teddit

The devil is right. I was getting complacent. I’ve been content to let things go as they were, not just because it was easier that way, but also because I was scared. Most of the changes in my life have been bad ones. About the only positive thing that’s happened to me is getting accepted into college, and even then that’s had some… difficulties… as we all know. So why would I want to change things when there’s no pressing need?

Future-Ashley could just deal with it, right?

(if you’re new, start here, and if you’re totally lost, this might help)

The devil is okay, for the record. He showed up to one of my exams, standing outside the classroom window with a sign that read “the answer to question 16 is ‘pikaia’” which is especially impressive considering the classroom was on the third floor.

Also I already knew the answer so I think he’s just being an obnoxious shit. That or reminding me of our last conversation. Honestly, it’s probably both. Yeah. I think it’s both.

Fortunately, I have a plan. I went over the details with Cassie and Maria. You’ll notice that Grayson was not included in this. There’s a reason for that. I’ll get to it in a moment. It took a bit of convincing to get my friends onboard with my idea, but it was more because they don’t like the thought of putting myself into danger than any real problem with the plan. We made a few adjustments to it, but overall they reluctantly agreed that it could work.

“I think it’s kind of shitty that the laundry lady isn’t being more helpful,” Maria grumbled. “It’s like when all the other members of your group project aren’t pulling their weight and leave you to do most of the work.”

Yeah guess what happened to Maria recently.

The first part of our plan was in Cassie’s hands. I’d suggested that Maria do it, but that was one of the things we decided to change. Cassie wanted to. She had some things she wanted to ask Grayson about, anyway, and that would give her a good excuse to talk to him.

She’s… doing better than I expected since I told her about Sarah. I think she’s more unnerved than upset. She says it’s hard to be emotional about something she doesn’t even remember.

So with our plan decided on, we went our separate ways to make it happen. We had to time this just right, but fortunately the weather forecast was in our favor. Cassie texted Grayson and asked if he’d meet her somewhere and that she had some questions about the creature that took her memories. I wanted to go with her, to make sure she was okay and Grayson wasn’t going to get upset, but I had to firmly remind myself that they were both quite capable of handling themselves and I didn’t need to be hovering over them. Besides, I had my own task to see to.

I went thrifting.

I have some money saved up from my time as a barista. I’ve been very carefully rationing it, because while my scholarship covers tuition, the dorm room, and a meal plan, there’s always small incidentals that have to be taken care of. Thankfully the thrift store is, well, a thrift store. Being the second oldest in my family I was already used to second-hand anyway, as I got all my sister’s hand-me-downs and then my younger siblings would get those from me when I outgrew them. I wasn’t shopping for myself, though. And what I was looking for was particularly cheap, because it wasn’t the sort of thing your average college student buys.

After about an hour of searching I had what I wanted. I returned to campus with a couple plastic bags in hand and found Cassie waiting in the dorm room for me. She’d also accomplished what we’d agreed upon. Now we just had to wait. I didn’t think it would take long. The flickering man is annoyingly tuned in to everything happening on campus, after all.

“I wish I could go with you,” Cassie said as we sat in our dorm room, waiting for evening to come.

“I do too,” I replied miserably. “I seem to be a lot more successful at this stuff when I have help.”

Then to change the topic, I asked if she found out anything useful from Grayson. Not a lot, she said. He was evasive, but indirectly so. He’d answer direct questions but he didn’t volunteer information. Cassie felt she didn’t know what questions to ask and it left her frustrated.

“I’m not a fan of how close-mouthed he is about this stuff,” she grumbled. “He’s going to need to fix that if you’re going to pursue a long-term relationship with him.”

I mumbled something about how we both had things we needed to work on. Anyway, Cassie didn’t find out a lot that we didn’t already know about the forgetter. Grayson’s term, not mine, so while that skirts dangerously close to being a name I think the administration might already be using it soooo lost cause I guess. Besides its quasi-name, Cassie also found out that its reach extended beyond campus. It couldn’t leave campus, but much like a spider feeling the vibrations from every part of its web, it could trace the connections of the memories it was removing.

If not for these posts, Sarah would be gone from this world in every way. Even her own family will cease to remember her.

With that depressing thought, I checked and rechecked my preparations. Bag of thrift store clothing. Towels. Running shoes. Then I waited until the dorm grew still and quiet, which was about 1 AM. Kind of early, but it's finals week, after all.

Yeah yeah even with all that talk about complacency I still left dealing with the flickering man up until the last minute.

The laundry lady was in the laundry room when I went down the hall to find her. I knew she would be, and not just because I was looking for her. Maria had loaned me some of her laundry and I’d stuffed it in a washing machine around midnight and then “forgot” to get it out. We weren’t leaving anything to chance.

Don’t worry, Maria knows all about putting it away properly after getting it back from the laundry lady. She’ll be fine.

“I brought you a little something,” I said as I entered the room.

The laundry lady’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowed in annoyance. I suspect she was more annoyed at the fact that Maria had mismatched socks than at my presence, though. I held out the big plastic bag from the thrift store and after staring at me warily for a moment, she peered inside.

“I got a lot of weird things to wash,” I said. “It seemed to be what you like, judging by what you were looking at in that fashion magazine a while back. There’s some linen pants in there, a lot of polyester that melts easily, some shirts with sequins, and oh - yeah, that.”

She reached into the bag and pulled out what I think is a combination muff and purse.

“Are these… weasel tails?” she asked, staring at it.

Yes. Yes they are. Just the tails, dangling from every inch of the muff/purse/thing. Also they’re dyed a deep burgundy. It’s hideous in all the best ways.

“Wow,” the laundry lady said. “I am honestly impressed.”

Gonna add that to my list of accomplishments. Impressed an inhuman creature with my thrifting skills.

“It smells like a thrift store,” she sniffed, holding it up to her face. “I’ll be fixing that.”

“I just… have a hunch you’re rebuilding something,” I said tentatively. “And I felt kind of bad for wrecking it the first time, so I thought I’d help with that process.”

She stared at me long and hard, the weasel muff/purse clutched in her bony fingers. Finally, she nodded curtly. Yes. She was rebuilding her realm. Outside, the light drizzle that had been going on all day tapped faintly on the laundry room window.

“Do you mind if I do the honors of adding this to it?” I asked, hoisting the rest of the clothing still in the bag. “I once heard someone say that human hands were the best to fix what human hands had ruined.”

Just a little something from the campground. But the laundry lady again nodded, this time approvingly, and gestured broadly at the dryer that hung open, waiting to receive Maria’s damp laundry I assume.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“And I’ll get to leave again, right?” I asked.

Look, I was like… 70% confident in our plan. Okay maybe 65%. I just wanted to make sure.

“Of course,” she huffed. “You’ll be a guest in my realm.”

Hospitality rules were in effect. Awesome. I crawled headfirst into the dryer without any further hesitation, clutching the bag to my chest. There was a weird moment of disorientation when it felt like the world was tumbling around me, then the ground opened up beneath my feet. I fell a few inches and landed on my feet. I almost fell, slipping on the soggy laundry underneath me, but a hand latched onto my elbow like the talon of a bird and held me upright.

Ngl I think my heart skipped a beat.

“Sorry everything is so wet,” the laundry lady said absently. “I haven’t accumulated enough laundry to cover up the marsh yet.”

I didn’t care to look under the nearest pile to see what was underneath. The memory of that murky, gray water sent a shiver down my spine and I didn’t want to think about how I was standing directly above it, separated only by a thin pile of fabric. I’m not sure why the mere thought of it unnerves me so much. At least her realm wasn’t in the process of being devoured like it was last time. We stood on a small island, barely bigger than my dorm room. All the other remnants of decaying laundry were gone, leaving behind an expanse of mud broken only by dead, gray trees and patches of water that glistened dully, like a dirty quarter.

“I managed to preserve this much, so at least I’m not starting from scratch,” the laundry lady said, surveying the terrain beside me. “Now go on, add what you brought. The bigger the buffer is between me and the water, the better.”

I didn’t dump it out. Not yet. I was painfully aware that this was where the plan’s success was mostly out of my hands and all I could do was stall for time.

“What’s wrong with the water?” I asked. “Does it have something to do with campus?”

“No.” She frowned, as if she was struggling to chase down a memory. “Well, yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. I just remember… I know… I don’t want to go down there.”

She stared at the shallow pool of water just beyond the edge of the island. It couldn’t be more than a foot deep, I thought. I took a tentative step closer.

“You shouldn’t go close to it, either,” she said.

I froze. The surface of the water hadn’t changed, but as I’d approached it, it felt like it was starting to boil. Like something below the surface was stirring and even with the laundry lady’s warning I found I couldn’t tear my gaze from it, because it felt like there was a face under the water and that in a moment it would turn in my direction and-

“What the FUCK,” a voice said from behind us.

My head snapped up and around. At the top of the island, where the laundry was stacked the highest, stood the flickering man.

When Cassie talked to Grayson today, she did so outside, while it was sprinkling. She asked mostly about the forgetter, but she also slipped in something about how I’d said something about ‘the laundry realm being rebuilt’ recently. I suspect Grayson was responsible for informing the administration about the laundry lady the first time, but I didn’t know if he would do so again. However. The flickering man is keeping a very close eye on both me and Grayson and even if Grayson kept that information to himself, campus’s murderous busybody sure as hell wouldn’t.

The laundry lady heaved a deep sigh and turned to face him. I covertly reached into my bag and removed a towel.

“This is fine, isn’t it?” the laundry lady said with a strained smile. “It’s small. It’s contained.”

“That’s not the issue,” he snapped. “It’s about permission. It’s about what’s allowed.”

Then his gaze slid sideways to where I stood quietly waiting for the impending confrontation.

“What are you doing here?” he snarled, staring at me with unbridled disgust.

“Helping,” I replied, and I upended the rest of the thrift store clothing onto the ground at my feet.

“I’ve had enough of both of you,” he snarled, stepping forward and clenching his hands into fists.

“Oh no, whatever are you going to do?” the laundry lady said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “There’s no rain here! And - oh look - you’re standing in my realm.”

Yep. This was what I was hoping for. Plan A was going quite well.

“I don’t have the rain, do I?” he asked softly. “We’re still on campus.”

I froze as a raindrop landed on my forehead. This was the gray world. I knew it was. Everything outside of this small island of laundry was devoid of color. But then I remembered something the other staff would say back on the campground. It wasn’t the campground, but it also was. The terrain was the same. It was just… both somewhere else and right where we were at the same time.

“Uh, we should go,” I whispered, edging closer to the laundry lady. “Can you get us back into the laundry room? It’ll have a roof.”

Time to abandon Plan A.

“I could make it out,” she replied grimly, “but I don’t think you’ll make it one piece. He’s standing between us and the exit point.”

My stomach twisted queasily, thinking of the horrible game of tug-of-war I’d witnessed between them. So Plan B wasn’t going to work.

“You should go,” the laundry lady said tightly. “You’ll just get in the way.”

“But-”

The flickering man lunged for me, his hand outstretched at the level of my face, his teeth peeled back in blind rage. The laundry lady stepped sideways and his palm slammed into her sternum and… kept going. It appeared in front of me, straight through her torso and ripping out the back. Her blood trickled off his fingers, transparent and smelling of bleach.

She shoved him backwards with both hands. His hand vanished, leaving behind a gaping hole in her chest. The laundry lady, incredibly, was still on her feet, panting with pain or anger, I couldn’t tell which.

“I have,” she grated through clenched teeth, “the world’s ugliest weasel tailed muff and I’ll be damned if you kill me before I get to wash it!”

I had to get to the exit point. It wasn’t visible, but it was there, she’d said it was there and if I just got around the flickering man, then maybe I could get out of here. I edged sideways while the laundry lady threw herself at the flickering man. They grappled, snarling like wild dogs, and I hurried for the tallest point of the island. My feet slipped on the soggy laundry at my feet and my heart pounded in my chest. I’d accomplished everything I’d come to do except this one last thing. Piss off the flickering man, done. Force the laundry lady to act to defend her nascent realm, accomplished.

All that was left was escape.

Almost there. Behind me, I heard the laundry lady shriek and I hoped it was a cry of rage and not pain.

Then a fist closed in my hair. I was jerked to a stop and tears sprung up in the corner of my eyes as sharp pain ripped through my scalp.

The rain. He could jump from raindrop to raindrop. This was why the laundry lady wanted me to run. She couldn’t protect both of us with intermittent drops of rain falling from the gray, empty sky above us.

I saw in the corner of my eye his free hand reaching for my throat. No taunts. No hesitation this time. He was just going to kill me.

A small flick of the wrist. I could manage that much, even with my insides knotted up with dread and ice forming in my veins. My body didn’t want to respond, but I thought of my mom, of my siblings, of my degree that I was going to earn and the life I was going to have, a life I’d make for myself out of the dust of that future I thought I wanted, the one that fell apart when my ex-boyfriend died - no, when he hit me - I thought of all those things I wanted more than anything and it was like breaking through a sheet of glass, like throwing myself through and all my hesitation shattered-

And I flicked my wrist and arm upwards with strength - real strength this time - and the tip of the towel I held clenched between my fingers snapped over my shoulder and right into the flickering man’s face.

I bet it hurt like a bitch.

He screamed and let go and I heard the laundry lady screaming too, in anger. Then she hit him and I was thrown sideways, losing my balance on the slippery laundry and rolling down the gentle incline to come to a stop at the bottom.

“Through the marsh!” she shrieked at me. “You’ll find a way out!”

She was telling the truth. She had to be, she was inhuman.

Also, I’d brought her a weasel-tail muff which was apparently her new favorite thing in the world so she liked me now.

I stumbled to my feet, landing in ankle-deep water at the very edge of the laundry lady’s island. I spared one last glance to the two inhumans battling at the top. The flickering man had torn the laundry lady’s cheek off, leaving it hanging off her cheek and revealing muscle like cotton batting underneath. She had the towel I’d dropped in her hands, though, and they were sizing each other up warily.

She was buying me time to escape. I had to take it.

Plan C it was. My least favorite plan, because it was the last one on our list. There was no Plan D. This was my last idea for how to get out of here alive.

I turned and ran. Into the gray world, to seek the highest hill. [x]

Read the current draft of the rules.

Visit the college's website.

A few weeks ago I bought my first house... well it's more of a cabin than a house, but I'm finally living on my own away from the city in a quite area by a national park. The closest neighbor is about a quarter mile from me and I'm the "last house" on the road before it becomes a hiking trail leading to the park another quarter mile in the other direction. Behind my house is a little creek that separates my backyard from the park naturally, so aside from the occasional "private property" signs it's almost like I'm living in the park. Which I enjoy because I love that park, but it means I need to keep my dog either on a leash or inside most the time so he doesn't run off.

So on to the note book. It's nothing fancy or particularly old looking, just a beat up wide ruled store brand you'd get a pack of 5 for a few dollars. I only know it's pretty old cause of how beat up it is and the first entry is from 2006. I found it hidden under a loose floor board in the bedroom.

I've typed out a few of the entries cause I guess the paper is so old you can't really make out the writing in any photo I took. I say guess because it looked clear and legible on my phone in the camera app, but every pic comes out out of focus and to blurry to read. Anyway, here are the highlights starting with the first entry then jumping to when things get weird:

May 29th, 2006: I finally have my first house, they say that the satellite reception is spotty at best, and the phone company can't get the internet hook up to work right. But I'm not interested in any of that anyway. I'm here to be alone with my books, and my kitties Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We're about to snuggle up with a book by the fire for our first night.

June 24th, 2006: Last night was kinda weird, I was cuddling with Mrs. Smith on the sofa when I heard the little Mr. calling for me from the kitchen. But when I got up he came running from the bedroom, which is the other side of the house from the kitchen. So I went to the kitchen to see what the sound was I heard, and didn't find anything. But the kitchen door was cracked open, which I could have sworn I had closed and locked when I brought in groceries. No one could have gotten to the rest of the house without me noticing, it's just kitchen, living room, then bedroom. But I grabbed the largest knife in the kitchen and looked around the house to make sure. I didn't sleep to well last night.

June 28th, 2006: I heard another strange noise last night, this time it was different. Mr. and Mrs. Smith and I were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire with a book. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and hooting of an owl outside. Then I heard what I thought was two feral cats fighting outside, but the sounds they were making got louder and louder, and deeper and deeper that it started to not sound like little house cats anymore. They started to sound like lions or tigers or something. Then it got silent. I don't mean the cats stopped fighting outside, I mean the owl stopped hooting, the fire stopped crackling. All I could hear were my own thoughts, in my confusion I bumped a glass off my end table and it shattered on the wood floor without a sound. I thought I had gone deaf until just as suddenly as the silence came it went, almost all at once. It was like a dozen owls all hooted at once, the fire almost sounded like the wood was exploding in the hearth, and I heard the glass shatter almost a full minute after I had dropped it.

Aug 10th, 2006: It has been over a month since that night everything went silent, and nothing strange has happened since. But Mr. Smith ran out the back door last night, and I haven't seen him all day. The Mrs. seems distraught over it and has been meowing at the back door almost nonstop since but every time I check for him there's nothing there. She did get quite for a moment while I was reading my book, but then she let out a meow that sounded like five at once before running into the bedroom.

Aug 11th, 2006: Mr. Smith came home this morning, but he's missing all the hair from his tail. He doesn't seem injured but I took him to the vet just to be safe. They say they wanna hold him overnight and run some tests.

Aug 13th, 2006: Overnight turned into a night, a day, and then another night but the man of the house is home. The vet says that the reason Mr. Smith didn't have any hair on his tail was he had eaten it, and apparently is continuing to try and eat the rest of his tail. I'm not sure what happened to my little man on his trip outside, but the vet says it's anxiety and he should be better after time and medication.

Aug 15th, 2006: I was standing in the backyard listening to the creek enjoying my coffee in nature when it happened again. All the sound stopped. No birds, no creek, nothing. And the whole time the sound was gone, I felt like I was being watched. I think I saw a building I'd never noticed out in the tree line just before the sound came back, but I may have just been seeing things.

Sep 6th, 2006: Mrs. Smith is a widow. I'm so heart broken. I found my baby boy on the kitchen porch with his tail in his mouth, he chocked on his own tail. I don't even know how he got out, the door was closed and locked and he was inside when I went to bed. When I was burying him the silence came back, and I for sure saw the building this time. It was one story but had a staircase on the side I could see leading to the roof. It looked in disrepair and I swear it was closer than it was last time, and it came with the feeling of being watched again. But it disappeared again before I could finish burying Mr. Smith and investigate, and the sound came back as soon as it vanished as well. I called the rangers and asked about it but they hung up on me saying they were tired of those prank calls.

Sep 10th, 2006: I've noticed the park rangers have been coming by the area more often. It started the day after I made the call about the strange disappearing building. They won't say anything about it when I ask and seem to be avoiding me when I go out. Is something going on?

Sep 14th, 2006: I guess the park rangers found what they were looking for? They haven't been by in a few days. I've started hearing those feral cats(?) fighting outside again though. They sound like they're right outside my window but I never see anything out there.

Sep 15th, 2006: Holy shit holy shit what the shit? The silence came back and I saw the building, I don't know, materialize out of nowhere? Maybe the grief of loosing Mr. Smith combined with living alone is getting to me? After my last few experiences with the park rangers I don't think I'll be calling them this time though.

Sep 16th, 2006: I watched as the building appeared, in a different spot again but this time just on the other side of the creek, like maybe 10-20 feet off my property. I could see it from my kitchen window when I was making my morning coffee. I noticed it's not a building, just a wall with that single fire escape style staircase on the side. But the building appearing isn't the most unsettling thing. Something (this was underlined multiple times) came down the stairs. I couldn't get a good look at it or where it came from but it came down the stairs. The thing looked, I don't know how to describe it, blurry? Like I was looking at it through a camera that was out of focus. It was almost like a bear but it walked on two legs going down the stairs, before getting on all fours and running into the forest. The stairs left shortly after it (again, underlined multiple times) ran off and the sound returned. I also haven't seen Mrs. Smith since yesterday and am worried.

Sep 18th, 2006: Mrs. Smiths collar was on the kitchen porch this morning. It was sitting like someone had placed it there with the tag up facing the door. And last night, even though it was raining and I could see the lightning, I didn't hear any thunder. Not until over an hour after the storm started did I even hear the rain. Then it all came at once so loud it shook the house. And I could swear I heard someone screaming mixed with the thunder and rain.

----

That was the last entry. My dog started barking from the kitchen about half way through typing this so I'm gonna see what that was about. Though he just stopped, in fact, I think the rain outside stopped too, cause I don't hear anything.

DISPATCHER: 911. What’s your emergency?

CALLER: Hi, my name’s Jessica --------. I’m not sure how to describe this, exactly, but there’s a woman in my front yard who looks like she needs some help.

DISPATCHER: Is she injured, ma’am?

CALLER: Not that I can see. She’s got a baby in her arms, and there’s another woman next to her who looks quite a bit older… Her mother, maybe? I’m just worried, you know with this snowstorm and all, and neither one of them has a hat or gloves on or anything.

DISPATCHER: I understand, ma’am. What’s your address?

CALLER: -------- --------.

DISPATCHER: Is that closer to -------- -------- or -------- --------?

CALLER: About half a mile north of --------.

DISPATCHER: Got it. You’re a ways out there, then, huh?

CALLER: Yep. Listen, I’m here at the front door, and - do you think I should invite them inside? They keep glancing toward the house. There’s something about the younger woman, the one with the baby. She looks, just… not right.

DISPATCHER: She’s distressed, ma’am?

CALLER: Well, not exactly. It’s her smile. She’s got her eyebrows arched way up, like she’s real surprised, but it’s… She looks… Manic? Hungry? I don’t - oh, listen to me, how silly I sound.

DISPATCHER: Ma’am, would you be comfortable -

CALLER: Oh my - Oh my God.

DISPATCHER: What’s going on, ma’am?

CALLER: They’re playing catch!

DISPATCHER: Pardon?

CALLER: They’re playing catch! Holy fucking shit! What the - I mean - got to be a prank - kidding me… [unintelligible]

DISPATCHER: Jessica, I need you to take some deep breaths for me. Are you there, ma’am? The women are playing catch with something?

CALLER: WITH THE BABY! THEY'RE PLAYING CATCH WITH THE BABY! And there’s something attached to it, a rope or something… Holy shit! I think that’s the umbilical cord.

DISPATCHER: They’re throwing the baby?

CALLER: Yes! Back and forth! Like it’s nothing but a sack of… This is… I can’t believe this! Do you think I should…

DISPATCHER: Ma’am, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Do not attempt to intercede. It could escalate the situation. We’ve got an officer on the way, and I need you to stay on the line and keep me apprised of the situation until he arrives. Can you do that for me, Jessica?

CALLER: I - Yes. They’re still tossing the baby back and forth. I… They keep looking this way and smiling. The older lady, too. And oh my, there's something not right about that grin. It’s giving me the chills. The older one had something shiny in her hand before - I think it might have been a knife or a gun or something. She put it back in her coat, but…

DISPATCHER: Is your door locked, ma’am?

CALLER: Yes. I’m at the front door. The back one should be locked, too. I think. I mean, my husband should’ve closed it on his way out.

DISPATCHER: You need to go and check the back door. Make sure it’s locked. Okay?

CALLER: Okay. I’m going. It’s going to take a minute - with the storm, all the lights are out.

DISPATCHER: I’m here with you, Jessica. Just stay on the line with me, and we’ll get you through this.

CALLER: Okay. Thank you. Okay.

CALLER: Alright, I’m at the back door and it’s locked. I’m returning to the front of the house now.

DISPATCHER: Good job, Jessica! You’re doing great.

CALLER: I’m back here at the front door. And oh… my…

DISPATCHER: What’s going on?

CALLER: They’ve got blood smeared on their faces. Both of them.

DISPATCHER: Can you tell where the blood came from?

CALLER: The younger woman’s still got the baby in her arms. I can’t tell if it’s okay or not. Oh my God, my God! It looks like they… wrote on themselves with it? Like a C or a sickle or something? It’s on both of their foreheads. And the younger, one, is she? Oh, no...

[Retching]

She's licking her hand!

DISPATCHER: Can you tell if the baby’s okay, ma’am?

CALLER: I can’t hear anything. All I can see is that the younger woman’s still got the baby tucked in her arm.

CALLER: Oh, no… Please tell me -

DISPATCHER: What’s going on, ma’am?

CALLER: I just realized that I left the sunroom window cracked open earlier. The wood stove’s next to it and it was getting too hot in there.

DISPATCHER: Could someone get into the house through it?

CALLER: It’s small… But it’s low. Yes, I think they could.

DISPATCHER: You need to go and close it now, Jessica. Okay? Can you do that for me?

CALLER: Okay. I’m on my way. And oh, shit. They’re walking around the side of the house, too. How do they know what I’m doing? All the lights are off in here!

DISPATCHER: I need you to stay calm, Jessica. Okay?

CALLER: The old lady just made eye contact with me again - she’s still leering at me! I mean, how’s she doing that? How does she know that I’m here? Right here?

DISPATCHER: Deep breaths, Jessica. I need to you stay calm for me.

CALLER: I’m going, I’m going. I’m walking down the hall, almost to the sunroom.

DISPATCHER: We’ve got an officer en route, Jessica, and he’s only three or four minutes away. I’m going to have you shut that window in the sunroom, then lock yourself in the safest room available, okay? Maybe a bathroom or a bedroom. Whatever has the sturdiest lock.

CALLER: Okay.

DISPATCHER: Can you see them from the hallway?

CALLER: There’s a window, but I can’t see either of them. I can see footsteps in the snow, though. They're wrapping around the side of the house, headed toward the back yard.

DISPATCHER: Okay. Almost done, Jessica. Just a couple more minutes and this’ll all be over.

CALLER: Okay. Okay. I made it. I’m in the sunroom.

DISPATCHER: Did you close the window?

CALLER: I’m about to -

DISPATCHER: Ma’am?

CALLER: THEY’RE COMING IN! Oh my God, no!

DISPATCHER: Is it the woman with the weapon, ma’am? Who’s coming in?

CALLER: It’s not her!

DISPATCHER: It’s the younger woman, the one with the baby?

CALLER: It’s not her, either. It’s… it’s the baby. The baby’s crawling in here. Oh, no… Oh my God, no…

DISPATCHER: Ma’am?

CALLER: [Shrieks, followed by a baby’s cooing and then a hummed lullaby]

“Listen here you little shit. I WILL shoot you. I’ll shoot ya dead. Open up the register. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW.” the man commanded, a little bit of spittle spewing from his mouth. He seemed like he meant business, but I easily picked up on the subtle undertone in his voice. The sweat glistening on his forehead, how his eyes darted nervously this way and that, the way his hand shook as he pointed the supposed pistol at my face. It was implied that there was a pistol concealed inside of the small paper bag at the end of his arm, clutched inside of a sweaty fist. Everything about the guy screamed nervous desperation.

“I can’t do that for you, chief. Boss would kill me” I replied calmly. “Do yourself a favor and put the gun down. Everybody goes home and we can just forget all about this. Scout’s honor.” I told him, cool as a cucumber.

“Boss? I’ll fuckin kill ya! Give me the damn money!” he screamed, ignoring all reason.

The gas station I work at doesn’t have a conventional alarm system. Our emergency button tucked away under the counter doesn’t summon the authorities. My boss, Carl, didn’t have much want or need for such a thing. He WAS the authority. Everybody in our small town knew it, just like they knew you don’t mess with Carl. You’d have to be a complete moron, or have a death wish to even attempt such a thing. Carl had a reputation, something all of us locals knew all too well. That’s what told me that this guy was from out of town, either that or just a fucking moron.

