faint sound of… crying? Though, it sounded like a
child. Slowly rising up from bed once more, the girl made her way to her door
and opened it. The crying seemed to be louder outside of her room. Peering down
the darkness the teen crept down the hallway, following the sounds of the
whimpering. Once getting to the end of the all, the girl gasped. Sitting on the
floor in front of the moonlit window, was a little girl. She was hunched over,
crying. How did she get into their house? Through the window? Swallowing hard,
the teen spoke up. “Who… Who are you? How did you get into my house?” She asked.
Suddenly the crying stopped. The child slowly moved her trembling hands away
from her face, and looked behind her, twitching lightly. Blood replaced her
tears, staining her hands. There was a deep clot of blood and hair on the side
of her head, blood leaking from the wound down her face and onto her dirty
nightgown. Her bright green eyes seemed like they saw right through her soul.
“This is my house….” The child spoke, her voice raspy, sounding as if she was
struggling to speak. The girl’s body twitched and wiggled oddly as she rose up
to her feet and turned to face the teen. Her feet were dirty, as if she’d been
running through mud. Scrapes covered her knees and legs, and the end of her gown
was torn and tattered. The name Sally was sewn into the front. Reaching out with
her blood-soaked hand the girl slowly smiled, blood staining her teeth as she
spoke.


SQUIDWARD’S SUICIDE 11.9K+




I just want to start off by saying if you want an answer at the end, prepare to
be disappointed. There just isn’t one. I was an intern at Nickelodeon Studios
for a year in 2005 for my degree in animation. It wasn’t paid of course, most
internships aren’t, but it did have some perks beyond education. To adults it
might not seem like a big one, but most kids at the time would go crazy over it.
Now, since I worked directly with the editors and animators, I got to view the
new episodes days before they aired. I’ll get right to it without giving too
many unnecessary details. They had very recently made the SpongeBob movie and
the entire staff was somewhat sapped of creativity so it took them longer to
start up the season. But the delay lasted longer for more upsetting reasons.
There was a problem with the series 4 premiere that set everyone and everything
back for several months. Me and two other interns were in the editing room along
with the lead animators and sound editors for the final cut. We received the
copy that was supposed to be “Fear of a Krabby Patty” and gathered around the
screen to watch. Now, given that it isn’t final yet animators often put up a
mock title card, sort of an inside joke for us, with phony, often times lewd
titles, such as “How sex doesn’t work” instead of “Rock-a-bye-Bivalve” when
SpongeBob and Patrick adopt a sea scallop. Nothing particularly funny but work
related chuckles. So when we saw the title card “Squidward’s Suicide” we didn’t
think it more than a morbid joke. One of the interns did a small throat laugh at
it. The happy-go-lucky music plays as is normal. The story began with Squidward
practicing his clarinet, hitting a few sour notes like normal. We hear SpongeBob
laughing outside and Squidward stops, yelling at him to keep it down as he has a
concert that night and needs to practice. SpongeBob says okay and goes to see
Sandy with Patrick. The bubbles splash screen comes up and we see the ending of
Squidward’s concert. This is when things began to seem off. While playing, a few
frames repeat themselves, but the sound doesn’t (at this point sound is synced
up with animation, so, yes, that’s not common) but when he stops playing, the
sound finishes as if the skip never happened. There is slight murmuring in the
crowd before they begin to boo him. Not normal cartoon booing that is common in
the show, but you could very clearly hear malice in it. Squidward’s in full
frame and looks visibly afraid. The shot goes to the crowd, with SpongeBob in
center frame, and he too is booing, very much unlike him. That isn’t the oddest
thing, though. What is odd is everyone had hyper realistic eyes. Very detailed.
Clearly not shots of real people’s eyes, but something a bit more real than CGI.
The pupils were red. Some of us looked at each other, obviously confused, but
since we weren’t the writers, we didn’t question its appeal to children yet. The
shot goes to Squidward sitting on the edge of his bed, looking very forlorn. The
view out of his porthole window is of a night sky so it isn’t very long after
the concert. The unsettling part is at this point there is no sound. Literally
no sound. Not even the feedback from the speakers in the room. It’s as if the
speakers were turned off, though their status showed them working perfectly. He
just sat there, blinking, in this silence for about 30 seconds, then he started
to sob softly. He put his hands (tentacles) over his eyes and cried quietly for
a full minute more, all the while a sound in the background very slowly growing
from nothing to barely audible. It sounded like a slight breeze through a
forest. The screen slowly begins to zoom in on his face. By slow I mean it’s
only noticeable if you look at shots 10 seconds apart side by side. His sobbing
gets louder, more full of hurt and anger. The screen then twitches a bit, as if
it twists in on itself, for a split second then back to normal. The
wind-through-the-trees sound gets slowly louder and more severe, as if a storm
is brewing somewhere. The eerie part is this sound, and Squidward’s sobbing,
sounded real, as if the sound wasn’t coming from the speakers but as if the
speakers were holes the sound was coming through from the other side. As good as
sound as the studio likes to have, they don’t purchase the equipment to be that
good to produce sound of that quality. Below the sound of the wind and sobbing,
very faint, something sounded like laughing. It came at odd intervals and never
lasted more than a second so you had a hard time pinning it (we watched this
show twice, so pardon me if things sound too specific but I’ve had time to think
about them). After 30 seconds of this, the screen blurred and twitched violently
and something flashed over the screen, as if a single frame was replaced. The
lead animation editor paused and rewound frame by frame. What we saw was
horrible. It was a still photo of a dead child. He couldn’t have been more than
6. The face was mangled and bloodied, one eye dangling over his upturned face,
popped. He was naked down to his underwear, his stomach crudely cut open and his
entrails laying beside him. He was laying on some pavement that was probably a
road. The most upsetting part was that there was a shadow of the photographer.
There was no crime tape, no evidence tags or markers, and the angle was
completely off for a shot designed to be evidence. It would seem the
photographer was the person responsible for the child’s death. We were of course
mortified, but pressed on, hoping that it was just a sick joke. The screen
flipped back to Squidward, still sobbing, louder than before, and half body in
frame. There was now what appeard to be blood running down his face from his
eyes. The blood was also done in a hyper realistic style, looking as if you
touched it you’d get blood on your fingers. The wind sounded now as if it were
that of a gale blowing through the forest; there were even snapping sounds of
branches. The laughing, a deep baritone, lasting at longer intervals and coming
more frequently. After about 20 seconds, the screen again twisted and showed a
single frame photo. The editor was reluctant to go back, we all were, but he
knew he had to. This time the photo was that of what appeared to be a little
girl, no older than the first child. She was laying on her stomach, her
barrettes in a pool of blood next to her. Her left eye was too popped out and
popped, naked except for underpants. Her entrails were piled on top of her above
another crude cut along her back. Again the body was on the street and the
photographer’s shadow was visible, very similar in size and shape to the first.
I had to choke back vomit and one intern, the only female in the room, ran out.
The show resumed. About 5 seconds after this second photo played, Squidward went
silent, as did all sound, like it was when this scene started. He put his
tentacles down and his eyes were now done in hyper realism like the others were
in the beginning of this episode. They were bleeding, bloodshot, and pulsating.
He just stared at the screen, as if watching the viewer. After about 10 seconds,
he started sobbing, this time not covering his eyes. The sound was piercing and
loud, and most fear inducing of all is his sobbing was mixed with screams. Tears
and blood were dripping down his face at a heavy rate. The wind sound came back,
and so did the deep voiced laughing, and this time the still photo lasted for a
good 5 frames. The animator was able to stop it on the 4th and backed up. This
time the photo was of a boy, about the same age, but this time the scene was
different. The entrails were just being pulled out from a stomach wound by a
large hand, the right eye popped and dangling, blood trickling down it. The
animator proceeded. It was hard to believe, but the next one was different but
we couldn’t tell what. He went on to the next, same thing. He want back to the
first and played them quicker and I lost it. I vomited on the floor, the
animating and sound editors gasping at the screen. The 5 frames were not as if
they were 5 different photos, they were played out as if they were frames from a
video. We saw the hand slowly lift out the guts, we saw the kid’s eyes focus on
it, we even saw two frames of the kid beginning to blink. The lead sound editor
told us to stop, he had to call in the creator to see this. Mr. Hillenburg
arrived within about 15 minutes. He was confused as to why he was called down
there, so the editor just continued the episode. Once the few frames were shown,
all screaming, all sound again stopped. Squidward was just staring at the
viewer, full frame of the face, for about 3 seconds. The shot quickly panned out
and that deep voice said “DO IT” and we see in Squidward’s hands a shotgun. He
immediately puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Realistic blood and
brain matter splatters the wall behind him, and his bed, and he flies back with
the force. The last 5 seconds of this episode show his body on the bed, on his
side, one eye dangling on what’s left of his head above the floor, staring
blankly at it. Then the episode ends. Mr. Hillenburg is obviously angry at this.
He demanded to know what the heck was going on. Most people left the room at
this point, so it was just a handful of us to watch it again. Viewing the
episode twice only served to imprint the entirety of it in my mind and cause me
horrible nightmares. I’m sorry I stayed. The only theory we could think of was
the file was edited by someone in the chain from the drawing studio to here. The
CTO was called in to analyze when it happened. The analysis of the file did show
it was edited over by new material. However, the timestamp of it was a mere 24
seconds before we began viewing it. All equipment involved was examined for
foreign software and hardware as well as glitches, as if the time stamp may have
glitched and showed the wrong time, but everything checked out fine. We don’t
know what happened and to this day nobody does. There was an investigation due
to the nature of the photos, but nothing came of it. No child seen was
identified and no clues were gathered from the data involved nor physical clues
in the photos. I never believed in unexplainable phenomena before, but now that
I have something happen and can’t prove anything about it beyond anecdotal
evidence, I think twice about things.


THE KITCHEN DRAWER UNCALCULATED!




Dear Thomas, Know this – I love you brother. I’m not sure what you will find
waiting for you on the kitchen counter besides this notebook. Hopefully nothing.
But it wouldn’t hurt to check the floor to make sure a finger or two hasn’t
rolled under the counter. You and I have just hung up the phone and you’re on
your way here. This gives me enough time to write this letter and finish what I
started. I want you to understand that I only threatened to burn this place down
with me inside it to force you to come. It was the only way I could get you to
leave the city and drive to the farmhouse. You would have thought I was mad if I
told you over the phone that I solved the mystery as to why no one has ever
found mom’s body. The answer lies within the kitchen drawer. Of course, I’ll be
gone too by the time you get here. I’d say goodbye in person, but for me, I
accept my current physical state as a steady process of my own doing over the
past twenty four hours. For you, seeing me, or should I say what’s left of me,
would be a frightful shock. As you know, Carol and the kids moved in with her
new boyfriend last year. What you don’t know is that my life has spiraled
downward ever since. Or maybe it started long before her affair did? She says I
drove her and the kids away. Probably true. The ones we’re closest to always see
us crashing long before we even realize we’re in a tailspin. Not long after they
left, I lost my job. Stopped paying my bills. Stopped socializing, regrettably,
even with you. I stopped everything. Well, not everything. The bottle has become
my companion. I guess I’m more like dad than I ever wanted to be. So of course I
was drinking when Carol showed up at my apartment and demanded that I sign the
divorce papers. That didn’t go well at all. The bottle made sure of that. So I
fled and came here. As far as I can tell, no one has been inside since we were
removed and placed in the boys home. Sad to think that this house never got a
second chance at having a happy family. As bleak as our childhood was, I still
pictured our home in the fair condition mom kept it during our youth. So when I
arrived here two days ago, I was dismayed to see how decrepit it had become.
Weather damage and the corrosion of time have plagued the roof and wooden frame,
making it look sickly. In fact, the surrounding neighborhood looks bad, as if
the atrocity spread from our house and infected the whole town. And as you can
see, the inside is worse. No electricity. No water. Filth, mold and the stench
of abandonment pollutes the air. The wooden floors are rotted. The painted walls
are chipped and the wallpapered ones are peeling. I didn’t look around much
since there isn’t a lot I want to reminisce about. No, drunk as I was, my
purpose was unclouded. I entered the kitchen, littered with rat turds and
cobwebs and was almost disappointed to find the outside of the kitchen drawer
decayed with its steel handle rusted. However, I did get the shock I was
expecting when I opened the drawer. Empty. Clean. Unchanged with time. Look for
yourself, Thomas, but I warn you – Do not put anything in the drawer! Not yet.
With great curiosity, I examined the drawer. First I tried to take it out by
sliding it along its tracks, but the drawer does not want to come out. Then I
felt along the inside of the cabinet and every inch of it was sturdy and smooth.
I looked closely at the metal wheels and slides and found them shiny and
unscathed. So it makes no sense that the drawer is irremovable and even more
illogical that it should be in such great condition after two decades of
neglect. Then again, as you might recall, this drawer does have a history. Mom
would always complain that the cabinet was too darn big to keep important papers
in. Nevertheless, it became the one place in the house where she and dad put all
kinds of stuff. And it was mom who used to say that the drawer ate the stuffing.
Bills. Letters. Pens and pencils. Whenever dad was furious about a bill or
anything with pertinent information getting lost, mom would swear that she put
it in the drawer and now it’s gone. Dad would beat her. Later on, she would tell
us that the drawer ate whatever she got punished for losing. We’d agree, but how
awful it must have been for mom to feel patronized by her own children while
nursing black eyes and swollen lips. Harden your heart, dear brother, for you
must read the words you have never permitted me to speak in person. In
respecting your wishes, I have kept a dark secret that not even Carol nor the
police who interrogated us that night are privy to. For on the night that dad
killed mom, I saw the drawer eat something. Dad and the bottle were hanging out
all day when someone came to the farmhouse and gave him an envelope. You and mom
were upstairs. The man drove away and dad opened the envelope right in front of
me. Since we were always poor, my eyes must have opened as wide as dad’s at the
sight of all that cash. It was the first time I saw two things: one hundred
dollar bills and dad’s smile. He was jubilant as he counted five thousand
dollars out loud. Keep in mind, this wasn’t a shared moment between us. I was a
witness. He was too drunk to see me sitting at the corner of the table, doing my
homework. I watched him tuck the cash back inside the envelope and go over to
the kitchen cabinet. He opened the drawer, put it inside and closed it. Then he
went back in the living room to share the news with the bottle and call someone
on the house phone. Mom came downstairs and started doing dishes. I swear to you
brother, she did not open that drawer! But when dad hung up the phone and
returned to the kitchen, the first thing he did was open it. His face said it
all. The rage was like a switch that had been flipped on. Dad threw everything
out of the drawer until there was nothing left. He accused her of stealing his
money. She didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. That didn’t stop
him from hurting her. Eventually, dad noticed me. I suffered a few blows as I
was also forced to deny stealing his money. He sent me up to my room and there I
stayed like a coward as mom fought to her last breath. I’ve always admired you
for sneaking out of your bedroom window, going to the neighbors and calling the
police. I’m glad dad got caught, literally, red handed. Blood all over himself,
on the saw he used to presumably dismember her and blood all over the kitchen.
Everywhere except inside the drawer. The cops said it was as if dad had a
plastic bag in that drawer that he kept putting body parts in. But they never
could determine where the body parts went from there. Mom was gone. Every single
part of her. Only the stain of the crime remained which is sadly ironic because
she hated a messy kitchen. Mom would have cringed at the notion of one day being
reduced to a blood stain. Dad was drunk during his confession but it was still
admissible in court when he told the officers on scene that he killed his wife
in a fit of rage. He never admitted to dismembering her, despite all of the
blood evidence. Her bloody clothes were found on the kitchen floor. When asked
how he disposed of her body, from his original confession to his dying words in
a prison hospital, he always gave the same response. You wouldn’t believe me if
I told you. Yesterday, I woke up on the rotted kitchen floor, having passed out
drunk on my first night back in twenty six years. I immediately went out and got
another bottle. Just like dad. I came back here to the scene of the crime and
the bottle and I opened up our souls. Why didn’t I try to save mom? Did dad do
what I think he did with her body? Does the drawer really eat stuffing? Bills.
Letters. Pens and pencils. Flesh. Bones. Organs and hair. After going mad with
questions, the bottle and I conducted an experiment. I took a pair of scissors I
found, a rock from outside and my vehicle registration from the car and I put
all three items in the drawer. I closed it for a mere second before yanking the
drawer back open. Paper. Scissors. No rock. Dumbfounded, I examined the drawer.
Then I closed the cabinet and opened it again. Scissors. No paper. I closed and
opened it a third time. Empty. Not to sound insensitive, given the subject
matter, but I was excited because I proved mom right. The drawer does eat
stuffing. It eats when it chews by being opened and closed. If you have more
than one thing in there when you open and close that drawer, something’s going
to get chewed up. If there is only one item inside, then that item will be
eaten. That’s why the police never found mom’s body. Because dad cut her up into
pieces and helped the drawer chew her up. Sorry to be so crude. I bet it started
as cruel revenge, him sticking a part of her in the drawer. He must have been
shocked when that part disappeared. Then maybe he put a second piece of her
inside out of stubborn disbelief. When it happened again, I gather he saw it as
a means to hide the evidence of his crime. So mom became stuffing. The drawer
eats whatever you feed it, even if it’s something dead. Call it supernatural.
Call it divine. Call the drawer whatever you want, but it is a living thing. The
magnitude of this extraordinary realization gave me a strange rush. I actually
smiled for a moment like dad did when he saw that cash. And just like dad, my
mood quickly soured when I heard banging at the front door and the sound of
Carol yelling. As I confess, bear in mind brother that I had been drinking all
day and Carol has become the person I hate most in the world, post dad’s death
to liver cancer. So when she tracked me down to our childhood home and barged
inside, I felt like a trapped animal under attack. She stormed in the kitchen
and demanded that I sign the divorce papers she had in hand. Well, it is here
that I wholeheartedly admit to feeling a surge of alcohol fueled rage course
through my veins as I wanted to stuff those divorce papers in the drawer, close
it and make room for more stuffing. Filled with anger, I moved toward her. And
then it caught the corner of my eye from across the room. I turned to look and
saw it clearly from the sunlight piercing through the dirty window. A blood
stain on the counter. A mom stain. Mom. I hugged Carol, signed the divorce
papers and asked her to tell the kids that I loved them. She left confused but
gratified. I have never succumbed to violence and I never will. I guess I’m not
like dad after all. It made me realize that I probably didn’t need to drink like
dad did either. Invigorated, I grabbed the bottle and headed for the drawer. I
slammed the bottle inside and shut it. I was drunk, mind you, as my four fingers
were inside the drawer when I closed it. I felt a tap. Nothing more. I opened
it. The drawer ate one of my fingers. The bottle was there. I still had three of
my four digits, but my middle finger was gone. There was no pain. The skin over
the nub was smooth, as if my finger had been removed surgically and healed over.
The reason I didn’t freak out was because I was pissed off about it. I wanted my
finger back and I was drunk, so I did something stupid. I removed the bottle and
stuck my whole hand inside. I shut the drawer on my hand with the desire to open
it and have my finger reattached. The slight tap near the base of my thumb was
subtle, but proved significant as the drawer considered my palm, thumb and three
remaining fingers as one stuffing. My hand was gone at the wrist. I stared in
disbelief at the nub on the end of my arm. There wasn’t any pain, but I’m pretty
sure I was in shock as I shoved my arm inside the drawer and yelled for it to
replace my hand, right now. I drunkenly slammed the drawer closed on my arm. And
then I stood up. Yes, the drawer ate my arm. I used my other hand to feel the
nub at my shoulder blade where my arm used to be connected. I remember laughing
and feeling dizzy. And then for the second time since I arrived, I passed out on
the kitchen floor. When I awoke, there was a strange sensation with my missing
limb. I could feel all of my fingers attached to my hand which felt reattached
to my arm. I’m not talking about phantom limbs. I’m saying that wherever my arm
was, it was whole again. I could touch my missing fingers together. I could snap
with my thumb and middle finger – which was the first part of me to go – and now
it’s back in place. I felt my missing hand crawl around a strange floor. Then I
bent my arm at the elbow and felt the nub above my armpit where my arm ends. The
drawer eats whatever you feed it, even if it’s something alive. My revelation
inclines me to believe that the drawer doesn’t care whether you’re dead or alive
or in pieces. The end result is that it puts you together again whole on the
other side, wherever that is. It begs further questions – Did mom get
reconnected, piece by piece? And if so, maybe she got put back together alive?
Well dear brother, that is what I intend to find out. First, I retrieved this
notebook and a pen from my car and sat down on the kitchen counter. Then I
called you on my cell and turned my phone off as I wrote all this. You should be
here shortly as I have no reason to think you’re not coming to try and save me
from torching this place with me inside it. You always were the heroic one. And
now it’s time for me to go. One piece at a time. After all, some of me is
already there – wherever there is. The rest of me is catching up, that’s all.
While seated on the counter, I stuck one foot inside the drawer and closed it. I
felt a mere tap and nothing more. I lifted my leg up and stared at the ankle nub
where my foot used to be. I wiggled my missing toes and could feel them moving
around somewhere, waiting for me. To say it’s been challenging would be an
understatement, but I’ve managed to maneuver around well enough to help the
drawer eat me. After I fed it my other foot, I stuffed my legs in the drawer,
one at a time until my legs were gone from the knees down. Then I kind of slid
down into the drawer, up to my belly button. I used my only remaining hand to
pull myself and the drawer closed. I felt a pat on my lower body and then
suddenly I was falling. Thankfully, my hand caught the edge of the sink and I
was able to pull myself back up onto the counter. I am half a man. From stomach
to head with but one arm to finish this letter and lower myself down into the
drawer. Then I will stuff myself inside and pull the cabinet closed, reuniting
with the rest of me. Again, may I remind you to check the floor for fingers in
case I lose one closing the drawer. And if so, be a sport and toss ‘em in, one
at a time. I’d hate to be incomplete wherever I’m going. If I’m right and mom is
there, I will tell her you love her. Who knows, you might even decide to come
join us. Arthur ###
Dear Arthur, Thank you for writing this letter. I’m sorry that your final
attempt didn’t go as successfully as you certainly hoped. Your hand was crawling
around the floor when I entered the kitchen. I screamed and stomped on your hand
several times. Sorry about that. I hope it didn’t hurt you too bad, wherever you
are. I wonder if you were consciously controlling your hand when it grabbed hold
of my shoe or was it instinctually grasping at me in survival mode? Either way,
I threw your creepy hand in the drawer. Of all places! It’s as if the drawer
wants us to feed it, no? Maybe it does have influence over this place and us. I
closed the drawer and found this notebook lying on the counter. After reading
it, I summoned the courage to open the drawer again. I hope your hand found you
well, my brother, and that you are whole. Since you confided in me, allow me to
share with you a secret I too have kept all these years. Of the heroics you
mentioned, when I ran to the neighbors – I didn’t go out my window. I snuck out
the back door. But first, I crept to the kitchen doorway and saw dad stuffing
mom inside the drawer. Piece by piece. That’s why I’ve never been able to
discuss that day. Regrettably, not even with you. And for the rest of my life, I
have suffered nightmares of seeing mom in some strange place where she has been
put back together again, piece by piece. Except her reattached head and limbs
are bloody and crooked. She is whole, but not alive as she reaches for me. I’d
wake up screaming in my bed. I still do. And I pray that if you did find mom
whole, she is the version you hoped for and not the one that haunts me. Last
night, I had another nightmare. Mom was in that strange place. But for the first
time, you were standing beside her on crooked legs. Both of you whole, but in
pieces. Not alive, but still reaching for me. My apologies for sharing such a
morbid vision, but I hope it explains why I dare not attempt to join you. After
I feed this notebook to the drawer, I’m going to burn this place to the ground.
Call it mystical. Call it magical. I don’t care what you call this living
abomination because this letter is the last thing that it’s ever going to eat. I
hope the drawer chokes on it. Goodbye brother and know this – I love you too.
Thomas.


