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HORRIFY||MADE WITH LOVE FOR NOVELLA LOVERS AND PRESENTED TO YOU BY SRIJIT & TEAM. A good site for THOSE WHO LIKE TO DISCOVER THE DIGITAL WORLD OF LITERATURE. * Home * About * Popular Stories * LOGIN * REGISTER * | Horrify Offer Redemption Site | * | Premium Member Code Redemption Site | * | Report a Bug * | App Store 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 ©HORRIFY2023-24 This seal indicates that this site is protected by CISOI INDIA's HSTS ENCRYPTION SECURITY. The Trust Secure Seals Provided By CISOI & COMODO SECURITY Got any Suspecious Download from our Website? If yes then we apologize for this Mistake. You can Now Scan the suspicious File Below Check file for viruses Got Redirected to any Sketchy Website From our Website and getting Suspect of Something Wrong? We are VRY SORRY FOR Such thing . Scan the url with this tool! 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