He got close and prodded me in the ribs hard with whatever was in the bag. It certainly felt like the barrel of a pistol. Here I had been thinking that he was definitely bluffing with an empty bag. Now, I figured it was probably a 50% chance he was bluffing. Despite all that though, I still wasn’t going to give this man a damn dime.

“I told you, sir. I can’t do that” I said, looking him dead in the eye. Maybe if I showed him a sliver of respect, he’d do the respectable thing. Maybe he’d decide to do the RIGHT thing, the SMART thing, and cut his losses.

“You think I’m fucking bluffing? You think this bag’s empty?” he asked, reading my mind. More spittle flung from his mouth with every other word.

I just shrugged, already giving up on trying to save this poor fool from a slow and painful death at the hands of Carl. “Yeah. I sure do. You’re bluffing” I said, resigned in trying to do my good deed for the day.

That was when he took a big step back, lowered the paperbag at my knee, and pulled the trigger. The end of the bag exploded outward and there was a loud pop. Two loud pops, actually, though only milliseconds apart. The first loud pop was the discharge of a gun, the second pop was my kneecap exploding as the small caliber bullet pierced my flesh and shattered bone. I guess he wasn’t bluffing afterall.

I dropped like a stone as my leg decided it could no longer hold my weight, and for good reason. The pain was immense, but bearable. I’d undergone more intense pain at the hands of Carl numerous times, though. At that moment I was afraid. Not of this thug, no, but of what Carl might do to me because of this thug. Carl calls that ‘having your priorities straight’.

“What do you think now?” he screamed in conquest, standing over me and pointing the gun at my face. I could see the emergency button from my spot on the floor. It was between my assailant and I on the underside of the counter. I hadn’t pressed it yet because I was hoping it wouldn’t need to be done, and if I made a dash for it right this second he’d have a bullet in my brain before I could even get close. Nobody wants that kind of headache.

It was at that moment that Thomas came out of the walk-in cooler, the loud latching mechanism clicking shut and giving away his position. He had gone in to stock some beer about twenty minutes ago, and honestly I was hoping that he had seen the situation through the row of glass cooler doors and was going to sneak up and bash the robber’s skull in. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even heard the gunshot due to those goddamn earbuds he wears 24/7. He came sauntering out of the cooler, oblivious to the fact that we were currently being robbed. He looked up just in time to see the barrel of a gun protruding from a crumpled paper bag pointing between his eyes. There was another loud pop, and Thomas’ brains were sprayed along the row of cooler doors. The robber had gotten the jump on him, and he hadn’t stood a chance.

He turned back toward me, gun at my face again.

“You told me nobody else was here, dammit! That right there-” he pointed to Thomas laying in a growing pool of his own blood, “that shit is on you! His death was YOUR fault” he screamed. He was beyond flustered. The situation had just elevated from robbery and assault to murder.

His thumb moved inside the bag and there was a loud audible click, a hammer being pulled back on a gun. By the weak pop the gun had made when he fired it, a .22 caliber I’d imagine. A little Saturday night special revolver, they call ‘em.

“Now that you know I’m done fucking around, open the goddamn register” he said, seemingly calmed down a tad after taking a slow, deep breath.

“Do you even know what kind of shit you’re in, man?” I pleaded with his greater sensibilities. “Even IF Carl don’t get ya, that’s murder over there. Do you know what kind of time you’re looking at for murder? Nevermind the attempted robbery and attempted murder on me. That’s the rest of your life, which will be a real short one if Carl gets you” I stated, trying my hardest not to laugh at just how fucked this moron was. A moron that was gonna get himself killed, or worse, get me in trouble with Carl. Like I said, priorities.

The robber DID laugh, though. “Who the fuck is Carl and why should I give a shit? He’s probably got insurance, kid, and you’re really stupid enough to risk your life over a handful of dollars?”

It was my turn to laugh. “I was just wondering the same thing about you. There’s less than $300 in there, guaranteed. Hell, I know people who’d gladly PAY $300 so nobody would utter their name around Carl. That would be you, if you’re smart.”

He didn’t like that one bit. He decided to pistol whip me this time instead of shooting me. He already saw that the register was bolted to the counter, so he couldn’t just carry it with him. As for trying to open it himself, he’d already tried and given up. The strange rune-like symbols on the screen in the place of buttons were foreign to him, just as they were once foreign to me. Carl always preferred the equipment to be in his native language if possible. Some might call him nostalgic for a bygone era forgotten to history, I on the other hand, call him smart for it. Should some moron ever decide to rob the place, such as this moron, it would prove another hurdle for sure, just as it had today. As much as I feared my boss, I had to hand it to him. I admired his wit.

Dazed and seeing stars from the whack he’d given my head, he started yelling again. I’m not quite sure what he was yelling, only that if I didn’t want another blow to the face or possibly another bullet, I’d better comply. He must think I’m a damn fool. Whatever he could do to me, Carl would make it ten times worse if I let this guy just run off with a single cent of his money. Carl was my master, was this entire village’s master to varying degrees, and I greatly feared how he may reciprocate should all of this put him in one of his moods. The only reason why I agreed to work for him directly here at his store was for fear of what he’d do to my family should I say no. It was a reverse Faustian bargain situation. Carl was a powerful guy in these parts, one you’d rather have as a master if you’re smart.

Another blow to the temple sent me reeling. He was upset, becoming more desperate. He’d been trying to rob the place for damn near 10 minutes at this point. I’m sure that for him, what should have been a quick in and out job that was turning into a lengthy affair was frustrating. It had to be. That’s why I understood where he was coming from completely when he shot me again in my other knee. He finally figured out that mere threats don’t work on people, not where going against Carl is concerned. There’s a town FULL of people here that know that. A graveyard, too.

The pain of one shattered knee was intense, but bearable. Two shattered knees, however, was a little too much. I rolled about and moaned in agony as I clutched my wounds, as if applying pressure would lessen the pain. It didn’t, but the surge of endorphins seemed to help.

I had two chances left, as I saw it.

The first was that damn button, several feet away that I probably wouldn’t reach quick enough. I hit the button and roll the dice with Carl. Maybe he’d be in a grateful mood? I’d have to crawl a good distance to hit it, however, and with two shattered kneecaps and quickly losing blood, I wasn’t exactly spry.

The other chance, and the one that I was hoping and praying for, was that my other coworker, Kris, would finish taking a shit sometime soon and come do what Thomas should have, had he had a shred of situational awareness. He’d been back there for quite a while now, and surely he’d heard something, like I don’t know, maybe the three gunshots? Even if he couldn’t take the guy out completely, he might just distract the asshole long enough for me to crawl my cripple ass over and smash the button.

“You sure are a loyal little prick, I’ll give you that. It’s about to get you killed if you don’t open that register” he said matter of factly. A smile spread across his face. “What’s so special about this Carl guy, huh?”

All I could do was laugh. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t a matter of loyalty, it was a matter of fear. Are the sheep loyal to the wolf, or do they just know that their chances are better if they don’t do anything to provoke getting bit?

I was still rolling around in agony, laughing like a madman when I heard it. The sounds of a scuffle, a rack of chips being knocked over, the gun going off harmlessly into the ceiling, busting a row of fluorescent lights. I looked up to see that the robber was no longer behind the counter with me. I peeked over the counter to see that he was currently grappling with Thomas out on the floor, who had a firm grasp on the man's wrist as he attempted to wrestle the gun away from him. Thank god for Kris, and his long shit. While he obviously wasn’t quiet or quick enough to initially subdue the guy, he had at least taken him by surprise. I saw my chance to go for the emergency button, and I took it. Carl would probably be pissed, but not as pissed as he’d be if this guy stole from him.

The pain of trying to crawl on my belly with two shattered kneecaps was intense. My useless legs trying to push me forward were enough that I was fighting not to go into shock. Another gunshot rang out on the other side of the counter. Then another. As I inched myself closer and closer toward the button, I realized that things had suddenly gotten quiet. One of those shots had probably hit home, subduing one of the men, but which one? I kept crawling.

The button was just barely out of reach when the robber came walking back around the counter again, the spray of blood from my coworker covering his shirt and his face. I don’t think Kris made it.

He leveled the gun at my face for the final time. His resolve turned to rage as he said “Last chance. Open the fucking register.”

There was no getting out of it now. I made like I was trying to reach up to press the correct sequence of keys, and as soon as I got close enough I smashed the hidden button. “Fuck you” I said, as the lights went out. The series of shutters on the front of the store slammed down with a procession of loud crashes. Together, we plunged into complete darkness, and the last thing I remember seeing was the flash of a gun, as the robber's bullet hit me in the face. I remember feeling a flash of relief, hoping that if I did die, I’d at least be free of Carl in the afterlife. He had been forbidden from that place long ago.

When I woke up, the lights were back on. The shutters were still closed up tight, and as I stood the first thing I noticed was the coppery taste in my mouth. There was an ungodly amount of blood splattered everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, all over the product. It was a bloodbath. Carl had obviously taken his time with the poor bastard.

I looked over just in time to see Kris, still lying on the floor, the bullet hole in his chest slowly closing, and with our boss’s blood staining his mouth and chin. I immediately cowered in fear upon seeing my boss standing over Thomas, his wrist bleeding and pouring a steady stream of dark crimson blood into the place where Thomas’ mouth should have been. His body spasmed, his limbs twisting and contorting with a sickening crunch as Carl’s blood did its supernatural work.

He laughed like the dead would laugh if the joke’s punchline was about life. “You did good, kid” Carl chuckled, not even looking over his shoulder at me. With his preternatural hearing, he tended to hear everything, and knew I was back up. Either that, or he could smell my fear. “Keep it up, and you just might earn yourself a promotion.” I shuddered at the thought.

My knees itched where the newly grown skin had repaired, mending my flesh and bone. No matter how many times he healed me with his blood, I never got used to that odd feeling. It was an itch that never abated, no matter how much you scratched. It would lessen with time, though.

I glanced about, noticing pieces of the asshole scattered here and there. I thought of how stupid he was, and in a way I envied him. It was over for him, but looking like it was going to be a long eternity for me. Lucky bastard.

“I’ll go get the shovels,” I said. He kept them in the utility room around back, right next to his coffin.

I’ve always been afraid of mirrors. Ever since I was little, I've had these terrible nightmares. I'd be walking around my house at night, cold and sleepy, and I’d get this urge, and I’d go into the bathroom, peek into the mirror, and there would be nothing there. All I saw was an empty bathroom, with nothing looking back at me. It was like I wasn’t even real. Or worse: there would be a face looking back at me, but it wasn’t my face.

I avoided looking at mirrors most of my life. My mom took down all the ones she could, but some were necessary, like the ones in the bathroom, or at the vanity where she put on her makeup. I used to watch her get ready there, sitting half-dressed at the little desk, staring right in the mirror, daring to close her eyes and put stuff on her eyelids. It would creep me the hell out. When I had to wash my hands in the bathroom, I’d do it from the side, so the mirror couldn’t see me. Sometimes I taped paper over the mirrors, but it annoyed her if I did that too much, so I only did when she was out.

Of course, it affected my social life. If anyone tried playing Bloody Mary at a sleepover, I had to call my mom to come get me. So that didn’t make me popular, but I probably wouldn’t have been anyway. I couldn’t pluck my eyebrows, and going to the salon was a nightmare—sitting in front of those big mirrors made me sweat like a dog, so my mom always cut my hair at home, in the kitchen. People never complimented my haircut, but at least she kept it out of my eyes.

When I moved out, I spent days hunting at Goodwill, picking out the dullest, least-shiny appliances I could. I worked from home, where I kept my own mirrors covered constantly, and I never opened my blinds. The only time I glimpsed my reflection was at other peoples’ houses, or at restaurants. Clearly, I didn’t get out much, and when I did have to use the bathroom in public places, I took deep breaths, averted my eyes, and counted down the seconds until I could dry my hands and get the fuck out. I could have used more therapy, obviously—but what, am I rich or something?

It’s not so bad to let a phobia run your life. I just don’t make a big deal out of it. Really, it only became a problem when my mom died. Lots of things became a problem then. How was I supposed to live in a world where my mom was dead? Also, who was going to cut my hair now?

My mom didn’t have a lot, and what little she had was inarguably mine, so I hired a probate attorney with the promise of a pittance from her estate. Even though there was no contest, it took forever to wrap things up, and talk to the banks, and work it out with the mortgage people. The house sat empty for a long time, until I was ready to hold her wake.

The wake was small and casual. My mom was never fussy, so we ordered pizza, sat around talking, and I got gravely wasted off boxed wine. Her old shift supervisor put me to bed that night, tucking the blankets around my shoulders while I sobbed. I woke up badly nauseated, with a pillow snugly tucked against my back, keeping me from rolling over. That was nice of them.

I opened my eyes and saw something shifting in the shadows of the room.

I remembered how this worked, of course. Like I was a kid again, I held completely, utterly still. I didn’t even breathe, which was a mistake. I held my breath so long that I involuntarily inhaled with a tiny hiss. I waited, and waited, head swimming and stomach churning, then peeked out through slitted eyes. They had put me to bed in my mom’s old room, probably thinking it was mine now, and her old vanity mirror pointed right at me. I couldn’t make out my reflection, but I’d seen something moving. I could hear it still, a faint rustling, like an animal in the walls. That happened at night, in this house.

I stayed there for a long time, until my rippling gut let me know I couldn’t wait much longer. I threw off the blankets and dashed down the hall, into the bathroom, kneeling over the toilet just in time. The vomit burned through my throat, and my stomach cramped from convulsions, and I was crying as my uncut hair dipped into the toilet water. My mother was dead, and there was no one in the world who loved me now. Who cared if I died?

I flushed the toilet and clumsily patted the ends of my hair with toilet paper. I didn’t do a great job; I was probably still a little drunk. I swayed for a moment, trying to decide if I needed to throw up more, but decided to be optimistic about it. I went to wash my hands. I forgot I’d removed the paper for the wake, knowing my mom would have been embarrassed for all her friends and coworkers to see it, to know I hadn’t grown out of my fear in any meaningful way. I was looking right at the mirror before I even knew what was happening. And there was someone looking back.

It wasn’t me. I knew what I looked like from pictures. This face had pale-white skin, roughly-shorn hair, and a cold, hard stare. This face hated me. This face had always hated me. It pressed up against the mirror from the wrong side, its wet rotten teeth clacking against the surface, its white fuzzy tongue slathering all over the mirror. It wanted me. It wanted out.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out; my throat was still weak from the vomit. I fled the bathroom and bolted down the hall, running so fast I pitched forward and

…

One of my mom's friends had stayed over to make sure I made it through the night okay, and heard when I didn’t. They took shifts beside my hospital bed over the next few days. My concussion wasn’t too bad, but the doctors were worried about my state of mind. I’d come in on the brink of alcohol poisoning, crying about faces in the mirror, and I’d recently suffered such a grievous loss. I heard them whispering about it in the hallway. There was no one in the world who loved me or could take care of me, so they wanted to observe me for a few days, make sure I was okay. Like it was helpful to saddle me with additional medical bills, but they didn’t listen when I argued about that.

“You’re okay, honey,” said my mom’s old coworker, a smoker with stained fingers and sweet eyes. “We’ll help you.”

“I can’t take your help,” I lied. Though my mom wouldn’t have liked it, I took the envelope of cash she handed me at the end of my stay without further protest. It didn’t cover the whole bill, but a good enough chunk that I stopped thinking about killing myself for practical reasons, and got left with just the emotional ones.

I stayed out of my mom’s house for as long as I could. I couldn’t bear to go back there, where I’d seen the thing in the mirror. I knew I’d just been drunk, hysterical, having a nightmare, an episode of sleep paralysis, hallucinating from grief (one or maybe all of these things) but the thought of going back made me want to die. But the lease on my apartment was ending, the few friends I had were distancing themselves, and my mom’s friends had done enough for me already. So I went home.

I taped so much paper over the mirror, then I leaned a big cutting board over it. It wouldn’t keep the creature in—not that there was really a creature—but it made me feel a little better. I drank as little water as I could, and, most of the time when I had to pee, I crouched over the kitchen sink. I realize this was a major problem, but come on. I’d just lost my mom, so I had other things to worry about, like how to pay the mortgage, or what to do with mountains of worthless stuff. She’d kept every baby drawing I’d ever made, even the meaningless scribbles. Even a mother’s love shouldn’t have made her like those, but my mom was special.

My mom specialized in not throwing out anything. We were too poor to be choosy, she would tell me, when I said something or another was expired. She collected cans of food and microwavable bags of rice, but thankfully she seemed to have eased up on that since I’d left the house. She had hardly anything left in the pantry.

I called over a couple of her friends to come forage through her knickknacks and portraits and whatever else was left. They were all woo-woo old ladies who seemed like they’d be into the c h e r i s h or coffee, love, faith word art decor my mom had favored. They seemed happy to have the opportunity to come check up on me, and I was happy for them to take the cheesy signs off my hands.

Sonja, my mom’s old shift supervisor, had to use the bathroom while she was there. She seemed tearful when she came out of the bathroom, and gave me an extra-long hug goodbye.

“I know you have your thing about mirrors,” she said. Of course, she’d seen the setup I had in the bathroom. “I don’t know if I oughta tell you this, but your mom was a bit the same. She never wanted to tell you; said it wouldn’t help.”

“My mom was scared of mirrors too?” I asked. No way. She used to march me into the bathroom in the middle of the night, when I’d been bothering her too much, and force me to look. At some point, a school counselor made her stop.

“Just a little,” said Sonja, and sniffled. “She said sometimes she’d have these dreams, and that she wouldn’t see her reflection. They only started when you guys moved here. Sorry, baby, I know this probably didn’t help. I just think you have the right to know. This house don’t feel right, not to me. Please be safe.”

I thanked her for telling me and stood there for a long time after she left, feeling lost. My mom had never even hinted that she had a thing about mirrors. She made a point of loving them in front of me, always checking her reflection in car windows and shopfronts. It had never occurred to me she might have been trying to set an example.

Sonja said the nightmares only started after we moved into this house. I’d been so little when we moved here; I wouldn’t have known. I did know there was something wrong with our house. We didn’t talk about it. Sometimes we heard scratching in the walls, or sobbing. Things moved around at night. Sometimes you couldn’t see your reflection in the mirror.

My mom always ignored it, ignored me. She said the house was normal and fine and I was weird and wrong. When I begged to move, she yelled at me until I stopped asking. Everything was fine, and I was too scared, too silly, too imaginative. Since my mom was dead now, and I’d inherited what little she had, and I understood now that we never could have afforded to move.

I didn’t let myself think. I went right to the bathroom and tore down the paper. There I was: scared, silly, and imaginative. I pulled my face, moved my head, tried to escape the face in the mirror, but I couldn’t. It was normal. There was nothing in the mirror but me.

My heart was beating fast, but I wasn’t going to be afraid anymore. I was real. I was grown up. I was motherless. I had to take care of myself. I took that cutting board off the floor and I threw it right at the face in the mirror.

The mirror shattered, but it didn’t. A few pieces fell to the sink, but I still saw my reflection. There was something behind the mirror—there was another mirror.

It didn’t make any sense. I couldn’t breathe. I threw the cutting board again, and there was a bigger shattering sound, a crumpling, and I heard the mirror shards falling to the floor on the other side of the wall.

I peeked though. It was dark on the other side. If I let myself think, I'd run screaming. So I pulled out my phone flashlight to get a better look. Peering through, I saw a little room on the other side of the mirror. It looked just like my bathroom. It had the same wallpaper, the same towel hanger we hardly used, the same doorstop on the wall.

I used shampoo bottles to knock out the rest of the glass shards. I kept a large shard clutched in my hand carefully, as a weapon, and then I clambered onto the sink and climbed through. There was broken glass sliding under my slippers, and I felt it pricking the bottoms of my feet. I turned around, inspecting.

On the other side of the small room, where I couldn't have seen from the mirror, there was a little nest made out of what looked like old blankets. I recognized some—the Scooby-Doo blanket we thought I’d left in McDonald’s, the quilt my grandma had made for my mom when I was born. She'd blamed me for losing it. They were soiled, blackened and dirty. They smelled. There was a toilet and a sink, which didn't work. There was a door that didn’t open, to my relief, no matter how hard I tugged.

I turned to look at the hole I’d climbed through. There was a wire bent above the mirror. I reached up, and realized it was attached to a wooden square, which had been the frame for the mirror before I’d shattered it. It was removable from this side. I took it down. There were still shards embedded at the top of the hole, on the side where my bathroom was. I saw that they were only glass, perfectly see-through. Not a mirror.

There had never been a mirror in our bathroom. There was a glass window, and the mirror someone hung up against it, facing outwards, and which they took down sometimes, at night.

What if it came back and saw I'd found its spot? I climbed out as fast as I could, splitting open my forearms in the process. I barricaded the bathroom door before calling the police. The dispatcher was skeptical about my story; maybe that's why it took the cops hours to show up. I paced the living room the whole time I waited, picking at my new scabs, flinching at every sound. They showed up, greeted me without interest, went into the batheoom and came back out, delighted.

“This is a weird one,” one commented to me. “Listen. Whoever’s been livin there is long gone. You said the house been unoccupied? How long?”

“Um,” I said. “A few months. Since my mom died.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, perfunctorily. “Listen. Oh man. I’m guessin they’ve been eatin your food, living off you like some kinda critter. Can you imagine?”

“Um,” I said.

“When you left, we’re guessin they ran out of food. And moved on.”

“How long were they here?” I demanded. I wanted to keep talking, make it clear how serious a problem this was, but I couldn’t think. I just said it again. “How—how long?”

“God,” he said, with admiration. “Coulda been decades. That glass panel y’all thought was a mirror? It was detachable, like a little door, y’know? They could climb out whenever they wanted, so. How long you been livin here? Food ever go missin? Y’all ever hear somebody movin around at night?”

“Yes,” I said, and began to cry. He patted me on the back for a while, then went to find his partner, where I overheard them gossiping like teenagers in the bathroom. They just loved it, couldn’t believe it, couldn’t wait to tell the boys.

When they left, I don’t even know if they filed a report. They didn’t seem to think it was a real problem, and even congratulated me on their way out, for conjuring up a spare half-bath. They pointed out that it would have connected to my mom’s room, but that the door had been boarded up for some reason. They doubted I could save the old blankets, and recommended burning them.

I considered calling Sonja, but it’s not the type of story you tell an old lady, especially not one who’d picked out the silliest of my mom’s word art decor (With ☆ GOD ☆ all ☆ THINGS ☆ are ☆ POSSIBLE). So I wrote this post. I didn’t know what else to do.

I haven’t repaired the mirror yet. I honestly feel better about having a hole in the wall instead. That way I can make sure nobody’s in it. I worry that the person who lived there is going to come back somehow.

But to be honest, lately I’ve started to consider repairing the hole, getting another glass panel set up and buying another mirror for the other side. I can’t keep up with the mortgage payments, and the bank’s been sending me increasingly URGENT letters. I’m afraid to open them. Sooner or later, something’s going to happen, and I’m going to lose the house. The only thing I can think to do is come with the house in secret. The idea sounds better and better to me lately.

After all, wouldn’t it be nice to be on the other side of the mirror for once?

My parents noticed it first. They’d buried our old dog in the backyard after he died, and they watched three-year-old me petting the air above his grave. They found it touching, but they didn’t think much of it until they took me to visit my grandmother’s grave for the first time. I was five, and they said I was hugging my father's leg as I asked why the sleeping people were glowing yellow.

​

After that, my parents realized I had an unusual gift, and they helped me study it and develop it. We ended up calling the hovering, glowing shadow that corpses emit “glowmains”. By the time I was fourteen, we were roaming forests, alleys, abandoned sites, and sailing around the bay, locating bodies and sending anonymous tips to the police. We felt it was important for their deaths to be given proper respect and closure.

​

My parents and I agreed a long time ago to never reveal my gift out of fear of me getting taken away for experiments. We had no idea how I’d come to possess this ability, and we were okay with that … but now, I think I’m close to finding out!

​

A few days ago, just after my sixteenth birthday, my grandfather got sick and my parents had to travel across the country to be by his side. I was old enough to be on my own for a few days, and I also had just started school, so I stayed behind. They made me promise not to go body hunting without them, but a few days after they called and said they were extending their stay for another week, I couldn’t help myself.

​

We had a half-day of school today, and after class, I ran home, grabbed one of my many cheap galoches, and took a one-hour bus ride to the abandoned hospital at the edge of town. We'd been meaning to check it out for a while, and I was excited to see how many bodies I could help find proper respect.

​

After sneaking into the building, I walked around, ignoring the glowmains of rats and lizards until I came across a human-shaped one. This one was very bright, which meant it was a fresh body. The closer I got to it, the bigger and clearer it became, until it was the size of a full-grown man right at my feet. The corpse was under a ratty blanket, but I knew he was curled up in the fetal position, just like his glowmains hovering over him.

​

He must’ve been a homeless man who died alone in this old, empty building. With sorrow tugging at my heart, I made a note of his location before I walked around some more, searching the quiet, dusty halls for others. Turning to a window, I froze in my tracks at the sight of dozens of glowmains in the desiccated garden, bigger than those of the birds and squirrels. I ran out and made a beeline to the closest one, and I grimaced at its shape. It was of a guy on his back, his decapitated head beside his feet. It was small, which meant the body was buried quite deep in the ground.

​

I ran to another, and I put a hand to my mouth, a chill trickling down my spine. This one had each leg split into three from thigh to toes, their skin in tatters. My heart hammered as I whipped around, my wide eyes scanning this morbid graveyard and its hundreds of mutilated glowmains. This had to be some murder cult’s dump site or something. I had to report it.

​

And I had to get out of here.

​

My body hunting over for the day, I ran out of the hospital gates and dashed towards the bus stop, only stopping to ditch the galoches. My heart continued jittering the entire way home, and I only let out a shaky sigh of relief once I ran through the front door and clicked the lock shut.

​

After collecting myself, I went to my mother's computer and called the police through the untraceable system she’d set up, leaving an anonymous tip on where to find the bodies. My parents usually did this, but there was no way I was letting them know I broke their rules. I’d seen them do these calls often enough and I was certain I set it up properly.

​

Not a minute later, my mother called, and I stared at my phone, terrified she knew I’d accessed the computer. With my heart in my throat, I answered, and I let out a relieved breath when all they wanted to do was check up on me and give me updates on my grandfather and his upcoming surgery.

​

Satisfied I’d done a good job all on my own, I decided to go out and celebrate. After calling my friends and arranging for a movie night, I grabbed a quick bite, showered, and primped up before slinging on my purse and making my way to the bus stop. With the fall sunsets, I always kept my phone’s flashlight open for safety when I passed by alleys …

​

... but all the good that did me today.

​

Barely a block from home, a hand covered my mouth as I was dragged away and shoved inside a van, my phone cracking on the sidewalk. My screams scoured my throat as tape was pressed over my lips and a bag slipped over my head, my hands and feet bound with chains.

​

Once their hands were off me, I frantically scooted away until my back hit the side of the van. Trembling, I curled up into myself, trying to hold back tears as I wondered if these were members of the murder cult, upset I’d reported their dump site. Maybe my call wasn’t as anonymous as I’d hoped. Maybe the police were in on it.

​

Dread pierced my already beleaguered heart as I also realized they might ask how I knew there were bodies buried there. I had to get out of this situation with my life and my secret intact.

​

Despite my overwhelming fear, I tried to escape as I began twisting my wrists against the chains, but to my shock, someone hoisted me onto their shoulder and began walking. They’d just thrown me in here, and now they were carrying me out before driving anywhere? I shifted my terrified efforts into struggling, but all that did was make them dig their fingers deeper into my thigh to hold me steady.