STOP SIGNS 9K+




Davis knocked on the door, holding his clipboard in hand. A few moments passed
before it opened, and he was greeted by a somewhat elderly man; maybe in his
mid-fifties. “Hello?” said the man. “Hi. You Sam Gordon?” “Yep, that’s me.” “Go
ahead and sign here,” Davis said, handing over the clipboard. “Ah. Is this my
new table?” “Sure is.” The man handed back over the signed sheet, and Davis
nodded as he walked back to the company’s truck. He rolled the back of the truck
up, sending the door high and away. He pulled out the ramp and set it on the
ground, then walked up into the nearly empty compartment. “Here we go,” he
muttered. He grabbed hold of the packaged marked for Mister Gordon and heaved it
up, grunting as he did so.“You don’t have another delivery guy?” the man said.
“No, it’s just me today. My usual partner took the day off, and the boss
wouldn’t give me someone else I could go with.” He grunted again, moving the
table a little. “Well, here you go,” the man said, stepping into the truck. He
grabbed one end, and the two nodded at each other. Davis guided them into the
front door. “Where you want it?” “Just right here is fine, the wife has a
specific place for it that I don’t know where it is. Her and I will just move it
when she gets back from work.” Davis nodded, looking earnestly at the man. He
stood there for a second, and the man just started back. “If you’re hoping for a
tip you can forget it. I had to come and help you, I don’t tip when I have to
work harder than I should,” the old man snapped. “Okay,” Davis nodded, stepping
out of the house. “Have a good day, sir.” “Yep.” He shut the door, and Davis
gave him the bird as he walked off. “Stupid geezer. Why do all the old dudes
gotta be so grumpy?” He grunted as he closed the back of the truck up. He got
back into his seat, looking at his phone. “One more stop,” he murmured. “Then
the day is over.” He pulled up the map and plugged in the last address. He
sighed when he saw the little blue line stretch out across the city, going well
past city limits and into the countryside. “Gosh dang it,” he groaned. He put
the truck into drive and began moving forward. He scrolled onto his contacts
page, highlighting his manager’s phone number. It began to ring, and she picked
up momentarily. “What’s up, Davis?” “Hey, this next delivery is taking me way
out of city limits. It’ll take me a good forty minutes to get there, then
another forty minutes to get back. It’s already three-thirty. Are there any
other ones I can do, and just save this one for another day?” Linda sighed.
“They’ve been expecting this one for over a week now, we can’t put it off any
more than we already have. Just take a bit of overtime today, you’ll survive.”
He gritted his teeth, changing lanes. “C’mon, Linda! I’ve already had a really
long week, and you know that. I don’t wanna be starting my weekend late because
of one stupid delivery!” “If you think deliveries are stupid then you shouldn’t
have applied for this job.” He groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m
gonna be speeding the whole way.” He hung up before she could get another word
in, focusing on the road. Left, straight, straight, straight, right, straight,
left, straight, straight, straight…. He went ahead and pulled up his playlist on
his phone, almost not noticing the car stopping in front of him. He slammed on
the brakes as his first song started, almost unphased by the whole thing. He
tapped the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. The light finally turned
green, and he continued forward, checking his map app occasionally to make sure
he was still off in the right direction. Eventually the houses started thinning
out, and the farm fields started getting thicker. After a couple more songs he
dialed up Lenny, hoping to death that he’d respond. The dumb thing went to
voicemail, and he grunted as he put the phone down. “Dang Lenny. I need someone
to stimulate me.” He yawned, pausing at the occasional stop sign as even the
farm fields started to become sparse. “Dang. this place really is out there,” he
murmured, looking out across the empty fields. “Who the heck wants to live out
here? You can’t do anything this far out of town! Psh, maybe these people don’t
deserve the dang couch. They obviously like living away from civilization, why
would they want a couch? Aren’t the logs they sit on enough?” His phone suddenly
rang, and he picked it up. “Yo, Lenny!” “Hey, Dave. Sorry I missed ya. What’s
up?” “Eh, just bored to death. There is literally nothing to do right now.” “No
deliveries?” “No, I’ve got a delivery. It’s just a freaking hour outside of
town. Dude, I’ll tell you what, there is nothing out here! Like, I couldn’t
imagine a more barren place!” “Psh. Go to Mongolia. I’ve heard it’s pretty dang
barren there.” “Yeah, I bet. Genghis Khan killed everyone who lives out there.”
“Dude, that was centuries ago. That’s not why it’s abandoned.” “Yeah? Well, I
failed sophomore year history twice. Remember? I don’t really pay attention to
anything.” He pressed down on the brake gently, bringing the truck to a stop as
they reached another stop sign. His eyebrow raised as he approached it, looking
from side to side at the fields. There was no road there. Just a lone stop sign.
“Yeah, you were never a school kind of guy.” “Yeah.” He let off the brakes and
pressed the gas instead, moving forward yet again. “Yo, dude. I just came up to
the weirdest intersection. Well, not really that. There’s just like this random
stop sign out here alongside the road. Like, no other roads crossing it. Just
the sign.” “Eh, I’m sure I’ve seen weirder crap than that. The world is full of
weird stuff. Especially here in this state.” “I bet everyone says that about
where they live.” “Which just proves my point. It’s all weird. Full of
weirdness.” “Yeah,” Davis sighed. “Probably someplace they planned to build a
road and just never got around to it.” “So… how are things going with you and
Jamie?” “Psh. Bro. I think she forgot I exist. I haven’t heard from her in
literally forever.” “Ah, dang bro. Have you texted her at all?” “I honestly
think that she blocked me. She was always pretty good at responding to my texts
and calls, but not anymore.” “Yeah, that’ll happen when a girl finds you making
out with her cousin.” “Oh, that was cheap, bro. You know I didn’t mean that. She
looked just like Jamie!” “The fact you didn’t know what your own girlfriend
looked like is honestly kinda lame in the first place, bro.” “Yeah, yeah. I’m a
male slut. How are things between you and Maggie?” “Good, actually. We just went
out for dinner last night.” “Lucky you. Can afford to feed your girlfriend
dinner.” “Ah, you can totally afford it too, dude. You’re just too much of a
penny pincher.” “Is that a bad thing?” “Well…” Lenny trailed off, not responding
for a while. “Hello? Yo, Lenny, ya still there?” No response. “Dang reception.
Yeah, these people who live way out here are dang insane.” He continued to stare
out at the road for a while, eventually stepping down on the brake pedal when
another stop sign came up yet again. The truck came to a stop, and he looked
from side to side. No road. He looked back at the red octagon staring back at
him, the giant word “STOP” printed onto it in reflective paint. “The crap?
Another one?” He squinted, trying to make out the writing on the green signs
atop of it. He couldn’t quite make the two of them out, only the one that said
“Stretch Road.” He looked at the delivery address again: 1016 Stretch Road. He
was still on the right one. He eventually just shrugged and got the truck moving
forward again, taking a yawn as he checked the time. Sheesh. It was only
three-fifty. “Stupid Linda. Why couldn’t I have just done this on Monday? The
dang trip is gonna take up half my evening by the time it’s all done!” He sighed
as he continued to drive forward, the blades of grass on either side flying by
in a collective blur. He noticed that the electrical lines were no longer
following the road. He looked in the mirror, curious to see how far away they
stopped. He couldn’t see anything, just the seemingly infinite field of grass
both behind and ahead of him. He was startled by his phone when it began to
ring. He picked it up, not recognizing the number. He shrugged, and answered it
anyway. “Hello, this is Matthew from the IRS office. I am calling to inform
you—” Davis hung up, setting the phone back down. “So I can still get spam calls
but Lenny’s I can’t get, huh?” After several more minutes, he found himself
clicking his tongue and making a noise with his mouth that was somewhere between
a duck and the sound of passing gas. “Bored. Bored. Bored. I am so bored.” His
foot found the brake pedal as he noticed another red octagon up ahead. The truck
came to a slow, then to a stop. He looked on at the stop sign, quite a bit
intrigued by this point. Again, there was just a stop sign. No road to stop for.
Just the red of the paint. He looked both ways anyway out of instinct, then
chuckled to himself as he began to pull forward again. “Psh. I don’t need to
stop for these dumb things anymore,” he muttered. “There isn’t anything to stop
for.” He looked down at his phone to check his ETA. It was still estimated at
four-fifteen. He sighed, realizing that the speeding he’d been doing hadn’t paid
off much yet. In fact, it seemed to have backfired a little bit. Just a few
minutes ago his ETA had been four-ten. “Gosh darn it,” he cursed. “Why the heck
is this dang road so long?” He let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his head
about his neck. His eyes again fixated on the road and he continued to stare
blankly ahead. He began to notice the grass around him, squinting hard enough to
make out some individual blades. It was actually kind of pretty watching the sea
of grass waving in the wind. Would make a great screen saver, for sure. All so
lush, all so beautiful. He really didn’t get out into this area much, stayed
mostly in the city. But it was quite nice. Peaceful. He had always yearned for
some sense of peace in his life. But, at the tender age of twenty-four, he had
come to discover that some people just don’t get peace in life. He didn’t. His
mother didn’t. For his Mom, that thing was cancer and a bad marriage. For him,
it was financial. Maybe peace was all an illusion, some sort of stupid bullcrap
invented by Plato or Aristotle to keep people hoping. Eh, he had kinda stopped
hoping at this point. He managed to just accept that things were the way they
were, and he couldn’t really change that. His eyes spotted another sign up
ahead. Another red, octangular sign. He sighed, rolling his eyes a bit as he
began to slow the truck down. “Wait a dang minute, they’re aren’t any other
roads here, are there? Just the stupid signs.” He switched back to the gas,
going right past the stop sign. Well, actually, when he passed it he might have
thought it said something else for a moment… “PLEASE STOP.” He was suddenly
startled by the sound of police sirens, and he looked in his mirror. A state
trooper was behind him, lights flashing. Davis sighed as he pulled over, rolling
down his window. “Excuse me, sir?” Davis looked on at the policeman. He had a
rather lanky build, not a lot of muscle on that body. His face was somewhat
pale, too, and his eyes were sunken in on either side of his slender nose. “Yes,
officer?” Davis groaned. “Are you aware you just blew right through that stop
sign back there?” Davis put on a surprised face, trying to feign shock. “There
was a stop sign back there?” “Sure was. Now, I’ll let you off with a warning. A
lot of people miss that one.” “Is that why you caught me so fast? Because you
hide there?” “Now, young man, respect your elders.” He sighed. “Right, I’m
sorry, sir.” “Just make sure you read every sign you pass on the way.” “Yes,
sir.” “Good boy. Now, off you go.” Davis nodded, rolling up his window as he
watched the cop head back to his car in the mirror. He climbed in, then pulled
off. He went around Davis’s truck, eventually becoming but a small speck near
the horizon. “Read the signs?” Davis muttered. “Doesn’t he mean stop?” As he
placed the truck back into drive and began to move forward again he suddenly
became aware that he was now the only vehicle on the road. In fact, now that he
thought about it, that had been the case for quite some time. He hadn’t seen
another car pass him since well before the police officer stopped him. Actually,
probably since he talked with Lenny. Gosh, that actually seemed like forever
ago. But, looking at his phone, it was only about fifteen minutes since he spoke
with him. That didn’t seem right, though. He’d been watching the gas gauge crawl
slowly towards the “E.” It has covered a decent amount of ground since leaving
his last delivery, as a matter of fact. More than it would after half an hour of
driving around in the city, which proved to him he’d been off the phone with
Lenny for much longer than a measly fifteen minutes. Eventually he noticed
another stop sign coming up, and, remembering the state trooper, he came to a
slow, then a stop. He looked both ways, there was no road. Just the stop sign.
The… stop, sign? Rather than simply having the word “STOP” in big print across
the octagon, white letters spelled out “I’M TELLING YOU TO STOP.” “Sheesh,”
Davis muttered as he pulled forward. “Who the heck is vandalizing these stop
signs?” Typically vandals who just want attention throw paint up onto places in
town, not way out here. Then again, some kid who just wants to feel cool
probably would come all the way out here to do anything. Less chance it’ll get
caught, since there’s less chance it’ll ever even be noticed. But what kind of a
stupid phrase was that? “I’m telling you to stop?” If it was up to Davis, he’d
have painted something naughty. This? This was just dumb. And, plus, the time it
must’ve taken them to draw out those letters… they all seemed to have such high
precision. No sloppiness whatsoever. But, who was he to judge how some teenager
wants to be rebellious? After another several minutes of driving he pulled out
his phone again and opened the first social media app his thumb could find. He
clicked on the first recommended video, shooting his eyes back and forth between
the road and the screen. He chuckled as he watched a girl go right through a
trampoline, landing on her behind and screaming. He swiped up. It was some guy
talking about politics or something in his car, bashing some state governor. He
scrolled past it, and continued to scroll until another humorous clip pulled up.
“Ah, gosh dang it,” he breathed as a loading circle popped up on his screen. The
video paused right before the guy on the skateboard landed on a railing. Based
on his trajectory, he would have hit right between his legs too. He spent a
couple of minutes fiddling with the connection settings, unable to connect it
back to the Internet. He groaned as he simply turned the phone off and stared
back ahead at the road. “Dang connection. Who the heck wants to live way out
here where there’s no connection?” He squinted and saw another red octagon
coming up. He stopped the truck, looking at the odd sign. This time, its message
read: “PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU TO STOP.” “The crap is up with all these screwy
stop signs?” he cursed. He stopped the truck, again taking note that there was
no intersection there. He checked his ETA again, his jaw dropping as he saw that
it had again changed. He wasn’t scheduled to arrive now until four-thirty. He
quickly exited the maps app to check the time. Atop of his screen were the
numbers four, zero, and five. “Five past four? Last I checked the time was like
twenty minutes ago! It should be like four twenty-five by now.” He grunted,
squeezing the steering wheel in frustration. This drive was seriously turning
into a far longer ordeal than he had wanted it to be. The fact that only five
minutes had passed despite him swearing he was watching videos for at least ten
minutes seemed… odd. He went and checked his phone again. The time hadn’t
changed, it was still four O-five. He determined to watch the clock until he saw
the number change. In his head, he began counting out the seconds. Then, aloud.
“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.” His eyes darted back and
forth between the phone and the road, when suddenly he saw another stop sign up
ahead. He slammed on the brakes, and his body lurched forward before being
pulled back on by the seat belt. “HAVE YOU NOT SEEN THESE? YOU HAVE TO STOP.”
“The frickin’ heck?” he stammered. “What the flip is up with these darn things?”
He looked at his phone again as he pulled past the stop sign, again noting there
was no intersection there, just the sign. The clock on his phone still read four
O-five. “Alright, let’s do this again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Eight. Nine. Ten….” His eyes continued to switch between the road and his screen
as his lips continued to move. He began to say the “ninety-four” when finally it
changed to four O-six. “The crap? Was I counting fast?” he wondered aloud. “No,
there’s no way. I’m a slower counter than usual.” He went to his timer app,
setting one for sixty seconds exactly. He exited it again, watching his clock.
He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but he was startled when he again saw another
red sign staring at him from ahead. He pressed the brake pedal and strained to
see what the sign read. “I HIGHLY SUGGEST YOU RECONSIDER HERE, STOP.” “How the
flip do you even fit that many words onto a stop sign?” He didn’t want to admit
it to himself, but he was beginning to get fairly creeped out by the messages on
the stop signs. It was almost like not a single one had said anything normal on
it, except the first few. He went back to his maps app to double check he was on
the right street. Stretch Road, the map said. Up above the stop sign was a small
green one which said he was still traveling down that road. He looked back at
his ETA, which had now moved past four fifty. “What the heck? How am I going so
slow?” The map said he was still going in the right direction. He looked at the
fuel gauge again, which had credit even closer to the “E.” He jumped as the
timer suddenly went off. He looked at the clock again, which still only said
four O-six. “Screw it. I’m not stopping again.” He slammed on the gas, and the
truck started speeding forward. He had been going just ten or so miles per hour
over the speed limit before, at around sixty. He didn’t let off the gas pedal
this time until he was well past ninety, watching as the countryside flew past
him. “Screw this. Screw this whole thing. I mean, where the flip even am I? How
does this house keep getting farther and farther away?” He again heard police
sirens, and he looked in the rearview mirror to see another trooper car behind
him. He shouted and cursed as he pulled over to the side, putting the truck in
park and rolling down his window again. “Yes, officer?” He jumped a little bit
when the policeman stepped out into view. He had a lanky build, with quite a
plaid complexion. His eyes were sunken in, and his nose was so thin he wondered
how any air ever got into it. “You again?” The officer looked up from his pad.
“Yes, me again.” “But I saw you drive out ahead of me. Way far ahead of me.” “I
go wherever the law needs to be enforced, young lad.” “Yeah, but how did you get
behind me like that? This is the only road out here. There have been no
intersections at all.” “Does it matter? You’re getting a ticket.” “Yes it
matters! I wanna know how the frick you broke the laws of physics.” “Psh. I was
never very good at physics. Don’t really think they apply to me that much.”
Davis stared with a dropped jaw as the officer handed him a ticket. He accepted
it, still trying to wrap his head around all this. “You been reading the signs
like I told you to?” “What? Yes, I’ve stopped at every… ‘stop’ sign I’ve seen.”
“Yes, but have you been reading them?” Davis swallowed, feeling fairly off put
by this whole interaction. By this whole delivery, really. “Uh… yes?” He nodded.
“Good. Keep reading them. I like these stop signs.” The officer walked away, and
Davis looked at his ticket. Instead of a ticket, though, he found a simple note:
“Pay attention to the stop signs.” He scrunched up the paper and threw it across
the truck into the passenger’s window. “Screw this. I’m asking that officer what
the flippin’ heck is going on here.” He went to open his door, which is right
when the officer blew past him in his vehicle. He disappeared off into the
distance, and Davis fell back into his seat with a sigh. He looked at his phone
again. ETA was now past five o’clock. And… and the time was four O-four. “The
crap?” He rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times before confirming that they were
indeed not incorrect. “The dang phone literally said four O-six earlier!” He
looked up at the road with his brow wrinkled, unable to process what was going
on. That’s when he saw another stop sign just a little up ahead, and he put the
truck back into drive and started moving towards it, coming to a halt right
before it. “IF YOU WON’T STOP, AT LEAST GO IN THE OTHER DIRECTION.” “Dude, these
stop signs shouldn’t even be that big to fit all these words onto them!” He
looked at his phone again, shaking. He reached for it and called Linda again,
holding his breath for an answer. “What is it, Davis?” came her voice. “Oh,
Linda, thank goodness. Listen, I can’t make this delivery. I’ve got to turn
around and come back.” “You mean you’re not there yet? It wasn’t that far away.”
“No, I need to turn around.” “Do that and you’re fired, Davis. C’mon, you’ve
gotta do it. I don’t care how late it is.” “Linda—” There was a beep, and his
phone went back to the home screen. He looked at the stop sign again, reading
the message over and over again. Maybe this was worth getting fired for. Maybe
he wouldn’t mind so much. He could find a different job, one that didn’t send
him down roads where the stop signs started talking to him and the police
officers could teleport. Then again, his mother had told him if he got fired
from another job she wouldn’t keep sending him money to help out with groceries.
He’d have to completely rework his budget, not to mention living off of a total
of two hundred dollars in his savings account until he could get some more
income. He couldn’t afford to be fired. Then again, he couldn’t really afford to
go much further down this road. He might have a heart attack. He could already
feel it beating faster and faster. Biting his lip in frustration with himself,
he began moving forward again, past the next stop sign. “What the frick am I
doing right now? What kind of an absolute idiot am I to keep going?” He began
fidgeting with his fingers on the steering wheel as he continued down. He got up
to a good speed, then slowly began speeding again. He found himself up to
seventy this time, his eyes darting every which way on the lookout for another
stop sign. He checked his phone again, a pit in his stomach growing as it
continued to say four O-four. “C’mon now, Davey. C’mon. Time doesn’t go
backwards, your phone is just on the fritz. I bet your ETA isn’t even five
thirty. The dang house is probably just around the corner. Just over the
horizon. C’mon, you’re almost there. Then you can go back into town. You won’t
have to think about this street ever again.” His eyes caught a glimpse of
another patch of red up ahead, and he slammed on the gas to speed up towards it.
He slowed down right in front of it, stopping. Again, no crossroad. Just the one
he was on: Stretch Road. “YOU HAVE TO TURN AROUND. I KEEP WARNING YOU.” “Screw
it. Screw it all. I don’t give a dang if I’m fired. I’m going back.” He put the
truck in drive again and began making a u-turn. He relaxed a little as he began
going forward, then suddenly tensed up again. “No, I can’t get fired. I need the
money. I need the money.” He sighed, and made a second u-turn to begin heading
farther down the road. He bit his lip and squeezed the steering wheel, tapping
it with his fingers faster and faster. The road still just went straight to the
horizon with nothing on it. No houses, no power lines, nothing. Nothing but the
infinite void of grass that was on either side of it. “Alright, Davey. You can
make it. It’s just been a long day. Maybe Robert snuck some weed into your lunch
today. He likes to do that kind of stuff, doesn’t he? Maybe I’m just high right
now. Yeah, maybe I’m trippin’ out. The house will show up any minute now.” He
knew it was a lie, but he kept repeating that story to himself just to make it
feel better. He didn’t even see Robert at the depot today. Or at all this week.
The guy was probably locked up in a jail cell somewhere after getting caught in
a bar fight or in a drug deal or some crap. He was slowly becoming aware of
every drop of sweat that formed on his head. Every single cold, paralyzing drop
of it. One ran down to the tip of his nose, and he shuddered as it disconnected
from his skin and went into a freefall down to his lap. Then another one down
near his sideburn, rolling, rolling, rolling to the bottom of his chin where it
too fell. “There isn’t anything wrong, Davey. You’re just freaking out. That’s
all.” He reached for his phone, then went to dial up Lenny. The phone rang,
continuing to do so until it eventually just went to voicemail. “Gosh darn it!”
He looked back to the road, again pressing on the brakes as another stop sign
came into view. “YOU’RE RUNNING OUT OF ROAD, TURN BACK.” He began to squeeze the
steering wheel even harder, shaking. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Come on. Think about this all logically. Your phone is just on the fritz. These
stop signs are just some silly prank that’s being played on you. The fact they
coincide is nothing but dumb luck. Very, very dumb luck. You can keep moving
forward. That house will be coming over the horizon any minute now. Any single
freaking minute.” He pressed on the gas again, the pit in his stomach growing as
he did so. His eyes fixated on the horizon, his heart beating quicker with every
passing moment as he waited for the delivery address to come up. He checked his
phone again, with the ETA now estimating he wouldn’t reach his destination until
four in the morning. The time said it was three forty-five as well. He set the
phone down, repeating to himself that it was all just technology gone haywire.
That is seriously all it was. No doubt about it in his mind. Nope, not one. He
didn’t have one doubt. If he just kept repeating it to himself, all the doubts
that were trying to worm their way into his mind would go away. He was close, he
just had to keep going. It would all be fine. All of it. He’d get home late
tonight, and things would all be great. Not a single problem at all. His heart
skipped a beat as he made out another stop sign up ahead. He slowed the truck
down, hearing the engine beginning to sputter as the needle pointed directly at
the “E.” “No…” he said, barely able to speak. “YOU WERE WARNED, WHY DIDN’T YOU
LISTEN?” “This is all a dream. This is all a dream. This is all a dream.” He
heard a sudden tapping at the window, and he looked to the state trooper
standing there. He rolled it down, struggling to catch his breath. “Well, I
tried to warn you,” the trooper said. “Warn me about what, though? What’s going
on here?” “Son, I’ve been asking myself that question for years now. I responded
to a nine-one-one call down this road back in the seventies. Not even sure what
decade it is now, to be honest. No matter how long I drive in either direction,
I can never find the end of it. I’ve spent days going as far as I could. The
horizon seems to grow with this road… like the Earth itself stretches out. No
matter what, there is never any end to this road.” “So… we’re stuck here?” “Yep.
There have been a few others who got stuck here with me over the years. They all
end up killing themselves. I’ve wanted to do it a few times myself, too.
Instead, though, I decided to commit myself to getting people to stay off this
road. I’m usually pretty good about scaring them off. I guess I can’t bat a
thousand with it, though, huh?” Davis swallowed, feeling his gut churning as the
man spoke. “There’s really no way out?” “Not that I know of, at least.” Davis
turned back to stare out at the road, unable to feel anything inside his chest.
“Maybe… maybe I’ll just kill myself too.” “Now, don’t do that, son. It’s up to
us, the survivors, to keep others away. This… this road wants people. We can’t
let it have them.” Davis felt himself beginning to cry as he let all emotion
break loose. He knew the trooper was right, but he didn’t want him to be. He
wanted to just let himself die. “Son, can you promise me you won’t do anything
to harm yourself, and instead commit to helping others stay off of this road?”
“Yeah,” Davis lied. “Yeah, I will.” He already had a plan formulating in his
head on just how to do it.


THE EARTH HATES YOU 7.9K+




Two weeks. That’s how long it took for my life to fall apart. Two weeks for
everything I ever loved or cared about to be taken from me in the cruelest way
imaginable. And it all started on that hateful plot of land that was supposed to
be my family’s new home. We’d bought the house a month earlier and packed our
lives up in Socal and moved to Northern California. It was unassuming,
Two-story, Three-bedroom, cheaply built, and overpriced in an attempt to cash in
on the housing shortage. The whole housing subdivision was like that and in the
end, the gamble failed, only about a third of the houses were occupied. We
arrived early in the morning, spring had just reared its head and showers still
peppered the land. This particular morning a light drizzle had been falling for
a few hours. On a front lawn, staring directly at us as we pulled in was a kid,
crying. Even through the rain, I could see from the way his shoulders and chest
shuddered. There was a woman standing a few feet away, staring at the boy. “Are
you ok?” my fiance Laurie asked, stepping out of the car. The boy – who couldn’t
have been older than 17 – nodded slightly and walked away, pausing halfway down
the street to look back and shake his head. The woman, in her 60s, walked up as
he strode out of sight and spoke to us. “He’s crying for you,” she said. “Excuse
me?” I asked her. “He’s like an omen, I saw him crying a week before my husband
went missing. All they found of him was the joint to his index finger. I’d leave
and never look back if I were you.” “I’m sorry, are you a neighbor?” Laurie
asked. “Nah, don’t live here, just follow the boy around whenever I see him
crying. Never says anything to the people he’s supposed to warn, so that’s why
I’m here. I know your kind though, young, arrogant, and unwilling to listen.
It’s fine, I’m just a crazy old lady, just know this land here, it knows nothing
but tragedy. Settlers watered it with the blood of Indians slaughtered by the
hundreds, and before them, they did it to each other. See, bound by tragedy,
it’ll come to pass again.” “I think you should be going,” I said firmly. “I’m
off, just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said and hobbled away. “What the
hell was that about?” I asked, facing Laurie. “Local’s trying to scare us. I get
it, people like us move en masse, raise rents, vote differently, and change
their way of life. It’s easy to see why they’d get resentful.” She said She saw
the look in my eyes and frowned. “Amir, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m not
trying to sympathize with bigots, I’m just saying my parents think like her, I
know what’s running through her mind. But honestly fuck her, she doesn’t matter,
we do. The people around here are probably used to getting everything handed to
them, why can’t we take a little something from ourselves.” I was comforted by
her words then but in hindsight, she was wrong. Mrs. Norris was eccentric and
crotchety but she never had anything handed to her. She grew up poor and lived
poor most of her life and even now she works as a Walmart greeter, if anyone had
been lucky, it had been me. My entire life I only failed upwards. When I fucked
off in high school Mom and Dad’s alumni status and hefty donations to an ivy
league school ensured my acceptance. When I renounced my parent’s faith, they
stopped talking to me, but made sure my classes were paid for and they always
kept me in their prayers. I had a job lined up for me the moment I graduated at
Dad’s law firm, even if he scheduled it so we’d never interact. He even left me
a trust fund that was enough to afford this house and cosigned when Laurie asked
him to. I didn’t know until after all the horrors I’ve experienced how good I
had it. guess you don’t know what you have until it’s wretched from your hands.
Laurie brought Carter out of his seat, my beautiful son, A year and a half now.
I wanted to name him after my brother, he was closer to me in skin tone than
Laurie and he even had my father’s eyes. But in Laurie’s exact words, “You
didn’t carry him for 9 months, you weren’t even there for me until the last
second.” It was true. My son was born 2 months after I graduated. I didn’t want
to be a father. I held firm to this even when a casual fling ended with a
pregnancy neither her parents nor I wanted. But she was resolute, Laurie was
stubborn like that, driven by rebellious impulse. The only reason she had hooked
up with me was that she knew it’d piss off her parents, especially her dad. We
agreed that she’d have full custody and I wouldn’t have to even meet the kid. I
had agreed, but when her labor came she called me while she was on the way to
the hospital, she was afraid and her parents had all but disowned her. I came, I
shouldn’t have, every part of my body was screaming for me to just run, but on
impulse, I showed up. When I held him for the first time in my arms, I knew this
was all I had ever wanted. I cried of course and broke into myself that I had
ever considered cutting my beautiful baby boy from my life. I proposed later
that night, and Laurie said yes, almost in shock. I told myself we were fighting
against the world that day, against her racist parents, against ourselves. I’d
make this work, I’d fight for us, for Carter. We brought our son inside, did
some unpacking, and settled in for the night. I ended up falling asleep on the
couch after a few beers and some late-night TV. Laurie put Carter to bed and
went to bed alone, later telling me she didn’t want to wake me. What roused me
that night was a sound, something that pierced the veil of dream and reeled me
back to the real world. Thhhhhhhhh-thump My eyes shot open and sat up, and
looked around the living room. Only a few dim beams of streetlight peered in
through the window, their pallid light doing little to render anything visible
beyond a blurry silhouette. I froze, let my heart settle, waited for what felt
like an eternity, then laid back down. Thhhhhhhhh-thump. Thhhhhhhhh-thump. I lay
there, still and attentive, trying to parse what the sound was and where it was
coming from. I tried to rationalize it as Laurie being up and about but as the
sound repeated I picked up details that cast certainty into doubt, there was a
slick wetness to it that couldn’t have been Laurie. Unless she now took to
dragging wet rolls of tarp around in the middle of the night. I waited and
listened until the sounds faded, I don’t know if they actually did or if the
pull of sleep overcame my unease. All I know is that I woke up nearly late for
work and before I could ask Laurie if she had heard anything, I had fled the
house and sped all the way to my dad’s newly opened Norcal office. Later that
day as I returned home I found Laurie on the front lawn, Carter in hand waiting
for me. Her face was contorted into an annoyed scowl. “What’s wrong?” I asked,
stepping out of the car. “That weird kid was back, around noon. And so was the
old lady,” she said “What did they want?” “I think they’re trying to scare us
out of here. The kid was crying again, bawling actually. The lady was behind him
said that It’s already started and that our clock was ticking down. When I asked
her what she meant by that she all but threatened me. She said ‘The earth, it
weeps and it remembers the cruelties inflicted upon it. You’ll see, it’ll claim
its dues one way or another.’ I told them I was gonna call the cops and they
left but it didn’t sit right with me. They were harassing some of the other
neighbors too… And it’s just weird. Did the real estate agent say anything about
this place?” “It’s an entirely new housing development, there is no history to
tell, why? Did they get to you?” “No- it’s just that last night I heard
something, like a dragging sound. I thought maybe it was you but… it felt like
something was watching me, it didn’t feel like you.” “I heard that too, didn’t
feel like anyone watching me, just the noise,” I said “Maybe we should call
someone? A priest or-” “Laurie, don’t tell me you buy into that shit after one
night of something that’s easily explained.” “It’s not too uncommon for people
to have houses cleansed when they move, maybe it’s worth entertaining. Just down
the street from us are nature reserves that used to be native land.” “Maybe it’s
them, ever think of that? You said it yourself; they have every reason to try to
get rid of us.” “That’s a little convoluted, isn’t it? Why would anyone go out
of their way like that for us, what about the others they’ve bothered?” she
asked. “Plenty of people have gone after us for less Laurie, having my kid put
you at odds with half your family alone. Your dad shot at me, I’m not surprised
by the crazy shit people do anymore. We’ll let security know that they’re
harassing us, problem solved.”, Laurie looked at me with weary eyes “Maybe,” She
glanced back down at Carter who giggled and she smiled. “Yeah, you’re right,”
she said and let her shoulders relax. A few days went by without incident, and I
was starting to settle into the flow of things. We got to know some of our
neighbors, at Laurie’s behest and I was trying to get Carter to say his first
words, but the word “dada,” seemed to evade him. Laurie was still in a bit of a
funk, she got it often enough that I talked about therapy though she always
evaded the topic. She dropped out of college, was disowned by her parents, and
got engaged to the man responsible for her fall from grace on a whim. I caught
her crying half a dozen times since she’d given birth, we hadn’t had sex more
than a few times since she gave birth. I could tell she wanted to be more than a
housewife and I know we needed the extra income. When I brought up that I was
being groomed for a promotion her eyes lit up. “Think we’d be able to afford
child care? Would be nice to have some time to work, maybe even finish my
degree.” “It’s in the realm of possibility, still dream of being a nurse?” I
said, smiling. “I could change to accounting so I can annoy the hell out of you
at work,” she said with a laugh. All seemed to be right in the world, nowhere to
go but up. We put Carter to bed in his room, and Laurie and I settled into our
bed for the night. I rolled over onto her side, pressed against her, and said,
“Let’s make a brother for Carter.” Laurie looked at me stunned at first before
her face slacked into a grin. “You think you can decide that?” she asked “We can
try?” “And what if I want a girl?” “We can try for a girl after we give Carter a
brother. Think about it, boys need other boys their age and our daughter gets
two older brothers to protect her.” “You make a compelling argument,’ she said
and moved to straddle me. We broke out into a wrestling match, disrobing one
another with every hold and shift of motion. Laurie was halfway through pulling
my boxers down when the sound of glass shattering froze us both in place.
Seconds ticked by as my muscles tensed in anticipation. Another explosion of
glass made the both of us flinch and Carter awakened with a snort and then a
wail. “Go,” I said to Laurie and she launched herself to Carter’s room. I pulled
my boxers up as I made my way downstairs. I snagged the bedside bat as another
series of glass-shattering staccatos rang out throughout the house. “What the
fuck?!” Laurie shouted as I ran past, bat held so tightly in my hands my
knuckles paled. In my anger and haste, I sprinted into the kitchen without
thinking. As I flicked on the lights as I stepped on a shard of glass “Fuck!” I
yelled as it bit into my flesh. I looked around at the sight before me, blood
pooling steadily around my foot. Nothing but a cabinet and half a dozen glass
cups shattered across the floor. I set the bat down on the counter and pried the
sizable glass shard from my foot. I didn’t have time to dress it, a scream rang
out from upstairs. “Amir! Amir!” Laurie called and I sprang up, and ran towards
them, leaving bloody footprints on hardwood and carpeted stairs. I was yelling
at myself internally, whatever was doing this succeeded in separating us. As I
reached the hallway it dawned on me that I left the bat on the counter. Though
my stomach tied itself into knots at the realization that I’d have to face
whatever was in the room unarmed, nearly naked, and bleeding, I did not slow or
relent. I flung myself through the open door, wild-eyed and ready to fight.
Laurie was huddled in the furthest corner with our wailing son held close to her
chest, a finger outstretched and pointing to the closet that faced her. My eyes
flicked to where she pointed in the swirling darkness of the open closet door,
and for the briefest of moments, I thought I saw movement. Muscles tensed and I
raised my fists but the apparition was dispelled the second I focused in on it.
Already rationalizations formed within me, and adrenaline-fueled delusion was
the one I clung to. “What? What did you see?” I asked Laurie as she tried to
soothe Carter. “I-I don’t know, but there was something here, it was in the
closet. It was staring at us.” She said and gazed down at the blood seeping into
the carpet. “What happened downstairs?” She asked, “Cupboard was open, and
glasses fell out.” “Amir, that doesn’t just happen, we can’t stay here anymore.”
“And what do you propose we do? Go to a hotel, put the house on the market, and
hope that we scrounge enough to find somewhere else?” “Why not?” “Because this
is our only chance, Laurie, because we have nothing else. We’ve made it here and
I can’t make a gamble like that. Half the houses here are empty, they haven’t
sold. If we leave and are worse off than when we started we have no one to turn
to, not your parents, not mine, not a single friend. No one but us, we have to
fight Laurie, for us, for Carter.” Carter had quieted, but Laurie had tears
carving slow paths down her cheek. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard. I didn’t
expect a walk in the park but fuck I didn’t think it feels like this, every day
is a pit I have to crawl out from and every day it feels deeper,” she said. I
closed the distance between us, embraced her and Carter, and with my head on
hers I asked her to fight, and through tears and quiet hiccups she said “I
will.” We spent the next hour cleaning up the house, Laurie bandaged my foot and
we planned to rent a carpet cleaner for all the blood. We moved Carter’s crib
into our bedroom at Laurie’s request so that killed my plans for making Carter a
brother. Things settled for the night and we fell into a fretful sleep. The next
day as I was coming home from work I noticed that strange kid again, Mrs. Norris
was far behind on the intersection of my street and another. Like before, he was
walking aimlessly but paused in front of our house. He was crying again, but
harder this time. Sobs wracked his body as he struggled to hold a steady breath.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said as I walked by. He nodded and kept
walking but paused for a moment, letting his crying die down until he could
speak and he said “You’re the ones that don’t belong. The earth here, it’s wept
and wept and none listened to its pleas and so now it lashes out.” I headed
toward him at a brisk pace and grabbed onto his shirt, pulling him close so he
could see how deadly serious I was. “Are you threatening me and my family?” He
met my gaze, there was nothing in his eyes, no provocation, but he was crying
again. A smile split his face, and his unsettlingly perfect teeth bared. He
looked back into my eyes and said “It’ll end in screams.” He shook his head and
laugh-cried until I was disturbed enough to let him go. He started walking away
from me again, almost limping now and I regretted not slugging him when I had a
chance. Now I had to deal with the hobbling hag, Mrs. Norris. Henry, a neighbor
I recognized from three doors down was turning away from her, his walk was tense
and as he retreated back to his house the old woman locked eyes with me and
approached to speak. I let out a sigh as she closed the distance. “Since you’re
too much of a fool to heed a warning from those who know better, let me give you
a word of advice. Offer yourself in their place. Take your blood, slather it on
your door, offer your life. You’ll spend every waking moment of your life in
regret if you don’t.” she said. “What biblical bullshit are you on about? I
won’t buy into your madness” “My husband and I were planning on starting a
family before it took him. I haven’t moved forward a day since the day I lost
him. That was 17 years ago, and that boy hasn’t aged a day since. He knew. Like
an angel of death, he knew it would come for me. It took my future and I’ve
spent every moment I can trying to warn others of what happens when the earth
learns to hate but every single last one of you has been so stubborn. I haven’t
saved a single one, maybe that’s another aspect of its malice, but God if I
don’t try… this whole neighborhood will collapse under the weight of its own
hubris, please-” “Look, lady, you’re obviously struggling with something. I feel
for you but I won’t let you project your delusions onto me and my family. I hope
you can get the help you need but stay the fuck away from us.” She looked at me,
dejected. She turned away from me and hobbled off and said “fine” in such a
hoarse and airy whisper, I almost thought it a phantom. As she rounded a corner
and escaped my glare I felt a sting of dull pain throb through my foot. My wound
had reopened and fresh blood flowed and seeped into my shoes and the earth. “How
was work?” Laurie asked over dinner once we had settled in. “Fine, Bueller’s
talk of promotions has all but dried up though.” “I’m sure it’ll come up again,
you’re a hard worker.” “Let’s hope my dad’s not in his ear. What about you, how
was your day?” I asked. “Fine we spent it at the park, we went for lunch and
we’ve just been out and about, seeing the town.” “You’re afraid to be here
alone.” “Why wouldn’t I be, something was staring at me and Carter, it wanted to
hurt us, I’m not comfortable here alone. Maybe Mrs. Norris was right.” I set
down my fork and looked at her, her face was unreadable but she wouldn’t have
said anything unless she was mad at me. “Laurie can we not- I mean, I’m sorry I
wasn’t around. I would have loved to spend the day with you and Carter, I’ll
look into affordable daycare and you can start looking for a job so you can get
some time out of the house. I’m sure things will settle in a bit and we’ll be
better off.” Her hand slid over on top of mine and she spoke, “I’d like that,
and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so stand-offish. I’ve been stressed, you’ve
been stressed, it’s all been one big ball of stress since we moved in. I’m sure
you’re right, we’ll be fine in the end.” Her hand tightened around mine and I
maneuvered around so that I could interlace her fingers with mine. Wordlessly we
ate dinner, put Carter to sleep, and made love in the next room. When we had
finished we lay down to sleep and in the moments before I faded into dreams I
thought that despite it all, I truly was a lucky man. Thhhhhhhhh-thump My eyes
flung open as I jolted awake. My heart raced as my eyes darted around the room
scanning for movement. “Why tonight of all nights,” I couldn’t help but mutter
under my breath. Only a pale beam of moonlight streamed in through a parted
curtain, a silver sliver cleaving through the dark of the room. Nothing, it had
been nothing I tried to tell myself. Thhhhhhhhh-thump. The sound was closer than
I had ever heard it, I even picked up small details. An organic squelch,
wetness, a small raspy moan. It was in the room with us, it was moving closer, I
sat up, causing Laurie to stir. My hand reached for the bat by the nightstand
and at the same moment, a desiccated arm reached through from the darkness and
planted itself firmly in the beam of moonlight. Its hands rested upon what I now
realized was a bloody pulpy mess. I brought the bat to my chest and watched in
horror as it dragged itself into view. A bone white and withered naked woman,
her eye sockets empty and void black. She strained and flexed as she scraped her
crotch along the floor, leaving bits of skin and sinew all the while making that
damned sound ‘thhhhhhhh-’ and her hand came down to with force ‘thump.’ She
turned to face me, wiry white hair parting so I could see her lipless grin. She
turned away and continued to drag herself across the floor, deepening the gash,
how long had she been at it before I awoke? Thhhhhh- Laurie jolted awake and
gasped at the sight, a scream caught in her throat. She turned to look wild-eyed
at me, and the fear in my eyes caused her own to deepen. ‘Thump,’ and the woman
was in the veil of darkness once more, but through it, we could still see her
silhouette and burning grin. I started to get up, to confront her when the
temperature of the room dived, in a split second my heavy breath was visible in
quick bursts of white vapor. A crack reverberated through the house and the long
gash on our floor split open. The dimensions of the floor warped as a giant,
pockmarked skull crowned. It must have been as big as our bed and it kept
pushing and jerking until finally, it broke free. A giant head from the neck up
was staring at us, mummified skin yellowed like ancient papyrus. Its visage was
harsh, angular, and skeletal. Holes and lines, rimmed with blackened flesh,
scarred every inch of its skin. Slowly and methodically a giant hand slid out
from the gash, inching towards Carter’s crib. Slow lurid movements as the hand
snaked across the air and into the crib. My body was a cage and from it, I
screamed with all my might and yet it made no sound as the ragged fleshy fingers
curled around Carter and hoisted him up. Laurie screamed, Carter wailed, and
something clicked into place, an ancient instinct, a righteous gene. I slid the
covers off and held the bat out, I’d fight, I had no other choice. The hand
paused and the head’s attention shifted to me and it… blossomed. Every hole in
its skin was now filled with the hateful glare of an eye, hundreds of them.
Every line split open and a black tooth smiled grinned, grinned, with its whole
being this thing was grinning at me. I understood it then, the depth of its
rage, it all unfurled and wrapped around me and sank its blackened teeth into
all the bravado and fatherly instinct within me until it shattered. It hated me,
Laurie, Carter, us, it hated all the world and it would consume all it could in
its wrath. The bat fell from my hands as my body went limp and it opened up its
mouth, the black pit of its gullet stared into me and I was sinking in its
pitch. An ear-splitting shriek dragged me back out into this world and I watched
in agonized slow motion as it brought the hand it held Carter in closer and
closer to its mouth. I wanted to scream, wanted to stop it, wanted to close my
eyes, but I only watched as this emanation of hatred brought my son to its lips…
and took a bite. The crunch is seared into the very core of my being, I’ll never
forget no matter how hard I try. A pitiful cry that never truly formed clicked
in my head and a crimson curtain fell. A thousand tounges, a thousand mouths all
opened and clashed against each other to lap up the blood of my son, the blood
of me, and Laurie. Our entire history, our future, gone. The hand pulled back,
twisting as it did. The sound of small frail bones breaking and flesh tearing
echoed throughout my entire being and still, I couldn’t look away. It took two
more bites for it to finish, and it made sure to take its time chewing. When it
finally swallowed it pursed its lips at me, smile stained red, and dove into the
gash. It sealed itself and returned to the pulpy stain it had originally been,
now with a few more blood stains. My ears were ringing, my screams, Laurie’s,
the whole neighborhood was shrieking out into the night. In the corner, the
naked woman watched us as we shrieked ourselves raw until she too faded into the
blackness. Dawn came a few hours later but night had been lit by the blues and
reds of police cars. I saw that strange kid amongst the crowd of people, he
wasn’t crying anymore. His eyes were empty and solemn, but the grin he had
flashed me the day before was still carved into his visage. Mrs. Norris was at
his side, our eyes locked and an understanding was shared between us. She shook
her head, wiped a tear from her eye, and turned to leave. Everyone had lost
someone that night. Coraline, a widow, was never found, only an empty house and
a blood stain. Joshua, a single father, awoke to his daughter’s room empty
except for the fading silhouette of a woman hidden within a dark corner. Henry
only ever had himself and his dog, all that was left of the chocolate lab was
the bisected lower half. There are other tales and losses too painful to hear
but no one escaped the wrath of that angel of death, a resentful plot of land,
or maybe some unknown dues finally being paid. I couldn’t answer the police’s
questions, and they couldn’t answer ours, not even the local news stations would
hear our pleas. Maybe there was some higher power at play, trying to cover up
the event, the calamity that shattered the lives of dozens. Maybe the truth will
come out one day, or maybe this has happened before and they’ve perfected the
methods of covering it up. If there’s a consequence in store for my account,
I’ll be dead before I ever face it. That fateful night was three days ago. I
haven’t gone to work since or even talked to Laurie. Catatonic, my mind
regressed into a shell of itself because what else could I have done? Yesterday,
I walked in on Laurie, lifeless. She downed all the bottles of medication she
could find. I thought I had nothing left to lose, but then I saw her, that shell
broke and I collapsed into myself more than I ever knew I could. I think I’ll be
following after her and Carter before the day is done. I was never a religious
man, it’s why my father disowned me. Now I pray that they’re out there, in a
better place, and that they’re waiting for me and we won’t have to fight
anymore. My father once told me that children are your legacy, your future, and
so to be fruitful. I think about how much we’ve taken from the earth and how
much suffering it’s witnessed, how much blood has been spilled on it. How long
it must have spent beneath our shadow weeping, praying for it to end, with
enough time and tragedy even the brightest of hearts warp and twist into
something else. Maybe you can only take from someone so much before it takes
back. It took everything from me. I don’t know how far this spreads, where and
if it’ll strike again. All I know is that the very earth we tread and live on
can grow to hate us and maybe for you, it already does.