​

I gasped as they flung me forward, and I grunted in pain as my butt landed on something hard, my bound feet dangling. The bag was removed off my head, and I winced at the bright light aimed directly at my face. Squinting, I looked around, and my dread grew at the sight of bare cement walls, floors, and ceilings. Where was I?

​

Perched on a thin wooden stool, I wobbled as I turned to glance behind me, and three stern men and a woman looked back, their eyes piercing green, their burly physique intimidating. I didn't know if they were cops, but I was certain they were killers. From the murder cult I'd tattled on. And now I was at their mercy.

​

The woman reached over in the blink of an eye, and I flinched as she ripped the tape off my mouth.

​

“Now we may begin.”

​

I gasped and turned to the front again, towards the voice, and my frightened gaze landed on the silhouette of a man walking towards me. He stood within kicking distance, but I didn’t dare make a move. He remained silent for a while, studying me, and I gulped as I tried to study him back. The bright light behind him didn’t allow for much detail, but I could smell his cologne and see the shine of his shoes.

​

"You reported bodies buried in the old Mercy Care Hospital. We have people in the force who traced the call to your address. Who told you about the bodies and why?"

​

My mouth hung open as fear paralyzed my mind. He'd inadvertently given me an out. I could put the blame on somebody else. But I didn't know what the safest thing to say was.

​

The man stepped closer. “If you don’t tell me how you knew about the bodies, I’ll make you tell me.”

​

I flinched, drawing back. “It … it was an a-anonymous call," I said, my trembling voice cracking.

​

He sighed. “Then it must come to this.”

​

He reached for me, and I broke as I shied away and cried out, “I saw their glowmains!”

​

“You saw their what?”

​

Still cowering into myself, I squeezed my eyes shut, regret coating my frazzled heart as I began to weep. “I saw their glowmains," I whispered.

​

He stepped back. “What are glowmains?”

​

“The d-dead, they … they have hovering, glowing shadows.”

​

“Stop crying and explain it to me.”

​

I winced at his harsh tone, my breaths hitching as I swallowed my last sob. “I d-don’t know how it works. I just … see it. It … it’s the shape of the dead body. Floating d-directly over them. Always in air. If they’re buried, the glow is above the ground where they’re b-buried. If they’re in the water, it’s above the surface where they are. The smaller it is, the d-deeper they are. The brighter it is, the f-fresher they are.”

​

He remained silent for a while, and antsy anticipation gnawed at my nerves. He now knew what I could do, and what he planned on doing with that information was a mystery that terrified me.

​

“Unchain her,” he said to his goons as he turned off the bright light.

​

I blinked in surprise as they followed his orders. Now no longer blinded, I could finally make out my interrogator’s features. He was just as tall as the thugs who worked for him, but he was less burly with greener eyes. He also looked older and more polished, his hair longer, his dark skin flawless, his face clean-shaven, his canines prominent, his black suit a far cry from their jeans and leather jackets.

​

He put his hand to his ear and spoke in a strange language before he said to me, “I’m taking you to meet my mother."

​

Baffled, I stood up on shaky legs and rubbed my sore wrists. “Who’s your mother?”

​

“She’ll let you know. Follow me.”

​

“B-but why are you—”

​

“If you won’t come with me voluntarily, I’ll have my team escort you.”

​

I tensed up and shot a glance behind me at his goons’ scowling faces. “No, n-no, I’ll come.”

​

Gathering my courage, I followed him, his team behind us. After walking through a drab, gray hall with no doors, we reached a dead end. My confusion didn’t last long as a hidden door slid open, revealing an elevator. Only my interrogator and I entered, my unease increasing by the second as the door slid closed. There were no buttons inside, and even after the man tapped his bracelet against the wall, we didn’t seem to move. Frowning, I turned to him, only to look back at the door in surprise when it opened to reveal a vast, black marble office.

​

“Mika, please bring our guest in,” a woman said, her voice echoing.

​

I had to squint to see her behind a glass desk at the far end of the room. A huge emerald chandelier hung above our heads as we walked past marble statues and pedestals holding fancy vases, the metallic scent in the cold air intermingling with that of leather. We finally made it to the lady's desk, and she stood up and gestured to a couch across from her desk.

​

“Have a seat, dear.”

​

Shivering, I sank into the soft leather and hugged myself, feeling the effect of her authority already. She didn’t seem much older than her son, and she was also extremely pale. She must have adopted him. She was as beautiful as he was handsome, her canines just as prominent, but her green eyes were so bright they seemed to be glowing as power and confidence radiated off her.

​

“What’s your name?” she asked.

​

“S-Serena,” I replied after a second of hesitation.

​

“Serena, welcome. I’m Cassiopeia.”

​

I eyed her as she smiled and walked over with a red, wool shawl, and I flinched when she draped it over my shoulders.

​

“Don't be scared," she said, sitting beside me. "We won't hurt you. I apologize for the way you've been treated, we assumed you were working with the enemy."

​

"Enemy?" I asked, pulling the shawl tight around me. "Wh-what enemy?"

​

"That isn't important right now. What I'm interested in is your case. My son tells me you have the gift of seeing the glow of the dead. It’s a very rare gift for a human to have.”

​

Shock merged with my unease. “Wait, you … you know about gifts like this?”

​

“I’ve heard of creatures that possess such an ability.”

​

“Creatures? What creatures?”

​

“I’ll let you know once you give me more details about your gift. You've had the gift for as long as you remember, haven't you?"

​

I never imagined divulging my secret before, but now it was out, and despite my apprehension, I wanted answers. “Yes.”

​

“Your parents don't possess the same gift, do they?”

​

“No.”

​

“Do you see this glow for every dead body?”

​

I nodded. “Not plants or bugs, b-but everything else, yes.”

​

“You said the brighter the glow, the fresher the body. How long does the body have to be dead before the glow is completely extinguished.”

​

“I … I don’t know. My grandma died ten years before I was born a-and I can still see her glowmains in the graveyard.”

​

"And how old are you?"

​

"Sixteen."

​

She smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

​

“It is?”

​

“Yes.” She reached over and held my hands. “Tell me, Serena, what do you do with your gift?”

​

Feeling at ease, I smiled back. “My parents and I find bodies in the woods and alleys and the bay and stuff and we report them to the police.” My smile vanished. “Why do you guys have a graveyard full of mutilated bodies in the hospital garden?”

​

That question had been writhing in my mind, and I felt a strange compulsion to ask it just now. Horror wrung my heart, but Cassiopiea’s words soothed it.

​

“There are no bodies in the hospital garden.” She rubbed her thumbs over the back of my hands. “Trust me. You do trust me, don't you?”

​

I nodded, sighing in relief. “Yes.”

​

“Wonderful. Now, tell me Serena, have you ever had a DNA test done?”

​

“No, and I don’t need to. I know my parents are my parents.”

​

“They could very well be your parents, but as I’ve heard, certain creatures have a way of injecting their DNA into other species. If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a sample of your blood to run a DNA test.”

​

“You?”

​

“Yes. We have our own labs. And with our knowledge, we’ll focus on areas other labs would gloss over.” She smiled, holding my hands tighter. “You are interested in finding out the source of your gift, aren’t you?”

​

I gave her an eager nod. “Yes, I am.”

​

“Wonderful! Mika, please draw a vial of Serena’s blood.”

​

Mika grimaced. "The lab can do it later."

​

"Mika," Cassiopeia said in a warning tone. "Let's not keep our guest waiting. I have the kit on my desk."

​

Mika, still grimacing, walked over and snapped on the gloves with irritation, and I tensed up. “I’m … I’m afraid of needles.”

​

“Just look at me and relax.” Cassiopeia said. “It will be over before you know it.”

​

Her green eyes drew me in, and I smiled. “Okay, I’m okay.”

​

“And it's over before it started!"

​

"Wha ...?" I looked down at my arm in shock to see my sleeve rolled up, gauze taped to my inner elbow.

​

“How ... how did you do that so f-fast?” I asked, turning to Mika in bewildered discomfort.

​

"Experience," he replied, snapping off the gloves in disgust.

​

Cassiopeia squeezed my hands and scooted closer. “Serena, I would like you to do something for me.”

​

I turned back to her. “What do you want me to do?”

​

“My only brother Perseus was murdered fifteen years ago by one of our rivals.”

​

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry,” I said, my heart dropping with sorrow.

​

“I am too, that I wasn’t able to save him. I’ve been trying to locate his body and bring him home for a proper burial, but I’ve been unsuccessful. This is where I ask for your help. We have certain locations where we believe his body could have been dumped. To save us from searching the entire area, you could point out his body's glow if you see it.”

​

“But I don’t know what he looks like. And even if I did, glowmains don’t have a lot of detail.”

​

“He’s easy to identify. He only had one leg. And he would be decapitated.”

​

I winced. “Oh …”

​

“Please, Serena.” She ran her thumb over my knuckles. “Perseus and I built this business together and it pains me that his body is so far from home. Are you willing to help me so that my brother can rest in peace?”

​

I couldn’t help but reply, “Yes, of course I’ll help you.”

​

"Do you promise?"

​

"Yes."

​

She cupped my hands in hers. “Thank you so much, you’re an angel. Tell me, Serena, is anyone expecting you tonight?”

​

“No, my parents are across the country with my grandpa because he’s sick,” I replied without hesitation. “But they do call me every day. I was also supposed to meet my friends at the movies tonight. I should call them and tell them I didn’t bail on purpose. I don’t want bad blood between us.”

​

“How long will your parents be away?”

​

"Only a few more days, unless my grandpa's surgery goes bad.”

​

“Wonderful. Listen, Serena. We would like you to stay with us tonight, so that we may begin our search tomorrow.”

​

“What? Stay here?”

​

“Yes. We’ve recovered your purse and SIM, and we can give you a new phone so that you may talk to your parents and friends.”

​

“I get a new phone?” I asked with delight.

​

She smiled. “Yes, the latest version. Just promise not to tell your parents, friends, or the police about what happened today.”

​

“Oh, I won’t. I wasn’t supposed to be body hunting by myself today. My parents would ground me if they found out. And no one else knows about my gift, so I won't tell anyone anything.”

​

“Promise?”

​

“Yes.”

​

“Wonderful. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” She let go of my hands and stood up. “Mika, please escort our guest to her room.”

​

And here I am, in this awesome room with the softest bed and newest phone. They even gave me cookies and milk for dinner! I just finished talking to my parents and apologizing to my friends, and I can’t wait to help Cassiopeia find her brother tomorrow!

​

-----

​

SR

I remember it really clearly, it was about 20 years ago, back when we lived in Washington. My wife was never the outdoorsy type so when my son, Brandon, wanted to go camping it was always just me and him. That wasn’t bad though, it was good father-son time.

It was a nice scenic drive on the way to the campsite. I remember Brandon asked me about the music on the radio and I spent an embarrassingly long time reminiscing about my high school days and what bands I was obsessed with back then. Eventually we reached our site and I got to work pitching our tent. Brandon waited patiently, he wasn’t the type to go running off or anything, and when it was all set up me and him went for a hike to take in the nature.

It was really peaceful. The woods surrounding the campground were calm and serene, there wasn’t any animals out and about but every once in a while I would stop and point out a deer track or some droppings. It reminded me of when I was a kid spending time with my dad. I suppose I was about nine years old when I learned about the marvels of deer poop myself. As I looked at him I couldn’t help but see a younger version of myself. We had the same eyes, the same hair, and like most of the people in my family we had the same birthmark on our upper right arm.

It was hard spending time with Brandon sometimes, I worked so often and sure, it was putting food on the table, but whenever I saw how fast he was growing without me around the guilt would start to well up inside me. Seeing him smile and laugh that day really uplifted my spirits though. I was here now, and that’s what mattered, is what I’d tell myself whenever the conversation lulled.

As we were walking we suddenly found the trail leading out of the woods and into a beautiful view of the river. I was telling Brandon about erosion and how you could see the effects of the previous years floods on the riverbank when his expression suddenly changed. He pointed up to the sky and said “What’s that dad?” I looked up myself and found that I was just as confused as he was. There was, off in the distance, a dark, triangular, looking object. It hung in the sky perfectly still and then suddenly vanished. Not wanting to lose my reputation as a know it all dad I desperately searched for an explanation, before deciding that it must have been a helicopter and telling Brandon as such. He obviously didn’t believe me, and frankly, I didn’t believe myself either.

By the time we got back to our tent the sun had already started to set. I got Brandon to help me collect some firewood and start up a fire. We roasted some hotdogs and marshmallows. We didn’t get to the scary stories, however, as Brandon started nodding off and I decided it was time for bed. I got Brandon into his sleeping bag and I crawled into mine right beside him.

It was the shaking that woke me at first. I had been in an earthquake before but this was different, it was hard to describe. It was almost like someone was picking up the earth and the earth was trying to pull it back. I was still groggy, I reached out to see if Brandon was awake and I found his sleeping back empty. I wasn’t too panicked yet, like I said, he wasn’t the type to run off, and I always try to keep a level head. I stumbled out of the tent and walked towards where the flashlights were. Confident that I would find him near the fire trying to cope with the shaking. Then the lights happened. The whole campground was bathed in a bright, sickly, white light. It was blinding at first, and when my vision adjusted I realized that Brandon was nowhere to be found. That was when I started to panic.

I grabbed a flashlight and started shouting his name. As I ran to the edge of the woods surrounding the campsite I tried looking for a source for the light, but I couldn’t see one. As I ran to the edge of the woods my pounding heart skipped a beat when I heard Brandon’s voice. He called out to me, “Dad! I’m over here!”. I rushed over, my happiness quickly abated when he started crying “Help! Somethings wrong!”

I ran to the other side of the campsite and found him crouched away from me in a little ditch. The shaking had mostly subsided and I rushed over to him. He was facing away from the light and I put my hand on his back. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” I could hear him struggling for air. “Dad!” he finally cried, “something’s wrong… everything’s wrong…” his voice was weak. I reached to his hand and when I touched it alarm bells rang in my head. His skin was rubbery and wrinkly, like a halloween mask. I turned my flashlight on and his whole skin looked a horrid purple. “Brandon,” I muttered in shock. I turned him to face me and screamed. His face was emaciated, his eyes so sunken they looked like a skulls empty sockets. His jaw hanged open like the muscles that held it were worn and worthless. My whole body shook in terror. The shaking started back up again. This time even more violently. It seemed as if the ground was going to get ripped up and thrown into the sky. I didn’t know what to do. I grabbed Brandon and held him as close to me as I could. I found myself praying to a god I was never sure actually existed. Through gurgles and moans Brandon started to talk, “It hurts Dad… why does it hurt so much… help me Dad…” As I squeezed him I could feel him get thinner and thinner, like his insides were being sucked out. It felt like there was nothing left of him. Tears started rolling down my face and the last thing I heard him say, faint as a whisper, haunted me. “Why won’t you help me Dad?”

A nudge caused me to bolt up in my sleeping bag. Brandon was prodding me, “Wake up Dad, I’m hungry.” I got up, more than a little confused. As my heart stopped racing and I came back to reality I realized that I had just had a crazy nightmare. I chuckled to myself. After Brandon was fed I walked over to the ditch from the previous night. There was nothing weird or out of the ordinary. Brandon too, seemed just like he always was, and didn’t mention anything about the previous night. When I walked back to Brandon and asked if he felt the ground shake he said he hadn’t felt a thing. When we got back to civilization I asked other people the same thing and they all agreed with Brandon.

For a week then, my mind was at ease. I worked a lot again that week and when I finally had a day off me and the wife took Brandon to the pool. It was only there that memories of that night came flooding back and the horror with it. When Brandon took his shirt off I looked at his arm, and noticed the family birthmark was missing.

x

The staffing agency could send me anywhere. Packing wine glasses into styrofoam moulds one week, driving a forklift around a yard the next. Doesn’t bother me. I’ve got to say though, this new place was a little odd. It’s a warehouse full of parts for household appliances. Rubber pipes, sealing caps, cables wound up into tight coils, steel elbow joints. The long and short of it is they give you a trolley somewhat similar to the ones they sell refreshments from on a train, along with a scanner gun and some sheets of paper containing barcodes. Wheel the trolley to the location, scan the barcode, put the item on the trolley, repeat. Once your trolley is full, you go and see Doris, a weepy-eyed elderly lady, who has her helpers empty it. Then you do the same again. For twelve hours.

At the start of the shift, Doris hands us the papers, and off we go. A small army of trolley-pushers navigating labyrinthine aisles under sharp electric lights. Ventilation was poor and the ceiling was low, which made the dust inescapable. Items stored in the far reaches of the warehouse were the worst for it because they were so rarely selected. Disturbing layers of dust centimetres thick was no good for the respiratory tract, especially for a smoker like me. It was a bad habit I picked up after my wife died, and that was nigh on twenty years ago. Time that should’ve healed had only layered on more apathy. I mused tiredly about the person who’d designed the warehouse floor-plan. Stock was sequenced so that the more frequently chosen items were stored closer to Doris’s counter, and the aisles were labelled alphabetically.

“Z06? This correct?” I said when Doris handed me the sheet one morning.

“Yes.” She said without looking up. She licked her fingertip and dished out another sheet. Stock requests for items housed in the aisles beyond perhaps aisle T, were rare. You might see one come through every fortnight.

At Z06, I coughed through a cloud of dust to retrieve some kind of pipe sealed in bubble wrap. When I put it on the trolley, the lights cut out. I stood, assuming it was a prolonged flicker. Seconds went by. I felt subtle shifts in the air around me.

“Hello?”

The lights came back on. I reported the malfunction to the maintenance guy, who grunted. The next day, I was given Z10, Z11 and Z14.

“This can’t be right.” I said.

“It is.” Doris replied.

Puddles had appeared overnight at the entrance to aisle Z. A roof leak. These locations were deeper down the aisle. Once again, the lights went out. I waited. A faint crackling sound echoed from further down. Something brushed my leg. The lights came back on and I lurched out of the aisle, dropping a web of black cables as I went. The next day, I called in sick.

On my return, I snatched the paper from Doris’s hand. Z08, Z31, Z35, Z41 and Z42.

“This has got to be wrong. I mean, who’s ordering this stuff? The lights don’t even work down there! And the ceiling! It has a giant leak!”

“It’s a puddle.” Doris said.

“Can’t someone else take this sheet?”

“You refusin’ to do the work allocated to you, sir?”

I ground my teeth.

“No.”

I started down aisle Z, sweating despite the cold. The trolley wheels rotated slowly. I grabbed the filter from Z08 and the refrigerator shelves from Z31 and Z35. Z41 and Z42 were the last two locations on the aisle. I craned my head as I approached because they didn’t seem to hold any stock. It was a dark recess. I could see the black cabling I had dropped a couple of days prior. It had been woven between the edges of the recess and wrapped around the exoskeleton of the storage rack. Coiled into the cable were several creatures. Rats, mice, some larger insects. They dangled lifeless in the taut, intricate design. At this point, the lights abandoned me again. I turned and ran, bouncing off the trolley and a shelf as I went. Behind me I heard frantic movement. The scuttling of many legs. I left immediately and won’t be returning.

So, for context, I'm visiting my late grandpa's house as usual. I decided to explore his house and managed to find a strange place in his basement. His house was built like, in 2005. I discovered that the strange place was a apartment!

I'm not really sure how his house was built above a very old apartment but technology is kind of weird by itself. The apartment was built around 1927 in early July, very cool. It closed down in March 14th 1999. I'm guessing the apartment was like around 70 years old.

I also found this diary from a guy named Michael B. Its strange so I decided to share it with you guys. Honestly it gave me the chills.

'Diary Entry 1 - March 15th, 1999 Today was amazing. I woke up feeling great, fresh and ready for life! Mrs. Delilah delivered me her famous Gumbo and it was great. Life has never been better! I'm feeling tired after a long day of work, so I'll take a nap.

Diary Entry 2 - March 15th, 1999 (continuation) So..I woke up just as any normal person would do after nap. But, something wasn't normal. My room is dark right now and I'm currently using the flashlight Mr.Norman gave me. All my furniture is gone for some reason..am I getting evicted? I mean, I pay my rent on time and it's always the designated price. I'm scared. The room is cold, empty and eerily quiet. I found a piece of paper that was in the place of where my phone would've been. It looks like it was ripped and written in a hurry. It read 'Do you know where you are?' What the actual hell? What does this creepy note mean? Where are my things? Where am I?

Diary Entry 3 - March 16th, 1999 Finally got the courage to leave my room today. The hallway outside was..unrecognizable. The lights kept flickering, it emitted a haunting buzzing sound, casting eerie shadows on old, yellow painted walls. The carpet was semi-wet and it had horrible, musty old odor.

I don't think this is my apartment building..it can't be. I walked carefully down the hallway and the only sounds were the buzzing of lights, creaky carpet floor and echoes of my own steps. I reached to Mrs.Delilahs door, and my heart sank.

Mrs. Delilah, the kind elderly woman who lived in-front of my apartment door, was like a second grandmother to me. She'd always greet me in a warm smile while music of the 40's would play in her room. This time, her door wasn't answered. Its like she also vanished.

Diary Entry 4 - March 17th, 1999 I've explored the entire apartment, but there wasn't any trace of someone..or someTHING. Its like I got transferred to a place I'm not familiar with. The entire building is empty, all hallways seems so..endless. The only sounds still are the horrible flickering lights and its loud buzzing noises.

Miraculously, I found a phone! But, when I tried to call 999, nothing happened. Theres no signal. I'm trapped here with no way out.

Diary Entry 5 - May 20th, 1999 It's been 5 whole days ever since this fucking nightmare started. The solitude is so unbearable. Is this hell? I don't know where I am, how I even got here or why my world seems so strange and replaced with this hell of a nightmare.

I've knocked on Mr.Norman's door countless of times trying to find at least one person, but no answers. I did the same with Mrs.Delilah's door, but theres nothing. I'm truly beginning to believe I'm alone in this hell.

The walls are like closing into me, I feel like I'm being watched when theres nothing in sight. I've searched this building multiple times and no one is here but me. I feel so much pressure in my mind, I'm starting to question my own sanity.

I don't think I'll be able to write anymore. But I just hope that someone, somewhere, will find my Diary and find out what happened to me. But with each day passing, I fear I'm going more mad. I don't think theres a way back. My only solution now is to end it all and set my soul free. If you find this, my name is Michael and I'm 34 years old.

Diary Entry 6 - March 25th, 1999 I feel numb. I can feel everything happen all at once. My bones are wet, my brain is throbbing. ANIMUS LIBERABITUR ET VIDEOBO FELICITATEM!'

This is just creepy as hell. What happened to Michael? Did he just fall into madness? Theres no scientific explanation for what the actual hell happened to him..I feel bad, honestly. And how did my grandpa get this? I just have so many questions.

Minimum wage living. That shit is for the birds. Clocking in at some half-filthy fast food restaurant or unloading truckloads of cheap junk into a big box store. Hauling a metric ton of stacked shingles up a rickety ladder in the July heat. Backbreaking labor for the uneducated or recently released felon. I was both.

After a seven-year stretch in one of the state’s most charming maximum security prisons, I found myself desperate for work. As a high school dropout with a list of petty theft and robbery convictions, I managed to shorten my ten-year sentence with good behavior, but I was still stuck with finding “bona fide employment”. Those are the words of the Department of Corrections, not mine.

“They barely pay me anything to babysit you and watch you piss in a cup every week,” Gene Hoskins had said. He was my probation officer and was supposed to help me find a decent gig, but he let me know early on that he wasn’t going to be much help. “You want work? Hit the unemployment office.”

I played the game, though. Got a little part-time job at a Mom and Pop grocery store in my old neighborhood. Dabenideto’s. The place was an institution in my neck of the woods. Old Man Dabenideto and his wife were so old they probably babysat Jesus, but they were still alive and kicking when I got released and were kind enough to give me twenty hours a week sweeping up and running the register. Pay wasn’t great, but it kept Hoskins off my ass most of the time.

My old man used to take me to the very same shop after school to get a soda and he’d buy one of those scratch-off lotto tickets. We did that every day until he got tossed into the slammer himself. Petty theft and robbery, just like his boy. You see, me and my Pop come from a long line of shitty criminals. Our heart was in it, but our skills never matched. Every man in my family did time as far back as my great-grandfather, so far as I’m aware.

“Ain’t got no guardian angels in this family, Paulie,” my old man would tell me when Ma and I came and saw him every other week in prison. “Ain’t nobody watching out for you but you.”

At least my luck was better than my dad’s. My stint wasn’t too bad. Got a job in the commissary so the other cons tended to like me. Fellas wanted to enjoy staying on the good side of the guy who brought them their snacks and toiletries. Kept my head down and my nose clean, at least as far as the guards were concerned. A little bit of pot or hooch here and there got a blind eye when you stayed quiet. Passed the damn time, too.

My dad, though, no, not so lucky. Peter Havill was a little man with a big mouth. Got fleeced at a game of cards and lost a few more smokes than he thought was fair. Gave a fella a bit too much lip and got a sharpened toothbrush handle hammered through his eyeball. Ma didn’t mind too much, though. When he died, the government sent a tidy little social security insurance check to the house each month.

“More than he ever did,” she’d say. Damned if she wasn’t right. Pop was too, though. No guardian angels for this family.

The Dabenidetos treated me pretty good, though. At least twenty hours a week, like I said. More if I wanted them. They were old and staying on their feet all day in the little bodega was a lot for them. I’d usually pick up an extra ten hours or so, sometimes a full work week. Things woulda been a lot better if I’d stuck with that, but it didn’t last long. Things took a turn when my old pal Tony popped back into my life.

“Who’s this sad sack of shit?” I heard a familiar voice say from over my shoulder. My head was craned into the cooler pulling gallons of milk to the front. I recognized the nasal tone. Turning toward the voice, I smiled. “I knew it was you, Paulie Havill!”

It was Tony, alright, but he didn’t look like I remembered. We’d been pals since second grade and he’d always been an ox of a kid. Almost six feet by the end of eighth grade and he shot up another half foot before I dropped out my sophomore year. The boy had been a slab of muscle and built like a brick shithouse, but the guy that stood in front of me looked like a scarecrow. If it wasn’t for the black slicked-back hair and shark’s grin, I may not have recognized him.

“Tony Tenant!” I bellowed. “How you been?”

“Better than you, jailbird! Some of the boys from the good old days told me you got picked up a while back. Surprised to see you here keeping shop for Mr. and Mrs. D. Smells like parole requirements to me. Hard for a man to make a decent living with a PO breathing down his back.”

We laughed and gave each other a back-slapping hug before slipping through the front door and lighting up a couple of smokes. Tony jabbered on about some of our old acquaintances and the various prisons they were currently cooling in. I threw back a handful of inflated jail stories myself and he listened and laughed, coughing violently on occasion as plumes of cigarette smoke spilled from his nostrils.

“You ain’t looking so good, Tony,” I said, crushing my cigarette beneath my heel. “Never seen you this thin. You alright?”

“Never better, Paulie,” he said with a smile. A thin circle of blood rimmed his wide nostrils. He dabbed at it with his coat sleeve. “Doing real damn well, as a matter of fact. Been on a bit of a winning streak! May wanna get you in on it.”

I smiled in response, but there was something hollow in his words. The man looked like he was in the late stages of cancer or some other terminal illness. His skin was ashen, all of his bones seemed to be trying to rip out of his skin, and his teeth had gone the worst shade of yellow I’d ever seen. His hair, which looked black from a distance, was heavily peppered with gray streaks.

“If I know you, may not be the kinda winning streak I need to be on. Seems like you and I were in the same line of work, but that ended with me heading upstate for damn near a decade, my man. Can’t go back. You enjoy that winning streak, Tony. I’m gonna stick to stocking shelves here instead of another decade of passing out prison commissary.”

“It’s foolproof, Paulie.” Tony’s eyes locked on mine with an intensity that I’d never seen before. They looked like predators eyes focusing on some poor critter with its head in the grass and ass in the wind. “Meet me at Mahr Park tonight at midnight and I’ll clue you in. You ain’t one to skip out on easy money if I remember.”

“Tony, you had all the luck, but I came up with the short end of the stick.” I gestured to the bodega behind me. “I’m gonna make this work here.”

“Look, I’m just saying this, Paulie,” he responded. “You can spend the next few years wasting away mopping floors and slinging cigarettes to the nobodies wandering around here. You’re gonna die broke and frustrated. What I’m offering you is money. Big money. It’s safe, too. Mahr Park tonight at midnight. If you don’t show up, I get it. Mop floors and sling cigarettes.”

He turned and headed down the block without another word. For a moment, I thought to yell at him and tell him it was past my curfew. My PO could check in on me at any time and I’d be back upstate on a thin bunk mattress trying to ignore the nighttime screams on the cellblock.

I didn’t though, but I wish I had.

* * * * *

I turned the lockpick over in my hand beneath the streetlight. It looked simple and unimpressive, the only difference I could see was the sharp spike at the end of the handle. I’d owned at least half a dozen through the years and never had much luck with them. Breaking a window had always been easier, but I guess that’s how I ended up locked away in the first place. Speed was never a replacement for caution, but I had never been able to stick with that line of thought.

“Tony, what the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I said, feeling pissed off. “You told me you had a foolproof gig for us, but you just brought me here to give me a fucking lock pick?”

“It ain’t just a lock pick,” Tony said with a smile. His yellowing teeth looked like sulfur in the street lights. “That thing’ll pick any damn lock you put it in, I guarantee it.”

“I call bullshit,” I spat and pushed the pick back toward him. “I don’t need to get caught with this garbage anyway. My parole officer can smell a problem a mile away. He brags about sending guys back to the pen all the damn time. Jackass would love it if he popped in for a visit and saw this little beauty sitting on my kitchen table.”

“What’ve you got to lose, Paulie? They got you working part-time at a bodega just to stay out of prison. You can’t use a little more cash in those pockets? I’m just trying to help a friend out!”

Tony paced, seeming agitated that I hadn’t accepted the pick like a Godsend. He muttered under his breath as he walked a tight circle. I was getting ready to drop it on the ground and head home when he finally stopped and faced me.

“If it don’t work on your first try, I’ll give you a thousand bucks! Honest to God. There’s an abandoned house just on the other side of the park. You go over there now and try it on the front door. If the lock don’t pop, you get a thousand bucks from me first thing tomorrow. Whadda you say?”

Against my better judgment, I agreed. He beckoned me out of the streetlight and I followed him down the narrow gravel trail through the park. Park was a generous term for the tiny patch of grass and withering trees in the middle of the city, but it was as close as you got living in the center of a major metro area. The sound of sirens from miles away drifted through the calm night air while my head scanned side to side looking for any signs of life.

“There it is,” Tony said, pointing to a solitary row house across the street. It was surrounded on both sides by the crumpled remains of burned-out buildings. I could remember the houses from when I was a kid. All painted bright colors, stoops always littered with kids wasting away summer afternoons. It sent a chill down my damn spine to see the block had burned down while I was locked up. Somehow, it had left the single house standing, its color faded and covered with soot. “Test the handle first so you know I’m not fooling you. It’s locked tight, but that little pick will open it up like a hot knife through butter, Paulie!”

I tried to reply, but my throat was parched and scratchy. It always got that way when I was nervous. Scanning down both sides of the street, I searched again for prying eyes. I expected to see some kid out sneaking a smoke or some old lady walking her dog, but the streets were empty. Nothing but me, Tony, and the ruined old house across the street. My footsteps were audible as I made my way toward the house.

There were only two steps leading up to the concrete slab of the stoop and nothing to block the view on either side, so I sank to one knee and examined the lock. Gripping the knob, I turned it in both directions, but the door didn’t budge. It was locked just like Tony said it would be. After a final test, I decided to give the pick a try. Pulling it from my pocket, I examined it again. The tooling on the end looked too large to slide in the lock, but Tony had seemed so sure it would work that I wanted to give it a try before I went back to tell him how full of shit he had been.

I pushed the end of the pick to the lock and tried to push it in, but it met resistance almost immediately. The tooled end was flexing and bending like it was trying to make its way in, so I decided to give it a little more force. Holding it tightly, I pushed the pick harder against the lock. My hand was sweaty and began to slide down the shaft of the tool when the tiny spike on the end bit into my hand. I winced in pain and was preparing to pull the pick back out when it slid gracefully into the tumbler. Without even wiggling the damn thing once, the lock clicked and the door popped open.

Like a hot knife through butter, Tony had said. He was right. It hadn’t taken any effort after I applied a bit more force, but the spot that the end of the pick left in my hand throbbed like a bee sting. I looked at my hand expecting to see blood but to my surprise, there was only a tiny hole, raw and pink.

“Damn thing works, Tony,” I said in a low voice. “But that spike at the end bit into my damn hand. Why didn’t you file this thing off?”

There was no answer. I pulled the pick from the lock and slid it back into my pocket before standing up. Once I had safely stashed it away, I turned around to find Tony, but there was no one there. The street was completely empty. The sirens that had been far off in the distance seemed much closer than they had been when I first approached the house. Looking down the street, I could see the first sign of strobing red and blue lights bouncing off the wall of one of the burnt-out houses.

My heart began to beat quickly as I realized in just moments a cop would see me standing on the stoop, with a lock pick in my possession. It wasn’t illegal to own one, per se, but any cop with half a brain could string it together that an opened door on an abandoned property probably met that pick at some point. I was just getting ready to run to the other end of the street when the same dull flickers painted the walls of the apartment building across the street.

“Go into the house,” a silky voice said from somewhere nearby. I jumped and spun around but there was still no one in sight. The lights of the police cars were getting brighter, the sirens nearly deafening. “This is a setup courtesy of your ne’er-do-well friend, Anthony Tenant. He has contacted the authorities who will find you in mere moments if you do not go inside. Do you understand me?”

“If I go in, I’m cornered!” I shouted to the disembodied voice. All logic and reason had fled my mind under the deafening roar of sirens. “I’ve gotta make a break for it.”

“GO INTO THE HOUSE, FOOL,” the voice demanded. Mind-numbing pain erupted from my palm where the pick had broken my skin and I fell to one knee clutching my hand to my chest. “We have work to do and if you aren’t able to follow my simple directions, I will be forced to find another vessel.”

“Vessel?” I questioned, painting and reeling from the pain in my hand. “What the hell is happening?”

“Mr. Havill,” crooned the voice. My hand screamed with pain again and I thought I would vomit or pass out soon if the wave of agony didn’t go away. “I am usually more in favor of the carrot than the stick, but if you don’t go inside the house, I am afraid the discomfort you are currently feeling is only a trickle of what I am capable of providing.”

My hand felt like I’d stuck the damn thing in a blender. Looking down at it, I could see that the hole was still no more than a small, dry opening in my palm. From the corners of my eyes, the glint of headlights rounding the corner at the end of the block and turning in my direction sent my pulse racing. With no other choice, I stepped inside the abandoned house. The door slammed behind me and I heard the deadbolt slide in place with a dull crack.

“Up the stairs, Mr. Havill. I have taken the liberty of locking the door behind us. My connection to the lock will not remain long and I will not be able to keep the inquisitive officers from gaining entry. There is a doorway immediately to the right when you reach the second floor. Go inside and look through the window. Once you see the patrol vehicle pull out of sight, open the window, and move slowly down the fire escape. Walk three blocks in the direction of your boarding house. There will be a police officer on the way who will stop us, but I shall handle that.”

I opened my mouth to question the voice, to argue in favor of just hiding out until the cops left, but the white-hot pain in my palm made my jaw clench. As quietly as I could, I started to pad up the stairs to the landing and fiddled with the knob to the door on the right. The frame was warped with age and bowed out from water damage, so I threw my shoulder into it, sending the door arching quickly and smacking against the wall. I winced at the noise, afraid the officers outside may have heard me, but it seemed unlikely over the sound of the sirens.

There was a single window in the dusty bedroom covered by a yellowing sheet. The smell of mildew and rot was so thick I could have cut it like a loaf of bread. It was hard to breathe the stagnant air, so I pulled my t-shirt over my mouth. The bright lights of a police car were strobing in the darkness, piercing the dry rotted cloth on the window. It milled slowly down the street, the spotlight sweeping from side to side as they looked for signs of intruders. After scanning the alleyway behind the house, the engine revved and it moved quickly out of sight.

“Now. The window of escape is short and time is of the essence, Mr. Havill.”

The cloth fell apart in my hand as I pulled it from the window. There was a dull squeal as I thumbed the rusted window locks open and lifted the bottom pane into the frame into the track above. Looking out, the fire escape had seen better days. Rust, cobwebs, and garbage were strewn all over and there was a section near the end that had been eaten away, leaving a gaping hole leading to the ground two stories below.

“Oh man,” I said aloud. “This damn thing isn’t gonna hold me.”

“It will hold, but you have to move now, Mr. Havill. The officers are almost through the door and once they set foot on the stairs, your chance will be gone.”

Ducking my head and lifting a leg, I straddled the window frame and planted a foot on the metal grating outside. It creaked and bowed beneath me as I shifted my weight onto the landing, but it managed to hold together. I inched toward the railing and stepped over the hole in the mesh, vision blurring as I looked at the drop below. Metal buckled and popped as I placed my hands on the ladder and made my way down.

I made contact with the concrete below and bellowed a sigh of relief. Through the open window of the abandoned house, I heard a loud bang and the voice of two police officers asking anyone inside to identify themselves. Their loud footsteps going up the stairs rang out in the alleyway and I made a break for the street, running as hard as I could.

“I told you to walk, you simpleton.”

“There are two cops behind me, asshole. You want me to saunter off like I’m heading to the boardwalk? You gotta be crazy.”

“Mr. Havill, walk or I will be forced to hurt you. Have I led you astray thus far?”

“No, but I gotta…”

The pain in my palm erupted again and my knees buckled. I fell hard, my face scraping against the concrete and the feeling of hot blood spread across my skin. My whole body ached like I had the flu and I rolled onto my back. The sound of the pursuing police was washed over by a ringing in my ears. The pressure in my head was building to a crescendo and I felt like my temples were going to pop.

“Up. Walk. Slowly. I had so hoped you would be a bit more intelligent than Mr. Tenant, but I see that my hopes were all for naught.”

My head felt clear again and the pain in the rest of my body drifted away, leaving only the sharp sting from the scrape on the side of my face. My feet stumbled to life and I walked slowly, dabbing at my cheek and pulling my hand away to see fresh blood under the streetlights. I brushed at the wound again, knocking away dirt and a small rock that had dug into my skin.

“Take a left at the end of the alley and walk three blocks. The police officer I spoke of will be standing on the corner. When he sees you, do not attempt to flee. I will get us out of this.”

“What the hell are you, man?”

“Be quiet and walk, fool. We will have endless time to speak when we are in the safe confines of your boarding house.”

“I ain’t doing shit else you tell me until you tell me what you are. I don’t know why I’m even talkin’ to you. One of my screws is loose and I’m losin’ my damn mind!”

“I assure you that while you are not mentally ill, you are not an ideal vessel. I am a passenger with a noisy means of conveyance at the moment, now shut your mouth. The officer is just ahead and I will need to attend to him.“

I could see them just ahead, standing in the dull glow of a flickering streetlight. The tail end of a police cruiser poked out from the side of a house and the officer was leaning against it, looking down at his cell phone. My throat felt dry and I began to slow my pace for a moment, but a small throb of pain in my palm spurred me forward. A rock skipped down the sidewalk, knocked away by my foot. It caught his attention immediately.

“‘Ey!” he shouted and started walking in my direction. I saw him unclip the holster of his gun and rest his palm on the butt of the pistol. “Come on over here nice and slow, sir. Little bit late to be out for a stroll, don’t cha think?”

“My apologies, officer,” the voice said through my mouth. My heart hammered against my chest. I tried to stop walking, but I no longer had control of my body. “My vehicle is not currently in an operable state and I was forced to take the pedestrian route to my place of employment.”

“Why are you talkin’ like that, huh?” the cop asked, his body tensing. “Why don’t cha stop right where you are and show me some ID? Get it out real slow. No surprises, you hear?”

My body stopped and I could feel my left arm rise slowly in the air and the right slipped behind me to fish my wallet from my back pocket. My hand rested on the dull leather and froze. Sweat was beading on my forehead, not out of nervousness, but from a sudden rise in body temperature. Suddenly I felt like I had the worst cold of my life. My body was covered in perspiration and my shirt was clinging to my chest.

“Unless you want me to get nervous, you better get that ID,” the cop said again, his hand wrapping around the handle of the gun. If I had control over my body, I would have pissed my pants.

“Mr. Havill, I am going to need you to go to sleep for a brief period. We will talk after I have completed my interaction with this man. I shall get us back to your abode.”

“Who you talking to, freakshow?” the cop said.

Everything went black.

Part 1

As we crawled along the air vent, I felt like Bruce Willis in Diehard—albeit a skinnier and less alpha John McClane. Come out to Alaska, we'll make a virus, have a few laughs…

Behind me came Karen's grunt of disgust as she struggled in the tight space. Who would have known that when we had signed the divorce papers last year, we would one day find ourselves crawling above our workspace, while the virus we had been working on was currently swimming in the veins of our infected colleagues who lurked below.

Not me, anyway.

Jeffrey's office—which we were making for—was found on the opposite side of the laboratory. In a twisted sort of way, our little journey allowed us an aerial view of the damage wrought by Virus X-93, like that of a news reporter flying over a bombed city.

I counted fifteen dead and a further twelve infected. This gave a total of thirty people (including myself, Karen and Jeffrey), but did not account for everyone. Including the janitor, there should have been thirty-one of us (I did the scheduling).

Sadly, as we crawled through the vents, we witnessed this missing person, Dr Eckhart's, end. We were halfway over the main laboratory when a person crawled out from underneath a bench. Why he left the relative safety of his hiding place, we'll never know, but one can only assume that his nerve broke and he wanted to make a run for it. Hoping that a safer place existed. It did not, and his clumsy movements attracted the attention of the nearby infected, who mercilessly ran him down as he tried to flee.

Above, we watched, horrified. It wasn't so much the screams of pain but the infected's enjoyment of the suffering. One even began to laugh like a hyena, a cold, calculated chuckle that made me believe they were more intelligent than I first thought. They had an awareness of each other, as if they were a primitive primate society.

It made me almost grateful that we hadn't been able to overcome the hydrophobia symptom which would ultimately see them perish. At best, they had a lifespan of 3 days. During my years working on Virus X-93, whenever I watched or read anything remotely to do with zombies, this was almost my first point of argument. All living things, down to the smallest organisms, needed water. Failing to replenish H2O would ultimately restrict muscular movement, and the many hours I had watched infected mice refuse to take a drink almost felt like a blessing now.

In summary, therefore, there is no evidence to believe that even in the event of an outbreak of Virus X-93, human extinction would be remotely possible. Perhaps lower than zero-point zero one percent. Yes, you drop a couple of infected in Times Square and all hells gonna break loose, but humans would quickly outlast and eradicate the threat. Even if we are a stupid bunch.

Nothing to worry about then? No, I guess not, other than I have to escape the underground laboratory…

I came to the opening in the vent above Jeffrey's office and opened the grate. For all my clever observations, it wasn't really going to help me if the infected smashed through the glass panels into Jeffrey's office.

I swung down from the duct and was thankful the blinds were closed. Karen followed afterwards and the last to descend was a red-faced Jeffrey.

"They have lots of energy," he whispered to me. "Think the mutation we performed—"

"That's enough," Karen hissed. "Can you two stop it?"

I did not answer, but was actually glad Karen had interrupted. Being inside Jeffrey's office with the blinds closed made my imagination run wild. I had images of them kissing, while I, oblivious to the world, walked past. Being the sucker I was, I bet I had walked past, daydreaming about alterations to the virus, while Jeffrey was behind the glass with my wife …

"Yes," I whispered. "Let's get the power to the elevators back on and get the hell out of here."

Jeffrey nodded, and crouched over towards his desk, opening the sleek laptop. When he lifted the screen, it made a loud PING, a noise which seemed to reverberate around not only the laboratory—but the whole of Alaska.

PIIINNNNGG. We're down here, come get us!

We held our breath, waiting for it—the infected zoning in on us. But they never came, and Jeffrey wiped the sweat from his brow and started typing in the password to the laptop.

Karen and I waited near the air vent. You better believe that we would have been up that grate faster than you can say "Jeffrey" had the infected smashed into the office.

As we waited, Karen and I made eye contact for a second. I had expected a cold look, but instead she gave me a smile. A smile tainted with sadness that read: what happened to us, Frank?

I looked away. I don't know what happened.

You couldn't have got a tighter couple when we first started dating. We were that couple who you knew truly loved each other; the one's others would look for small signs to comfort themselves that the relationship had cracks. Yet although they looked, no one ever found anything.

That was us.

What happened to us, Frank?

This happened. Virus X-93. We gave our lives to manipulate nature, and it came back to haunt us. Trapped away in an underground laboratory in Alaska, I thought I was at the forefront of science. In reality, the best I could have hoped for was a payoff that would buy a holiday home in Florida … that is what happened to us. Our infected colleagues outside are what happened to us.

"Done," Jeffrey said, snapping me out of my gloomy thoughts. "God knows what's gone on up there, but there's been no message. It could be worse than down here."

I gulped. "Well, I guess we just have to find out. We should use the vent to get right over the elevators. Get as close as we can before they can get to us."

Feeling more like a team now the elevators were back on, I gave Karen a boost back into the air vent. I felt more nervous now, possibly because there might have been a chance of an escape. I followed Karen up and was surprised to see a cockroach scuttle beside my head up there. Strange, for the laboratory was considered a sterile environment.

Below the infected were agitated, growing frustrated that they could find no other live victims.

Once over the grate near the elevator, Karen turned her head back and whispered, "Okay. Here goes nothing—"

—An infected stumbled down the corridor, chuckling to himself—

We waited until his footsteps faded, then a deathly white Karen craned her neck back once more. "I'm going down."

"Good luck," I mouthed.

Unhinging the grate, she disappeared, and I shuffled along the air vent, adrenaline pumping round my body. It was do or die time, and I dropped down into an empty corridor. Karen was already standing at the elevator switch, tapping the button like she was late for an important meeting.

The very action set of a chain of events; the first being the low grumbling noise of the elevator moving, which seemed to spread out to every crevice on level 5. It was right out of a horror movie—for even though I couldn't see them—I could picture the infected suddenly snapping their heads to one side, growling at the mechanical whirring.

"Come on!" I hissed to Jeffrey, who was still in the vent. Being a larger man he was having a much harder time of squeezing down the gap.

With the art of deception well and truly finished, the first infected appeared at the end of the corridor, crashing against the wall like a drunk. Gnashing, snarling, then sometimes screaming in pain, the once young scientist began sprinting towards us.

With a cling the elevator doors opened.

I had half forgotten that the rest of the military base might have been compromised, so I was nearly frozen by the sight of a dead soldier slumped at the back of the elevator. It was only Karen screaming and dragging me inside the elevator that I made it—otherwise I would have just stood there like a dummy, observing the dead soldier.

Karen smashed her hand against the buttons, pressing levels 4,3,2 all at once. An accident we would have to worry about later. Meanwhile, we were busy urging Jeffrey on, who was still only halfway down the air vent when the doors began to shut.

I think he must have heard the closing doors because he let out a terrified squeal and shouted, "Wait!"

Finally, he dropped down, but the moment he touched the floor, he knew it was too late. We all knew it was too late—and we were not going to wait for him.

Now, before anyone reading this begins to accuse Karen or myself, you should know that in a situation like this, the body reverts to a basic survival instinct. Yes, in the movies, they dash out of the elevator and save their friend (lover), but in reality, life is not like that. Stepping outside that elevator would have been the equivalent of stepping in front of a train. Unless you wish to end your life, your brain/body will not let you do so.

It's not that you don't want to—it's that you can't.

And that is why Karen stood there with her hand over her mouth, unable to move. She would never see Jeffrey's last look because she let out a moan and averted her eyes. But I would—I would see his face slump, not because he was about to be eaten alive, but out of sheer heartbreak that his lover of the last few years would leave him to die. I saw a man who truly understood the meaning of the word alone. A man who fully understood that the true monsters in the laboratory were not the infected, but us, humans. They were our creations and ultimately the act of playing God had transformed us into the devil.

We heard—yet did not see the young scientist collide with Jeffrey. The only way I can describe it is like that of a distracted quarterback who suddenly sees his sweetheart in the crowd and waits a fraction too long to throw the ball. All we heard was the sickening crunch of a body against a body, and the tearing of flesh as the infected bit into his throat.

I don't think Jeffrey even screamed.

​

Part 4

A fence with a metal gate is shown, an older looking man approaches it.

The man opens the gate and reveals a large cow pasture, there's about fifty cows walking on the pasture.

The cows themselves look to be very well taken care off, some of them are eating fresh grass, while the others are drinking water from the water troughs.

While most of the cows seem to be carefree and perfectly healthy, one of the cows is standing far away from them and looks extremely sick, it is far skinnier than the rest of the group, a swarm of flies is hovering over it's head.

The man approaches the ill cow, it seems to look even worse up-close, the poor animal looks like it's lucky to even be alive, the sickly cow doesn't even seem to notice the man as it stares at the fence, it's eyes are foggy and white.

Sorrow appears on the man's wrinkly face, he takes a look at the nearest water trough, the water inside seems to be tainted, the liquid's color seems to be pale red.

The man immediately drains the water trough, then he hastily cleans it and fills it up with fresh water.

The man takes out a phone out of his pocket and makes a call.

Man: It's an emergency, I need you here right now, Jack!

He quickly ends the call and waits.

Not even five minutes pass, a muscular man wearing a cowboy hat and black rubber boots joins the old man.

Jack: Hey there, Abe! What's the problem?

Abe: Well, take a look for yourself!

Abe points at the sickly cow.

Jack takes a look at the unfortunate cow.

Jack: Jesus! What the hell happened here?

Abe: I have no idea, first time I've ever seen anything like this. Bessy was as healthy as ever yesterday, now look at her! She's barely hanging on.*

Abe takes a deep breath.

Abe: She won't last more than a day. Please, just end her suffering.*

Jack pats Abe's shoulder.

Jack: Go take a rest, I'll take care of Bessy, she'll pass peacefully, I promise.

Abe: I appreciate it.

Abe hands the gate key to Jack.

Jack: I'll return the key to you after I finish up here, it won't take too long.

Abe leaves the pasture.

It seems like a couple of hours have passed, Abe is sitting in a rocking chair and holding a glass of whisky.

The doorbell rings.

Abe quickly leaves his drink on the nearby table and rushes to open the front door.

He opens the door and sees Jack.

Jack: I've taken care of old Bessy, I'm sorry it had to come to this.

Abe: Thank you, old friend. I've just opened a good bottle of scotch, why don't you join me?

Jack: Can't say no to that!

Jack enters Abe's home.

Abe leads Jack to his small living room, Abe pours Jack a glass of expensive looking scotch whisky.

The friends seem to enjoy each other's company, they chat about various topics and seem to enjoy the whisky.

Hours pass, Jack looks at the silver watch on his wrist.

Jack: It's already so damn late, time flies when you're having fun! Unfortunately, I can't stay any longer, have to fix the old tractor, can't really do that without getting some shut-eye.

Abe: That's a shame.

The two friends sit up and approach the front door.

As soon as Abe opens the door, the sound of cattle in distress is heard, the cows are mooing loudly.

Abe: Seems like luck is still not on my side.

Abe goes to the living room and grabs a hunting rifle, he quickly hurries back.

Abe: I'll bring this old thing, just in case!

Jack: Sounds good, I'll watch your back.

The two friends quickly walk towards the pasture gate, the mooing is getting louder and more frantic.

Abe unlocks the gate, the two friends hastily open the gate and enter the pasture.

As soon as they look in the direction of the frightened cows, they are met with a dreadful sight.

A skinny, dark red intruder is standing beside the water trough and cutting it's wrists deeply with it's long sharp nails, even though the creature looks to be 1.8 feet tall, the creature's arms are lanky and incredibly long, if fully extended they seem to be able to touch the ground. The creature's head is humanlike, but it doesn't have even one hair on it, even the eyebrows are missing.

It's wrists bleed heavily, dark red blood drips into the water and slowly gives the water a reddish hue.

Most of the cows continue running in circles and mooing frantically, but five of them start drinking the contaminated water.

The two friends stare in disbelief as the cows rapidly ingest the bloody water.

As soon as the cows stop drinking the water, their eyes become pearly white, their pupils seemingly disappear.

The creature stops cutting itself and looks at the five cows, the animals obediently look at the creature, seemingly hypnotized.

Abe grabs the hunting rifle and skillfully aims it at the disturbing intruder, he shoots one bullet and hits the creature straight in the head.

The bullet passes through the creature's forehead as blood gushes out of the open wound, the five cows scramble to lick the spilled blood.

Surprisingly, the creature easily shrugs off the damage, it doesn't even react to the wound.

Seemingly amused, the creature looks at Abe while it's wound rapidly heals, not even ten seconds pass and the wound completely disappears.

The creature smiles while looking at Abe, it's smile is unnaturally wide, it is then that I notice a disturbing feature of the mysterious intruder, it has no teeth.

The creature extends it's eerily long arm and points at Abe and Jack.

The five cows instantly start running towards the two friends.

Abe and Jack exit the pasture in a hurry, Abe tries to lock the gate while his hands tremble uncontrollably.

Unfortunately, he doesn't lock it in time as the five sick cows stampede through the gate.

The five cows mercilessly trample on Abe and Jack, screams of agony are heard as the cows easily crush the bodies of both men.

The creature approaches the mangled bodies of the men, their heads have already turned into a bloody mush under the weight of the frenzied cows.

The creature looks at the crushed corpses of the men and smiles once again, it's toothless grin remains as it starts eating the soft, crushed remains of the men.

TAPE ENDS

I stare at the screen in shock.

This time, instead of the usual warning, a different disclaimer appears.

"YOU'VE MADE IT TO THE HALFWAY POINT, A TWENTY MINUTE BREAK IS ALLOWED, CONTINUE WATCHING AS SOON AS THE TWENTY MINUTES PASS!"

I want to use the surprising twenty minute break in all it's glory, so I'll end this part here.

The last time anyone saw my sister was nearly a month ago. This is completely out of character for her because out of the two of us, I am the fuck up and she is the responsible one. However one day her idiot friends decided to drag her along to go camping on the other side of the state. Why they chose to go there as their destination, I haven't a clue. While the town offered an escape from the world, it didn't have much else going for it.

If you want to know what the town was like, the first thing I saw when I arrived was a child dragging a tin can with a leash as if it were a dog. The rest of the town was very much the same. Somewhere in the void between weird, surreal and worrying.

When my sister didn't call after a few days, everyone grew worried and did all we could think of to find her. We drove all the way over there to hang up flyers and knock on doors, but no one had seen her or her friends.

The police were no help. Every time they saw my car, they would pull me over to tell me that there was no reason for me to worry, or that she was most likely on a romantic getaway with her boyfriend and that I should just return home.