LIES FROM THE PIT 8.4K+




The pit, the abyss, it was always there. At least, as far as I can remember. The
first time I heard its call, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable. My mother was
reading her pick-and-choose verses from the book, looking back up at me after
each reading with an expectant look in her eyes. She tried so hard to belittle
me, scolding me on how wrong it was to like men, but I was never swayed. Still,
the call grew stronger every time she sat me down for her dogmatic ramblings,
but it would only show itself to me later on in life. Not once did I believe she
became a Christian in good faith. Way I see it, she only did so as a way to
excuse her more toxic behaviours. It’s no wonder I got into my first real
relationship during college, since it was the first time I was really free from
her endless remarks on my so-called “dirty ways”. I don’t know exactly what went
down in the time I was away, but after dropping out of engineering and coming
back home my parents were already living apart with divorce papers in order.
And, like a pattern, propagating in time, Eric told me that this – us – wouldn’t
work out. My attachment blinded me to how shallow Eric was. He never said
anything outright, but it was obvious how he saw me as lesser than himself. My
mum said that if, after finishing my engineering course, I still wanted to
pursue carpentry, then I would have the skills required. I guess she hoped I’d
set my focus on greater horizons, but it didn’t help me achieve anything. It was
better, living with just my dad. He helped me through it all, but it’s always
such a slippery rut I’ve found myself in. I still dreamed of being a carpenter,
but even he could see that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to start a whole
business. We ended up deciding that I would apply for some bog-standard
transient jobs with the aim of saving up money for a carpentry course. That
never really happened. At 19, I started working at an office, spreadsheets,
emails, that kind of stuff. Four years later, dad first started showing signs of
early-onset dementia. At 54. It’s such a hopeless feeling to watch your father
degenerate into a confused mess, and looking back I think it would’ve been
better if he was struck by a heart attack. After two more years, I was up one
raise and down everything else. It was January when the pit first revealed
itself to me, a late weekend night of remote overtime, the only way I could
afford the ever-rocketing living costs. The work was harsh, mind-numbing, and I
kept having to go back to fix mistakes, over and over, my tired mind fucking it
up, as it always did. My feet were cold to the point where I could barely feel
them, even when I tried moving and wiggling my toes around. I knew I was moving
my feet, but there was no feeling. I looked down to see that, where the navy
carpet had been, sat a circular hole in the floor. Almost perfect, but not. A
gaping pit, walls of masterfully carved black stone, that descended into thick
blankets of darkness. I forcefully pushed myself away from the desk, tumbling
off my chair, then crawled over to the edge of the hole. As I peered over the
crevice, the only sound was a low breeze. A cold earthen breath I imagined
blowing throughout the tunnels of a cave. You know that feeling? The call of the
void? The subtle tug toward one step into nothing. I felt it. Only, the
rejection of the idea that usually followed just wasn’t there. It didn’t scare
me, only continued to pull me in. Gazing down into it, the knots in my stomach,
pulled tight by the years, came loose. An unrestrained warmth took over my body
as the pit seemed to strip away the weight on my heart, accepting the burden for
itself. Before the thought of toppling into the abyss took over entirely, my
phone buzzed on the desk, breaking my trance. It was Eric. “Eric? What’s up,
man. Why are you calling so la-” “Stop with the messages, Porter. I get you’re
sad and all but can you, like, take it somewhere else? I’m with someone else now
and I don’t want you stirring up any shit.” I looked up to the shelves above my
desk for a moment. At the picture I had of Eric and myself at college. It was
pathetic, years had passed but I still couldn’t let go. “Hello? Tell me you
understand.” I brought myself back and replied, “Yeah. Um, sorry, Eric. Just
hoped we might be able to stay friends at least.” “Well, not if you go on like
this. Thanks, I guess.” He hung up, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
Well, that I was. The silence that replaced his voice rang in my ears, mocking
me, and when I looked back down to the floor, the hole was gone. It left an
emptiness in my chest that could only be made whole again by looking down into
that dark abyss. The gentle breeze from that pit followed me. I heard it inside,
outside, day or night, sometimes loud and present, other times so distant I
thought it was just the wind. Not really an earworm, though, it felt more like a
reminder, making sure I didn’t forget about the tunnel. Later that week I was in
for work. Only half an hour after getting in, Dennis – my manager – called me
into his office. Some bullshit about underperforming, I wasn’t really listening
to be honest. I rightfully disagreed, not out loud. I’d been giving as much
effort to the work as I could at the time. He won’t be reading this, so fuck you
Dennis. Your job is to manage, not to call in anyone you can get, and sneer down
your nose at them. Asshole. I nodded to whatever he said, and left his office.
My stomach churned, what was I meant to do? Work harder than I already was? I
excused myself to the toilet, needing to steady myself. A spiral was already
corkscrewing its way down my spine. I locked myself in one of the stalls and let
my forehead rest against the door. Trying to calm your nerves can make things
worse when you’re on a tight schedule – how long could I stay here while also
making sure my papers for the day would be all done by five? I turned around to
see that, in lieu of a toilet, was the pit. How long had it been there, waiting
for me? There was no spike of adrenaline. No, dopamine if anything. It’d come
back to see me, like it said it would. The fluorescent buzz began to fade away
as I fell to the floor, and so did the smell of floor cleaner and poorly-masked
piss. My hands pressed into the cheap, sticky laminate floor as I lowered my
face down into the abyss. The cold whispering of air had changed. It sounded
faintly like a whistle, distant but growing clearer. It was… so alluring. A
lullaby crafted for me and no-one else. My arms reached down into the hole,
pulling me further and further in. The darkness extended deep, deep down – I was
on the fifth floor, yet I could see no end to its depth. In that thick, heavy
shadow, something moved upwards. Pale, angular, limbs too numerous and erratic
to count. This would be my guide to wherever the pit led, to somewhere better.
Peace and tranquillity. Charon is a misunderstood fellow – he only wishes to
lead the dead to where they belong. The melody was clear now. It was
bittersweet, like reminiscing on bad choices, but accepting that the past is the
past. The words to the tune came from my own mind, and I found myself
whispering, “One step, into the dark, Light hides just beyond, No one will know,
even dear old pa, Here is the peace for which you long.” It was right. Who would
know, and who would care? My mum, wherever she is, would likely be indifferent,
and my dad would soon forget all about me. I clearly wasn’t a valuable asset to
the company either, and Eric would be happy to never hear from me again. As the
blurry thing in the pit grew closer, the song grew louder, all else falling
away. The gentle breeze whipped up into a galeforce tempest of cold air that
seemed to wrap around me like tendrils and pull me in further. I reached out my
hand to meet my guide halfway, when the ear-splitting BANG of the bathroom door
jolted me back to reality. Did I really want this? Was it really better on the
other side? Whatever that thing was, approaching rapidly, I didn’t want to know.
I didn’t want to meet it. “Porter, you in here? Boss says the papers need to be
done and signed by four, so hurry the fuck up, yeah?” I arched my head back to
the stall door and replied, “Yeah Jim, just a minute. Indigestion.” The door
slammed again, leaving me alone. When I looked back down, I flinched as my head
bumped into the toilet bowl, coming off slightly wet from the residue. No pit,
nothing. I returned to my desk, and saw upon checking my email a message without
any named sender. ‘COME BACK’ That’s all it said. The song played over and over
in my head while I stared at those two words. Out of my lips tumbled, “I will,”
and I clicked off the email. I tried blocking the sender, more out of curiosity
than anything, but there was no sender to block. I managed to finish my workload
for the rest of the day and handed it in on time, with no particular gratitude
from Dennis or anyone else. No surprise there. I paid dad a visit that weekend,
at the hospice. When I entered his room he was staring listlessly out the window
while some old songs fit for a gramophone played from the old radio beside him.
“Hey, dad.” His head rolled around to look at me side-on. “Oh, hello there. What
time is it?” I could tell he was only trying to be polite, that he didn’t really
know who was talking to him, and changing the subject for that reason. “It’s a
quarter to three. How are you feeling today? I brought you some custard creams.”
He turned around some more to look at me, down at my hands and then back up with
a smile. “These are my favourite, how’d you know?” The corners of my brow fell
and I brought a hand up to block a potential tear. “I, uh, it’s me, Porter. I’m
your son.” “I… I don’t…” The look of confusion on his face told me all I needed
to know. I’d been able to remind him who I was before, but now it was no use. I
was all but lost to him. Was he even aware he had a son? I don’t know. There was
desperation in his eyes, but the dementia won over. I didn’t say anything more.
I pulled up a chair next to him and sat, following his gaze out the window to
nothing in particular. At least I could give him some company, even if he had no
idea who I was. Looking through the smudge-covered glass I could hear that
melody, whistling in my ears, and I knew it called to me again. “What do you do
when it seems the only direction you can go is off the edge of a cliff?” I
asked. “Wait. Look around, far and wide, to see if there’s a bridge across. If
there’s no bridge, then you better set about building one. Doesn’t have to be
rigid neither, just strong enough for one crossing.” The lucidity in his answer
shocked me for a moment, and I understood what he meant, but I also couldn’t
grasp why he’d still think that, when he was so lost and hollow like this. “What
if the bridge collapses halfway across?” “Hm? Bridge?” I sighed, “never mind.” I
stood, pulled the chair back to the corner, and left dad with his biscuits. Was
that it? Had he forgotten all about me? The questions weren’t answered as I
walked out of the room. They say you die a second time – when your name is
spoken for the last time. If I died that night, I’d have already died twice. Not
figuring in the people at work, because fuck them. Dad wouldn’t be any the
wiser, and mum wouldn’t care. Nor Eric. My sleeve was damp by the time I got
home, wiping away tears so I could actually see the road. I don’t know why I
cared anymore. Perhaps I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I unlocked my
front door and went into the house. A cold and empty place that I called home.
My whole body ached with anguish as I climbed my way up the dark staircase. I
couldn’t sleep, of course. Why would I be able to? A good night’s rest wouldn’t
make dad better. It wouldn’t make Eric come back, and it wouldn’t help me become
a carpenter. I couldn’t even cobble the pieces of my life back together, let
alone wooden joists or ply sheets. Slumped in the chair at my desk, I looked up
at the shelves above. There was a framed picture of an eight-year-old me with my
dad, doing some DIY carpentry on a doorframe, and on the shelf above, a picture
of me and Eric at a college party. I loathed the sight of them. They were
nothing but painful reminders of what I’d already lost. It was all gone. I
pulled out my phone and went to notes, writing a message to send to Eric. I
hoped he was happy with the way things turned out, how he let me go over the
pettiest of reasons. Life must be so easy for him, huh? Still, I couldn’t break
my attachment. I needed someone to guide me. I gave up a few sentences in,
placing my phone face down on the desk. Hope was evacuating my body rapidly, but
in truth, it wasn’t a bad feeling. After all, why should I feel anxious or
scared if there was nothing left to worry about? No, it was acceptance. This
world was never meant for me. But, I recognised the feeling. I knew
instinctively what it meant. I looked down underneath the desk, but only saw the
frayed, blue carpeting. I started cackling hysterically. It was funny. Now, I’d
even been abandoned by the pit that had called for me. This was it. My emotions,
my dreams, leaving me one last time. A blast of freezing air poured over my head
from above with a loud whoosh, and something wrapped around my throat. It was
cold, clammy, and powerful. The thing grasping my neck began to pull me up off
the chair. My legs thrashed wildly, trying to find a foothold, and as I looked
up, I saw it. The pit. It hadn’t abandoned me, but in that moment I didn’t want
it anymore. A gaunt, pallid arm was reaching out of the darkness, clamping
tighter and tighter around my neck, and it was attached to a mass of writhing
limbs that wanted nothing but me. I scraped animalistically at the arm that I
hung from, but it was no use. It was a grip of cold steel. I managed to kick a
foot up onto the desk enough to give my body some slack, but it would be no use
when I was dragged up further. I looked around frantically for something that
could help, but the only thing in reach was the picture frame with me and Eric.
Holding onto the bony wrist above me, I reached out with my free hand and
grabbed the picture. I brought it up to my face and slammed it into my forehead.
Blood erupted and poured down my face, but the glass was shattered. I felt
lightheaded, and my feet totally lost footing on the desk, dangling uselessly.
Using my teeth I picked out the largest glass shard still left on the picture,
then dropped the broken item to the ground. I grasped the shard and I attacked.
Slicing, stabbing, maiming the horrid limb that wanted my end. But the world was
fading, and fast. The howls and screeches of the creature above me sounded like
they were underwater. I saw the rim of the black stone tunnel pass in front of
me, falling away to reveal only cold and dark. ‘I can’t go. Not yet. There’s
things I need to do, god, give me another chance.’ I don’t know how far I was
dragged into the abyss, but hand’s grip weakened, and it let go with a
rage-filled wail. I didn’t fall back into my room though, I just kept falling.
The darkness twisted and swirled, shaping into visions of those taken victim by
the pit. Those found dead with no clear motives – at least, none that could be
understood by the living. I saw my father lying on his bed, drool leaking from
the corner of his mouth, unaware of the gaping hole waiting for him just beneath
the bedframe. I screamed, then passed out. I woke up gasping on the floorboards
of my bedroom, lying on top of broken glass and dried blood. I shot up to a
sitting position and looked above me. The ceiling was unbroken in its off-white
mundanity. The pit was gone, and so was its call. My body fell back to the
floor, sobbing and heaving in exasperation. I was alive, somehow. Face all cut
up, neck raw and bruising, palm lacerated messily, but alive. My flame had
almost been snuffed out, but there was so much wax left in my candle. It
couldn’t go out yet, not until I saw what there was after it all melted away. I
looked down at the broken picture frame. Eric’s face stared back in a sneer, and
I stood up and stomped on it until it was nothing more than split wood and torn
paper. I needed him as much as he needed me. Dad needed me though. Even if he
forgot who I, who he was, I had to stick with him until the end. I couldn’t just
leave without him. I’m looking out the window at the first rays bursting from
the horizon. Their warmth spills across my face, and with the warmth is calm.
Different to the calm brought on by total loss of hope. Because there is hope. I
don’t know what for, but the fact that it’s there is all I need. If the pit
calls to you, please think about what you’re doing. It lies. There’s no light
past the shadows. It stays dark, and cold, and there is no salvation. I can’t
claim to know what the thing down there wants, truly, but it doesn’t care about
you. Sitting here now, hell… the sunrise looks just a little bit prettier than
before.


DEAD BART UNCALCULATED!




You know how Fox has a weird way of counting Simpsons episodes? They refuse to
count a couple of them, making the amount of episodes inconsistent. The reason
for this is a lost episode from season 1. Finding details about this missing
episode is difficult, no one who was working on the show at the time likes to
talk about it. From what has been pieced together, the lost episode was written
entirely by Matt Groening. During production of the first season, Matt started
to act strangely. He was very quiet, seemed nervous and morbid. Mentioning this
to anyone who was present results in them getting very angry, and forbidding you
to ever mention it to Matt. The episode’s production number was 7G44, the title
was Dead Bart. In addition to getting angry, asking anyone who was on the show
about this will cause them to do everything they can to stop you from directly
communicating with Matt Groening. At a fan event, I managed to follow him after
he spoke to the crowd, and eventually had a chance to talk to him alone as he
was leaving the building. He didn’t seem upset that I had followed him, probably
expected a typical encounter with an obsessive fan. When I mentioned the lost
episode though, all color drained from his face and he started trembling. When I
asked him if he could tell me any details, he sounded like he was on the verge
of tears. He grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and handed it to
me. He begged me never to mention the episode again. The piece of paper had a
website address on it, I would rather not say what it was, for reasons you’ll
see in a second. I entered the address into my browser, and I came to a site
that was completely black, except for a line of yellow text, a download link. I
clicked on it, and a file started downloading. Once the file was downloaded, my
computer went crazy, it was the worst virus I had ever seen. System restore
didn’t work, the entire computer had to be rebooted. Before doing this though, I
copied the file onto a CD. I tried to open it on my now empty computer, and as I
suspected, there was an episode of The Simpsons on it. The episode started off
like any other episode, but had very poor quality animation. If you’ve seen the
original animation for Some Enchanted Evening, it was similar, but less stable.
The first act was fairly normal, but the way the characters acted was a little
off. Homer seemed angrier, Marge seemed depressed, Lisa seemed anxious, Bart
seemed to have genuine anger and hatred for his parents. The episode was about
the Simpsons going on a plane trip, near the end of the first act, the plane was
taking off. Bart was fooling around, as you’d expect. However, as the plane was
about 50 feet off the ground, Bart broke a window on the plane and was sucked
out. At the beginning of the series, Matt had an idea that the animated style of
the Simpsons’ world represented life, and that death turned things more
realistic. This was used in this episode. The picture of Bart’s corpse was
barely recognizable, they took full advantage of it not having to move, and made
an almost photo-realistic drawing of his dead body. Act one ended with the shot
of Bart’s corpse. When act two started, Homer, Marge, and Lisa were sitting at
their table, crying. The crying went on and on, it got more pained, and sounded
more realistic, better acting than you would think possible. The animation
started to decay even more as they cried, and you could hear murmuring in the
background. This crying went on for all of act two. Act three opened with a
title card saying one year had passed. Homer, Marge, and Lisa were skeletally
thin, and still sitting at the table. There was no sign of Maggie or the pets.
They decided to visit Bart’s grave. Springfield was completely deserted, and as
they walked to the cemetery the houses became more and more decrepit. They all
looked abandoned. When they got to the grave, Bart’s body was just lying in
front of his tombstone, looking just like it did at the end of act one. The
family started crying again. Eventually they stopped, and just stared at Bart’s
body. The camera zoomed in on Homer’s face. According to summaries, Homer tells
a joke at this part, but it isn’t audible in the version I saw, you can’t tell
what Homer is saying. The view zoomed out as the episode came to a close. The
tombstones in the background had the names of every Simpsons guest star on them.
Some that no one had heard of in 1989, some that haven’t been on the show yet.
All of them had death dates on them. For guests who died since, like Michael
Jackson and George Harrison, the dates were when they would die. You can try to
use the tombstones to predict the death of living Simpsons guest stars, but
there’s something odd about most of the ones who haven’t died yet. All of their
deaths are listed as the same date.