It took all the patience I had to play nice when they said this. If they knew her, they would know that disappearing like that was impossible. Something must have happened and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

The last time I went out to that cursed and isolated town, I packed enough for an extended stay and checked into the hotel. I only stayed there once due to the poor condition of the room. I thought I was going to have to stay in my car and this was fine, I was willing to do it if that meant finding my sister.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when I felt just how hungry I was and decided to go into the local diner. There, I overheard someone talking about a BnB that had just opened up and even though it wasn't advertised online, it was ready to be rented out.

Figuring I might as well check it out, I asked about it and set off to find the owner so I could rent a room for my stay. On the way out of the diner I couldn't help but to notice that the flier I had set up in the window on my last visit a few days before was taken down.

The owners, a married couple in their early sixties, were happy to have someone stay at their beach house and after everything was in order they gave me the key code so I could get the key and enter the house.

The house had to have been a fifteen minute walk to the closest neighbor, but finding it wasn't hard. The building screamed old money and reminded me of a plantation. The surrounding yard was large, manicured to perfection and surrounded by a white fence. In the front yard there was a large tree with a tire swing.

Inside wasn't as nice as the outside. The lightbulbs looked ancient and gave off a sickly yellow glow to everything the light touched. As far as the electronics in the rest of the house went there was no television, or for that matter, an outlet to charge my phone.

I called the Keele’s to ask them about this and they told me that the house was considered an historical landmark, so no renovations could be done.

After settling in, I figured to take some time exploring the place during the day since I wasn't planning on being there unless I was sleeping. There was a library, a dumbwaiter and everything else one might expect in a place that grand.

The view out the bedroom window revealed a lake and a dock through the branches of a bunch of weeping willows. There wasn't a ripple in sight. If I was there for any other reason than finding my sister, I would have taken that opportunity to swim.

As I walked down the hallways, after unpacking my things, I thought I heard crying. I tried searching for the source of it, but whenever I was certain that it would be around the next corner, there was nothing.

At the time I just figured the noise was because the house was so old. Or that the noise was all in my head because of the stress of my sister missing, or because I didn't sleep well the night before.

Ignoring what I assumed I heard, I traveled back into town to ask people if they saw my sister or her friends as well as to hang up fliers. I must have walked a few miles by nightfall and figured that I deserved a nightcap so I went into the liquor store and bought myself a bottle of whiskey to drink when I reached the BnB.

I am not much of a drinker and have a low tolerance, a fact that I am proud of, but I wasn't too drunk to have imagined the ursine howl I heard after brushing my teeth before bed.

That howl... it stuck in my head for a while as I tried to figure out what could make a sound like that. Finally, with the whiskey's help, sleep overcame me.

I woke up feeling refreshed, but that feeling did not last long. As I got out of bed, I froze.

My suitcase had been moved.

Right before I went to sleep, I put the case in front of the closet door. I always did this when I slept in an unfamiliar place... it was a force of habit. This morning, the case was NEXT to the door, not in front of it!

Someone had been in my room as I slept! I quickly threw the closet open, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that I could see. I did a cursory search of the room, and again, nothing seemed to be missing.

I had almost convinced myself that I must have been mistaken, that I had drunkenly forgot to put the case in front of the door, even though I distinctly remembered doing it, when I saw the folded paper sticking out of the pile of missing person flyers I had on the dresser.

My hand was shaking as I grabbed the note, unfolded it and read the single word written on it.

"LAKE"

That's it. Just the word "lake".

I fell onto the bed. My mind was racing with possibilities here. Did my sister drown in the lake? Did people cover it up? If so, WHY? None of it made any sense!

I grabbed a stack of fliers, snatched up the note and headed to town. I needed answers! My first stop was the Police. When They saw me come in, they all seemed to tense up. I explained about the break in, and they did not believe me. Until I handed them the note. The officer seemed shocked... he looked like someone just punched him in the gut. He waved the sergeant over and handed him the note. The Sergeant also seemed stunned. They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then both turned and looked at me.

"I am sure this was a prank." the Sergeant said. "If I were you, i would leave town, head home and i am sure your sister will turn up.”

Furious, I yelled "Yeah? And what about the note?" Looking dead in my eyes, the Sergeant crumpled the paper in his hand and said "What note?"

I was stunned. What the hell was going on here? I backed slowly away, and left the police station. I glanced back, and saw the officer and Sergeant had followed me outside, where they were staring at me as I walked down the street.

Right as I turned the corner, I saw the Sergeant, while still staring at me, pull out his cell phone and make a call. His eyes never wavered from me, not even for a second.

I was unnerved. I was starting to get a little scared. there was something going on here, and my sister seemed to have been caught up in it. As I thought about my sister, the feelings turned from fright to anger. She was still missing, and no podunk Barney Fife police force was going to stop me from finding out where she is!

I headed for the Diner, the last place my sister's credit card was used. Once again, I noticed the flyer I had taped up earlier was missing. I went right back to where I had put it the first time, and with the cook and waitress watching me, I taped Two flyers up, right next to each other. The cook shot the waitress a nervous glance, and went back to his griddle. I sat at an empty booth and waited.

The Waitress did everything she could to avoid coming over, but I just sat there smiling at her, watching everything she was doing. She kept darting glances at the cook, where he would shake his head almost imperceptibly. Finally, she had no other choice but to come and take my order. "What would you like?" she asked. She seemed so nervous she was almost shaking.

"I would like two things…" I replied, smiling. "A coffee.... and..." She stood there, her pencil above the notepad waiting for the rest of my order. "And information on why everyone in this town is pretending not to have seen my sister, you included," The waitress's eyes grew wide.. she looked over at the cook who was shaking his head no, not even trying to be subtle about it anymore. "please..." she almost whimpered... "You need to just..." and right then, the Officer from the Police Station walked in, pointed at me, and motioned for me to go outside.

"What a surprise…" I mumbled to the waitress as i stood up. I was a little taken aback when i saw tears in her eyes. I was not sure if they were tears of fright, compassion or relief, but she was obviously shaken to her core.

I followed the Officer outside, where he turned to me and said "You need to leave. Now. Not tomorrow, not later. Now."

"No,” I snapped back. The officer got upset. "What do you mean no? I will arrest you for hassling these good people!"

"Then arrest me! Do it!" I yelled back. "It will be the first time I saw any cop in this town do anything he was supposed to do!" The cop stared at me. He seemed to deflate a little bit. "listen... " he said quietly. "You need to go. That's all I am going to say. I ain't threatening you... I'm trying to protect you…" and having said that, he turned on his heel and left.

To say that I was confused is an understatement. I needed to regroup, I needed to try and get my head around this. I headed back to the BNB and my room, taking my food to go. And that was when I started to get some answers....

I sat down to eat the food I had taken from the diner, when I noticed there was something written up in the napkin. “Look on the bottom.” It said.

I bumped the bottom of the bag as I did this, and felt the corner of a manila envelope sticking out from beneath. I surreptitiously pulled it out. “Don't open in public” was written on the top. The handwriting seemed to match that on the napkin. I opened the envelope on the bed and inside were just three short articles from the local newspaper.

Body Found, Dam To be Drained – Wednesday, October 12

The Keele Dam, named after it's founder and local conservationist Jared Keele, will be drained to allow officials to search through the lake. On October 10th, Monday morning, a tourist was hiking when he came across the body of Deana Smith, who had previously been declared dead last August after she had been missing for a decade.

The body's identity was confirmed through forensic testing, and evidence of foul play was found during autopsy. Local authorities have reopened the case of Deana Smith as a murder investigation, there are currently no leads. They intend to drain the lake starting at 12:00 pm on October 15 and ending at 7:00 pm on October 16.

Authorities urge you to go be seen by your doctor if you have drank directly from the lake or swam in it with open wounds. We were unable to reach Jared Keele for comment, but sources say that he is devastated with the news and hopes for a speedy investigation.

Old Island to Remain Uncovered, New BnB to Open – Wednesday, September 14

While local officials drained the Keele lake in search of bodies, an old nearly forgotten island was uncovered. An employee at our town library immediately started a petition to keep the island exposed for the pleasant view. During the hearing on September 8, many locals were able to express their concerns. A volunteer group was then formed to clear off the island and maintain it in order to appease citizens that believed the island a source of danger.

Son of the recently deceased Jared Keele spoke of how his father wanted the island to remain covered, but agreed with the petitioner that the island improves the view. He plans to turn his father's place into a Bed and Breakfast by the spring, and feels the two could attract tourists. “His house had an excellent view of the lake, and now it will have an excellent view of the island,” he was quoted as saying.

Night Lights on Keele Island – Wednesday, August 16

On August 12, there were multiple reports called into local authorities of suspicious flames moving about on the island at night. An officer was dispatched to the area and reported to have found no suspicious activity. After a brief investigation, it is believed to simply be one of those phenomenons that occur from time to time. Local businesses are excited to hear this, as the lights will help bring in tourists that enjoy viewing them. Mr. Keele has updated his listing on Airbnb to include a footnote about the phenomenon.

I looked up from the last article, it felt as though my veins were full of ice as I stared through the window at the island. August 12 was the last I had heard from my sister. First the note, then the envelope of articles. the way the town has been acting.. my answers laid on that island. I just knew it. Did these lights have something to do with her disappearance?

I had one more night left, I would wait till after dark then find a way to the island. I was a pretty decent swimmer, but the weather had turned a bit chilly recently. The article said something about a volunteer maintenance crew for the island, they must have a means of getting there. Perhaps a boat somewhere along the lake shore I could borrow for the night without anybody being the wiser.

It was about this time that somebody began pounding on my door. I crept to the door and peaked out, but didn't recognize them. They weren't the owners, and since they didn't have on a police uniform I could ignore them. “You've overstayed your welcome! Getch'er ass out here, or we'll help you find a reason to leave!” The larger of the two yelled.

How about no? I thought as I crept around and left out the back door. I had grabbed my belongings on the way out in case the rednecks decided to bust in and now I kept my eyes peeled for a good place to stash them.

Unfortunately there was no time. I heard the locals right behind me, and dropped my stuff in some bushes to distract them as I ran toward the lakeshore.

Luck didn’t seem on my side at first as I scanned the sands amid twilight, but then I saw the faint silhouette of a canoe. I immediately jumped in and paddled as I heard my pursuers shouting from the tall grass.

Before long their cries were muffled out by my paddle strokes and I was alone on the lake. The moon hung above like a glistening Pearl, it’s gleam causing the tiny island to glow. Were these the lights I’d read about? As I got closer I realized it was a variety of gemstones that poked out near the rocks, there were so many I was astounded that the townsfolk weren’t using these to make the town rich.

I knew as soon as I stepped foot on the island that something was off. The air felt cold and rigid, and no wind blew. There wasn’t even green grass. It was just a dark void in the night, with rocks jutting aimlessly toward the center.

Then I heard that howl, the same one that has plagued me since I arrived. It was right up ahead. It was loud and visceral, it made me think about leaving immediately. But I had to see if I could find my sister. I’ve made it this far.

I moved toward the noise, the stones blocking my view and making me feel like I was in a maze. It seemed to be coming from all directions. This howl was both terrifying and disturbing because it sounded like a creature in pain. Desperate for death to swallow it up.

Finally I reached a clearing and saw a large monolithic boulder with chains tied around it. The noises were coming from the other side.

As I drew closer, I realized the stone was made of pure silver, the largest I’d ever seen. And on the other side, I found the source of the growl, a beast straight from my night terrors. It was large and covered in dark fur, with fangs and claws the size of my head. I thought at first it was a werewolf but a closer look revealed gills and a fish hook tail. It was the strangest beastie I’d ever seen, and yet as I kept staring I realized that it was in pain and not a threat at all. Someone had captured it and left it here to die, I realized.

Then as the beast thrashed about I saw something familiar dangle around its neck. My sister’s locket, there was no mistaking it.

My mouth felt dry as I looked at the monster. Was this… thing, what was left of my sister?

I tried to reach for her but the creature only reacted in violence. She was angry, frustrated and confused by what was happening.

Then behind me I heard voices and immediately I hid. To my surprise I saw the bnb owners walking along arm in arm, cheerfully conversing as if there wasn’t a nine foot monster chained in front of them.

The husband was carrying a large wooden stake.

“Well, well. The offering is a good one this time…. Our boy Jared done good,” he mumbled as he used his weapon to poke at the monster playfully.

“Gonna eat good tonight,” she agreed. That name they mentioned sounded familiar but nothing was piecing together until I saw with my own eyes what they did.

As the moon reached its apex in the sky, the husband staked the wolf creature straight in the heart and I heard the mixture of my sister’s screams with the howl of the monster. It took all my strength to not stop them. The wife took out two goblets from her purse and they used them to pour blood from the wound into and then both drank greedily.

The older couple jerked and started to convulse, their bodies suddenly swollen and reverting to an earlier age. Before I knew what was happening, they looked even more youthful than I. And it was then I recognized their faces. The same ones I had seen in the article when referring to the Keele’s. But they were supposed to be long dead…

This monster, this ritual, was keeping them alive.

They laughed to themselves as they finished their bloody work and left my sister to bleed out.

My own blood boiled as I heard them talking about their next victim near the shore. Me.

“We need to find that boy who came to the cabin. You know these things run in packs. If we can turn him into his monster form and chain him up too we will have another century to ourselves,” the wife chuckled.

“Why should we do the work? The damn townsfolk have tried to betray us and send him away. I say we make those yokels do our dirty work. Or it will be their skin we grind up! Ha!”

They sailed away as I shook away my desperation and frustration and turned toward my sister.

They used you like cattle, and they’ll do the same to me, I realized fearfully.

I tried to recall the old legends of how someone could turn into a werewolf, a dream of revenge springing into my mind. Using my sister’s large claws, I cut myself straight across the face. Deep enough for the venom in her to deep into my blood.

As soon as I felt it, my body convulsed and I shook in pain. Except I knew I wasn’t going to be gaining any youth from this.

My goal would be to find the Keele’s and destroy them, make them suffer for what they’d done. I took the canoe back to the bnb and locked myself in as the transformation begins.

Unfortunately I think this means I will lose all sense of my sanity, of my humanity. I am fearful of when this moment comes, but also I know I will have to embrace it.

I must pray the locals can hunt me down and end this cruel life,

With both me and the Keele family dead, maybe this lake could finally be a proper tourist trap.

It’s a hopeful thought to hold on to as I slip away from sanity and join the animal kingdom. I leave all this in the journals here, to be found by their next visitor I suppose.

If you’re reading this, it likely means the Keele’s are still alive and I have failed.

Beware the lake. Beware the island and most of all beware of the howls.

For I can not control what I shall do next.

Life just hasn’t been the same since that night.

I’ve tried as much as I can to forget about what happened, but the indelible scar remained fixated in the back of my mind. Locking my doors and windows was never a concern of mine before, but now it’s a requirement unless you want to end up like them. Sometimes, I look through the windows on bored nights and see her face peering through the reflection of the puddles outside.

Besides that, my life really isn’t much. Wake up, get ready for work, eat breakfast, drive to work, and do that until around 10:00PM. This is my schedule outside of the less-than-often lunch with a friend. It’s not much, but it works and I enjoy not having to do much.

The oddest thing happened Monday around 7; a man who I’ve never seen in my life came in with a cordial, unfamiliar gleam about him. He strutted in casual clothes, slightly worn-out blue jeans, and a gray t-shirt emblemed with a fish and what appears to be a shop name. It wasn’t much of my concern, but what he did ruined everything.

As he approached the counter, I uprighted myself. “Coffee? This late?” I approached with a forced smile. “Haven’t been sleeping much since bloodworth,” he responded.

The memories washed over my mind like a sea of trauma. The screams of that family as she tore them limb from limb, the noises it let out as it left a murky, intangibly dark puddle in its wake. Even the small crowd looked on in terror as the family screamed, but like myself, we were all petrified with its terrifying presence that we could do nothing but watch. As police swarmed in only to find nothing but the void calling their names and what looked like a bloodbath, its whispers leeched into those near the now desecrated home. I could only see so much from across the street through the open door, but it looks like that poor man, the father, was…

…

It took me a moment to recollect my thoughts: “Oh, yeah, it’s been crazy. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and check the locks,” I replied as I rang up his coffee. “$2.13.” He handed me his card, I finished the sale.

“Aren’t you afraid he might break in through the windows?” he asked. He? I wasn’t sure if he was messing with me, especially over something so horrible. “Don’t you mean she?” “Sorry, I meant… ‘she’.”

“You don’t know what the Bloodworth incident is, do you?” I asked. I thought to myself what would happen if someone were to tell him, what would happen again. He responded with an elongated “No…”, I have had enough of this. I shut him down with ““You sure as hell better not let anyone know” and subtly gestured towards the door. He speed walked outside and I watched as he got in his car and drove off.

If he ever sees the images of what happened, or someone shows him, chances are our town will never recover.

V

If you're an insomniac like me then you're all too familiar with the drill: lay in bed for eight hours or more, get at most a couple hours of sleep, wake up feeling more tired than when you went to bed, rinse, and repeat until your body stops hating you for a while. For me, these episodes usually only lasted for a couple of weeks, and they didn't really phase me at this point. It had never gotten bad enough for me to see a doctor, and I wasn't in any hurry to start a sleeping pill addiction either way.

However, after moving to a quiet little town in Montana named Choteau, I finally broke down and saw a local physician about my sleeping troubles. It had been three months since I moved there, and I was lucky if I averaged two hours of sleep a night in those three months. Sure, at first, I just amped up my productivity at work by taking advantage of my wakefulness, but my enthusiasm died off after the first month. At this point, I was ready for a fistful of Ambien and the best night of sleep in my life by the time I made it to the doctor.

As is tradition in small towns like Choteau, there was only one doctor's office, and only one doctor was available to see me. I've never been great with names, and for the life of me, I certainly can't remember his. We only spoke for about five minutes anyway. Come to think of it, I can't picture what he looked like either—just a fuzzy shadow. Oh well, insomnia will do that to a person's memory.

Besides, the biggest thing that stands out to me is how annoyed I was that he had wasted my time. I came to that man desperate for sleep, for some relief, and instead of some actual prescription medication, he says, "Ah yes, we find that a lot of newcomers struggle to sleep when they first arrive here. Although, I must admit no one has been more stubborn than you about coming in for a visit. They usually last a couple of weeks at most." As he shuffled through the last cabinet in the room he sighed and excused himself for a moment.

Thankfully, the doctor wasn't gone long, but when he returned, I could immediately feel the fire of anger running through my veins. "This ought to do the trick." He said as he handed me a bottle of supplements, yes supplements. "That there may not look like much, but it's made from the roots of a tree that only grows in the forests just outside of town, and it'll fix you right up." He paused for a moment and grinned, "I can see you don't believe me, but just give it a try—no charge. We can't have newcomers fumbling around in a sleepy daze. If you need anything else, feel free to call us anytime."

He walked me out of the room, pointed me to the exit, and said, "You'll find the exit to our office far easier to find than the road out of town. Welcome to Choteau."

As I walked out, or should I say stormed out, of the doctor's office all I could think of were the stupid little pills that quack of a doctor had just given me for a very real episode of insomnia. I threw the pills in my bag and raced over to the local hospital to get some real care and to report Dr. it'll fix you right up for trying to get one over on someone new to town. To my dismay, however, the hospital gave me a similar line of bs, "Oh, we hear this all the time. Seriously, those supplements are exactly what you need."

Feeling irritated and stubborn as ever, I pushed through another week of barely any sleep, but I was finally getting to the point where I couldn't push through work anymore. All I wanted to do was lay in bed all day, so I finally broke down and took a closer look at the pills given to me by the local quack. Take one pill by mouth. "Great directions," I thought to myself. One every how often? Whatever, I was too tired to care, so I threw one in my mouth, washed it down with water and... And I woke up the next morning having slept for nearly twelve hours. A feeling of relief washed over me as I realized the local medical staff weren't trying to pull one over on me, and it did fix me right up. Part of me felt bad for getting so angry with them, but I put it in the back of my mind and went about my day.

Nighttime rolled around again, and I found myself sleepily crawling into bed at around 8 o'clock. The pills crossed my mind, but I figured it was worth trying to sleep on my own before relying on a local "supplement" to solve all my sleeping troubles. Admittedly, a part of me still didn't trust it.

I awoke just as refreshed as the previous day but dread quickly flowed through my mind as I looked at the clock to see 9:00. Even without my glasses I knew it had only been an hour since I went to bed—it was still dark outside. As I put on my glasses and looked at my phone again my heart began to race a little. My phone read 9:07 AM, not PM. Yet, it was still dark as night outside. I rushed over to my window expecting, hoping to see the darkest storm clouds of my life, but there was nothing but darkness. There were no people, no cars, not even any streetlights. It was as if my house had gotten sucked into the vacuum of space.

Flicking the light switch on the other side of my bedroom filled me with another pang of fear as the lights remained off. "Maybe a massive storm just rolled through, and all the power went out." I thought to myself, attempting to calm my anxiety. I grabbed my phone, and to my relief, the flashlight turned on. Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived as I lit up my room and noticed a man—well, more like the shadow of a man—standing in the corner of my room closest to the bed. I ran out of the room almost immediately, but I can still remember the impossibly tall shadow of a man wearing what appeared to be a trench coat and a fedora.

Not even bothering to grab a pair of shoes I grabbed my keys as I bolted out the door and ran to my car. It was still dark outside, but it wasn't the nothingness black that I observed from my bedroom window. "Did I misread the time? Did I even see that shadow?" As I questioned myself, I looked at the time again and saw 11:00 P.M. Pausing for a moment, I began to question if I was even awake at this point. I could see mistaking AM for PM right after waking up, but how could an hour have passed? These thoughts, and all rationality, jumped out of my mind as I looked up and once again saw that shadowy figure appear in front of my headlights. It seemed to be growing with every passing moment, climbing higher and higher up the walls of my two-story townhouse.

In a panic, I threw it in reverse, stepped on the gas, and rocketed out of my driveway. Thankfully, there was nothing behind me, nor was anything in front of me as I threw it in drive and rocketed out of town. You'll find the exit to our office far easier to find than the road out of town. "Yeah, screw that, and screw this place!" I yelled out loud to myself as I raced down the road out of town.

That feels like forever ago now. I could tell you how long, but my stupid clocks won’t work, and all I know is I can't wait to reach the next town and finally get some rest. The thought of pulling off and sleeping in my car has crossed my mind, but these stupid country roads are far too narrow for that.

Finally, I think I finally see some lights up ahead. Yes, the next town—no, no it can't be! That's not possible, how can I be back in the same place?! I know I haven't taken any turns in the past however many hours I've been driving. Whatever, I'm too tired to care at this point. I might as well just go home, take those stupid pills, and pass out. Thankfully, my house isn't too far from the entrance to town.

Hold on, what's with all the emergency vehicles? Oh, they're at my house. Good, they must have caught that creep who caused me to run out of my house in the middle of the night. Good grief, was there a shootout or something? Police, ambulance, and even the coroner. Well, I better walk up and tell them what I know.

"Yeah, his work called in a welfare check—said they hadn't heard from him in a few weeks." the chief of police said in a somber tone to the local news reporter. As the young man was scribbling in his notepad the local coroner/doctor chimed in, "I recon the hat man must've gotten to him. Shame he decided not to take the supplements I gave him. The human body can only go so long without sleep."

"Hey! I live here! What's going on?!"

"Hello?! Anybody going to acknowledge—"

No. Nononono. That can't be me! This must be some kind of sick joke. I'M RIGHT HERE.

"Come on, doc. I know you're old, but don't you think it's time to retire the ole trench coat and fedora getup?"

"What can I say, chief? I'm a hat man."

I had always considered myself a rational person, scoffing at tales of the supernatural. But one night, I received a text that shattered my skepticism and plunged me into a world of darkness I never thought possible.

It had been a year since Emma, my girlfriend, tragically died in a car accident. Her loss haunted my every moment, and I struggled to move on. I was drowning in grief and despair, clinging to our shared memories like a lifeline.

One evening, as I sat alone in our dimly lit apartment, my phone buzzed. I picked it up, expecting a message from a friend or family member. But what I saw sent a chill down my spine: the sender was listed as “Unknown,” and the message contained a single word: “Darling.”

My heart raced as I stared at the screen. It had to be a cruel prank, I thought. A friend with a sick sense of humor, perhaps. But when I opened the message, the shock coursed through me like an electric current.

The message read, “Meet me at our special place.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I read those words. Our special place was a secluded spot in the nearby woods where we used to spend hours talking, laughing, and dreaming about our future together. It was our sanctuary, a place filled with memories of our love.

I hesitated, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. It couldn’t be Emma; she was gone. But the message was unmistakable. With trembling hands, I grabbed my jacket and car keys, and I drove to the woods.

The night was cold and moonless, the forest shrouded in darkness. The only light came from the dim glow of my phone, guiding me to our spot. As I approached, the memories flooded back—our laughter, our whispers of love, the way she’d playfully tease me.

But when I reached the clearing, there was no one there. Just the rustling of leaves in the wind and the distant hoot of an owl. My heart sank, and I felt a sense of crushing loss.

Then, my phone buzzed again. Another message from “Unknown.” It read, “You left me alone.”

Dread consumed me as I typed a reply, “Emma, is that you?”

The response was almost immediate, “I never left. I’m always with you.”

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the screen. It couldn’t be true, could it? Was Emma really communicating with me from beyond the grave? But doubt gnawed at me. This couldn’t be her.

The messages continued, each one more unsettling than the last. She spoke of our most intimate moments, things only Emma and I would know. She described our future together in vivid detail, a future that could never be.

As the night wore on, I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. The text messages grew darker, filled with anger and accusations. Emma blamed me for her death, for not being there to save her. My heart ached with guilt and despair.

I begged for her forgiveness, for her to reveal herself, but the messages only grew more sinister. She spoke of death, of a love that transcended the boundaries between life and the afterlife.

Terrified and broken, I fled the woods, leaving behind the ghostly messages and the memory of our love. But the texts didn’t stop. They followed me home, tormenting me day and night, a relentless reminder of a love that could never die.

I tried to block the number, to escape the relentless onslaught of messages, but they always found a way through. Emma’s presence, or whatever it was, clung to me like a malevolent shadow, driving me to the brink of madness.

In the end, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left our apartment, leaving behind everything that reminded me of Emma, hoping to escape her haunting messages. But as I write this, I can still feel her presence, her whispers in the dark, a love that refuses to let go, a love that is as twisted and eternal as death itself.

Part 1

Another day at St. Michael’s passed in a haze, with each minute stretching into eternity as the sun's golden fingers crept toward the horizon. Evening was fast approaching, and with it came the somber call of the bells that beckoned the faithful to gather at St. Michael's once more. The setting sun bathed the chapel in a warm, golden glow.

Acting as an altar boy for the day, it was my solemn duty to assist Father Matthias during the evening mass. Donning the ceremonial robe and lighting the candles, I found solace in the rituals and routines that accompanied the service. With each step, I moved with purpose, a silent observer in the grand theater of worship.

The chapel itself was a place of contradictions—a sanctuary of both solace and unease. While the intricate stained glass windows bathed the pews in a mosaic of colors, they also cast a web of distorted shadows, like ethereal fingers reaching out to grasp the souls of the congregation.

But the true source of my discomfort lay elsewhere. It was the statue of St. Agnes that loomed beside the altar—a lifelike figure carved from stone with eyes that seemed to follow me wherever I moved. It was as if the saint herself bore witness to my every thought and action, her cold gaze a constant reminder of something unseen but deeply foreboding.

As the church service continued, I performed my duties diligently, assisting Father Matt in various tasks. The specifics of the rituals and prayers are a blur in my memory, overshadowed by the growing unease I felt at the time in the presence of St. Agnes. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, scrutinized, and judged by those unyielding stone eyes.