THE SUICIDE ENGINEER 15K+




I recently received an email from Andrew that contained a recording of his
podcast that, to my knowledge, never aired. There was no explanation as to why
he had sent it to me. There was just a request that I distribute it. When I
tried to call him to find out what was happening, I was unable to get through.
The call didn’t go to voicemail; it just beeped twice and hung up each time that
I tried. Over the last few days I’ve called multiple times and have gone over to
his house twice, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Whenever I would try to
upload the podcast to a website as he requested, there would always be an error
message. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to properly upload. Because of
this, I wrote a transcript of the recording so that I could instead distribute
that. This is the first time that I’ve ever done anything like this, so I’m sure
that there are some errors in formatting. Andrew, if you’re reading this, please
let me know that you’re all right. —– ANDREW TALBOT On April 18, 2022, Carolyn
Blake committed suicide. Her body was found when her downstairs neighbor
reported water leaking through the ceiling. Thinking that there was a burst
pipe, the landlord had knocked at Carolyn’s door for nearly twenty minutes to
try to gain access to her apartment. It was easier to go in through her floor
rather than through the complaining tenant’s ceiling. She didn’t answer, and
after checking with his lawyer that this qualified as an emergency allowing him
to enter without permission, he unlocked the door using his master key and went
in to perform the repair. The landlord discovered her body in the bathroom. She
was lying fully clothed in the bathtub with her wrists slit. The water had been
left running, and it poured over the side of the tub like a waterfall as it
drained into the floor vent and soaked into the floor and wood trim. I didn’t
know Carolyn. It’s a small town, so I may have passed her in a store or bumped
into her in a restaurant, but I don’t remember if something like that did
happen. I’d like to say that her death had an effect on the community. Maybe
people holding a memorial, or even asking the town council to improve the way
mental health programs were handled to help prevent this sort of thing from
happening again. That’s what I’d like to say. What actually happened was, well,
nothing. Carolyn’s death was just a blip on the radar that the vast majority of
people didn’t even register. One of the exceptions to this was Ray Carsten. I
had known Ray since first grade, and while we had never been particularly close,
we had always been on friendly terms. When he called me three days after
Carolyn’s suicide, I quickly agreed to meet him at the same Denny’s that a large
group of us had gone to after every home baseball game in high school. [AUDIBLE
CLICK, FOLLOWED BY A SHORT HIGH-PITCHED BEEP] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Fuck. I
think… [Short pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Okay, maybe not. It might have just
been… [Short pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) Ray told me that he had known Carolyn
for a few years. They worked in the same office, and they had grown particularly
close while working on a project that had been assigned to them. One thing led
to another, and they began a relationship. The problem was that Ray was married.
Happily married, as he put it. I have my doubts about that since in my
experience happily married people don’t tend to have long term affairs, but
that’s what he told me. Because of this, he was worried that she might have left
something behind that could expose their affair and get back to his wife. At
some point she had introduced him to her mother, and he had convinced the
elderly woman to let him help with going through Carolyn’s things and getting
the necessary arrangements made. This had allowed him to rummage through her
late lover’s possessions with impunity. Her mother had been grateful for the
assistance and had thanked him profusely for it, if you can believe it. Ray had
managed to check everything except for Carolyn’s cellphone. It was password
protected, so he wasn’t able to find out what was on it. That’s why he came to
me. [SHORT BURST OF STATIC THAT CUTS OFF THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT SENTENCE]
ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) …arted this podcast about electronics and technology, I
never thought that it would lead to old acquaintances asking me to go through
dead people’s phones. That’s what Ray wanted me to do, though. He didn’t just
need me to unlock the phone. That would only have gotten him so far. Carolyn had
frequented multiple social media platforms, and she used dozens of different
apps that he knew of. What he needed was for me to go through everything and
make sure that all mentions of the affair were removed. At first I refused. I
was polite about it, but just the thought of doing what he was asking disgusted
me. He kept pressing. He told me that he had already wanted to end the affair
and had planned to do so, but she took her own life before he was able to. He
said that if the relationship was exposed it would hurt not just his wife, but
also their two children and they didn’t deserve to have that happen to them. I
eventually relented and agreed to do what he asked, under the condition that he
give me the phone and not be present while I worked. I had already started to
rationalize things in my head. We’re all exceedingly good at doing that when we
know what we’re doing isn’t right, aren’t we? I convinced myself that since Ray
wouldn’t be seeing anything, I would be protecting Carolyn’s privacy as much as
possible. That’s a load of bullshit, obviously. I would have actually been
protecting it if I hadn’t agreed to break into her cellphone in the first place.
[Pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I don’t know if I’m about to confess to a crime
here. Is it a crime to break into a dead person’s phone? Whether it is or not,
I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t wrong. It absolutely was. It’s just…
It’s just not what’s important right now. [Pause] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) It
wasn’t hard to unlock the cellphone. All I needed was to hook it up to a
computer and use a program that’s free and easy to find if you know where to
look. Most people would be surprised at how unsecure their supposedly secure
phones are. That goes for most pieces of technology in this day and age, but
you’re not here to listen to a lecture on proper tech security and I’m not here
to give one. I wasn’t sure where to start looking, so I opened the calendar and
began to check appointments and reminders. I didn’t find anything that had to do
with Ray. I moved onto the Notes app and once again came up empty. It wasn’t
until I started digging through her email that I found something of interest. I
probably should have realized that something was off when the inbox was
completely empty. Carolyn had been dead for three days. Anyone that uses their
email for everyday use can tell you that at least one or two spam emails will
get past your filter and wind up in your inbox over a three day period. At the
time I didn’t think of that. I was so preoccupied with hurrying up with what I
had agreed to do that my critical thinking skills didn’t have time to catch up.
When I checked the trash folder, I found hundreds, if not thousands, of
automated notifications that had been deleted. They were from all corners of
social media and content sites: YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Tik Tok, and many,
many more. Every notification was marked as having been read. I did a bit more
digging, and I found that they had all been sent within the span of a week. I
picked one at random and opened it. The notification was for a new comment on a
video that Carolyn had posted, and it wasn’t flattering to say the least. The
poster, screen name YrlGrl, had gone on a rant about how bad the video was and
that they were going to be unsubscribing from the channel because of continued
poor content. That’s greatly cleaning up the language that was used. The entire
post was phrased in such a way that it read like a personal attack. There was a
link to the video in question. I tapped on it and watched the first minute or so
of the video. It was a makeup tutorial that Carolyn had posted. It wasn’t
something that I was interested in, but judging by the number of views it had
and how many followers she had, it was definitely something that many others
enjoyed. Now that I had some context, I scrolled down to the comments to locate
the post by YrlGrl to see if other people had replied to it. I found the post,
but it wasn’t anything like the notification had said. It was instead a glowing
review that went out of its way to praise Carolyn and the content that she
provided. That was odd, obviously, but I figured that there had been two posts
and the negative one had been deleted. I began to doubt that theory as I went
through more of the notifications. All of them were bad, with many of them
bordering on hateful. When I would check the platform they were supposedly
hosted on, though, I would always find a positive post. Something very odd was
going on. I came to an email that was a response to a complaint that Carolyn had
filed with a site administrator about a particularly disgusting comment. The
administrator had sent back a response saying that they hadn’t found any
evidence of harassment, and that they had checked to make sure the comment in
question hadn’t been deleted or edited. They didn’t come right out and say it,
but it was strongly implied that they believed she was making the entire thing
up. She had attached two items to her original email. The first was a copy of
the original notification that she had received. The second was a screenshot
that she had taken of the comment. The image included a number of other comments
as well, all of which were negative. When I tracked down those comments,
however, none of them contained the same message. [LONG BURST OF STATIC. THERE
IS A LOW HUM ACCOMPANYING THE NOISE. THE SOUND MAKES ANDREW TALBOT’S SPEAKING
IMPOSSIBLE TO HEAR UNTIL IT ENDS] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) …wrote on Facebook about
how she was feeling down after the onslaught of negative comments. Her mother
and a number of friends replied to the post, and all of them basically told her
that she had become both a whiner and a disappointment in some extremely
colorful language. The messages were long and intense, and I felt myself growing
more and more sympathetic towards Carolyn. Nobody deserved the amount of abuse
that she was receiving, especially from the people that she was closest to. I
took a break for about an hour. At some point during the process, I had begun to
care less about helping Ray weasel out of his affair being discovered and more
about figuring out just what had caused this avalanche of hatred towards
Carolyn. None of the pieces, especially the comments seeming to magically change
between negative and positive, seemed to fit into a coherent image. [SHORT BURST
OF STATIC. THE HUMMING IS SLIGHTLY LOUDER THAN PREVIOUSLY] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)
…sten to it, but I figured that I’d already come this far. I clicked on the
voicemail and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t. What followed was a
nearly five minute long message from Carolyn’s mother berating her daughter. It
tore into every aspect of her life; there didn’t seem to be any line that the
woman wouldn’t cross. At one particularly horrible point, she stated very
matter-of-factly that the only reason that Carolyn had been born in the first
place was because she hadn’t been able to afford to terminate the pregnancy
after becoming pregnant from a man other than Carolyn’s father. I only managed
to get through half of it before I stopped the playback. I couldn’t stomach any
more than that. The second voicemail was from Ray. She had received it less than
an hour after getting her mother’s voicemail. If the first message had sickened
me, this one made my blood boil. In a very condescending tone, he proceeded to
talk about every flaw he saw in her in great detail. He tore into everything
from her intelligence to her looks to even her lovemaking skills. It was brutal
to listen to. It was almost a relief when he finally declared that their
relationship was over and hung up the phone. I was reaching for my own phone
even before the recording had ended. Friendship be damned, I wasn’t going to
help someone that could be that cruel to another human being. The number was
entered and my thumb was over Call when a thought made me pause. Ray had told me
that he had been getting ready to break off his relationship with Carolyn when
she had committed suicide. According to the voicemail he had left, though, he
had already done so. Why had he lied to me about that? There didn’t seem to be
any point to it. Had he been feeling guilty about his message having possibly
contributed to her taking her own life? I thought back to the mysteriously
changing online messages. I was starting to think that maybe- [LONG PULSING
SOUND, LIKE THE FLOW OF ELECTRICITY. THERE ARE QUIET WHISPER-LIKE NOISES IN THE
BACKGROUND] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I found that Carolyn had downloaded an audio
file the day before her death. A woman’s voice, quiet and level, played from the
phone’s speaker when I tapped on the file. It took me a few seconds to realize
that I was listening to an autonomous sensory meridian response recording, also
known as the much less taxing to say ASMR. For those that don’t know what that
is, it’s basically voices and sounds that are recorded in such a way as to
elicit a physical response from people. You know that odd tingling sensation
that you get sometimes in your head? ASMR recordings are supposed to trigger
that. A lot of people, a lot more than you probably think, use ASMR videos on
YouTube or audio recordings to relax and even fall asleep. They don’t work for
everyone, but many people swear by them and use them as part of their everyday
routine. After the stress that all of the sudden negativity in her life must
have caused her, it was no wonder that Carolyn had looked for something to help
relieve it. Rather than try to explain the recording on her phone, I’d like to
play a portion of it. A quick warning: there’s some questionable content in it,
so if that sort of thing bothers you, I’d recommend skipping ahead until you’re
past it. If I’m able to get this posted I’ll try to leave markers on the
timeline so you’ll know when it’s over. Here it is. I’m not going to reveal the
name of the person who made it or the source it was downloaded from, for reasons
that will be extremely obvious in just a bit. [RECORDED CONTENT BEGINS PLAYING.
IT IS A WOMAN’S VOICE, BARELY ABOVE A WHISPER] WOMAN’S VOICE Sometimes it’s best
to take a step back, take a deep breath, and try to let go of all that stress
that you’re feeling. I know that life can be hard sometimes, and we all have our
personal crosses to bear. It can feel like you’re being overwhelmed, like you’re
being smothered. It’s important to remember that there are always other people
that you can turn to when you need comfort and reassurance. [WHISPERS, BARELY
AUDIBLE, BEGIN IN THE BACKGROUND] WOMAN’S VOICE (cont.) Sometimes we need to ask
ourselves what we would do if we didn’t have those incredibly important people
in our lives. Imagine how lonely that would be. If everyone in your life had
turned against you, what would you do? I think that if everyone was turning
against me, I’d need to take a good hard look at myself. All of those people
couldn’t be wrong. What did they know that I didn’t? What was so wrong with me
that it invited such disdain and hatred? There would have to be something for
everyone to act that way. How about you? Have you ever experienced all of your
friends and family turning their backs on you? If so, did you look deep inside
yourself and figure out why you’re so repellent to others? I think that if it
was me, I would have to decide if the people I cared about were better off
without me in their world. After all, is my one life more important than the
happiness of all those other people? No, of course not. I love my family and
friends. I want them to be happy, much more than I want myself to be. If my
being gone was what would make them happy, then wouldn’t it be better for
everyone if I was just- [FINAL WORD IS LOUDER AND DISTORTED] WOMAN’S VOICE
(cont.) -DEAD? [RECORDING ENDS] ANDREW TALBOT There’s more, a lot more, but I’m
sure that you get the idea. I’m also sure that you know where this is leading. I
tracked down the site that Carolyn had downloaded the ASMR recording from, and
when I played it there it was nothing like the version she had downloaded. It
was instead focused on something called Reiki, which I’m not familiar with but
was clearly not something sinister. [Pause] In the Downloads folder I also found
a copy of a recent bank statement from her online account. It showed that the
account had contained a decent savings until a week before Carolyn’s death. At
that point it had gone to zero. The change in balance was listed as a teller
withdrawal. It was a lot of money to have been taken out in a single
transaction. Because of everything that I had come across so far, I was
immediately suspicious. I went through the phone’s call history for the date she
had downloaded the document and discovered that she had made a call to the
customer service number at the bottom of the statement. The call had lasted over
an hour. It seemed to me that Carolyn hadn’t been the person that emptied her
account, and when she had checked her account and seen that it was empty, she
had called the bank to get it corrected. In her final days Carolyn had been
under assault mentally, emotionally, and financially. It must have been hell.
This assault had obviously been engineered. I just couldn’t see how that would
have been possible. Online posts on major social media platforms that appeared
one way to someone but completely different to everyone else? Audio recordings
that were magically different for one download? And the bank withdrawal had been
a teller withdrawal, meaning that someone had gone into a physical bank location
and taken the money out of the account. How could that have happened? That
wasn’t even getting into the voicemails. As someone who has to regularly do a
lot of research in the tech industry, I knew that the message and recording
changes should have been impossible. It would technically have been possible to
target a single system like that, in this case a cellphone, but to do it in real
time? That’s where it crossed into the realm of fantasy. Even if there was a way
to do it, it would have required a lot of manpower. A huge conspiracy against a
single small town government employee didn’t make any sense. [A COMBINATION OF
DISTORTED STATIC AND LOUDER WHISPERS THAN PREVIOUSLY. THE WHISPERS ARE IN AN
UNRECOGNIZABLE LANGUAGE] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) One by one I went through all the
apps on Carolyn’s phone. I had completely abandoned the original plan of getting
rid of references to her affair with Ray. Instead, I was now solely searching
for other signs that her life and wellbeing had been tampered with. There were a
number of things that I found that I would have dismissed as unimportant if I
hadn’t specifically been looking for oddities. For example, her latest Instagram
posts had significantly less interactions than previous ones had, to the point
that there might as well have been nothing at all. The same went for her Tik Tok
account. Most concerning was that I started to see a pattern emerging on
non-social media apps as well. All of her content suggestions on Netflix and HBO
Max were depressing stories or contained characters that commited suicide. I
tried clicking on a few of Carolyn’s previously watched movies and shows that
weren’t these suggestions, but each time an error message would pop up saying
that the content wasn’t currently available and to try again later. The
suggested shows, however, would instantly start to play. [MORE DISTORTED STATIC
AND LOUDER WHISPERS. THIS TIME THE WHISPERS ARE IN ENGLISH, AND REPEAT THE WORDS
“ONE WAY” OVER AND OVER AGAIN] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I finally ran out of apps
to check with the exception of one. I had been purposely avoiding it. During the
hours that I had been going through Carolyn’s phone, I had been invading her
privacy. As I’ve said already, it wasn’t right and it’s not something that I’m
proud of having done. The last app would take that invasion of privacy one step
further, though. It was the feed and recordings from her home security cameras.
I forced myself to click on the app. There was no doubt in my mind that Carolyn
had been targeted and pushed over and over again until she had finally taken her
own life. I needed to collect every bit of evidence that I could and turn it all
over to the police. I’d probably get in trouble for what I had done, but it was
worth it to have the authorities look into whoever had done this to her. There
were only three camera footage recordings listed on the app. Each one had a time
and date stamp, and all of them were listed as having been captured when a
motion sensor was triggered. All of them were within a few days of Carolyn’s
suicide. Taking a deep breath, I started the first recording. It showed a woman
in her mid to late thirties walking towards the camera. The shot was at an odd
angle, and it took me a couple of seconds to realize I was watching footage from
a doorbell camera. I recognized the woman as Carolyn from her social media
pictures. She stopped a few feet from the camera and dug around in her pocket
before producing a set of keys. As she did so, her face tilted at an angle that
allowed me to see the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted. She
found the key that she was looking for and inserted it into the lock. When she
went to turn it, however, she struggled to do so. She fought with the lock for a
moment before stepping back and looking at the key she was holding. It was now
broken. She stared at it blankly before her face screwed up in anger and she
threw it to the ground. She leaned forward and placed her head against the door.
It was hard to tell from the angle, but I thought that she was crying. I felt
horrible for her. She was being put through so much, and it was clearly wearing
her down. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go through something like
that. The second recording was completely black, and it was impossible to see
anything on it. I assumed that there was some sort of error, but there was still
audio. Either the camera hadn’t properly recorded or it was just too dark for
the camera to illuminate. I could hear a series of odd whispers that were too
faint to make out words. There was also a humming noise that I couldn’t
identify. [Pause] If you’re still with me to this point, I’m hoping that means
that you understand that this isn’t some sort of elaborate joke or prank. I… I
get how this all sounds. It’s about to sound a lot worse. If you already think
that I’m crazy, you’re about to hear something that’s going to set that in stone
in your mind. If you don’t think that, you probably will soon. [MORE DISTORTED
STATIC. IT IS LOUDER THIS TIME. A HIGH-PITCHED MECHANICAL VOICE SAYS THE WORDS
“END ALL”] The third and final recording was from a camera in a hallway. It was
angled so that it was pointing through an open doorway. This was Carolyn’s
bedroom. The bed could be seen on the right side of the opening, and to the left
was a small table or desk with an open laptop on it. The image was that odd
black and white that you get when a security camera is in night vision mode.
According to the time stamp, the recording was taking place at 2:54am the
morning of Carolyn’s suicide. [A LONG MOMENT OF HEAVY BREATHING WITH NOTHING
ELSE IN THE BACKGROUND] The… thing came into view from the left side of the
bedroom. It leaned down from the top portion, and at first I thought that it was
extremely tall. That wasn’t the case, though. I’m going to try to describe it.
I’m sorry if I don’t make a lot of sense while I’m doing so. Every time I’ve
tried to do so it feels like the limits of the English language make it
impossible to do so properly. It was being lowered by thin sinuous tendrils. The
creature itself was… Fuck, how do I put this. It was only a few inches wide, but
was the height of a person. It was like the head and body were just a mask and
covering being manipulated by the tendrils rather than an actual figure. Three
arm-like appendages reached out towards the bed, each ending in thin delicate
strands that acted as fingers. Because of the circumstances of the recording,
with it being so dark and the low resolution of the camera’s night vision, it
was difficult to make out any further details. I was thankful for that. The
creature slowly pulled the blanket off of the bed. It released its grip and
allowed the cloth to fall to the floor. One of the appendages slowly stretched
out through the open door and into the hallway. The fingers touched a thermostat
attached to one of the walls and turned the dial all the way to the left. The
appendage retracted, and the creature pulled back up out of sight. Minutes
passed as the recording continued. I started to wonder if anything else was
going to happen when a pair of legs swung out over the side of the bed. Carolyn
got out of bed, her arms folded tightly over her chest as she visibly shivered.
She went out into the hallway and checked the thermostat. Turning it back to
where it was before the creature had adjusted it, she put a hand on the wall and
leaned against it for a moment. She looked like she was about to collapse from
exhaustion. She gathered herself and went back into the bedroom, picking up the
blanket before getting back into bed. The recording ended. [EXTREMELY LOUD AND
QUICK BURST OF STATIC] I watched it back… I don’t know how many times it was. I
just kept replaying it over and over again. No matter how many times I watched
it, I just couldn’t force myself to accept it. Not really. I’m trying to figure
out how to put this in a way that really explains how I was feeling. It was like
being in a car accident. When it happens, you know intellectually that you were
just in a collision. The evidence is right there in front of you: the twisted
metal, the broken glass, the smell of smoke. Even when you’re staring right at
the wreckage, though, there’s this weird disconnect that doesn’t allow you to
grasp what’s just happened to you. That was what I was experiencing while I
watched the security camera footage on loop. I’m not sure what viewing I was on
when I began to question why it was even happening at all. Why was this creature
pulling off a blanket and adjusting a thermostat? It seemed juvenile, something
on the same level as a college prank. I probably should have put it together
faster than I did, but my mind was still reeling. It wasn’t the actions
themselves that were important. It was the result. The creature was depriving
Carolyn of sleep. That was the last component it needed to push her past her
breaking point. The creature had made sure that all roads led to her taking her
own life. [A SERIES OF TICKING NOISES, LIKE THE SOUND OF A CLOCK TICKING BUT
SLIGHTLY DISTORTED] ANDREW TALBOT (cont.) I haven’t taken any of this to the
police. That was my original intention, and I would if I thought that it would
do any good. The problem is that none of this can be corroborated. I have, what,
some screenshots that the sites themselves said weren’t accurate and a couple of
grainy videos? From their perspective I would just be the nutjob podcast host
that’s using a tragic event to drum up interest in his show. This is where
Carolyn Blake’s story comes to an end. It’s unfortunately not where the story as
a whole does. Twenty-four hours ago, I found out that Ray Carsten committed
suicide. A single gunshot wound in the right temple. The moment before the
trigger was pulled he was there, and the moment after he wasn’t. I called his
wife to offer my condolences. We got to talking, and I don’t know if it was the
grief or some need to get it off her chest or what, but she told me that the day
before he died a woman had shown up on their doorstep while Ray was at work. The
woman had presented her with a stack of pictures and email records showing in
great detail that Ray had been having an affair. That same woman had then
identified herself as Carolyn Blake. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two
together. The creature from the security footage had gone after Ray, and it had
once again been successful. This morning, I woke up to a text on my phone
alerting me that my checking account was overdrawn. Thousands of dollars were
just… gone. I also received notice that my podcast is currently suspended while
it is being investigated for violating the terms and conditions of the hosting
site. It’s my turn to be targeted. I’m hoping that because I actually know
what’s happening, I will be able to get through what’s about to come my way.
That’s what I hope. There’s no way of knowing what plan the Suicide Engineer has
for me. [STATIC WITH THE SAME TICKING NOISE AS BEFORE. THE NOISE GOES ON FOR
SOME TIME BEFORE THE RECORDING ENDS]