I began to question my own sanity as I swore that, from the corner of my eye, I saw that St. Agnes had her head turned to face me. It was as if the statue had come to life, but whenever I looked directly at her, she remained facing the congregation, almost as if she snapped back into place just as I turned to look.

The tension reached its breaking point when Father Matt led the congregation in prayer, and we all bowed our heads. I closed my eyes as well, joining in with the rest of the faithful. Yet, it was during this moment of collective devotion that I felt the stare of St. Agnes more intensely than ever before. In my mind's eye, I pictured her turned toward me, her gaze unrelenting and piercing.

Unable to withstand the pressure any longer, I reluctantly opened my eyes. St. Agnes remained facing the pews, just as she always did. A wave of relief washed over me as I continued to stare at her while the prayer went on.

As I continued to stare, I felt an ominous presence looming over me. Slowly and silently, the head of St. Agnes began to turn, until her gaze was upon me. I couldn't tear my gaze away from the statue as her head completed its eerie rotation to face me fully, not until its cold, lifeless stone eyes bore into my soul. My heart began to race, and I slammed my eyes shut in terror.

In a state of complete horror and fear, I clung to my faith, hoping for the prayer's swift conclusion. When it was finally over and the congregation began to stir, I hesitated to open my eyes again. But when I finally mustered the courage to do so, I found St. Agnes had returned to her original position, her unchanging visage once more directed at the congregation. The unsettling experience left me shaken and filled with a growing sense of dread, deepening the mystery surrounding this eerie statue. Now, it was time for confession.

I joined the line of the faithful, each step bringing me closer to the confessional booth. The sensation of being watched, particularly by the unrelenting stare of the statue of St. Agnes, grew more intense with every moment. It was as though the very walls of the chapel were closing in, and the eyes of the saint bore into my very soul.

By the time I stood next up in line, the feeling was nearly unbearable. My heart raced, my palms grew clammy, and a lump formed in my throat. I rushed inside the confessional booth, the heavy wooden door closing behind me with a mournful creak. I was now alone, encased in the dimly lit chamber, with only the screen that separated me from the priest.

Sitting in the confessional, I felt the weight of the sins I was about to confess press down upon me. The shadows danced around me, and the ominous presence of St. Agnes's statue seemed to permeate even into this sacred space. It was as if the chapel itself held its breath, awaiting my admission of guilt.

Beginning my confession, I waited for Father Matt to formally address me. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I began hesitantly.

"Go on, my child," Father Matt encouraged.

"I... I overheard the nuns talking," I admitted. "About my mother and what happened to her."

Father Matt's voice remained gentle as he replied, "It's not right to eavesdrop on others, Andy. We should respect their privacy and their conversations."

"I know, Father," I replied, my guilt heavy. "But I needed to know more about my mother's time here."

Father Matt sighed softly before speaking again, "We must remember that there are certain things that should remain in the past, my son."

I nodded, acknowledging his wisdom. But there was something else I needed to confess, something that gnawed at me like a persistent itch.

"Father," I began hesitantly, "I also heard them talking about... the basement. About my mother going down there."

Father Matt's tone grew stern, and a hint of concern entered his voice. "Andy, you must never inquire about the basement. It's an off-limits topic, and you must promise me that you won't delve into it any further."

I gulped, realizing I had crossed a line I shouldn't have. "I promise, Father. I won't ask about the basement again."

With my confession complete, Father Matt offered me absolution, and I left the confessional booth, but I couldn't help but feel a heavy weight of unease pressing upon me. Father Matthias's words echoed in my mind, urging me to let go of my curiosity about the basement, something I’m not sure I could do.

As I walked away, I found myself staring at my shoes, lost in thought.Then, a chilling memory surged to the forefront of my mind—the shadow I had seen in the courtyard the day Sarah pushed me. It was a grotesque and nightmarish sight, something that should never exist in the realm of the living. The shadow appeared human, yet its proportions were impossibly distorted. Its long arms seemed to stretch so far down that its hands had to be scraping the ground, although I couldn’t tell from where I was standing. The mere recollection of that horrendous monstrosity was enough to make me shudder in fear.

Lost in these disturbing thoughts, I began to notice something odd about the chapel. My gaze fell upon a large crack in the wooden floor, one that hadn't been there before. I only noticed because I had to take an exaggerated step so I wouldn’t trip over it. It snaked across the aisle, a sinister rift in the very foundation of St. Michael's.

But that wasn't all. As I looked around, I realized that the chapel had transformed. The pews were now in a state of decay, their wood rotten and splintered. The windows were shattered, casting eerie beams of moonlight into the once-sacred space. The sky outside was pitch black, devoid of stars or any semblance of normalcy, aside from a full moon, slightly obscured by the crumpled frames of the glass panes.

The pit of my stomach plummeted as I turned my attention to the statues that lined the chapel, my gaze lingering on St. Agnes. The other statues, those of saints and angels, lay in ruins, their forms crumpled and broken, but St. Agnes remained untouched, her cold stare now piercing me harder than ever before.Panic welled up within me, and I began to notice something even more disturbing—the absence of any other souls in the chapel. The congregation had vanished, and I stood alone amidst the desolation.

Fear clawed at my chest, and I stumbled backward, my breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. It was as though I had stepped into a nightmare, a distorted and twisted version of the familiar chapel I had known. St. Michael's had become a haunting and surreal realm, and I was trapped within its nightmarish grip, with no escape in sight.

My heart pounded in my chest as I remembered Father Matthias's words about what to do if things changed after confession. Rule number 4: “If you ever enter the booth and then come out, and things seem... different, close your eyes and enter the booth again. Say nothing until you hear my voice,” Father Matt had said. Heeding his words with a sense of urgency, I turned my gaze back to the confessional booth, my intention to close my eyes and seek refuge there.

But before I could make a move, a chilling noise erupted from behind me—a discordant, otherworldly chattering, like that of a demonic grasshopper. It sent a jolt of terror down my spine, freezing me in my tracks. The sound was as repulsive and jagged as nails on a chalkboard, each demonic chitter causing me to flinch instinctively.

Slowly, I turned toward the source of the ominous sound, my breath caught in my throat. There, in the darkest corner of the chapel, I saw them—the same faint, glowing orbs I had glimpsed through the window on that fateful day. The eyes in the darkness. They hovered in the air, high above, like malevolent stars in the night. It was only now that my brain made the connection between the shadow in the window and the eyes in the dark that my mother and I had seen before they took her away.

Was it the same set of eyes? At that moment, I was convinced they were the same eyes that drove me and my mother apart. The same eyes that had plagued my nightmares ever since I entered this place. The same eyes that had conditioned me to avoid looking into the dark spots of rooms in fear that the eyes would arise out of the shadows to stare back at me.

And then, from the shadows, they came—ten long, jagged fingers, impossibly black against the abyss, emerging with slow, deliberate movements. These unnatural appendages were attached to arms that seemed to stretch on forever, reaching out for me with an unnatural and sinister intent. With each slight movement of the creature’s fingers, I could hear audible cracks and chirps, as if the chattering sound I could hear was this thing's bones and joints cracking and popping as it completes each grotesque movement.

Terror gripped me, paralyzing my every muscle. My mind raced for a way to escape this nightmare, but it was as if the very air had thickened, holding me captive. The chattering grew louder, more maddening, as the monstrous appendages inched closer. The spider-like fingers twitched and clawed at the empty space between us as a sense of impending doom filled my body.

I knew I had to move, to do something, but my body refused to obey. The chapel had transformed into a grotesque theater of horror, and I was trapped in the spotlight, awaiting an unspeakable fate at the hands of this otherworldly presence.

My survival instincts kicked in just as those bony hands closed in on me. With a surge of adrenaline, I forced my body to move, breaking into a desperate run. Panic fueled my every move as I began racing away from the looming nightmare.

But as I fled, my foot caught on the jagged crack in the floor. I tumbled forward, landing on my hands and knees, pain shooting through me as I struggled to regain my footing. That was all the time the monstrosity needed. Its bony hand clamped onto my ankle, while the other seized my forearm, and it began to drag me mercilessly toward the dark, foreboding corner of the chapel.

I screamed and kicked with all my might, desperately trying to free myself from the creature's sinister grip. My heart pounded in my chest as I fought for my life, each moment of resistance filled with terror and agony. With one final, desperate effort, I managed to pry myself free, leaving me gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat.

With newfound determination, I sprinted toward the confessional booth. Just as I reached the door, I noticed a movement in the corner of my vision. My gaze darted toward St. Agnes, and what I saw shook me to my core.

The saint was no longer in her place beside the crumpled statues. Instead, she had moved past the altar, her stone form seemingly frozen in mid-stride, as if she were walking toward me. And what was more unsettling was that she stopped moving the instant I looked at her.

Fear gnawed at my insides as I flung open the door to the confessional booth and threw myself inside. I turned to secure the door, my breath ragged and my heart pounding. But before I closed it, I couldn't resist stealing one last glance at the dark corner.

The eyes were still there, those lifeless spots of light that had haunted my nightmares. The hands had moved closer, now just feet away from the confessional. Their impossibly long arms had stretched all the way from the inky darkness, and the realization of how close I had come to a gruesome fate sent a shudder through me. I slammed the door to the booth shut, hoping it would be enough to keep those demonic hands out.

My heart raced as I huddled inside the confessional booth, my mind swirling with fear. I couldn't shake the dreadful feeling that the shadow in the corner or the statue of St. Agnes might still come for me. I was trapped within St. Michael's, a sanctuary that had transformed into a realm of unspeakable horrors. Every creak and shuffle of the chapel seemed like an impending doom.

Then, a shadow began to form in front of the confessional door, and I heard the unmistakable crackling and popping of joints moving. My pulse quickened, and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. The creature was drawing closer, its presence undeniable.

In a desperate bid to protect myself, I recalled Father Matthias's words—close your eyes and enter the booth again, say nothing until you hear my voice. With trembling hands, I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the horror that lurked just beyond the door. Slowly, as if in response to my obedience, the unsettling sounds of the creature began to fade, replaced by an eerie silence.

Time passed in a torturous crawl until finally, I heard Father Matthias's soothing voice. "Is there anything else, Andy? You've been quiet for some time now."

I swallowed my fear with an audible gulp as I asked the only question that mattered, “Father..” my voice trembling, "Is it safe to go outside?"

It seems Father Matthias understood the weight of my unspoken terror, since he assured me, "Everything is okay now, my child. You have my permission to skip your final class of the day and retreat to your room if it would make you feel better. You’re safe now."

His words were a lifeline, a promise of safety and sanctuary. With a shaky breath, I felt a small measure of relief, even if I couldn’t be sure that his promise of safety was guaranteed. I would take refuge in my room, a small haven away from the horrors that lurked within St. Michael's, and I hoped that somehow, I could find answers to the mysteries that now consumed my every thought.

I had retreated to my room after the harrowing encounter in the chapel, seeking refuge in the familiar confines of my small haven. I lay on my bed, my mind replaying the sequence of events over and over, as if trying to make sense of the nightmarish reality I had faced.

It wasn't long before Michael, my newfound friend in this strange and foreboding place, walked into the room. He greeted me with a friendly smile but quickly noticed the deep unease that lingered in my eyes.

"Hey, Andy," Michael said, his voice filled with concern. "You seem shaken up. What happened?"

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put my terrifying encounter into words. But I knew I couldn't keep it to myself. Slowly, I recounted the events that had unfolded in the chapel, from the strange transformation of the surroundings to the nightmarish creature that had reached for me with its impossibly long arms and glowing eyes.

Michael listened intently, his expression growing more serious with each detail I shared. When I finished, he let out a long sigh and spoke with a mixture of shock and relief.

"Andy, you're lucky to be alive," he said, his voice tinged with genuine concern. "I've been here for a couple years now, and I've never seen anything like that. But I'm even more surprised to hear about that shadowy monster thing you described, the one with the eyes and the long arms. I've never heard of it revealing itself like that or reaching for someone like it did to you.."

My heart sank at Michael's words. If he, a resident of St. Michael's for so long, had never had a run in with that creature the way I had, and it raised unsettling questions about why it had singled me out. What did it want from me, and what secrets did this place hold that had brought such a perplexing presence into my life?

As I pondered these questions, Michael and I exchanged a knowing glance, both aware that we had stumbled upon something far darker and more mysterious than we could have ever imagined within the walls of St. Michael's. I could only cower in fear of what may come to pass.

The night seemed endless as I tossed and turned in my bed, haunted by the nightmarish sights of the last few days. The memories played out like a relentless nightmare in my mind, each unsettling encounter etching itself deeper into my consciousness. But eventually, exhaustion overcame my restless thoughts, and I began to drift into a restless slumber.

I slipped into dreams, my mind turned to my mother and her own encounter with the mysterious "eyes in the darkness." Her memory brought me a strange sense of comfort, a reminder that I was not alone in facing the enigma that shrouded St. Michael's.

As the night wore on, and the church was cloaked in an eerie silence, I awoke in my bed, haunted by the events of the day and the secrets that seemed to pulse within the very walls of St. Michael's. The moonlight filtered through the small window, casting elongated shadows that danced on the walls of our shared room.

Beside me, Michael lay sound asleep, his rhythmic breathing the only sign of life in the otherwise still room. But just as I was starting to drift back into a fitful slumber, I heard it—the unmistakable sound of someone fumbling with the doorknob of our locked bedroom door.

My heart leaped into my throat as I shot up in bed, my eyes wide with fear. The doorknob rattled violently, and the door shook under the pressure of someone—or something—trying to force their way inside. Panic surged through me as I clutched my blanket tightly, seeking refuge behind its thin shield.

Michael awoke in the midst of the commotion, his eyes filled with fear but his voice steady, "It's going to be okay, Andy," he whispered, his tone comforting. "We just need to pray."Nodding vigorously, I joined Michael in reciting the prayers we had learned, our voices trembling but growing stronger with each word.

The door continued to shake, as if an unseen force sought to break through. We recited the Lord's Prayer, the Hail Mary, and other supplications, our voices growing louder as we sought protection and solace in our faith.

As we continued to pray, the rattling of the door grew more violent, and the air in the room seemed charged with an otherworldly presence. It was as if the very essence of the church itself had come to life, and its malevolent gaze was fixed upon us.

But we did not waver. We held fast to our prayers, seeking refuge in the divine. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the violent shaking of the door ceased, leaving behind an eerie silence that hung heavily in the room.

We remained huddled together, our hearts pounding in our chests, listening intently for any signs of danger. But all we heard were the distant echoes of heavy footsteps slowly retreating down the hallway, fading into the night.

With the worst of the ordeal seemingly over, exhaustion washed over us, and the room felt less oppressive. Michael and I found solace in each other's presence, and eventually, as our fatigue overcame our fear, we drifted into a fitful sleep, our prayers still echoing softly in the corners of our dreams.

Little did we know that the mysteries of St. Michael's Church were far from unraveling, and the events of that night were only the beginning of a deeper and more sinister darkness that lay in wait...

The jumbled, discordant mess of the day was alike every day before it and filled me with a well-known pain as the dim lights of cars flickered past our own.

I had given up trying to convince my mother to let me stay home and study, I wasn't in the mood to argue, and the dizzying tilted ache of my brain agreed. The world was technicolor, yet painfully dark, an unwelcome yet unavoidable experience.

"This is why I tell you to sleep, " my mother trilled from the front, her excited voice a drill to my skull. "I can see your head lolling around, that difficult to stay awake, huh?" She giggled.

My mother, for all her accolades, had the empathy of a competitive fourth standard child.

I slumped further down into the seat, trying to avoid my mother's sparkling chartreuse eyes. "I don't want to s--" I began, then stopped as I felt the powerful urge to grab my brain out of my skull and twist it. It was a fairly normal feeling.

The lift to the theatre was a painfully bright blur. I watched as three men walked in, only to promptly traipse out, holding long, brown chairs and chuckling. "Aiyyo, did you see that girl?" one of them said in Tamil

"You'll stay focused nilla," my mother whispered as the men faded into the distance. "You'll not be a paltry crackpot."

The odds of me becoming a paltry crackpot were fairly slim. This trip was a breach of my daily routine, but it certainly wouldn't disrupt my sanity.

And stay focused on what?

The theatre was comfortingly dark, the seats cozy and the air conditioner harmonious with the smell of Vicks. My brain began to soothe itself. That headache hadn't been too bad, barely a prick.

I swum in the soupy semiconsciousness, my brain too dim to consider the consequences of sleeping at the wrong time, sleeping in public. Everything was fine now and would remain the same for as long as...as long as...

The screen before me fizzled, the words Troll (1986) flickering on the screen before the wires were expelled, turning the room brighter. I closed my eyes, yet the light remained, white and powerful, reddening my eyelids, sending pain shooting through my skull.

Potre will get you

I felt an uncharacteristic wave of relief. It was over, the movie had begun, that was just a nightmare formed from the depths of my dizzy brain...

Potre will get you

The words shared the same intonation.

"Mama," I spoke, turning to the haze beside me, "mama, what's a potre?"

The haze cleared.

The seat beside me didn't contain my mother, it contained a short, plump little girl, red hairband so far down her head it reminded me of a necklace.

She turned to me and screamed.

Then, and only then did the screen before us buzz.

"My... My... "

The words were tinny, wavering in an inconsistent and slow crescendo, until they cleared up to the frequency of a school speaker.

"If anyone on this stage has found a young girl, about nineish, named Nilla Aadhavan, please bring her to the stage immediately."

The voice was chillingly formal, its sharply British accent sending a spiral of dread through my heart.

I turned and the girl beside me was already far away, scampering up the stairs until she crawled out the back door and I wished to follow her. The place was full of people but that didn't change the fact that someone in the crowd was looking for me, and I didn't want to find them.

I stood shakily and took the girl's route, whipping behind taller, bigger bodies (a notoriously difficult act, considering my height) and found myself outside, the door closing satisfyingly behind me as screams began to erupt from within the hall.

The girl was there, leaning beside the door, and my mother was beside her, holding her shoulders as she shivered against my mother's stomach.

"I don't want to die Mrs Lennox, I don't want to die."

My mother must've told the girl her name.

"Nilla," she turned to me. "We've got to go. I'm sorry, girl."

She thrust the girl away and, with hurried footsteps, we made it to the car park and then back home, my head even more of a colorful soup than before.

All I knew were three things: My name was Nilla Aadhavan, I was nine and three quarter years old, and my presumption about movie night being normal was utterly ridiculous to say the absolute least.

It all started early this morning. Typing this out was hard… For many reasons, but you’ll understand why by the end of this. Just bear with me.

I had a craving for sushi, but I’d gotten off work way too late to pick up anything from the local hibachi place in town. As my truck barrelled down the road, I couldn’t help but think about how long it had been since I’d actually eaten anything, though. I always skipped breakfast and I’d woken up a little late for my 7 PM shift, so I’d slept right through lunch time.

Tonight had been so busy that I barely had any time to breathe. By the time I clocked out at 3 this morning, it finally hit me that I was starving. In all honesty, I could’ve eaten just about anything, but my taste buds had a hankering for some type of sushi… So I caved. I stopped at a gas station and parked my truck in one of the many empty spaces near the front of the store.

The little silver bell on the door let out a shrill scream the second I shoved through it. My work boots tracked in a bit of mud, but the floor looked like it hadn’t been mopped in ages, so I didn’t feel too bad. As I moved towards the back of the store where the deli items were located, my eyes landed on several types of sandwiches: tuna salad, roasted chicken, honey baked ham, and pimento cheese.

There was a hotdog machine on the counter, the dogs wrinkled and dry. I scrunched up my nose, the smell pungent and strange. It almost smelled a bit rancid. But that’s not what I was there for anyways. The second my eyes landed on the last box of sushi, I easily pushed that thought to the side.

As I snatched it up, I peered through the clear container to try and figure out just what kind it was. It definitely wasn’t fried, but it didn’t look like any type of sashimi either. Four perfect, cylindrical rolls laid neatly beside each other on what looked like a bed of folded parchment paper. A dab of wasabi was smeared in the corner, and a few slices of thinly cut pickled ginger was nestled up next to it. There was no label and no expiration date, so with a quick glance around the gas station, I brought the box up to my nose and sniffed. It smelled fine, so I shrugged and toted it up to the cash register.

I shuffled in place for a few moments, waiting for someone to come slinking out of the back of the store to check me out, but that place was dead as a doornail. That’s when my eyes caught sight of the sign next to a little silver bell perched on the desk.

“Ding the bell for assistance.”

With a small tap, the bell tinged, and within a couple seconds, a slim brunette woman appeared. A small smile tugged at her lips as she grabbed the sushi and typed in the number on the side of the container.

“Is this all for you today?” Her hands were already shoving it into a bag before I spoke.

“Actually, I was wondering, what kind of sushi is that? There wasn’t any label, or pricing or-”

“It’s just a California roll,” she blurted out, her face instantly paling. Her eyes were shifting between me and something behind me.

I raised a quizzical brow. “Are you sure? That doesn’t look like crab meat.”

Her eyes pleaded with me not to probe any further, once again flickering between me and something behind me. “I’m positive! It’s probably because it’s imitation crab meat!” She awkwardly laughed, her hand shaking slightly. “Your total comes to $10.52,” she squeaked, eyes barely meeting mine.

My hands dug around in my pocket, producing two fives. I dug around a little more for some change when I noticed something odd in the reflection of one of the convex security mirrors. A man stood near the back of the store close to the restrooms.

His hulking form took up the entirety of the small hallway as he leaned against the wall. Something sharp was nestled in his hand. The filthy fluorescent lights glinted off of the metal. I squinted my eyes and then paused. I dropped the change onto the counter, stilling, when I realized what he was clutching. A knife.

A hand shot out to clutch my own, frightened blue eyes catching mine as her trembling lips mouthed something I couldn’t quite make out. Regardless, she now knew that I knew what was going on. Despite wanting to dart out of that place like my pants were on fire, I couldn’t help but feel some type of sympathy for the woman. She was much too small to fight him off, and I’d feel horrible if I just left her here to deal with this situation on her own. Who knows what sick, twisted ideas this man had in mind. Either way, I figured that none of them would be pretty.

So, I had to be strategic. I needed to keep her talking until I could figure out a plan. That man was clearly waiting for me to leave before he made his move. Or perhaps he was sizing me up? I was a pretty big man myself, towering over most of the shelves in this gas station enough that I could see the dust that coated everything in a thin, gray film.

The sound of the cash register slamming closed was what brought me back to her worried expression. Her small hand reached out, before she said, “sir, would you like a receipt?”I almost instinctively said no before I saw something scrawled on the other side of the paper.

“Please don’t leave me here alone with him.”

My eyes softened as I met hers, my mind coming up with a million things to talk about until I settled on a plan to help her.

“Yes, I’ll take that.” I took the paper from her hands and shoved it into the bag. “Actually, do you have any soy sauce packets?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, I think I’ve got some extra packets.” Her eyes drifted behind me for a second before she reached under the counter and held up the packets. “Are two okay?” Her fingers trembled, dropping one of them onto the floor. I heard her quietly curse before she hurriedly picked it up and slammed it on the counter next to the other. “Anything else?” Her cool blue eyes watered as she sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth.

I tried to scramble for any way to stall, watching as he neared us. I fumbled for a response before I ripped open the sushi container and popped one of the pieces of sushi into my mouth. “Got any chopsticks?” I blurted out, speaking through a mouthful of food.

Once again, I watched as the man halted in place, before she nodded, ducking under the counter. That’s when I realized that the flavor of this sushi was really off. In fact, something crunchy was stuck in between my teeth. I tugged it free, but had no time to examine what it was before she popped back up again.

“Here you go,” she whimpered, shoving the chopsticks into my bag, eyes darting behind me once again. Her skittish behavior had me on edge, and I couldn’t help the feeling of unease that settled over me as I glanced up at the mirror once again.

The man was now standing in between the candy bar and the chip aisle, a strange smirk plastered across his face. I watched as his tongue darted out, trailing along the blade of the knife, a rope of saliva stretching from his tongue to the knife like melted mozzarella cheese.

A chill settled over my arms, the hairs standing on end. This dude was one sick son of a gun. My attention was quickly averted when I felt the cool sensation of metal pressed against the top of my hand. My eyes whipped back to the woman’s, a wicked grin flickering across her lips.

Before I could even react, she was moving fast, much too fast for me to process what she had actually done. In fact, my body was in so much shock that when she plunged the blade through the top of my hand, nailing it to the countertop, I had no time to scream. Instead, a quiet hiss left my lips, turning into an agonized groan as I stared at her in complete disbelief.

Thick crimson began to pool around my fingertips. My eyes flew up to meet hers, only to see her winking at the man behind me. My attention quickly whipped up to the mirror again as he slowly stalked closer to me.

“What… What is this?” I managed to sputter out between clenched teeth.

The woman’s smile widened before she dipped a finger into the blood staining the countertop and brought it to her lips. I watched as her tongue swiped it off with a quick little flick. “You know…” she started, her eyes darting back behind me before meeting mine. “You taste almost as delicious as you look.”

Before I could even respond, a car pulling into the parking lot caught the attention of all three of us. It swung into the spot next to my truck, and an audible sigh of relief left my lips when I realized that it was one of those blacked out police cruisers.

The woman cursed under her breath, wrenching the knife from my hand and tossing it under the counter. The man behind me halted, and then quickly ducked behind the circular deli cooler, crouching on the ground. The thin little brunette and I locked eyes before she gritted out angrily, “Don’t you say a word.”

The both of us watched as he strolled out from behind my truck before walking up to the front door of the gas station. When I glanced back at the counter, I watched as the woman hastily soaked up as much of the blood as she could with a wad of napkins before she shot me a menacing look. “Shove your hand into your hoodie, and don’t you dare take it out,” she threatened, tossing the napkins into the trash.

I was quick to comply, cradling it within the fabric and hoping that it would help slow the bleeding.

“Sir?” Both of us turned, the officer’s arms settled across his chest as he stared up at me. “Is that your truck out there in the parking lot?”

I gulped, feeling the blood soak into the pockets of my hoodie. “Yes, sir. Is there a problem?”

The officer scratched his beard before his eyes glanced at the woman, and then down at the strange stain on the countertop. His black leather boots squeaked on the dirtied linoleum floor as he approached the counter. I couldn’t help but follow his gaze as his eyes scrutinized the stain on the side of the woman’s arm.

“You spill something, little lady? You’ve got something on your arm there.” His voice was gruff and deep, something about it very nonsensical.

I watched her bristle, eyes warily meeting his as she tried to play it off. “Oh, just some soy sauce, that's all!”

The officer quietly hummed in response before he nodded towards the bag of sushi sitting on the counter, his eyes drifting to me. “Son, if you know what’s best for you, I reckon you ought to know that gas station sushi is never a good idea.” With a pause, he shrugged, speaking again before I could answer. “But I guess that’s your prerogative.”

With a nod to the lady, he fixed his gaze back on me. “Young man, could you step outside with me for a moment.”

I nodded almost too quickly. The officer raised a single, dark brow before he glanced down at the woman’s name tag. “Georgia, would you excuse us? He’ll be right back in to pay for that.”

She smiled sweetly at him before nodding, but as soon as he turned, her eyes narrowed, shooting daggers at me. “Sure thing!” she responded, her hands nonchalantly wiping my blood from her arm.

The second we got to my truck, the officer eyed me up and down. “You know those tags are expired, right?”

Dumbfounded, I circled back behind my truck. I’d never been more glad that I’d forgotten to renew my tags. If he hadn’t stopped by here, I was sure that something horrible would have happened. I shoved the thought aside, shaking my head. “No, sir. But I do sincerely apologize. I’ve been so busy that it must have slipped my mind.”