MY WIVES DON’T GET ALONG 8K+




Have you ever wanted to love someone, but couldn’t? That’s how I felt about
Tammy. We never should have gotten together in the first place, but it was her
birthday and I didn’t know what I was getting myself in for. She invited all
five of us from the office and I was expecting to just have a drink and go home.
Fast forward to the bar, half an hour past when we were all supposed to meet,
and every time her phone buzzed I knew it was another person canceling at the
last minute. But she was glowing with warmth that wasn’t dampened by her
disappointment, and I had nowhere else to be, and hours can melt together so
fast when you’ve found someone to be lonely with. Tammy blamed herself for how
the party turned out in a vicious, self-deprecating way that left me scampering
to reassure her. And the harder she was on herself the kinder I had to be, until
somehow without meaning to I called her beautiful because I couldn’t bear her
thinking otherwise for another minute. The way her face lit up in response was
proof that I wasn’t lying, and the way she smiled back made me feel like it was
the first time she’d ever really believed those words. Tammy stayed close to me
as we were leaving together. Close enough to feel her breath on my neck. Then
her arms were wrapped around my arm and her warmth wasn’t just something to be
imagined anymore. Just to keep her balance, she said, but no amount of steadying
herself was enough for her to let go. She’d been drinking after all, and needed
someone to drive her home… Well I think she really was beautiful that night, and
the more of her she trusted me to see, the more beautiful she became. But love?
It wasn’t her fault that she came to love me, and it wasn’t my fault that I
couldn’t feel the same. A starving man doesn’t care what he eats though, and the
lonely will cling to anyone who makes them forget what it’s like to be alone.
Tammy and I stayed together, and the phrase “maybe this is what love is supposed
to feel like” kept hoping up in my head. Tammy treated me with devotion and
smothered me in kindness, and the longer we stayed together, the harder it
became to imagine my life being any other way. Tammy would do anything to keep
me, and she reminded me every day. I could think of no better way to thank her
than with everything I had to give. She was nothing but joy on the day I asked
her to marry me, and basking in that light I told myself that her happiness
would be enough for the both of us for all my years ahead. Then there was my
other wife. The one with the shaved head. The one with the nose rings, and the
leather jacket, and the tattoo of snake twisting from one thigh to the next. I
don’t know if you could call Zara beautiful—certainly not in the same way you
could Tammy—but you could call her other names and they’d all turn her on. I met
Zara in another town where my company headquarter’s was. I had to go once a
month, every month, but it didn’t take long before I found an excuse to go every
weekend instead. Tammy was pregnant, and I wasn’t proud about what I was doing.
But neither was I ashamed, because any guilt I should have felt was a drop in
the ocean that was love. Zara was everything I’d never known I’d wanted. She was
wild, unrestrained, insatiable. She was a witch who put me under her spell, a
demon who had claimed my soul. These are the types of excuses I’d tell myself
whenever the guilt began to crawl up my spine. When I’d hold Tammy at night I’d
tell myself stories of all the mad things men have ever done for love I’d put
myself in their noble company. And when I fell asleep, I’d dream of being back
with the girl whose touch was fire. A weekend was never enough to spend with
Zara, and every time was harder to leave than the last. I couldn’t leave Tammy
with the child though, and the anxious worry that this had to end began eating
away at me night and day. I kept them both a secret from each other, swinging
back and forth, barely trusting myself to call one by name without my tongue
betraying me with the other’s. The more the pressure grew the more insecure and
defensive I became, until one day by surprise Zara told me she was jealous of my
time. She didn’t want me to leave again. She wanted to be my wife, and fool that
I was, I told her that I wanted the same. It wasn’t a very official wedding—Zara
wasn’t into that sort of thing. Our hands were clasped in the forest and our
feet were in the stream when I placed a ring upon her finger. My life as I knew
it had ended forever, and I couldn’t imagine anything but happiness to come. I
told myself then that I would make one last trip to end things with Tammy. She’d
be better off alone—I wanted to believe—than with someone who didn’t need her
anymore. I would do my part and help pay for the child, and I wouldn’t need much
money because nothing I could buy would fill my heart the way holding Zara did.
Tammy would cry, but I wouldn’t break, and in five years time—in ten years
time—when I’m old and grey with shaking hands—I’ll hold Zara all the tighter
knowing that I was almost too weak to follow my heart. And maybe that’s how it
would have gone if Zara hadn’t followed me back. She thought she would surprise
me by making the trip to help me move. She thought she was being clever by
calling my work and pretending to be a client setting up a meeting at my home.
How could she have known that Tammy was home while I’d gone to the store to pick
up some things for our new born child? The police were home before I was. The
weeping young mother and the screaming punk—it wasn’t hard for them to figure
out what happened. The knife-slashed curtains and the shattered plates—there
must have been quite a fight to be loud enough for the neighbors to call the
cops. The blood-stained carpet and the dirty tracks into the nursery—there was
no way to hide the evidence, or mistake what happened to my daughter who was
slashed into ribbons before she’d ever learned her name. Zara and I never spoke
again. Not even at her trial where I was called as a witness. I couldn’t even
meet her eyes when I told the jury about the affair, that I’d loved her, and
that I knew it was wrong. I told them that Zara had been jealous, that she’d
killed the child, and that I never wanted to see her again. The only thing that
could have been harder to bear was when Tammy forgave me. She said it wasn’t my
fault. That I’d made a mistake. That we could learn to be happy together again.
And I believed her, because as heavy as this weight was for me to bear, I knew
that I couldn’t bear it alone. That was almost twenty years ago, and Tammy and I
have moved past it the best we could. We had two more children, both boys. I’m
glad of that, because if we’d had a girl I don’t think I could have looked at
her without thinking about the child who had been cut. If Tammy can still love
me after all that, then who am I to say that I can’t love her in return? Despite
everything I’d done to avoid being alone though, I know that it’s only a matter
of time. Tammy is sick, and she isn’t going to get better. I’ve been spending
every day at my wife’s side, and our youngest will be leaving to college in a
few weeks. Then it’s just going to be me and my regrets, thinking about the
words Tammy said to me last night. “I told you I’d do anything to keep you, and
I did,” she told me. “If you didn’t think Zara killed our daughter, you never
would have stayed with me. I had to do it, don’t you see? We’ve made each other
so happy through the years.” I always knew I never loved her, but it’s taken me
my entire life to find out why.


THE INFINITY GAME UNCALCULATED!




Has anyone ever played the Infinity Game? The one with the mirrors? Most people
don’t know it’s a game, they just think it’s a cool visual effect. Maybe it’s
different for me, being raised by witches. Not Halloween witches, but the ones
who practice Wicca. You can Google it if you really want to learn about them,
but I’m here to talk about the game. Most people don’t understand what it’s
capable of. They have no idea they’re standing at a locked door or what’s on the
other side. It’s almost like Wizard of Oz. If you can find your way to the
Mirror Master, you’ll be rewarded with a wish; but getting there is not an easy
journey… and you want to choose your words carefully. To play, you need at least
one other person, two standing mirrors, five black candles, a stick of chalk,
warm clothing, and a red armband. The red band is the most important thing to
remember. It’s not required to get in, but you shouldn’t leave without it. While
in the Mirror World, you must be wary of your reflection. Its only goal is to
take your place in the real world – meaning you will be trapped forever. It
cannot kill you, instead it will attempt to trick you. Never, ever speak to it.
It will be dressed like you, except its armband will be on the left. Whoever you
have waiting in the real world will be responsible for ensuring it doesn’t get
out. Choose someone you trust. Only your reflection can take your place, but
everything else you meet will try to kill you from sheer spite. If you die in
there, your soul will be trapped, and the mirror through which you entered will
shatter. Make sure your friend is aware a shattered mirror indicates they should
immediately destroy the other one as well. Though unlikely, there are a few
entities powerful enough to use this situation to their advantage. To be safe…
make sure the friend isn’t easily manipulated. Now that you have all the
supplies, draw a pentagram on the floor with space for the mirrors in the
center. Then put the lit candles on each point of the star. When everything is
in place, the reflection will appear as a never-ending hallway. Stand between
the mirrors and focus only on the infinite corridor. Soon you will notice a
shadow far behind your reflection. Focus on that, letting the world around you
fade. Do not look away or blink. Slowly begin to inch forward, but do not be
afraid of bumping into the glass. Think of it as platform
nine-and-three-quarters: you must know it’s going to work. When you feel a
drastic temperature drop, you can look at your surroundings. You are officially
inside the Mirror World’s lobby… though, I suppose it’s more like a bridge. It’s
what connects the two places, but my family calls it the lobby. This is where
you must proceed with extreme caution. The Mirror World is a backwards replica
of ours. Not only does that mean left is right; it also means beautiful,
thriving cities are dead and crumbling. If you are unable to enter, do not leave
the game unattended. Remove the mirrors immediately. The things that live there
can’t be described as “alive”, but they are desperate. My mother was supposedly
the only person to successfully return after seeing the Mirror Master. Growing
up, I was told no one has ever met him; but when Mom (Ellen) died two months
ago, I found her diary. My amazement grew with each passage as she described her
own experience with the Infinity Game. Her first entry is from six months after
having her first-born, John. He was sickly and doctors said he wouldn’t live to
see his first birthday. She was aware of the game’s dangers, but she didn’t
care, not if it could save her son. I will copy the relevant entry here. Let it
serve as warning to any who wish to play – even the winners lose. ——————————
From the Diary of Elle Pierce: I hoped to never open this diary again. I
purchased a new book for the start of our new lives, but instead of writing on
crisp, clean pages, I continue here. The tear-stained memorial to the darkest
six months of my life was to be buried under decades of beautiful memories, yet
here I am. I won the stupid game; we should be far away from this place,
beginning anew, not… here. There is only hate and pain left in my heart.
Everyone told me not to go, but I didn’t have a choice. Each time someone said,
“you can always have more children” my heart ached with fury. I was prepared to
risk my own life, but not for this. Not to feel the joy of knowing my son would
survive, only to have it ripped away again. I thought I would be different, but
now I write this only to warn others. I hope that vile creature never wins
another soul. I entered easily, feeling the temperature drop as if exiting a
heated room into an Arctic tundra. I always imagined a chill in the air, but
this was cold enough to see my breath. Behind me was a mirror, and in it I saw
Thomas. He appeared to be in shock; his mouth hung open, as he waved. It would
have been funny under different circumstances. I think the strange hallway is an
in-between place. Both sides are lined with identical, white doors, and I didn’t
know which to choose. I couldn’t see the end of the hall, it still appeared
infinite. I tried the closest doors, but they were locked. There were no
keyholes, just solid, knobs. I walked down the corridor, feeling more nervous
each time I looked back to see Thomas farther away. There was no way to track
the passage of time; electronics won’t work there. I don’t know how long I
walked before I heard the soft click of a door opening, but I no longer saw home
when I turned around; instead, I saw my reflection. She was wearing her armband
on the left, just as the legend said. I know I should have been afraid, but I
found it comforting. It meant the stories were true, that John had a real chance
at surviving. I would have gladly traded my own life for his, but that’s not how
the game works. My reflection called to me, “Are you lost? You need to go this
way.” She indicated the open door where she emerged. I knew not to respond. I
remained silent as she tried again. “Hello? What’s wrong, are you deaf or just
rude? … Fine, I don’t care if you want to spend eternity trying to open locked
doors.” She shrugged and began walking in Thomas’ direction. I could not follow,
I had to trust my husband to tell the difference. She would return when she
failed to deceive him. I couldn’t go the way she recommended but wanted to look
inside. I walked back to the open door, keeping a healthy distance. Standing in
the center of the hall I tried to peer inside, but it was too dark to see
anything. I wasn’t even outside yet, and I was already cracking under the
pressure. Were the other doors all really locked? How long before something
worse found me? It was then I realized, why do they call this a game? “Game”
implies there’s a way to move forward, clues to follow… That’s when I understood
how literal the stories were. If everything is the backwards, shouldn’t I go to
the door opposite the one indicated by my reflection? I reached for the other
doorknob, holding my breath as I felt it turn beneath my hand. It opened
effortlessly though I know it was locked before. It opened to reveal our
kitchen, where Thomas and I chose to set the mirrors. The light was dim,
everything was reversed, but it was also filthy. Worse – instead of finding my
husband, I found a horrifying, twisted, old man. His back was hunched, his teeth
and nails were yellow, and his red face contorted in hatred. I was frozen with
fear as his icy gaze bore into my soul. “What the hell do you think you’re doing
here?!” He screamed, spit flying from his mouth. In my terror, I couldn’t
remember if it was against the rules to talk to anyone besides your reflection,
but I didn’t want to risk it. I took a few steps to my left, hoping to get to
the door before he could block my exit. “Don’t you dare ignore me, tramp!” The
old man croaked in a raspy, hoarse voice. He reached under the table, retrieving
a long, metal cane. Thankfully he was slow as he looked. I ran around him,
through the swinging door to the den. He was still cursing me as I continued out
the front door. At the end of the driveway, I noticed my surroundings. The
neighborhood was in ruins; the yards were dead, and the houses were all
abandoned. It was my neighborhood, but it looked like a ghost town. None of the
cars worked; each one had busted windows, popped hoods, or slashed tires. It was
midnight back home; it should have been noon there, but it looked like dusk. I
understand why our reflections are so desperate to trade places. For some reason
I felt confident the old man wouldn’t follow me outside. Something gave me the
idea his part of the game was to guard that kitchen door for when I needed to
get home. I didn’t stay to test the theory, but now I’m pretty sure I was
correct. I was never told where to go once I made it this far; the stories were
all vague in that regard. The only thing I knew for certain was that it would
get worse before it was over. That’s when I realized how desperately I needed a
working vehicle, for speed and protection. I resigned myself to look for a
bicycle when I remembered the mechanic who lives three houses down. Every
weekend, his garage door is open, and he can be seen working on an old car. It
was hardly more than a body and wheels last time I saw it. If everything is
opposite… wouldn’t that car be in working condition here? Yes! It was. The damn
thing made me truly believe I could do it. Hope is dangerous. If something is
too good to be true, it probably is. I was so excited by the sight of the
pristine, red car, I forgot to be wary of danger. A strange creature I almost
mistook for a dog stood between me and victory. It was of similar size and color
to a German Shepard, but its mouth opened sideways to reveal extra rows of
teeth. I don’t know if its eyes were located elsewhere or it just didn’t have
any, but the ears looked hard, almost like rounded horns. I couldn’t discern a
nose either, but I’m sure it had one; I could hear it sniffing my scent. It gave
me a headache to look too closely, like my brain was rejecting the very sight of
it. My eyes frantically searched for anything to use as a weapon, but there was
nothing nearby. My heart sank as I realized it would come down to a race I held
no chance of winning. Stealing a quick glance at my surroundings, I saw the only
chance was to run for the door and hope it’s unlocked. Otherwise, I would be
eaten by a dog monster. I tried to mentally prepare myself when a long,
high-pitched whistle turned the creature’s growls to whimpers. It wasn’t
pleasant to my ears either, but I enjoyed seeing its effect. The noise continued
until the dog-thing ran out of sight. I didn’t see the source of the sound at
first, but I didn’t have to wait long. My reflection walked into view, smiling
proudly. She stopped several feet away but remained silent. I was confused until
I almost asked why! My mouth opened wide, froze, then slowly closed. She hoped I
would talk without thinking. Plus, if I die this quick, she can’t escape. In her
own way, she’s more terrifying than the monsters. “Uh-oh, almost had you that
time, haha! You might want to find yourself a weapon before you run into
anything else. Hey, do you even know which way to go?” She spoke like we were
best friends. I was too afraid to shake my head or shrug; it seemed like the
kind of place that thrived on loopholes. Instead, I stared at her feet, willing
her to say a direction so I could go the opposite way. “You look lost, do you
need a map? I could draw one for you… come on, just nod or something; I’m trying
to help!” She stomped her foot in frustration. To me, that was confirmation
about the loopholes… or maybe she could read my mind. Either way, I wasn’t
trying it. “Be that way! I don’t care if you want to live or not, but it’s a
shame the kid has to die just because you won’t ask for help.” She shrugged and
began walking away. Those words hit me like a freight train at the time, but now
that the words carry the added weight of truth, I feel as if they will crush me.
Controlling my temper as she left was one of the most difficult parts of that
nightmare. So many times, I wondered if punching her counted as communication,
but John’s life was not worth the risk. That is when I vowed to break every
mirror I saw for the rest of my life. A vow I have thus far made good on. When
she was well out of sight, I discovered my next obstacle would be to find keys.
The car was locked, but the house was not. Knowing something would be inside, I
took a large crowbar from the garage. I crept in the back door, staying low. I
was in an empty kitchen, hoping for a nice key-hook by the door, but couldn’t be
so fortunate. The room smelled of the rotten food on every counter and flies
were swarming something that looked like raw meat. I choked down the vomit
threatening to erupt and focused on John. This experience was nothing compared
to the idea of losing him. I made my way into a den with a broken tv and
rough-looking leather furniture. From where I stood, a recliner was directly in
front of me with a couch on either side, all angled toward the television in the
center. Small, dirty tables sat on each end of the couches, and my heart skipped
a beat when I saw car keys atop one by the recliner. Forgetting my fear, I
reached down quickly, only to scream myself hoarse when a cold, skeletal hand
shot out from the chair, grasping my wrist. It had a grip of steel; for a moment
I thought it would break my arm. I lashed out desperately with the crowbar,
making contact with whatever was on the other side of that recliner. The instant
its grip released, my hand closed around the keys, and I ran for the car. It was
pure luck the dog-monster hadn’t returned, because I didn’t stop to check before
flying outside. As soon as the car door closed, I hit the lock button three
times and performed a thorough inspection of the back seat. Satisfied there were
no unexpected passengers, I was ready to go. There was a horrific moment of fear
the car still wouldn’t start as I inserted the key, but it roared to life like
it was brand new. Hell, it probably was. It really is just like King’s Quest.
Find a clue, find an item, solve a puzzle, escape danger, advance, repeat to the
boss fight. Careful Elle, your nerd is showing. Look at me, I made a joke. Never
thought that would happen again. I went to the end of the driveway and hit the
brakes, realizing I didn’t know which way to go. In a game, when there’s
multiple paths, they usually all come out to the same place… or one is a deadly
trap with no escape. Of course, you usually know your destination… That’s when
it hit me! If I’m playing a game where the goal is to cure a sick boy, where
would the boss fight take place? A hospital! You would want the best doctor with
the best equipment! I turned left, toward the best hospital in the state. When
John was born, we moved three hours away from our hometown to be near it.
Fifteen minutes away was the closest residence we could find, and it seemed good
at the time, but now it felt like hours. I didn’t know what the roads would be
like, but I knew it wouldn’t be good. I could have never imagined the level of
destruction as I saw that day. Our normally smooth, paved streets were filled
with large potholes, some big enough to get stuck in if I wasn’t careful. The
buildings were in various stages of demolition; none looked to be inhabited, but
I’m sure they were. The beautiful plants and trees that once lined the medians
were brown and dead. I kept careful watch on my surroundings, worried something
would come charging from a dark alley as I slowly steered around potholes.
Luckily, it only happened once, close to the halfway point. I was preparing for
another tight squeeze when I heard a scraping sound from behind. In the
rear-view mirror, I saw another deformed-looking man. This one was younger with
long, greasy hair and burned skin. The sound was from the steel bat he was
dragging, and one of those weird dog-monsters tagged along like his pet. If the
roads were decent, I could outrun them easily, but I knew they would catch me if
I drove into the middle of that bad patch. I slowed down even more, letting them
get a little closer to the decent section of the road. I don’t think they are
capable of intelligent thought; they did not hesitate when I began reversing,
nor did they make any attempt to move when I ran them down. I aimed for the man,
considering him the main threat, but the beast was only stunned. There was a
moment I thought it was over when the car stalled on top of the corpse, but the
wheels found traction when the beast collided with the rear-end. I’m not sure
how he avoided going under the wheels as I flew backwards, but it wasn’t
touched. I shifted into drive and punched the gas, trying once more for the
dog-monster but still missing. Going fast as I dared, I ran over the man once
more… just to be sure… before coming to a cautious stop. I hated not knowing
what the dog-thing was doing but felt fairly certain it ran away to lick its
wounded pride. I didn’t doubt I would see it again, but that was a problem for
later. I made it to the hospital without further attacks, parking in front of
the main entrance. The sight of it did not inspire confidence. It was in worse
condition than anything I had seen yet. That’s when I realized I made a terrible
mistake. Everything is opposite… the best hospital would be the worst. I needed
our world’s worst hospital. I jumped back into the car, making my way to the
free clinic on 3rd. If my theory was right, it would probably hold the cure for
cancer. A flock of zombie birds attacked the car at one point, but they didn’t
cause much damage. I knew I’d made the right decision the moment I entered the
bad side of town… well our world’s bad side. In this world, it was full of
lavish manors; the clinic was immaculate and double its normal size. I parked on
the curb and ran for the entrance. It was starting to get darker, but I didn’t
understand how. There should have been hours of daylight left. Then, once again,
as if reading my mind, the Bitch was back. “Gosh, are you just now getting here?
You better hurry; time is running out fast.” She teased. I had never heard of a
time limit. I ached to taunt her with the obvious failures to deceive Thomas. If
she was still there, it meant she couldn’t fool him; the thought filled me with
strength. I turned my back on her and walked inside, but she followed. “You know
that right? That when it gets dark – the hourglass stands empty? Well, not
literally, but I like the expression. Anyway, I just wanted to check, because it
seems like most people from your world are ignorant to that detail.” She said
nonchalantly. The more I considered it, the more it made sense. Most games do
have time limits… and being in this place after dark does have a sort of “game
over” vibe. Unfortunately, I couldn’t ask questions and I had to keep moving. I
thought she would leave again, but she continued to follow at a careful
distance. “Don’t mind me, I just want to see the big climax. Your sweetie was
too smart, there’s no point chatting with him anymore.” I didn’t give her the
satisfaction of looking back. Seeing a map of the hospital, I stopped to study
the layout. Of course, I needed to the top floor. It couldn’t be right here on
the ground floor, no, heaven forbid. I walked to the elevator, but noticed my
reflection was gone. The doors chimed and slid open, I put one foot inside, but
pulled it out quickly. Did I really want to walk into a metal box in a bizarro
world where there’s no one to help if I get trapped inside? I looked around and
saw a nice, open stairway. The empty elevator closed behind me as I made my way
to the stairs. I held onto the rail all the way up – losing because of a fall so
late in the game would be too insulting to live with. I’m glad I did too,
because my reflection jumped out screaming, “boo” the moment I reached the top.
I wonder if anyone has tried to murder their reflection… I’ll have to look into
that one day. I held my crowbar at the ready as I passed her, it felt glued to
my hand after so much time. My reflection was tailing me a little closer,
getting desperate, I’m sure. When I reached the reception desk for the
children’s ward, she took a seat in the waiting area. She grinned when she saw
me watching, giving me two thumbs up and a wink. “You go girl! I’m rooting for
you!” More confused than ever, I went through the double-doors in search of the
doctor… or Mirror Master I guess… terrible name. They had no imagination back in
the day. I would have named him the Greedy Gremlin… okay maybe that’s not much
better, but it is better. He wasn’t hard to find. I stood in a dark hallway and
bright lights shone under the swinging doors ahead. I’d come too far to stop
then. I could feel my heart thumping in my ears with every step. When I walked
into the light, it was so bright I had to shield my eyes. Then, with the snap of
someone’s fingers, they faded to normal indoor lighting. The only person in the
room was the doctor I see on tv… the one on the ridiculous commercial with that
annoyingly catchy tune. I can’t remember his name… you know, the really fat,
bald guy with glasses? It’s not important, it wasn’t how he… she… it looked
anyway. It threw me off though, and the surprise must have shown on my face.
“Ahh not what you were expecting? Me either. Who is this anyway?” The doctor
asked, examining his own appearance. “You… you don’t know who you are?” I
stammered. “Ugh, of course I know who I am, girl! I appear however one’s mind is
comfortable seeing me… but it’s usually not… this.” He cringed. “What, wait… how
could…” I tried to ask. “No, you aren’t here for magic lessons, and I don’t give
them anyway. You came here because you want something desperately enough to risk
your life for it. I find that utterly delicious, so tell me, what do you want.”
“You mean… I just tell you… and you, do it? I don’t have to… I don’t know, solve
a riddle or kill a monster?” I couldn’t believe it could be so simple. “Oh! I’m
sorry! Was finding me too easy for you? Were my pets not vicious enough, my
dear? Well, worry not! For next is the best part yet. The longer you are here,
the darker it gets. The darker it becomes, the more of my pets you’re likely to
see. Most of them are nocturnal, but they’ll be awake and ready for breakfast
any moment now.” He was a lively talker; his voice was booming with pride and
his hand gestures were all over the place. I could only stand there, horrified
and speechless. “Come now, what’s your wish? Weren’t you listening? You should
probably pick up the pace.” He grinned, and his teeth were no longer the normal
teeth of the tv doctor, but sharp, brown fangs. “My son is dying. I want you to
cure him.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “My, that’s a tricky one. Money,
love, fame, – those things are easy; murder is the easiest, but life? That is
very tricky indeed. It disrupts the natural order.” He was enjoying himself.
“Please, I’ll do anything.” I begged. “Well… there is this one way it could
work… if, you’re sure; there is no turning back.” He paused, stretching the
suspense until I vigorously shook my head in agreement. “Very good then.” With a
snap of his fingers, a scroll appeared in one hand and a pen in the other. It
was the kind of pen you dip into ink, but I never saw one before that moment.
“Sign here, please.” One flick of the wrist and the long scroll opened, falling
to the floor between us. I picked up the bottom end, eyes scrolling over the
millions of tiny, printed words jammed together on the paper. At the very end
was a “sign here” line. “If I sign this, it’ll cure my baby? He will be in – and
stay in – perfect health?” I would not see my son cured of one sickness only to
fall ill the following week. “Absolutely! In fact, with this contract, your boy
will be immune to all disease.” He assured. My heart sang at the words, and if
the cost of saving John happened to be my own life – as I suspected – it was a
price I’d happily pay. I reached for the pen, and with a stab too fast for my
eyes to see, the doctor pricked my finger. A large drop of blood fell onto the
paper, and with another snap, the contract vanished. “It’s been a pleasure doing
business! By the way, to cure your son, I had to borrow half his father’s
remaining lifespan. Tootles.” The doctor disappeared with a final wink. I hope I
never see his wretched face again. His words made my blood run cold, but I
couldn’t stop to do math right then. Terrified of what would be chasing me, I
ran back to the waiting room area. My reflection was waiting for me at the doors
to the waiting room, smiling. I shoved on the doors with all my strength, but
she had me locked in. I used my adrenaline to smash the glass door to the
reception counter with my crowbar. My arms and legs were cut getting through,
but I didn’t have time to worry about blood loss. I flew over the counter,
ignoring the shocked look of my reflection. As I made my way down the stairs, I
saw several more zombie-looking people coming out of various rooms. I almost
didn’t make it back to the ground floor when a kid with no legs managed to grab
my ankle. The only thing that saved me was the crowbar catching the rail I
tumbled. When I finally made it to the entrance, I saw the car was turned onto
its side and several more zombie and dog-things were waiting close by.
Remembering the hospital map, I decided to take a chance on the ambulance bay. I
was betting they would have owned at least one junked out ambulance that would
run in this world. If they didn’t, I would likely have died there. Not even
someone with machine guns could survive on the streets now. I cried when I saw
it. There was one ambulance that appeared in working condition and I was lucky
enough for the keys to be inside. I still checked in the back to make sure it
was empty, but that almost got me killed too. I slammed the back doors just in
time to avoid one of the dogs jumping in. The ambulance rocked side to side from
things trying to get in as I strapped myself into the driver’s seat. It was my
first time driving anything bigger than a car; I think it would have been a
bumpy ride under normal conditions. There were several times I thought the
ambulance would tip over. The worst was close to the end. I was almost back in
my neighborhood when I heard the roar of another engine right before it crashed
into my bumper. I went off the road, missing a huge crater by inches, before
regaining control. The truck driven by my reflection reversed to follow. I did
something desperate. I waited for her to get right behind me, almost touching,
and accelerated. As I hoped, she too sped up, trying to position herself to
force me into a fishtail. At the last possible second, I closed my eyes and
swerved away, once again becoming dangerously close to flipping over. Behind me,
the Bitch couldn’t react in time. The truck she found was pointed nose down in a
deep crater, its back end hanging out at a steep angle. My house was surrounded
by hideous creatures. Most didn’t appear human or animal. I couldn’t tell what
the warped things were supposed to be. Some of them had several limbs… or
appendages… some had none. One looked like a huge floating eyeball, and another
looked like a snake with two heads. I didn’t see a way inside; I couldn’t
believe I came all this way just to lose here. At the very least, I wanted to
kill as many as possible before I died. That’s when a plan occurred to me. I
reversed to position myself for a straight shot through our den. The house was
now termite infested anyway; even if we didn’t have the huge windows, I’m sure
the walls would have been weak enough to drive through. I felt like I was
operating a tank as two of the creatures fell beneath the wheels. It was a
strange sight as the walls crumbled around me, and the sound was terrible, but I
didn’t stop to enjoy the view. When the ambulance couldn’t go any farther, I
climbed out the passenger window and dove through the kitchen door without
looking to see what followed. The moment I saw the kitchen, my eyes searched for
the old man, but he saw me first. Pain blossomed behind my eyes as something
struck me over the head. I fell to the ground, dazed, but managed to keep a grip
on the crowbar. I feigned unconsciousness until the old man grabbed one of my
ankles. I sat up, swinging wildly, and enjoyed the wet smack of contact. His
black blood sprayed, and I wasted no time getting to my feet. As I made it to
the exit, more creatures burst into the room. I rushed through the door, hoping
it locked behind me. I held my breath as the door shook furiously, but nothing
was able to follow. I breathed a sigh of relief and began feeling my injuries in
earnest. I had several deep gashes on my arms and legs, my head was bleeding
badly, and my wrist was swelling. Grateful to still have the armband, I began
making my way to the mirror entrance. I only made it a few steps when I heard
the soft click of another door behind me. “I hope you didn’t expect to be rid of
me that easily.” Her voice no longer sounded like mine. It was deeper,
distorted. I turned to see she now had the same ghoulish-zombie appearance as
those other things. Did she always look that way? Did I only see me because
that’s what I expected? Like the doctor? I hope someone solves the mysteries of
that place one day. There are still so many unanswered questions. I ran for my
life, focused on Thomas and John. I heard her footsteps gaining as she screamed
at me. “Have you figured it out yet? Wait up, I’ll explain it to you! If you
divide the lifespan in half, it means they have the same amount of time to live!
Do you get it? Wait up!” She cackled an evil, dark, laugh. It sounded unnatural
in her garbled voice. Humans should not be able to make the sounds her laughter
made. I was so focused on the light at the end of the corridor, I didn’t
understand what she was telling me. I heard her footsteps closer with every step
but couldn’t look back. Her howling laughter followed me all the way home. When
Thomas saw me, his eyes lit up with relief, then fear and anger as he saw my
appearance and that of the thing chasing me. I saw him step away from the
mirror, allowing me to exit. I went through the mirror like an Olympic diver.
The second I was out, I turned to see Monster-Me collide into the glass,
bouncing off like rubber. Now that I was back, the doorway was closed for her.
Before she could rise, Thomas shattered the glass. He shattered the second one
just to be safe, but for the record, could have simply blown out the candles and
erased the pentagram. It wasn’t until several hours later, after I explained
everything to my husband, that we understood what she was trying to tell us. If
they had the same amount of time to live; they would die at the same time. I was
devastated. I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle losing both at once. We are so
young… I thought we would still have many years… I never dreamed… I couldn’t
believe… Thomas and John passed away two weeks later. John was crying in the
night; Thomas felt badly for my lack of sleep… so he took the baby for a drive.
It calmed John… and it was only a few times around the block… but this time a
drunk driver ran a stop sign. See? It was all for nothing. ——————————— My mother
met my father four years later. It took a while for her to have a normal life
again, but I always felt like we were a happy family. She was a terrific mom; I
had no idea such terrible things were in her past. Dad didn’t know the full
story either; only that she had a husband and baby killed in a wreck before he
met her. I can’t blame her for not wanting to tell me, she knows how much I love
a challenge. While no, I don’t think I’ll visit the Mirror World anytime soon,
it would be nice to learn more about it. Like she says, there’s still so much we
don’t know, and personally, I have a long list of questions. Besides, it sounds
fine if you don’t make a wish, right? I’ll just leave this here for now in case
anyone else knows anything.