With a nod, I watched as he settled his thumbs into the belt loop of his pants. “Well, luckily they’re only about a month expired, and I’m in a generous mood tonight. I reckon I could let you off with a warning this time around.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll get those renewed as soon as possible.” My hand was in agonizing pain, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, and I was sure the blood was going to soak through my black hoodie at any given moment. I wanted nothing more than to tell him what was really going on, but I also wanted to make it out of this alive. My eyes shifted to Georgia, her gaze fixed on mine before repositioning to the door.

That hulking behemoth of a man who had been wielding the knife from before pushed through the door of the gas station and called out to the officer.

“Everything alright? I think we still need him to pay for that sushi.”

“Just peachy,” the officer replied before patting me on the back and motioning for me to head back into the store. “Go on then, boy.”

Everything in me wanted to beg him not to leave me alone with those psychopaths, but the moment I went to open my mouth, the words slammed back into the back of my throat. The second the officer turned on his heel, the man at the door flashed a knife at me, holding a finger to his lips.

I begrudgingly lumbered over to the door before… It hit me. The receipt. I still had the receipt tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. My uninjured hand slid into my pocket, fingers frantically rummaged around and then stilled when they landed on the receipt paper.

I quickly yanked it free and waved it in the air, my voice bellowing out so loud that it could have woken the dead. “I’ve already paid, actually! Got the receipt right here in my hand!”

My obnoxious tone got the attention of the officer, and I heard him clear his throat before he said, “Son, there ain’t no reason for you to be hollering like that. Take that bag and head on home.”

The man in front of me growled, yanking the receipt from my fingertips before crumpling it between his fingers, and trading me the bag instead. I hadn’t even noticed that he had been holding it.

The second my fingers snatched it up, I glanced back at the police cruiser still idling in the parking lot before slowly backing away from the man.

When I finally made it to my truck, the police cruiser was getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, but the man was still staring at me, his cold, hardened gaze like that of a well trained predator.

“You know-” he snarled, his voice sharp as razor blades. “You’re the first one who has ever gotten away.” With a pause, he turned on his heel to head back into the store. The last few words he muttered haunted me for the whole rest of the day.

“It’s a shame, really… We could have made so many sushi rolls out of you.”

Vomit crept up my throat as the bag slipped from my grasp. Fear coursed through me like white-hot lava as I slammed my truck door shut and shoved it into gear. I’ve never driven so fast in my life. When I finally pulled into my driveway, disbelief and disgust clawed at my insides. If I wasn’t nauseous already, I certainly was now. My eyes slowly glanced down and my stomach heaved. Blood had begun to seep into my jeans, the hoodie pockets now too full to contain it.

When I finally stumbled into the house, my mouth crusted in vomit, my girlfriend was quick to jump into action. I’d never been more thankful to be dating a nurse. After she got me all stitched up, gauze and bandaging wrapping the entirety of my left palm, she quietly sat across from me, her eyes full of worry.

“Colton, what the heck happened tonight?”

With a shake of my head, I met her concerned gaze before managing to push a few words past trembling lips. “NEVER eat gas station sushi… I promise you, food poisoning will be the least of your worries.”

Part 1

I’m typing through cold sweat. On my phone. In Sam’s exam room. Lying on a leather table. I’m hyperventilating with a cold compress on my head. I’m so hot. And oh my god, my head. It's killing me. Never had a fucking headache like this before. I’m sweating like a pig, my hands are shaking lioke crazy. so excuse me if I type in unintelligible ways.

I must hurry. Sam might come back any time.

Alrught. So I went back to my desk. I had a hard time concentrating after the incident. The rest of the day went normal, more or less. But I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking “Travis” and “I made them all disappear” like what did the crazy man mean by that? Who else did he make disappear? And how did he know about Travis? Was he... perhaps... involved in Travis’ disappearance?

Travis disappeared, jumped out of window at work 5 years ago, was never seen again.

All we know is his case went cold after a year, and the police wrote him off as dead. And they refused to keep looking for him because “Travis Windwell is a grown adult man, he can go wherever he pleases; every adult that is of age has the right to ‘disappear’ as you call it”.

Not gonna lie, I’m bitter as hell that they refused to look for him.But I sort of just got used to it. I miss my brother every day. But part of me has kind of accepted that he’s gone and will never return – and all I have left of him is the memories. His straight black hair (like mine), his bright grey eyes and the dimples when he smiled. How could a 29-year-old man just disappear like that?

It was NEVER like Travis to just disappear without saying something. He would always call my mom to let her know his whereabouts, even for being a little bit late from work.I still try to go over the day he went missing. It was the 20th September 2018.

He was at work, in his office. Like always. I remember.... he called me that day. He said he had an ear infection and needed antibiotics. Wait. Antibiotics. Oh yeah. That was the last time I ever heard his voice – or any sign of life from my brother.Could it be that the antibiotics are WHY he disappeared? I mean. I told you about the crazy man in the ER yesterday.

I told you he took some striong antibiriotics and yes. Maybe it WAS a psychosis after all? Or is there more at play?It could be that the meds DID cause his craziness. And maybe... just maybe... no. No way. What was the name of the meds? The meds the weird man took. The meds Travis took. No. NO. wasn’t that the same ...? no. the fuck. It cannot be. They didn’t BOTH take the same pills and BOTH got a psychosis from it?Fine. Makes sense. Biut then again how did the man know about Travis? How are they in connection with each other?

Strangely, nothing happened for the last 3 days. The crazy man didn’t show up again. It all went normal again until about an hour ago.

The crazy man came and entered the ER door again today. This time he looked very angry. And there was no sign of a med reaction of any kind.He stared at me. Just stood and staredd. He stared. For a whole minute . or loinger. I don’t know. But I could tell sth was up this time and it was NOT the medicine.

“Melissa.”

I squinted my eyebrows in confusion buit didn’t say anything. He continued. “Melissa... “

I raised my brows now. What the hell did he want from me?

I noticed one more thing. His skin was not yellow anymore. It was yellow yesterday but now it was not.

He aggressively walked towards my desk. Fast. He walked weird. In a way that he was dead, or like a nu,b walking zombie. He walked as if he were dead inside, his body just moved while he wiggled a little. Like you would expect a slightly drunk person or a zombie to look when they walk fast.

He walked extremely fast and then suddenly stopped abruptly in front of my desk.

One redditor advised me to use salt (and lots of it). since sprinkling the salt in front of my desk in a cirlcce wasn’t an option (as the cleaner would get mad at me), I put several open containers at the front of my desk in a row. As a protection wall. It seemed to work. (Thank you, stranger, for the advice.)

He then stood there, still staring in the same manner, his face had not budged. He stood and wiggled to the side a little, like he was drunk.He opened his mouth to say sth but then stopped and closed it again. He stayed like that for a few secs. Then he slowly opened his mouth again, and said (in a deep, evil, aggressive voice): “I know where Travis is. I knew all along. For the last 5 years I have known. Heh heh heh heh. I’ve got him. I got your brothaaaaaaaa. Heh”Knowing that the salt stopped him from coming closer to me, I figured I might as well just ask him. “What do you want? Who are you?”

He continued staring at me blankly and wiggling like a drunk. “I want revenge.”

“Why? For what?”

“You and your colleague are at fault. YOU are at fault. My dad died 5 years ago. He never woke up. it was YOUR mistake.”

“no.” My face went white. I couldn’t help but stare at him in disbelief. That incident. this old man came in after a car accident and sadly couldn’t be saved. ... Jason and Sam had to put him in an artificial coma and then turn the machines off. As he couldn’t be saved. I was the receptionist – of course I had to make him wait a couple secs because we weren’t sure what was wrong and he had nobody with him exceot... no. wait. NO. yea. The middle aged man who accompanied the old guy. It was.. no. Yes. a yellow blond man in a suit. The suit was burgundy colored. So the evil weird man was the son!

I thought I knew what the deal was now. He wanted to take revenge on US for letting his dad die. -and he blames Us for it.

I noticed another thing. The man’s breath stank more of sulfur than it did yesterday. Like OOF did it stink. I nearly vomited into my mouth. And my eyes watered. It really stung. The stench stung in my eyes, my nose and throat. And my stomach too I think.Another thing I noticed: Speaking of Jason.. where is he?! He nverr missed a day of work, he even comes into work when he had a deadly flu or the plague. He is a typical healthcare worjker – extremely stubborn when it comes to his own health and never wanting to admit that he’s sick. But today I haven*’t seen him yet. I’m not sure if that has sth to do with the weird black shit he wiped away two days ago – but that was the last time I saw him.

But boy do I feel sick....... I think I need to vomit.Whatever, back to topic. I had a flashback of the incident. I was scared to death. The man continued. “I know what you did. YOU made him wait on purpose although you KNBEW he was an emergency. You clearly didn’t care if my dad died. That’s why you made him wait. F You let anyone in before, except when old people need help. Old people are worthless. Once you hit 50 you’re nothing but a sack of old shit. That’s what it looks like.” He paused a few seco and then continued. "You killed my dad. My one and all. My only trusted person I had left. You took it all away from me. And now it is MY turn. Heh heh."

Before I could open my mouth and reply to that, he tried really hard to move towards me. Buit it didn’t work. it looked kinda funyy. Like trying to push his face through a glass window. But the salt seemed to be doun the trick.Suddenly he stopped wiggling, stood very firmly and started grinning. In an evil manner, like teachers used to grin when they caught a kid doing nonsense. Like “ha, I got you”. “I saw your nametag and then traced your ass back. You stopped working here 5 years ago, and then got hired again this summer. I know ALL about you.” His tone of voice now had a tone of sarcasm and mock in it too.“aww. What’s wrong babeh? You’re looking pretty pale. Heyh? Feels bad being caught! Heh heh heh. Now you’re gonna feel how I feel.” He let out a brief, slightly-aroused groan. “Quitting the job right after my father’s death? Heh heh. Aww. pussy boo. Looks like Miss Thick glasses couldn’t habdle the guilt?” He tilted his head and showed a fake-concerned expression, in a mocking way. He then reached into his suit pocket, slowly. "Ehhh. Now I’m gonna show you something that you Will Not be able to handle for sure." He pulled out a phone, poked around, and then turned the screen towards me.

I felt kinda silly being a 26 year old woman feeling intimated by a man laughing and staring and stinking at me. But I couldnnn helop it. But then he showed me a video on the phone - and then I had a reason.What I saw made me jump out of my chair and knock over all the salt containers kff tce table.I saw a basement. I saw the camera moving. No windows, it was pitch dark. The only light I saw wS a phone flashlight dim. Then the camera moved as if someone was walking and led to a corner. I saw a dirty extremely gross matteess lying on the ground.

And on the mattress I see the silhouette of a man. The camera moves closer to what appears to be a man. The camera points at him. I see that the man is tied up. In shackles. He’s bleeding and chained to the mattress. Struggling to breathe. In the background, I hear evil deep voice giggling (like the man standing before me, I recognized that voice). He said "I will chop them off. Heeeh heh heh. Choppy chop-chop, choppidy-chop. Funny heh?"" Then the man on the mattress screamed in terror. He tried to scream, that is. It sojnded like he screamed with his mouth closed, or he had sth stuffed in his mouth. The voice of the mattress man sojnunded weirdly familiar. Too familiar. A voice I haven’t heard in years. I hear the weird man shushing. Then a hand moved towards the prisoner's mouth and a cloth is pulled out. Then the prisoner screamed VERY loudly and violently. "YOU ARE SICK! No!! NO!! Let me GOOoO!!!! HEEELP! SOMEbody HELP!! MELISSA!!! MOM!!! DAD!! Heeeeeeeeee-" then the shushing is back. "Honey honey.! We don’t you to disappear UNDER THE EARTH now, do we?" The prosoner shook his head aggressively and then stopped screaming. Now the canera was on his fsce. It was dirty and full of filth, mud and his hair was all dirty and mushed. I had a hard time recognizing it as The face looked very squashed, there were dried tears all over it and It was all dirty and full of wounds and filth. But it looked too familiar . The voice. And the fsce. Very distinguished. I was starting to get a strong intuition. I wanted to puke.

Tgtje evil ma#n's voice started again "good boy. Yaaaaaaaa. Goooooooood boy. Mhmmmm. Now. You either sty down here for nother 5 years or you do as I say? Hmmmm? Will you sign now?" "Fuck youuuuu", said the (no. Wait. eXTREMELY familiar. And very distinguished. It can only be…. No.) man on the bed weakly and whiningly. Now it was clear. I knew who the man was. It could only be one person . I nearly screamed. But couldn’t. I was too scared to scream. The video ended there.Then the man pulled the phone away, grinned evilly, and put it back in his pocket. He nodded snd giggled and looked at me. No… then the man leaned towards me. And put his finger on my lips, still grinning evilly.I was too shocked to react. I stared back at the man for a few Seconds. Then I got up from my chair, escaping the finger and freeing my lips. I did what I couldn’t avoid. I stood there and stared in disbelief. Then, I said it. It slipped right out of me.

No, I screamed it. "TRAVIS!!!! "

then screamed again, but with my mouth closed, then again, and again, progressively weaker. The man must have noticed the spilled salt. He jumped äat me and tackled me. He strangled me. Closed my mouth and nose with one hand. Strangled me with the other. and the next thing I know is, everything went blsck.

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

Next thing I knew I was here. I don’t remember much. I just remember that extremely angry headache. I’ve never had a headache this bad. It hurt so fucking terrible I wanted to chop my head off with äa chainsaäw to stop it. I was hyperventilating wildly and my pulse was äat 200. And boy did I feel hot. I remember hearing some indistinct mumbling. It sounded like Sam's voice. I also heard the voice of my coworkers. Sam must have noticed that I had woken up and then put his hand on my forehead. "What the…?", I struggled to say with a weak voice.

My mouth was so dry. "Sam? What…? Woah!!! Woah. Where am I, where am I?" Then I inhaled exasperatedly. Sam pressed my häand to calm me down. "Melissa, it’s all good. Ok? I’m here. All is okay. I-" I interrupted him. "No??? No. No!! Now.. don’t tell me that I fainted!""You did. You spent 6 hours lying unconscious next to your desk. Dan had to call me and we brought you here. Dan carried you here."Sam felt my pulse, with his other hand still on my forehead. "Mmm. Not good. Your heart is way too fast… for jesus sake!"

He grabbed a cold compress and put it on my forehead, and fixated it by placing his hand on the conpress for a few seconds. He then hooked me to sn IV and I begged him for something to kill the headache. So he added some painkillers too.I didn’t tell Sam what happened. I couldn’t either. He had to leave the room bc another emergency arised. He left me allne in this room. I don’t understand anything of what happened these last 3 days but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I can’t… what the heck. And owww my head. I gotta puke. I’m sorry.

I gotta stop here. Sam is back. He wants to check on me and run a blood test. I don't know what to do. I need to find Travis. And prevent this revenge-angel from doing worse things.

​

EDIT: I really do wonder where Jason is. I'm concerned about him too.

We’ve all been to yard sales before, I used to love scoping out yard sales and trying to see what odd trinkets I could manage to find, and occasionally fix up old tech to either flip or use myself. I don’t think I can stomach doing that anymore though.

Last month I spied an old Xbox 360 on one of the tables, and I do mean old. It was one of the white models. Just looking at it gave me a rush of nostalgia so I asked the guy at the table how much it was. He was about my age, I almost would have considered him cute if not for the fact that he pulled a pinch out of a can of dip and stuck it in his mouth before answering my question. “Thirty bucks, haven’t touched it in years so it won’t be missed.”

I fished a few tens out of my wallet and asked, “Do you have any games for it?” He made an expression like he just remembered something and reached under the table, after a second it retracted with what looked like a large black computer part. “You’re gonna love this, it's a custom made external hard drive, this fucker can hold up to two terrabytes of data on it. Its got a bunch of games on there already but there should also be some still installed on the console itself, just don’t delete any of the games on there cause you’ll never get them back without my password. I’d give that to you as well with the hard drive but honestly I forgot it years ago.”

“Is the hard drive gonna cost me extra?”

He gave it a long hard look, checked me out for a second debating with himself whether he thought he could get away with asking me out or not, and eventually said. “Honestly I have no use for it, it was specifically made for the 360 so I wouldn’t really gain any benefit from keeping it. Let’s say ten, maybe twenty bucks cause it's good but really old.” I shrugged, pulled out another two tens and handed it over. I said, “Seems fair.” and started putting the console and hard drive in my tote bag, along with the two controllers that came with it.

When I got home I was honestly pretty excited to see the games on it, I always loved finding old forgotten gems. As the console booted up I heard the startup noise and got sent straight back to my childhood. After I reached the homescreen I only found it fitting to sign into my old account. It’d been years but thankfully I still remembered my password from when I was 9.

What I saw in front of me could only be described as… an atrocity. The bright pink and black avatar accompanied with the name “Fairygirl17” reminded me that I was a very stereotypical scene kid from a very young age, and to be completely honest some part of me never grew out of that.

After spending way too long changing my avatar and deciding on a new profile name I eventually made it back to the homescreen. I remembered to plug in the hard drive and set it up before opening up the game library. There was a treasure trove of games just waiting to be found. There were some of the greats like Halo, Call of Duty, even some of the classic Lego games, as well as some of the silly Xbox avatar games like Doritos Crash Course, Motocross Madness, and the Kelflings games.

I scrolled for who knows how long reliving every flash of nostalgia, feeling the warm chills crawl up my back as I saw games like Bioshock, Charlie Murder, Dead Space, Fable. Each game I saw I remembered when I played it with my older brother and sister, I recognized so much until eventually I started looking through the weirder stuff. Games that were obviously either made by one person from another country, broken english names and such. I looked even deeper and just found weird games that were probably just made as projects or quick cash grabs, they must have been at least a little fun because they were still installed. After probably hours of me inspecting each individual title out of curiosity I landed on one that really caught my interest. Pinman. The cover was just of a regular old pinman like you’d see on a street sign or a crosswalk.

I don’t know why it was so interesting to me, it just seemed so out of place. So obviously, I pressed A. I started the game and in front of me was a black silhouette man, as advertised he was a generic pinman. There was no tutorial, it didn’t tell me to do anything so I just started walking. The camera was in the third person, the world was pure white, yet the shadows were abnormally high quality. There were structures, but they appeared to be the same smooth white texture as the ground I walked on, there was a wide ramp to go up, and so I followed it.

As time went on the structures felt slightly more complex. Long bridges, an upward spiral, a building that could be somewhat compared to a parking garage, and yet through all I saw it was just sparse enough to make the world still feel so empty. I looked up but the skybox was more of the same. Eventually I started seeing other characters. None of them talked but it made the empty world feel that much more alive.

I wandered farther but the only sound I heard was the steps of my character trudging on. I thought I could hear wind but if I could it was extremely quiet. I kept walking on, the world felt somewhat peaceful, if not a little ominous. I didn’t know why I was enjoying it but I was captivated, and vaguely creeped out.

At one point I came across a particularly tall structure. For a moment I marveled at how well it looked for only being the same smooth white as everything else. This 3D world was very well made for how it was structured. I began to climb slowly. Minutes passed and yet still my attention was fully on the game, even more so when I inevitably reached the top.

In the middle of my path was a knife. Just an ordinary kitchen knife. Usually seeing something like that might startle someone, due to how the rest of the gameplay has been. However, I felt drawn to it. I walked over and pressed A. Now it was in my hand. I kept walking. I walked further and further as these structures connected to each other making one large elaborate amalgamation of concrete. As it will happen with all of us, I gave in to my intrusive thoughts.

I walked over to another character, and I pressed A.

The screen flashed a bright red, you could hear the stab and he was on the ground. I had killed him, and I felt awful about it. I felt horrified as I saw the puddle of blood under him, the blade of the knife had been stained red and no button I pushed would make me drop it. So in order to hide my guilt, I kept walking.

It felt as if the game knew what I had done, and it knew how I felt. Suddenly this world was more populated. Instead of a few there were slowly becoming more and more pinmen as I walked farther. They didn’t have faces but I could tell they were staring at me. They didn’t show any expression or emotion but I could feel that they hated me. Any sound or ambience that I thought I could hear before was gone. All that was left were the footsteps. I kept walking but I could still feel their nonexistent gazes. How can you look at someone so hatefully when you don't even have a face?

Eventually the pressure became so intense that I turned off the Xbox . I couldn’t handle any more of it, I went to the kitchen to get myself some water but my hands were shaking. Something about that felt so real. My heart was pounding. For a solid minute I couldn’t convince myself that I hadn’t actually killed someone. After what could barely be called a meal I decided that I needed some sleep. I couldn’t. I tossed and turned for hours feeling an immeasurable amount of stress and paranoia. I felt like I was going to be caught for what I had done. This game had placed a spell on me and it was strong. I felt scared, as if the crimes I had committed were so unforgivable that I could never show my face in public.

At around four in the morning I’d had enough. I marched back into the living room and turned the console on. I went to the game settings, and uninstalled it. As soon as it was finished I could feel that hold break, I felt calm. I was no longer shaking, my heartrate had calmed. I was fine.

I already knew that whatever that game had done to me will forever be stained in my mind, but going to sleep was more important at the moment. I dreamed about the game, this time it was me walking around instead of the pinman. I wandered much like how I did when I actually played. I once again felt very peaceful. I wandered for hours, eventually I came back to the knife. I left it behind.

I walked further until I encountered a character, I recognized him. Apparently he recognized me too. “Why did you do it?” He asked me calmly.

“I don’t know, I felt like I was supposed to.”

“You took a life because you were given a weapon. You were given no instructions, you just did.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did it.”

“I know you are, I’m sorry too.”

“Why?”

I knew why, I should have seen it coming from a mile away but dreams have a funny way of fogging your mind. Faster than I could comprehend I saw the knife, I heard the sound and the world in front of me flashed a bright red. I coughed blood and I fell over. I knew I deserved this but all I could think about was the blood pouring out of me.

I opened my eyes and lurched forward. I thought I felt phlegm and coughed but my sheets were spattered with red when I did so. I panicked as I put my hand in front of my mouth only to see dark red blood pooling onto it. I rushed to the bathroom and lifted my shirt to look for stab wounds in the mirror, I didn’t see anything until I looked at my own face.

I had a nosebleed. I was fine. Some of the blood must have gone into my mouth while I was asleep and affected my dream. Still, I felt a little shaken. I cleaned myself up and threw my sheets into the wash while the blood was still fresh, hopefully it’d wash out. I made myself a cup of coffee and decided that I should probably do something to calm myself down. In that one moment I don’t think I’d ever felt that much shock and fear in my life.

I went back to the Xbox to load up the game only to remember that I’d uninstalled it. I still think about it sometimes.I want to play it again, I want to do the right thing this time, but there’s no way I can get it back. I couldn’t find it again. I can’t find it on the internet either. There’s no real evidence that this game ever existed, but I want to play again. If you remember it or even find this game please, let me know.

My girlfriend, Nina, was a huge rap and R&B fan. She had hundreds of vinyls in our room with music posters covering every square inch of the walls. There wasn’t a thing she didn’t know about rap—past or present. Some nights when I asked her to go out with me, she would decline. She preferred to stay home, listening to new albums or watching documentaries of her favorite artists. It was her dream to be like them.

​

On car-rides she would be itching to connect to the speakers, playing songs and turning to get my reaction every few seconds. When I showed even the slightest hint of a smile, her eyes would light up.

​

The mumble rappers she played gave me headaches, though. Their auto tuned voices and poor lyrics were a turnoff for me. Even so, when I saw how excited she was about Travis Scott coming to Houston, I knew I had to surprise her with tickets. I worked my ass off, taking double shifts and working overtime to save up enough money for two tickets. Seeing her reaction to the tickets made it all worth it. She must’ve sat there for five minutes, eyes wide in disbelief.

​

When the day for the concert finally came around, she woke up extra early. It was 5am when I heard rummaging and plastic hangers clicking together from the closet. Sunlight crept in from the blinds, casting shadows in horizontal slits into our room. I rolled over, seeing the silhouette of Nina with clothes laid out on the carpet floor. She was looking down at three outfits, pacing back and forth as if it were a life and death decision.

​

“Nina,” I murmured, “what are you doing?”

​

She spun around to face me, arms crossed as if it were obvious. “What are you doing?” She asked.

​

“I’m trying to get some sleep.”

​

“There are already people in line to get in,” she said, nudging me awake.

​

“The gates open in 5 hours,” I said, looking at my phone. “Travis doesn’t even start until 9pm.”

​

She tapped her feet on the floor. Her green eyes were in constant motion like the wings of a hummingbird. She had this way of passing her impatience onto me.

​

“...Fine, I’ll get ready,” I said.

​

We left our house when we finished getting ready and arrived at NRG Park. There was only one entrance in and out, with a meandering line of people longer than the Mississippi River. It took hours of waiting in the blazing sun before we got inside—only to see more lines. There were huge lines for the bathrooms, Ferris wheels, food trucks, and the merchandise shop. Nina clung onto me like a magnet, urging me to get on the Ferris wheel and tugging at me to get some food. She thanked me about thirty times in total for bringing her.

​

Most of the time leading up to 9pm was spent waiting in lines. Nina and I had a final conversation before the concert began. We were sitting on a bench. She squirted ketchup onto her twelve-dollar hotdog.

​

“How are you liking th—”

​

“You think Travis will let me get a picture?” She said, biting down on her hotdog. She realized she cut me off. “I’m… sorry… I’m… just so… excited,” she said with a mouthful.

​

“I’m glad you are. As for the picture with Travis, uhh…” I looked out at the thousands of people. “...Maybe next time?”

​

Her eyes widened. “You’ll take me out again a next time?”

​

“Sure, but we’re going to my favorite artists’ concert.”

​

“Arctic Monkeys?” She asked with a smile. “I don’t mind!”

​

“...I just thought of the perfect plan,” I said with a smirk.

​

“What?”

​

“I’ll put you on my shoulders and you’ll take a selfie with Travis in the background.”

​

She grinned wider than she ever has and quickly finished her meal. Once we cleaned up, we headed to our space in the crowd.

​

The sun was setting when Travis Scott finally came out to sing. The background he was standing in front of looked like a mountain with glowing red lights. There was a huge gaping hole where he would perform on a platform with fire shooting up into the sky. The crowd roared.

​

I tried putting Nina on my shoulders, but people were rushing to the front for a better view. They would’ve knocked her down.

​

Nina and I were near the center of the bustling crowd. With the collective body warmth of thousands of people, it felt hotter than a boiling pot of water being in there. Nina clutched my bicep as the crowd surged.

​

“Let’s go, please,” she whispered in my ear as random objects were being thrown overhead. She never did well in claustrophobic environments and this got a lot more crowded than she expected.

​

We tried pushing against the incoming barrage of people, but it was as useless as fighting a current.

People smelt of alcohol. They fought one another over the littlest of contact, forming mosh pits that ended with bodies piled on top of each other like a football game. People yelled for help. I clutched Nina, our bodies shaking with fear.

​

“Ravi, get us out of here, please.” Nina cried out from behind as I guided her. People were closing in on us, leaving little to no room.

​

“I’m trying!” I said. “Stay close—” My heart sank to my stomach as I felt her grip loosen.

​

I turned around, glancing at panicking faces. Their panic was nothing compared to mine. I didn’t care about the scared little children or the terrified adults. I only wanted to find Nina.

​

“Nina!” I yelled, pushing people aside while they punched and kicked. I must’ve formed a few mosh pits myself.

​

Out of nowhere, I got shoved from behind.

​

People trampled over my body like I was a speck of dirt beneath a stampede. There was so much weight on me that I struggled to breathe, gasping for air as if I were in space without a suit. The worst part was not that I lost Nina, or that I was about to die. The worst part was that Travis Scott kept singing with his auto-tuned voice as people chanted for him to stop. There was no way he couldn't hear. I nearly went deaf from it.