BEWARE THE WENDIGO 4.2K+




Algonquin legends say the wendigo was once a man like you and me. Poisoned by
greed and gluttony, the man turned into a pale, gaunt creature with sunken eyes,
reaching limbs, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Always hungry, the
wendigo searched constantly for its next meal. The truth, however, is much
worse. My name is Charles Keeper, and I was an investigative reporter for a
local paper in Wisconsin. If that sounds impressive, then you have the
completely wrong idea about my career. Mostly they sent me out to the
middle-of-nowhere to investigate supernatural events and creatures. Half of the
people I talked to were pulling their bullshit stories out of their ass, and the
other half were hopelessly deluded. Not exactly a perfect job. But hey. Whatever
puts food on the table, right? My last investigation brought me to a small town
nestled deep in the northern forests of Wisconsin. So the curious among you do
not seek out this town, I will omit its name. Trust me. It’s for your own good.
In any case, the remote settlement made a small buzz after a young man living
with his mother reported two grisly murders: one he committed himself and
another he claimed was the work of the wendigo. The man, who I shall simply call
Robert, told authorities he heard a scream while hunting one evening. Following
the noise down one game trail, he found his neighbor half-eaten while a
skeletal, white creature stood over him covered in blood and gore. Robert shot
several rounds into the creature and then burned its body. The body of the
wendigo was later identified as that of a man who had gone missing almost
fifteen years prior. Robert never stood trial. To get a closer look at the full
story, I first met with Robert at his home. I realized it might not be the
smartest idea to visit a confessed murderer on his own property. However, I made
certain his mother would join us. Even a crazed killer would not hurt an
innocent reporter in front of his mother, or so I told myself anyway. Their home
was a shack battered and broken by time. Dust fogged the windows, and weeds
strangled the rickety porch. The front door, where Robert waited eagerly for me,
hung at an angle and swung to even the gentlest breeze. “You’re here,” Robert
said. He sounded surprised, but pleasantly so. His lips curled into a wide,
yellow-toothed smile and then faltered, falling into a gloomy frown. We shook
hands and headed into the living room to talk. The room smelled of spilled beer
and old deli meat. Robert invited me to sit on the couch, no doubt the source of
the dizzying stench. I didn’t plan on staying long. “Thank you for agreeing to
meet,” I said. “I know what you went through must have been difficult, so I
won’t pry too deep. But please, if you would, recount that day for me in as much
detail as you’re comfortable with. Our readers are eager to hear the truth.”
Robert shrugged. “Ain’t nothing. People deserve the truth, even if it’s hard to
hear.” “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. I forced a smile. “Truth be told. I’m
just happy someone wants to hear my story,” he said. “The newspapers. You read
them? They making me out as some lunatic killer.” “Well, I work for a
newspaper,” I said. “But we’re dedicated to all sides of the story. That
includes your side. So, whenever you’re ready.” I pulled out a notebook and pen.
Scratching his head, Robert glanced up and to the side. His brow scrunched
together as he struggled to recall his story. Real or fake? I didn’t know or
care. After some time, Robert shrugged again. “Nothing special about that day,”
he said. “I went out hunting. There’s some game trails back through the woods
there. Didn’t find nothing, of course, and night came all quick-like, so I was
just heading home.” “And that’s when you found your neighbor and the…?” He
nodded. “Wasn’t three yards from the backyard if you can believe it.” I
couldn’t. “At first, I didn’t see nothing. Like I said, night came all
quick-like. Clouds all across the sky, so not a moon or star to see. But I heard
it.” He made an unsettling sound like a dog gnawing on a bone. “Then down the
path I shine my flashlight. I see it…and Kev.” “Kev is your neighbor?” He
nodded. “And the creature-“ “The wendigo,” he corrected. “Yes. The wendigo. What
did it look like?” I asked. “It was tall with long, white limbs. Its skin was
stretched thin as if it didn’t fit its bones. And its eyes. They were sunken in,
you know? Like big, black pits. They were cold, dead. Nothing there but hunger
and hate.” His brow pinched together, and his mouth fell open. “Blood too. Blood
everywhere. On its arms, on its face, on its chest. And there Kev is.” He
cleared his throat, and muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch it.
“God bless him. He was just torn to shreds, and that beast, the wendigo, still
had bits of him in its teeth. Well, I got my Ruger, and I pumped five shots in
it. No hesitation.” “You and Kev were close?” “Good guy. We hunted together on
occasions. Ma says he went looking for me in the evening, wanted to ask me
something. Now I’ll never know what,” Robert said. He stared into the distance
and said nothing. I was beginning to wonder where his mother was. So far she
hadn’t made an appearance, and the longer the silence lingered, the more
uncomfortable I felt. Eventually, I made a curt cough. “And the five shots. Did
they kill the creature?” “Seemed so. Howled something awful and fell to the
ground,” Robert said. “But I don’t take no chances. I knew what it was as soon
as I saw it, and I know the legends. Only fire can kill a wendigo. So, I ran
back home, got some gasoline, and lit that fucker up.” His face spread into a
proud smile. “Hm,” I said. “The police identified the wendigo as –“ “Yeah I
know,” Robert interrupted. “But I didn’t know him.” “You think it was this man
or something else?” I asked. Robert shrugged. “Could be. They say the wendigo
used to be human.” A small, shriveled woman shuffled into the living room.
“Ain’t no human,” she said in a harsh, combative tone. “Ma,” Robert said. “I
told you before,” she said. “Wendigo just means ‘evil spirit.’ It ain’t no
human. I told you before Robby.” “You think it’s a spirit?” I asked his mother.
“I do,” she said. “You know how many people have gone missing over the past
fifty years? Five. Christ! We only have a hundred people in this town. Something
ain’t right with that forest. It ain’t natural. You want my advice? Don’t go
near it.” I chuckled. “Funny you should say that. I was just about to ask if
you’d show me where you found the wendigo.” “I can show you where the game trail
starts,” Robert said. “But even I won’t go down that way again. You’re not
thinking of looking around, are you?” His eyes twinkled with genuine concern.
Robert may have been a murderer, but I could tell he truly believed the story he
told me. I pitied him. “You already killed the wendigo. What do I have to fear?”
I said. The wrinkled, old woman scowled. “Don’t go looking for trouble,” she
said. “Cuz you’ll find it, and you’ll be sorry.” A good reporter would follow up
on the story with the police. If Robert’s mother was right, the town had too
many missing persons than could be explained. But I am not a good reporter. I
wanted to go home. It didn’t matter whether or not I got to the bottom of the
story. My readers would still eat the garbage up anyway. So, I went out into the
woods looking for more wendigos. One night in the forest, and I’d call the story
finished. It’s not like I expected to find anything. The forest was a forest.
Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Dead, brown leaves blanketed the
floor while reaching, black branches blinded the sky. And through the woods ran
a winding, dirt path, where Robert used to hunt. After walking up and down the
trail for an hour, a starless, moonless night had cast everything in shadow. So,
I made camp for the night. I set up a tent and lit a small fire to keep me warm.
Once the flames grew tall and bright, I pulled out my notebook. “Late in the
evening, I heard strange noises,” I wrote. “Rustling trees. Muffled chatter. A
shadow shifted among the silhouetted trees. It could’ve been a person or an
animal, but the hair on my neck stood straight up. I didn’t feel safe.” None of
it was true. I hadn’t experienced anything outside of the forest’s usual sights
and sounds. The fire cracked. I sighed. I was tired of spending nights alone in
the forest making up stories about fictional creatures. There are much better
ways to spend one’s time and make one’s money. I was still young. Maybe I could
switch newspapers and write something real for a change. I heard another crack.
Then another. This time they hadn’t come from the fire. I squinted into the dark
forest. It had to be some kind of animal. All sorts came out at night to forage:
possums, racoons, skunks, and so on. But as I searched into the woods, I saw the
branches bend and snap. The animal was large. A coyote perhaps. What else could
it be? Leaves rustled. The sound was close. Whatever it was, it was approaching
the fire. I looked long and hard for the source of the noise, and soon I saw an
inky shadow passing from tree to tree. “Robert?” I asked the dark figure. “Is
that you?” There was no answer. “Robert?” Nothing. Now I was growing afraid.
Against all logic, I entertained the possibility that maybe Robert and his
mother were right. Maybe there were such things as wendigos and evil spirits.
God, I hoped not. Just in case, I grabbed a log and lit one end in the fire.
Robert said only fire could kill a wendigo. It was probably bullshit. But, you
know, better safe than sorry. Before long, the noises stopped. I waited and
listened with the flaming log in hand. Minutes passed, one after another. But
the forest was silent. After several bated breaths, I relaxed. The campfire,
which I had all but forgotten about, had burned down to its last embers. The
dark coals smoldered faintly. So, I placed my makeshift weapon on top and tried
to coax the fire back to life. Just then, I heard the crunch of leaves close
behind me. I whirled around. But there was nothing. Only my tent trembling
slightly to a cool breeze. I built the fire into a great blaze, whose heat and
light gave me strength. For hours, I watched the flames dance and listened for
any noise big or small. Thankfully, I heard nothing. And by the time the fire
finally died, I was exhausted but calm. With my fears behind me, I headed into
my tent to rest. It was then I saw it for the first time: the wendigo. Its face,
not at all human, was a pallid skull adorned with gnarled, black antlers. To fit
inside the tent, the towering creature hunched over its limbs. But its body was
not pale or emaciated as Robert had described. At one look, it was solid, black
flesh with muscles wide and bulging. And at the next, it was a gossamer fog.
However, I didn’t get to look too long before it knocked me out cold with a
swipe to the head. I woke in a dingy cave with a raging headache and a chill
running down my spine. I was naked, bound to a rock slab, and utterly terrified.
Beside me were two other slabs, each with a pale, naked body on them. Even in
the dark, I could see the curve of their bones pressing so tight against their
skin I thought it might burst. They were dead. They had to be. Yet, when I
called out for help, the two bodies stirred suddenly as if waking from sleep.
“You’re…you’re alive? Oh thank god,” I said. “Where are we? How long have you
been here? What’s happening?” For all my questions, I only received anxious
grunts and groans in response. The two people craned their necks to look at me.
When I saw their faces, I shrieked in horror. They weren’t people. Not anymore.
Their eyes had receded into their skull, and their teeth had narrowed to beastly
points. Bloody sores spotted their hairless scalps, and scars marked their gaunt
cheeks. When they looked at me, they gnashed their teeth and licked their
tattered lips. I had no doubts Robert had seen one of these creatures. But why
were they tied up? And what was the creature I saw in my tent? I didn’t know.
All three stone slabs faced a long, gaping tunnel that stabbed deep into the
hillside, far from the touch of light. I strained to see its end. Yet, I could
see nothing. And as I looked deeper into the tunnel, I saw a white skull and
black antlers emerge silently. “Hey! Hey!” I said. “Who are you? What do you
want?” The creature eyed me with a hollow stare and then sank back into the
darkness. My heart raced in my chest as I struggled against my restraints, but
they would not budge. I felt around for something to help me escape, but the
ropes pressed down on my wrists. I could only reach fruitlessly with the tips of
my fingers. “No no no,” I muttered in a shrill, frantic voice. “No. Please. Help
me. Help!” My breaths grew short and shallow until my lungs trembled. No matter
how hard I gasped, I couldn’t get enough air. Soon, my vision spun and went
black. When next I woke up, I found my captor seated on a rock. Though it had no
eyes to blink, the creature was staring at me. “What do you want?” I asked. It
cocked its head to one side but said nothing. “You aren’t human. What…what are
you? A ghost? A spirit?” The creature grumbled low in its throat. “A spirit? Is
that it?” The creature murmured in a deep, guttural voice. Whatever words it
spoke, it was no language I had heard before. “A demon? A wendigo or something?”
“Wendigo,” it said in a menacing tone. The wendigo stood and approached me. It
lowered its hand towards my bare chest and then growled. Then, pulling its hand
back, the wendigo turned and walked towards the next captive. The pale beast on
the table was already squirming with anticipation. “What do you want?” I asked
again. The creature spoke several words in its foreign tongue. “I don’t
understand,” I said. “Food…must…starve,” it said as it scanned the captive’s
willowy body. I had no idea what that meant, but I didn’t like the sound of it.
I hurled another barrage of questions at the wendigo, but this time it ignored
me. From out of thin air, the wendigo produced a short, steel knife. Without
hesitation, he pressed the keen blade against the captive’s sickly, white skin.
The beast wailed in pain as the wendigo shaved off a sliver of skin. But when
the deed was done, the bony creature raised its head. Mouth agape, it stretched
towards the slice of flesh like a flower to the sun. Then, chanting, the wendigo
fed its prisoner. In an instant, the meager strip of skin was gone, consumed
without second thought. But the chants continued for several moments more, and
when they finally ended, the pale beast began to whimper. It shrank in on itself
and trembled visibly. Delighting in its fear, the wendigo chuckled. Then, after
a long, disturbingly silent moment, the wendigo thrust its hands into the
beast’s stomach. Soon, the cave filled with the victim’s shrieks of horror and
pain, and the wendigo’s moans of pleasure. I closed my eyes, too scared to
watch. Several minutes passed before the screams finally died down. I cracked
open my eyes. Somehow the pale creature’s stomach was untouched. Even so, it
continued to writhe on the slab, traumatized and in agony. As for the wendigo,
it had moved on to the next victim. Cruel laughter rumbled low in the cave,
accented by the shrill whimpers of the imprisoned. The ritual was about to begin
again. I heard the cry of steel, and of pain, and of pleasure. Organs squished
and groaned. Blood sloshed and spilled. All the while, I wondered when it would
be my turn to suffer under the wendigo’s touch. However, when the wendigo
finished, it merely turned and disappeared down the tunnel. It was not yet my
time. Time, they say, is relative. And in that cave, with no light to signal the
day, it could’ve been days, weeks, or even months that I stayed strapped to that
stone. Hunger gnawed at my belly, aching worse than anything I’ve ever felt
before. At times, I caught the wendigo watching me from the shadows as if
waiting for something. But he didn’t say or do anything. He continued to torture
the other prisoners, but not me. After that, he returned to the tunnel and
disappeared for hours on end. With the wendigo gone, I searched for some way to
free myself. But I could think of nothing. One day I heard the wind howl from
somewhere behind me. Another day I heard rain patter gently against stone. The
exit couldn’t have been too far away, but still too far from reach. In time, the
pain of starvation became so unbearable that I could think only of food. I even
chewed off the dried flakes of my lips in a desperate attempt to fill my belly.
But it didn’t even touch my hunger. God, I would’ve eaten anything if you put it
in front of me. Of course, this was exactly what the wendigo was waiting for.
“Food must starve,” it had said. It didn’t take long to figure out what that
meant. I had watched the wendigo enough to know it wasn’t torturing the other
prisoners. It was feeding off their pain, their starvation, their hunger. When
the wendigo stood before me one day, I knew it was time. I had starved enough.
My heart quaked when I felt the wendigo’s short, steel blade, but I suffered the
pain with pride. I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. The wendigo had not broken me
yet. And when my flesh was forced into my mouth, I spit it back out at the cruel
spirit. However, the wendigo didn’t care. It hacked off another chunk of meat,
grabbed my jaw in a firm grip, and shoved the flesh down my throat. As I
swallowed my pride and flesh both, the wendigo muttered in its demonic tongue.
The words meant nothing to me. Even so, I felt a strange sensation seep into my
veins as if my achy, unrelenting hunger had expanded out of my stomach and into
the rest of my body. While I pondered what was happening to me, the wendigo
forced its hands into my abdomen. Its fingers throbbed as they wrapped around my
stomach, twisting it and tearing it open. My entrails surrendered to the
wendigo, bursting under its strong grip. The pain was unimaginable. I roared in
agony while the wendigo moaned in delight. No man or woman should have to endure
what I did. Worse than the pain and the wendigo’s pleasure was the knowledge I
could do nothing to stop it. I was helpless. Not just then, but for years. I
thought I would grow accustomed to the torture, resign myself to it. But pain is
a funny thing. When you feel it intense enough and often enough, you don’t grow
numb to it. You grow more sensitive. It traumatizes you. Every moment of every
day, you fear it. Scared and helpless. That’s what I was for so many years. You
may wonder how I survived so long on just meager scraps carved from my body. The
wendigo did something to me and the others. Call it a spell or a curse or
whatever you want. But I survived. I survived and I starved, so the wendigo
could feed for years to come. What that creature did, it changed me. Slowly,
almost without notice, I became like the other prisoners. My hair fell out, my
eyes sank into my skull, and my skin drained of all color. Even my thoughts had
started to disappear, consumed by an irresistible, insatiable hunger. I could
only cling desperately to my humanity. I forced myself to recall my favorite
songs, my hobbies, and my family’s faces. But it was all fading so fast. Soon, I
knew…soon there would be nothing. What’s more, I heard things. Deep within the
lightless tunnel, thin, ghostly voices murmured and growled. I caught only the
echo of their words, but it was enough to convince me I had truly gone mad.
Regardless, I did escape that cave eventually. That fateful day began not with
my freedom, however, but with the freedom of another. Some time after feeding,
when the wendigo had returned to its tunnel, one of the prisoners rose from its
slab. With a jagged rock in hand, it walked to the center of the cave and looked
at the path behind me, where a soft wind murmured. I could barely believe it. Of
course, it was possible. After all, Robert had seen and killed one of these
creatures. But how many years had I been there? How many years had it been
there? If there was hope for that poor beast, then maybe there was hope for me.
Maybe it would even let me go. As the pale creature walked past me towards the
exit, I opened my mouth to call for its attention. Nothing came out but a dry
croak. After all those years without speech, my body barely remembered how to do
it. I poured all my strength into my throat and tried again. “Please,” was all I
could muster. It was enough. The creature turned around and approached my slab.
Some humanity lingered in the beast after all. It understood me. It pitied me.
It would help me. Or so I thought. Still clutching the pointed rock, it looked
down at me. For once, I could see its eyes clearly. They were utterly black. Its
pupils had expanded until they consumed the entire cornea. Inside, I could see
nothing. No thought. No emotion. Only hunger. Mouth ajar, the beast grabbed my
arm and lifted the rock. All I could do was scream. Then, appearing suddenly,
the wendigo caught the creature’s wrist. Without a word, the wendigo dragged its
prisoner back to the slab. Desperate to escape, the creature thrashed at its
captor. It clawed and scraped and bit, though to no avail. The wendigo took the
abuse without complaint. In a last ditch effort to free itself, the creature
grabbed one of the wendigo’s antlers and pulled with all its might. A short,
twisted chunk snapped off, making the wendigo howl in pain. For an instant, the
creature was free. However, it only managed to take a step before the wendigo
returned to its senses. With the back of its hand, the wendigo struck its
prisoner across the face. Keen, crooked teeth sprayed across the cave. They
tinged against the cold stone like death bells ringing. Fueled by rage, the
wendigo thrust its hand through the creature’s chest. Blood splattered over the
prisoner beside me, who licked up the hot liquid without remorse. Now one
prisoner short, the wendigo sighed and muttered something in its ancient tongue.
Then, it grabbed the bloody corpse and dragged it into the tunnel. Halfway down,
before disappearing from sight, the wendigo stopped and looked back at me. A
shiver ran down my spine. I clutched my fists tightly. In one of them was a
tooth that fell like a miracle into my hand. I prayed to any god that would
listen not to let that miracle be taken away. And perhaps one of them heard me
because the wendigo turned around and sank into the darkness. Uncertain how long
the wendigo’s absence would last, I waited. The tooth would be my key home, but
I had to be smart. As I expected, the wendigo returned shortly. It would not let
a slab sit empty, so it slipped past me into the free world, where it would soon
find another victim. After several anxious minutes, I began my work. The tooth I
received was a molar. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut a rope, so I honed it
against the stone slab. It took hours to narrow the tooth to a razor-like point,
and just as I began to saw through my rope binds, I heard the rustle of cloth
against the cave floor. It was the wendigo dragging its prey. This time it was a
girl. Blonde. In her mid-twenties I guessed. The wendigo laid her against the
slab and disrobed her. She was pretty. At one time, I may have looked at her
with pleasure and desire. But at the time, all I could think of was how hungry I
was. I held onto the sharpened tooth for another week or so, hiding it when
necessary. Truth be told, I was too terrified to free myself. If I got caught,
that was it. No more miracles. I would be stuck in that cave forever. I needed a
distraction. One day, as the wendigo carved a sliver of flesh from my thigh, a
thin beam of light penetrated our chamber. The light was weak as if it had come
from somewhere far off. But it might’ve well been the noontime sun. I hadn’t
seen light in decades. Although the light flickered and slipped away, the sound
of footsteps echoed throughout the cave. As soon as it heard the sound, the
wendigo dropped its knife and vanished into its tunnel. What it feared, I
couldn’t say. Your guess is as good as mine. But it was an opportunity, and I
took it. I frantically dug the tooth into my rope binds. Not long after the
footsteps, I heard the voices of three men calling out for someone. I didn’t
know the girl’s name, but I could only assume they were looking for her. The ray
of light flashed our way again, this time wider and stronger. I glanced at the
girl. She struggled against her own binds, but to no avail. Her lips moved, but
no words came out. Starvation had drained her of all energy. She was helpless,
just as I had been so many times before. But not this time. This time I would be
free. I hacked through my restraints even as the men’s voices faded along with
the thin, shifting light. Knees wobbly, I pushed myself to my feet. I gave one
last look at the depthless, black tunnel and left as quickly as my legs would
allow. The whole time I wondered if the wendigo would drag me back to the slab
or kill me as it did the other prisoner. However, luck shone on me that day.
After several minutes of raggedy breath and throbbing anxiety, I stumbled
through the mouth of the cave into freedom. For a man that had not seen light in
years, the moon and stars were blinding. And though I shielded my eyes from
them, their presence gave me hope and comfort. Gaunt and naked, I ran through
the woods in search of civilization. At some point, I collapsed from exhaustion.
But when I woke again, I returned to running, bound by fear and hunger. It was
midday when I found a dirt path that wove between the trees. I followed it until
I came into contact with a young man on a hike. Naturally, his first response
was to scream. “Please,” I said. It was the one word I knew I could say. And
this time the hiker responded with kindness and concern. Despite the horrific
transformation I had undergone, he could still tell I was a person. Not just
that, I was starving and covered in cuts and scars. “I’m sorry,” the man said.
“Do you need help? How can I help you?” I took a step closer. The man’s cheeks
were full and red with life, and along his neck ran a plump, juicy vein. I tried
to speak, but this time only a hoarse grumble came out. “Water? Do you need
water?” the man asked. He pulled out a plastic bottle from the bag strapped to
his back. “Food,” I said. I took another step closer. My heart roared in my
ears. Or perhaps it was his heart I heard, beating strong behind his thick,
meaty chest. A shiver ran down my spine. The man pulled a granola bar out of his
backpack. “Here,” he said. I reached forward to take it. But I didn’t want
granola…and I couldn’t control myself. I tried. I swear I did. Yet, even with
the wendigo far behind me, its influence lingered. I swatted away the granola
bar and leapt at the man, scratching him across the neck. Blood coated my nails,
and when I licked the dark drops, they tasted sweet as cream. Unbeknownst to me,
the man had a knife. He stabbed it into my shoulder and then cut me across the
cheek. The pain was no worse than what I had felt every day in that cave, but I
didn’t want to suffer anymore. I let go of the man and retreated into a fetal
position. Meanwhile, the man ran, to the cops I presume because sooner or later
a group of police officers approached me with guns drawn. Not long after, I
found myself in a cell, imprisoned again. At least this time I was clothed and
fed. Of course, the police had questions. Simple ones. For instance: who are
you? It took me a second, but I remembered. “Charles. Charles Keeper,” I said.
They ran the name through their database. Then, they came back with a photo. It
was a photo of me. I looked so different. I barely recognized myself. Yet, it
was enough for the cops. “Jesus Christ,” one of them said. “You’ve been missing
for fifteen years.” “Fifteen?” I repeated. It felt like fifty. “What happened to
you?” they asked. Their eyes studied me closely, never once letting up or
looking away. I cowered into my knees. I said nothing. When the silence dragged
on too long, they held up another photo. “Do you know this girl?” It was the
girl from the cave. I flinched at the sight of her. “You do, don’t you?” I
looked up. It hurt to meet their gaze, but I met it anyway. “Please,” I said. I
didn’t want to think about her. I didn’t want to think about the wendigo.
“Please don’t. I can’t…” “Can’t what?” one cop asked. By the color of his face
and the volume of his voice, I could tell he was angry. “She’s been missing a
week. Her parents are worried sick. They want to know what happened to their
baby. And you can’t tell us?” “You won’t…you won’t,” I stuttered. “We won’t
believe you?” another cop finished. I nodded. “Go on. Try us.” “If you tell us
where she is, maybe we’ll forget about the man you assaulted in the forest,”
another cop added. I had no choice. They wouldn’t let me leave until I told
them, so I did. I told them everything. At times, I caught them looking among
each other, thinking no doubt that I had gone mad. But on the whole, they were
receptive. They tried to make reason of my story. Maybe the wendigo was just a
man in a costume. Maybe the trauma of my torture had altered my memories. In any
case, two of the cops happened to be part of a search party that investigated
the cave the night I escaped. Even if my story was a lie, it didn’t matter so
long as they found their missing girl in the cave. They asked me to help them
find her. There were simply too many tunnels in the cave for them to find her on
their own. But I refused outright. Nothing would bring me back to that cave. The
thought of it triggered such a severe panic attack that they let me go without
another word. Since then, I have readjusted to life, as best I can anyway. At
first, food tasted sour, but for the most part, I’ve gotten used to it. I just
take my steaks rare now. I found myself a lady too. She’s decent and sweet, and
she helps me forget about the times I suffered. She doesn’t believe my story. I
can sense it in the tone of her voice whenever the subject comes up, but she
knows better than to tease me. As for the missing girl, the police never told me
if they found her. I haven’t heard anything from them since they released me. I
hope they did find her. I really do. But in the many years that have passed, it
never once occurred me to find out. To tell you the truth, this is one story I
don’t want to see to the end.


HE COMES (ZALGO) 10.6K+




Forgive the length of this message, this is the first and possibly the last time
I’ll have access to a computer so I thought I’d better write this all down while
I can and get it to those who should know. I’m leaving town; I don’t know where
I’m going, I’m just getting as far away as I can. Okay so as some of you may
know, I took out a loan and opened my own auto shop a little over year ago.
Business has been going decently well, I can’t complain, and I’ve always been
grateful to all of my customers who would come to me exclusively when God knows
there are so many already established places in town. I’ve been doing well
enough that I was able to hire on my buddy Neil a few months ago, and he’s been
working hard and helping out really well, as I always knew he would. Well, I
needed to take a day and go to a Lamaze class with Rebecca last month, and so I
entrusted the shop to Neil for the morning and most of the afternoon. That’s the
day I think everything actually started, because when I got back, he seemed to
be in a stupor and was covered in oil. He’d even had some smeared across his
face, as if he’d tried to drink it or something. I told him to go home and clean
himself up because we had no clients at the moment and I could take care of
anyone who came in for the time being. He came back 45 minutes later but he was
still much quieter than usual. He worked as well as he ever did, but something
just seemed off about him. I asked him if anything happened while I was out and
he just shook his head. I asked how many clients we had, and he just muttered
something unintelligible. I asked him to repeat himself and he turned and glared
at me and for the briefest moment I could’ve swore his eyes appeared to be
completely black, no iris, no sclera, just utter all consuming blackness. I
stumbled back and bumped a shelf, knocking things down. When I looked back at
him, he was still looking at me, but he didn’t seem to be glaring hatefully the
way he had before, he just seemed kind of…out of it. “Just a couple,” he
answered. “Some woman, and then a tattooed biker-type looking dude.” I assumed
one of them must’ve asked for an oil change and that’s when he spilled it, so I
asked if he had any trouble and he simply shrugged. I had looked around the
garage while he was gone and I saw no traces of an oil spill, so whatever had
happened he must’ve gotten it all on himself and none of it anywhere else,
miraculously. But he seemed reluctant to talk about it, so I didn’t press the
issue, and we worked on throughout the day. That day and the next were
relatively normal other than him still being awkward and quiet. I asked him if
he’d like to go out and get us lunch while I tended the shop and he said “sure.”
When he came back I was busy doing a diagnostic for a client, so he put the food
on the counter in the office to wait for me and he went ahead and ate. I
finished up with that customer, we’d have to keep her car over night to figure
out just why it kept dying on her, so I asked Neil to give her a ride home and
then I went to grab my food. He’d brought me some Chinese food and an iced tea,
so I opened the soy sauce packets to pour some over my food when I noticed the
strangest thing… It was as if the soy sauce was a living thing somehow…spreading
out like dozens of squirming inky black maggots when it fell into the fried rice
and burying itself inside. I took the fork and started to scoop out the rice to
look deeper inside and small smoky tendrils would rise from the rice
occasionally and dissipate. I was incredibly hungry at that point but I was way
too creeped out to eat that so I chucked it and the iced tea in the garbage and
decided I’d just wait ‘til I got home that evening to eat something I’d prepared
with my own hands. I’d never in my life seen anything remotely like that and I
couldn’t even fathom how I would ask Neil if he’d noticed anything similar. As
cold and distanced as he’d been lately I was sure he’d look at me like I was
looney tunes, so I just shut up about it. That Friday we went down to the ol’
watering hole as we always do to get some drinks and watch the local bands play,
and Neil was just as quiet and distanced as he had been all week. He’s not a bad
looking fellow, though, and so despite him not really going out of his way to
speak to anyone, a woman went over to where he was sitting and started talking
to him, and they ended up leaving together that night. Monday morning I tried
breaking the ice by asking how his weekend went, he gave me a nod and muttered
“alright.” I asked him if he got lucky with that young woman I saw him with, and
he gave me the smallest grin, which was quite possibly the first grin I’d seen
on his face in a week, and said “it went well.” I didn’t pressure him for
details, I knew he’d share if he chose to, and his small grin was enough to
assuage my worries and lend me some hope that he might get back to his old self
soon. The day was relatively busy until about 3PM, so I finally had a spare
moment to sit in the office and listen to the radio while I waited on the next
client. So there I was, leaning back in my chair with my feet propped up on my
desk when I swiveled around and looked at my bulletin board that sits behind my
head with all manner of clippings stuck to it. I had a few sunday comic strips
such as Garfield and Calvin & Hobbes that I’d read maybe a hundred times since
I’d opened shop there…but that day something was different. The first panel
seemed normal, but in each subsequent panel, inky black tendrils crept out from
the edges of the frame and from behind the characters. Blood dripped from the
ears and eyes and sometimes even their noses, and in each of the strips one of
the characters would say “HE COMES!” I sat staring in astonishment for a moment
before I realized the tendrils were moving ever so slowly, and then each of the
characters’ heads turned ever-so-slowly towards me and I threw myself back away
from the bulletin board, sliding over my desk and onto the floor. I ran out into
the garage and yelled for Neil, I could not be the only one to see this! To my
surprise, he had gone…and so I hesitantly walked back to the office and peered
inside. The comics were still corrupted, but they no longer appeared to be
moving. I crept over to it and reached out to pluck one of the comics free when
I noticed the inky black tendrils starting to seep across the page towards where
my fingers were at least three times as fast as they’d moved before and I jerked
my hand away. Nothing good could possibly come from letting that blot of ink
touch my skin. Of course I ripped the entire bulletin board down, burned it in a
tin trashcan out back, and never spoke of it again. That night I went home and
my wife was already in bed, fast asleep. My mind was racing and I couldn’t even
bring myself to eat dinner that night. With no one to vent my worries to, I fell
into a restless sleep, and kept awaking to nightmare after nightmare seemingly
every hour of the night until I just gave up on sleep entirely. That Friday I
went to the bar again, even though my wife couldn’t drink, being pregnant and
all, and Neil wasn’t really any fun to hang with anymore, and none of my other
friends could seem to be reached. I just needed to get a good buzz and I’d start
feeling better, I reckoned. After downing a couple beers I excused myself to the
restroom when I noticed I was more inebriated than I’d estimated, so I leaned
over the sink to splash some water onto my face and that’s when I heard it. Like
a sheet of fabric being dragged across a floor, a voice rasped ever so quietly
out of the drain. It sounded like a prolonged exhale for the longest time until
I finally recognized words hidden amongst all those vowels. “Heeee cooooomes!”
Cracks appeared in the porcelain, snaking out from the ring around the drain. At
least, they looked like cracks at first…but after a few seconds I recognized
them as the same tendrils of corruption I’d seen in the comics earlier that
week…snaking their way slowly along. I stumbled backwards out of the bathroom
door and right into someone’s chest. I turned around and stared up into the
pitch black eyes of a six and a half foot biker with tattoos covering every
piece of exposed skin besides his hands and head. I stumbled quickly away from
him and his evil piercing gaze followed me as I retreated through the bar. It
felt like a dream, where whenever you’re running for your life it feels like
running through quicksand. As I walked across the room I noticed the biker
wasn’t the only one staring at me. It seemed every pair of eyes in the place
were focused on me, and more than half of those eyes appeared to be perfectly
black, with no hint of iris or sclera. A few lips moved, and though I couldn’t
hear their voices over the sound of the jukebox I could easily guess what they
were saying. “He comes!” I didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. I haven’t been
getting much sleep for the past couple of weeks as a matter of fact, which I’m
guessing those of you who’ve spoken to me recently could’ve guessed. I keep
seeing those pitch black eyes staring at me. I’m afraid every one I see will
turn and whisper those words to me, staring deep into my soul with that evil
glare. Every time I go near a sink or go to grab a bite to eat I’m afraid I’ll
see those inky snaking tendrils squiggling towards me. Even my wife has seemed
cold and distanced lately. Then tonight as I’m driving home from work,
struggling to keep my eyes open so that I don’t drift into oncoming traffic, my
cell phone rang and it was Rebecca. She was on her way to the hospital to have
our baby, and for the first time in two weeks I was actually happy! She was in
the labor room strapped to a monitor when I got there, watching for her
contractions. She barely noticed when I walked in, but didn’t seem startled when
I sat down beside her and took her hand in mine. I tried talking to her, but she
was unresponsive, and I was so tired I didn’t even realize I had started to
drift off to sleep until the nurses came in and started moving her to the
delivery room about a half hour later. I put on my scrubs and a hair net and
went in with her to hold her hand and coach her through like they’d trained us
in Lamaze, when she started cursing and screaming. I was prepared for that, as
well as her ever tightening grip on my hand, but when I saw the movement in her
tummy my mind started to reel. The doctor said the baby was crowning and told
her to push. I echoed his orders and she screamed at me with a voice I couldn’t
begin to describe. When I looked down at her she was staring up at me with those
same eyes I’d seen on the biker. The same eyes I thought I’d seen on Neil weeks
before. I tried to jerk my hand away but she maintained her grip. Black tar-like
blood splashed the front of the doctor’s scrubs, but he seemed to pay no heed.
When I looked at her tummy again, black veins seemed to stand out beneath her
skin, pulsating. She continued to stare at me, and she was no longer screaming,
just grinning…those obsidian eyes boring into me. “To invoke the Nezperdian
hivemind of Chaos,” she breathed in a raspy voice. “He who waits behind the
wall,” the doctor continued as he stared down at the child, my child, lying
silently, cradled in his bloodstained hands. He looked up and raised the baby,
and it appeared to be covered in oozing inky black liquid, much like that that
had covered Neil a couple weeks prior. It did not cry out, but it was alive, and
it moved when he held it up. When its eyes opened, they were as black as my
wife’s. As black as the doctor’s. In unison, they all breathed his name.
“Zalgo!” I ripped my hand free of my wife’s iron grip and stumbled out of the
room, barrelling into the nurses passing in the corridor just outside. When I
stood up and looked back into the room, I could see the inky black tendrils
seeming to extend from the doctor and my newborn, across the floor to where I
stood. I turned and ran down the hall to the elevator and slammed my finger into
the buttons. When I looked back, the tendrils had come into the hallway, yet no
one else seemed to notice until it slithered over their feet and up their legs,
at which point they abruptly stopped, turned and looked at me with those same
obsidian eyes. I abandoned my effort to call the elevator and broke into a
panicked run for the stairs. I ran down the 15 flights of stairs all the way to
the lobby, tore ass out into the parking lot, hopped in my car and started
driving. I didn’t know where the fuck I was going, I just had to get the fuck
away from there. I don’t know if I’m going crazy, it certainly seems like it,
but I just can’t be around anyone I know anymore. They all have those same eyes
and those same dead stares and even my child…oh god my baby. I still saw those
eyes staring at me from the cars beside me, and by some strange coincidence the
same biker from the previous Friday night at the bar pulled up beside me an hour
away from the hospital and followed me for nearly two miles. He’d turn and stare
at me, grinning. I couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses this time but I
knew it was the same guy. His tattoos seemed to move of their own free will, the
flaming skull on his right bicep began bleeding from its eyesockets. As soon as
I could, I slammed on my brakes, allowing him to fly past me as I swerved to my
left and did a U-turn. I think I lost him, that was about an hour ago. I’m at a
motel 3 hours out of town, the first place I found that has wifi, and I’m tired,
and I’m shaking, and my hand itches where my wife’s nails scratched me open. I
honestly don’t know what to do, or who I can turn to. This story will sound
insane and I’ll probably be institutionalized and I’m not sure that wouldn’t be
the best thing for me but I just can’t bear to look into those eyes anymore.
Every time I see someone new and they stare at me I start to panic because I
know…I just know it’s out there looking for me, whatever it is.
And even when I lay down and start to drift off to sleep,I hear those words..
He comes


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