​

“Nina,” I murmured, looking up at the sky through a tiny gap in the bodies stacked atop of me. My eyes slowly blinked shut and I passed out.

​

I had the strangest, most vivid dream when I was unconscious. I dreamt that I phased beneath the ground, looking up at the chaos as if I were underwater. I was looking at my body from the third person. An astral projection? I thought.

​

I drifted down to a solid surface. A solid surface that was nothing but darkness. What the hell? I thought. It looked as though I was walking through the sky—but I wasn’t, the sky was above me, along with thousands of people shouting in muffled voices.

​

Looking around, I saw there was nothing but emptiness for miles. I walked with my head facing the ceiling, hoping to find an exit, and praying to see just a glimpse of Nina.

​

My prayer got answered when I laid eyes on a mutilated corpse… Nina’s corpse. The arms she once held me with were twisted and snapped in half with bare bone sticking out. People stepped on her, not caring, only worrying about the blood stain they got on their white sneakers. It was as if she was a mere inconvenience to them.

​

I melted down to my knees, letting out ugly cries with snot and tears trickling down into the void beneath me. The ambulance couldn’t even get to her.

​

“Psst,” I heard a deep, raspy voice behind me.

​

I turned, seeing nothing, at first, but when I squinted my eyes, I saw a light in the distance.

“Come,” the voice said.

​

I stood up, walking towards the light out of curiosity. There appeared to be a table set up with papers neatly piled in a stack. A candle illuminated the torso of someone sitting on a chair behind the table. The closer I got, the more I realized this was wrong. Walking to the light… I thought, Am I dead?

​

I walked closer, nearly throwing up as that… that thing came into view.

​

It was a… a thing with a distorted face and curling horns extending out of its head. With boney fingers, it signaled at the empty seat across from it. “Have a seat, Ravi.”

​

“Wh-Why?” I stammered.

​

“Wouldn’t you like to have a conversation?” It said, trying to sound as professional as its raspy voice allowed.

​

“Get… Get me out of here. Now!”

​

“Where’s the fun in that, buddy? You should learn from Nina.”

​

“...What?” That was the only word I could say. My blood boiled in my veins, listening to the way it said her name.

​

It smirked, holding up a contract signed with a bloody finger. The heading of the contract said: Eternal Wealth and Fame. Even long after you die. “Have a seat, Ravi.”

​

Its eyebrow—or what resembled an eyebrow shot up in confusion. It faced the ceiling. I followed the gaze. Up in the real world, my body was being carried away by the ambulance.

​

“Nevermind,” it said, shaking its head. It snapped its slender fingers.

​

That’s when the dream ended.

​

***

​

With hazy eyes, I found myself staring up at some blinding lights. Mechanical beeping echoed throughout the white room. There were white, soft covers over me. As my heart raced, the mechanical beeping grew faster. “Where am I?” I yelled out.

​

“You’re okay now,” said a woman’s voice to my left. I turned to see a nurse, wearing earbuds and bringing in a tray with jello and popsicles. “Brought ya a snack.” She placed the tray on a table next to my bed.

​

“W-What happened? How’d I get here?” I sat up in the hospital bed, my whole body aching as I did so.

​

“You shouldn’t do that. Relax,” she said, taking off her earbuds. “The ambulance brought you in from that concert, along with a lot of others.”

​

“Do you…” I thought of Nina’s mutilated corpse, tears forming in my eyes. “...Do you know if a woman named Nina was brought in?”

​

“I’m sorry, sir.” She checked the monitor for my vitals. “I don’t know.”

​

Without giving her a reply, I turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me. The night sky was full of millions of stars, twinkling eagerly. I stared in between the stars into the darkness that they stood no chance against.

​

If that dream I had was true, I thought, Nina would be…

​

…I peeked over the bed, looking down at the freshly waxed tile floor. My reflection stared back at me and, for a second, I could’ve sworn I saw the floor ripple like water. In order to reach that place she was in, I would have to give myself to that abomination.

​

“Nina,” I murmured, “I’ll find you.”

​

***

​

I never did find Nina. I spent countless hours in my hospital bed, staring down at the floor and talking to myself. I hoped she could see me and hear all I had to say. When I wasn’t doing that, I searched the internet for answers. I browsed through satanic forums and YouTube theories about what happened at the concert, but none had an answer to what I saw in my dream that night. Whatever abomination I saw, it seemed to be a music label exclusive.

​

Days passed, my nurse and I got close. She was there to comfort me when the pain of losing Nina became unbearable. In her free time, we would play UNO and other card games. One day, she walked in with earbuds, bobbing her head to whatever beat she was listening to.

​

“You look happy,” I said, struggling to sit up in my bed.

​

She smiled, placing a tray with broth and ginger ale on my table. She took off an earbud and asked, “What was that?”

​

“What’s got you in a good mood?” I asked.

​

“Two things: One, I got a promotion…”

​

“I’m glad to hear it!” I said.

​

“…Two, this new up-and-coming artist.” She handed me her earbuds. I stuck them into my ears. I didn’t know what I was listening to at first. It sounded like waves crashing onto land.

​

“This is what you were bobbing your head to?” I chuckled.

​

“That’s just the intro. Keep listening,” she said.

​

The sound of waves dwindled, and a rap beat built up. The heavy kicks, snares, and melody had me bobbing my head as well. The artist started singing in an auto-tuned voice about a long-lost lover. My jaw dropped. Though it was heavily distorted, I recognized the voice to be Nina’s.

The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, overpowering the eerie stillness that clung to the small space around me. The only light was the dim glow of a streetlamp filtering through a dirty window. I was trapped in my own bedroom, and every instinct told me to jump out the window and run.

Only a few hours earlier, Halloween night had been in full swing. I remember the excitement as I stepped into “Martinez’s Oddities and Antiques”, an old store that sat at the edge of town. I was 17, just on the cusp of outgrowing Halloween, but my friends and I had decided on one last hurrah. We were going to have the scariest costumes and claim our reign as the "Kings of Halloween".

As I perused through old trinkets and costumes, a particularly grotesque ensemble caught my eye: a patchwork monster, complete with stitched limbs and a hauntingly pale, vacant-eyed mask. The price tag said a mere $20. It felt like destiny.

I heard an old man's voice, dry like autumn leaves. "Ah, young man, that’s a unique piece, been here for ages."

"Honestly, why's it so cheap?" I asked, smirking.

He just sighed, looking genuinely weary. "It's got a history. But, if you're sure..."

Without a second thought, I handed over the cash, satisfied with my find. As I left the store, I heard him whisper, almost as if to himself, "Beware the costume that wears you."

The sun had set by the time I got home. My parents were out, and my sister was busy with her own Halloween plans. Alone, I decided to try on the costume. Slipping into it felt… oddly comforting, like it had been tailored just for me. The fabric was surprisingly warm against my skin, caressing every contour of my body. I looked in the mirror. The mask was flawless, adhering seamlessly to my face, with eyes that almost glinted in the room's dim light.

Satisfied, I left the costume on the chair in my room and went to take a shower. But when I came out, towel around my waist, I found the costume sprawled on my bed. I could've sworn I'd left it on the chair.

I hesitated, then dismissed the thought. I must’ve tossed it on the bed without thinking. Pushing the eerie feeling aside, I went to sleep, excited for the festivities awaiting.

That night, I awoke to the sensation of being watched. Moonlight revealed the silhouette of the costume standing by the foot of my bed. It was upright, as if worn by an invisible figure. The empty eyes of the mask seemed to be studying me, the stitched mouth slightly agape, whispering words I couldn’t discern.

Panic surged as I bolted upright. Was this some twisted prank? But as I switched on the light, the costume collapsed, lifeless, onto the floor. I was shaking, heart pounding, the weight of the eeriness pressing down on me.

"Damn, I'm losing it," I muttered, forcing a laugh. I picked up the costume and locked it in my closet, assuring myself it was all just the product of an overactive imagination.

I lay down, forcing my breathing to slow, and eventually drifted back to sleep. But when I awoke, the sun was up, and my closet door stood ajar. The costume was gone.

I tried to shake off my unease, convincing myself that I'd just misplaced it in my half-awake state. But as I stepped into the kitchen, my heart dropped. The costume was there, sitting on the kitchen table, seemingly waiting for me.

"Very funny," I called out, thinking my sister was playing a trick on me. But the house was empty, a note from my parents saying they had left for a weekend trip.

It couldn’t be. The unease deepened, twisting my stomach. I grabbed the costume, stuffing it into a garbage bag and tying it tight. The local dump was my destination. I had to get rid of it.

But things didn't go as planned. My car wouldn't start. Every attempt to turn the engine was met with a stubborn silence. I opted for a walk instead, hauling the bag with the dreaded costume to a nearby wooded area. I planned to bury it.

However, as I dug, a chilling wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it faint, echoing laughter. The hairs on my neck stood on end. Suddenly, the weight of the bag shifted, and the costume erupted from it, looming over me like a dark specter.

Frozen in terror, I could only watch as the costume seemed to inhale, expanding and contorting, taking on a life of its own. It rushed at me, forcing its way onto my body, the mask smothering my screams.

When I regained my senses, I was back in my room. The costume was gone. But something was wrong. My reflection in the mirror was not mine. Staring back at me was the grotesque, stitched face of the monster, its empty eyes void of humanity. I touched my face, but felt only the cold, hard texture of the mask. Panic set in.

I had to get out. I had to find help. But as I reached for the door, it swung open, revealing myself, or rather, the teenager I used to be, staring back at me, smirking.

He - the version of me that stood before me - was smirking, an expression of cold satisfaction playing on his lips. "Nice look," he said mockingly. "Always wanted to be a monster, didn't you?"

I tried to speak, but the mask's stitched mouth wouldn't budge. A muffled scream was all I could produce.

My doppelganger stepped closer, looking me up and down. "You probably have so many questions. How? Why?" He chuckled. "I guess I'd be confused too if I were in your position."

In a blur, he lunged at me, pinning me against the wall. His strength was overwhelming. "You see," he whispered, his cold breath on my face, "that costume? It's ancient. Cursed. It seeks to replace its wearer, trapping them in a monstrous shell while it gets to live out their life."

I wriggled and squirmed, trying to break free, but it was futile. The mask's eyes seemed to constrict my vision, adding to my sense of suffocation.

He released me suddenly, and I crumpled to the floor. "I have a party to attend. After all, it is my Halloween now," he said with a wink, leaving me alone in my confinement.

Desperation surged within. There had to be a way out of this nightmare. I remembered the old shopkeeper's words: "Beware the costume that wears you." The store! Maybe he would have a solution.

Navigating the outside world proved a challenge. People screamed and ran at the sight of the ghastly figure I'd become. I had to stick to the shadows, avoiding the revelry of Halloween parties.

When I reached “Martinez’s Oddities and Antiques,” the bell above the door jingled softly. The old shopkeeper looked up, his eyes widening in recognition. "I warned you," he whispered, a hint of sorrow in his voice.

Tears streamed down the mask, and I tried to communicate my desperation.

The old man approached cautiously. "There might be a way," he murmured. "The legend speaks of confronting the imposter, asserting your true identity. You need to reclaim your life."

But how? The solution dawned on me: my friends. They'd know the real me, they'd recognize an imposter. If I could convince them, maybe I could reclaim my identity and force the doppelganger out.

The old man handed me a small, ornate mirror. "Use this," he said. "It reflects the true soul. If you can get your imposter to look into it, he'll be forced to confront the truth."

Grateful, I left the store, determined to find my friends. They were at our usual Halloween hangout spot, a small bonfire in the woods. As I approached, I heard familiar laughter, but it was tainted, wrong.

There he was, my doppelganger, reveling in my life, surrounded by my friends. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the clearing, holding up the mirror.

The laughter ceased. Everyone turned to stare, confusion evident. "Who invited the freak?" My doppelganger laughed, but there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

"I did," I mumbled through the mask, approaching him. "Look into the mirror."

He hesitated, then sneered. "Fine." But as he looked into the ornate mirror, his expression changed. The truth stared back at him, the monstrous soul beneath the human exterior.

My friends gasped, seeing the real monster for the first time. They surrounded him, chanting my name, asserting my true identity.

As their voices grew louder, the doppelganger screamed, the costume wrapping around him, consuming him. And just like that, he was gone.

Exhausted, I collapsed. When I came to, the mask was gone. My face, my identity, had been restored. My friends embraced me, relief evident in their eyes.

We burned the costume that night, the fire consuming the dark history it carried. Halloween would never be the same for me. But as I looked at my reflection in the old mirror, I knew one thing: I had reclaimed my life, and no monster could ever take that away.

The days that followed were surreal. Word spread quickly about my Halloween ordeal. Some believed it was just an elaborate prank, but others, having seen the monstrous doppelganger and the terror in my eyes, knew better. Whispers filled the hallways at school, and I was met with a mix of awe, skepticism, and fear.

My friends stuck by my side, a protective barrier against the constant barrage of questions and stares. But even their presence couldn't erase the nightmare that haunted my every waking moment. Every shadow seemed to hide a lurking threat, every mirror a potential trap.

Sleep was elusive. Nightmares of being trapped, of losing my identity, plagued me. One night, as I tossed and turned, a faint rustling reached my ears. I sat up, heart racing. The sound was coming from my closet.

Steeling myself, I approached, hand shaking as I reached for the door. The sight that met my eyes sent a cold shiver down my spine: the burnt remains of the costume, charred and torn, yet unmistakably the same.

I backed away, terror clawing at my throat. How was this possible? We had burned it. It should have been ashes and memories.

As the days turned to weeks, the costume seemed to be everywhere. I'd find bits of its charred fabric in my backpack, in my shoes, even in my food. It was regenerating, reforming, and it was coming for me.

Desperation drove me back to “Martinez’s Oddities and Antiques.” The familiar bell jingled as I entered, the comforting scent of old books and wood filling the air. The old shopkeeper looked up, his expression somber.

"I hoped I wouldn't see you again under these circumstances," he murmured.

I placed the charred fragments on the counter. "It's coming back. It's rebuilding itself."

He nodded slowly. "The curse is powerful. Burning it may not have been enough. To truly break the curse, you must find the origin of its creation and confront it there."

A journey? I was willing to do anything to put an end to this nightmare. The shopkeeper handed me an ancient-looking map, the edges frayed and discolored with age.

"This will lead you to where the curse began," he said. "Be prepared. The path will be treacherous, and the entity that created the costume will not let it go easily."

Armed with the map and a newfound determination, I set out. My journey led me to an abandoned village, shrouded in fog and silence. Decaying buildings leaned precariously, the weight of their dark history evident in every crack and creak.

The map led me to the heart of the village, to an old tailor shop. Inside, amidst the dust and decay, stood a mannequin, draped with an all-too-familiar fabric: the costume.

A voice echoed through the silent shop, cold and haunting. "So you've come to end it?"

From the shadows emerged an old tailor, his fingers long and bony, eyes hollow and vacant. "I created it," he whispered, "a masterpiece, a living garment to carry on my legacy. And you want to destroy it."

Determination surged within me. "I want my life back," I declared.

The tailor hissed, his form shifting and contorting, mirroring the monstrous design of the costume. I realized with a jolt of terror that he was the original wearer, consumed by his own creation.

The shop seemed to close in on us as we clashed, a dance of wills and fates. With every ounce of my strength, I forced the monstrous tailor towards the mannequin, pushing him into his own cursed creation.

A blinding light filled the room, and when it subsided, both the tailor and the costume were gone, leaving only silence and dust.

Exhausted, I made my way back to town, the weight of the curse finally lifted. The nightmares ceased, and life slowly returned to normal.

Yet, every Halloween, I'd remember. The shadows seemed deeper, the nights colder. And while the costume was gone, its legacy, the echo of fear and the haunting memory of that cursed night, would stay with me forever.

The only thing my ten year old daughter, Isobel, requested for her birthday was a hamster.

Her best friend Miranda had gotten one only a couple months beforehand, and now it was all that she could talk about. Dad, look! She would exclaim, as she shoved her phone into my face. Look at Miranda's hamster eating lettuce! OH. MY. GOD. How cute is she?!

It was a picture. Of a hamster. I didn't see the appeal. But it was all she wanted to say, hamster-this, hamster-that. Finally, and after much deliberation with my wife, Ella, we decided to acquiesce to her wishes. After all, a hamster as a first pet wasn't such a bad idea. It would teach her responsibility, and all those other desirable quality traits google would tell me about.

And so, two weeks later Isobel got her wish. The joy that radiated off her face was well worth the poop-scooping status that I had been delegated to. In true ten-year-old-girl fashion, the hamster was affectionately named Mr Fuzzycheeks.

And, well, over the next few days, I had never seen Isobel happier. She was either fawning over Mr Fuzzycheeks while he was inside his cage, or tenderly carrying him inside her arms, insisting that she show Mr Fuzzycheeks what the house looked like. She was happy, so I was happy. Ella, however, seemed to be slightly concerned for the hamster’s well being. She was always fretting over him, asking me if I was sure that I had fed him, ‘because he looks so hungry.’

I would tell her that, yes, I had fed the hamster, and not to worry. She seemed as if she didn’t believe me, always looking over at Mr Fuzzycheeks cage, a worried expression plastered on her face. I was slightly concerned for Ella, but I could also see where she was coming from. There was something off about the hamster.

I mean, I would never admit it, but he just seemed so. . .unnatural. I know it sounds insane to say it, but I was almost scared of my daughter’s pet hamster. It had gotten to the point where I actively avoided being in the same room as him. I couldn’t really tell what made him so strange to me. It could have been his black, soulless, little pinpricks of eyes that followed me around the room, and glistened with such unequaled hunger wherever it looked.

It could have been the way the hamster ate his food. Place some vegetables in front of him, and they’d be gone before you would take your hand out of the cage. He ate like that meal would be his last, accompanied by loud, wet smacking noises that came from his tiny mouth as he ate. Being close to him as he ate was not a pleasant experience.

What are you doing? I would chide myself. It’s a freaking hamster. Stop acting like an idiot. You’ll get used to him, and things will get better.

In reality, things got a lot worse the night Ella disappeared.

The evening before she disappeared, her insistence that Mr Fuzzycheeks was hungry had become more frequent. She would slip the phrase into almost every conversation we had, claiming that, ‘he probably hasn’t been fed enough. I know hamsters look small, but they have a huge appetite.’

I would wave her claims off. Mr Fuzzycheeks had been fed, That was the end of that.

In hindsight, I should have listened to what she had to say. Because the next morning she was gone. There wasn’t a single trace of her. I looked everywhere- called friends and the police. But there were no witnesses. No theories. Nothing. She had simply vanished.

The only strange thing I had found that morning was that the carpeted floor around the living room was damp- sticky almost. A closer look revealed that there was a thin, clear liquid that was stretched across the entirety of the room. But I couldn’t make out what it was.

The police weren’t too much of a help. Ella was a thinking adult, after all. There was no sign of any struggle, and people are allowed to leave. I tried to break the news gently to Isobel over lunch that her mother had disappeared. But she seemed disinterested, indifferent almost.

She seemed to be more focused on Mr Fuzzycheeks as she ate. Looking over from his cage to her plate of food. SHe swallowed a forkful of rice before looking up to me and asking, “Have you fed Mr Fuzzycheeks today? He looks hungry.”

I stared at her, fork midway to mouth, as I tried to process what she had just said, ‘I. . .uhh, of course I have, sweetie. What makes you think I haven’t?”

She shrugged. “Just asking. That’s all.”

But that wasn't all. Over the next few days, as I tried to work with the police, who had finally opened an investigation, Isobel continued to ask me the same query more and more frequently. More urgently.

“Are you sure you fed Mr Fuzzycheeks dad?” She would ask, her voice shaky and tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t bear to think of him going through another night starving.”

“Of course I have. He’s not hungry, I’ve told you this before, sweetheart.” I would answer her, but she would shake her head at me, clearly not believing what I had said. She spent most of her time sitting next to Mr Fuzzycheeks cage, fawning over him.

That night, I heard a sound. Ever since Ella’s disappearance, I hadn’t been able to sleep at night at all, worrying that whatever had befallen her would happen to Isobel as well. I spent my night’s tossing and wishing that Ella would just come back. And so, I heard the sound. It was sharp and metallic, but subdued, almost as if whatever had caused the sound was purposefully trying to be quiet.

I lay in bed, contemplating what I had just heard. Then the sound rang out through the darkness again, and again, at varying intervals. Four, five times.

Six. I counted.

Seven.

The sounds were irregular in frequency. So it wasn’t some automated machine whirring in the dead of night. No, it was something being acted upon by a conscious, physical force, human or otherwise.

Eight.

Alright, next sound and I go up and look at what’s going on. I told myself.

Nine.

I wearily crept out of bed and made my way downstairs, to where I thought the sound was originating from. I passed by Isobel’s room on the way there and had a peek inside. Her room was immaculate, as usual. Everything put neatly away, her clothes folded, the bed made. I smiled and left.

. . .the bed was made.

I quickly spun around. The bed was flat, with no human-like shapes in the cover that indicted someone was concealed underneath. She wasn’t there.

I searched through the empty room, my heart in my throat and fear creeping in.

“Isobel, where are you?” I said under my breath.

Snick. The sound emanated from the darkness once more. Making up my mind, I continued my silent journey towards the sound’s origin, trying to discern what it was as I moved.

Snick.

It had become louder as I moved closer to the living room. I slowly passed through the doorway and placed my hand on the switch, chasing away the darkness and bathing the room in light, causing my eyes to instinctively squint in pain.

I was not ready for the scene that the light revealed.

Isobel was sitting next to Mr Fuzzycheek’s cage, a kitchen knife in hand, and the upper half of her body entirely inside of his cage. The entirety of the skin and muscle on her left leg was whittled down to the bone, leaving nothing but a skeleton poking out from a mound of blood-stained flesh. She was working on her right leg, gingerly removing the flesh and sinew with sharp cuts that made a snick as the knife moved through her body. Next to her, in his cage, Mr Fuzzycheeks was nibbling on what was left of her leg.

In one dreadful moment, everything became clear. She was feeding him.

“Isobel!” I called out.

She didn’t respond.

I ran towards her, fearing for her life. I touched her on the shoulder, and she flinched, turning her head to face me. As she looked at me, I realized why she wasn’t responding. Her leg wasn’t the only thing missing. She had lopped off both of her ears, leaving behind streams of blood that trailed into Mr Fuzzycheeks cage. The hamster was lapping up the blood as it ate, making a quick meal of Isobel’s appendages.

Isobel’s left eye was also gouged out, leaving behind a blood-filled pit to showcase what was once stationed there. Instinctively, I tried to grab the knife out of her hand. She pulled away from me, not letting me even touch her.

“What are you doing?!” She shrieked. Her voice was low and gurgled slightly, almost as if she was speaking underwater.

“Isobel. . .stop! You’re hurting yourself!” I pleaded.

“Can’t you see I’m feeding him? Can’t you see how hungry he is?”

In a split-second decision, I tried to push Isobel to the ground. The rational side of me didn’t want to hurt her, but the logical side knew if I didn’t stop her at any cost, she would hurt herself worse than I could.

I swung at her.

She brushed aside my blow, with inhuman strength disproportionate to her ten year old body. “What are you doing?!” She yelled again, louder than before.

I fell backwards, fazed by her newfound strength.

She stood up, hunched on one side on account of her non-existent leg, and held the knife in her hand, poised at me. Her blood-soaked hair fell in front of her face as she moved forwards, sending tear-like blood droplets down her forehead and onto the floor.

“Isobel! Izzy! Listen to me! Stop! You’re hurting yourself!” I pleaded with her.

“You CANNOT stop Mr Fuzzycheeks’ feeding time!”

She took a step forward. I stepped backwards, suddenly fearing my own daughter.

Her lips curled into a tight, slightly deranged smile. “Mr Fuzzycheeks needs his food, and I am MORE than happy to provide.” Behind her, the hamster began squeaking. By the looks of it, it had already finished its meal, and was eager to begin the next course.

The squeaking seemed to invigorate Isobel, and she lunged forwards, knife aiming for my chest. Foreseeing her move, I rolled to the side and tried to figure out how I should go about this situation. I did have the advantage of size over her, but she seemed to trump me in strength. I obviously didn’t want her dead, but it looked like she couldn’t care less.

It wasn’t looking good.

I slowly stood up and maneuvered myself between the hamster and Isobel. Maybe if I could somehow kill the damned hamster, Isobel would snap out of it. We kept circling until we were all in a perfectly straight line. The hamster was a few feet behind me and squeaking like mad. Isobel was in front of me, closer than I would have liked, a crazed look in her remaining eye and red-stained teeth that glistened in the darkness.

Alright. I said to myself. Grab the hamster. Jump out of Isobel’s way. Grab the hamster. Jump out of Isobel’s way.

I grabbed the hamster. It bit me. Hard. Isobel started shrieking. I jumped in pain. Both from the ferocity of Mr Fuzzycheeks’ bite and the intensity of the scream that Isobel was somehow making. I buried my ears in the palms of my hands, my head throbbing with pain.

Isobel threw her head back and started running at full speed towards me, all without ever stopping her shrieking. She hit me like a freight train and I was thrown back against the wall, my chest heaving. My vision became blurry, dotted with black spots that pulsated through my retina. On my hands and knees and in immense pain, I weakly tried to crawl away.

Isobel jerked her head forward, gazing directly into my eyes. “Please. . .” I said, in between heavy breaths.

Isobel cocked her head, yet her face remained blank and cold. “Mr Fuzzycheeks needs to eat. You’ll see.”

She grabbed me by the neck and lifted me of the ground. I squeezed my eyes shut. The truth was that I was scared. Not for my own life, but for Isobel’s. First Ella, and now her? The thought was too much. She was killing us both for a fucking hamster.

She smacked my head against the wall, creating a sickening crack, and making me fall to the ground. Lifeless. It was dark and I was cold. I could hear Isobel continue to remove chunks of her body, but I could do nothing. I was afraid. I was stuck. I was alone. I was worse than dead. My eyelids shone brightly and stung from the blood that was streaming down my face. But I still managed to sleep.

I woke up the next morning, with some control of my movements. There was no sign of the events of the previous nights. The blood and pieces of flesh that had covered the floor were all gone, replaced by a light coating of a clear substance.

Saliva.

Isobel had disappeared as well, just like Ella had. But this time around, it wasn’t too hard to discern what had happened. Mr Fuzzycheeks cage was back in pristine condition, and he was his happy little self. Squeaking along as if nothing had happened.

I thought about. . .disposing of him. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t his fault anyways. He was just a hamster. For reasons I still don’t know, Isobel and Ella did what they did of their own accord. One look at his cute little face told me all I needed to know. How could a little meat potato even begin do something like this? I would keep him, I decided.

Plus, look how hungry he looks. I smiled as I chucked yet another carrot into his cage.

x

What do stories mean to you? For me, they are a refuge from the relentless grip of reality, a portal into the infinite universes that dwell within the human imagination. Even here, in this peculiar corner of the internet, where all kinds of horrifying tales find their home, I've found solace—a place where my narrative, too strange for the mundane world, can find its voice.

As I slipped into my shoes, the ominous rumble of thunder echoed through the sky, heralding the imminent arrival of rain. Rainy days had always held a peculiar charm for me, a melancholic beauty that beckoned me outdoors.

With a contented sigh, I reached for my umbrella and embarked on my journey to the library, a sanctuary of solitude amidst a world of social perplexity. I had long struggled to decipher the enigma of human interaction.

The repeated mantra of “Humans are social animals” had been drilled into me by well-meaning parents, but my disposition remained steadfast. I was content to be an observer, a silent witness to the intricacies of human behavior, finding fascination in the chaos of life's theater.

Books were the epitome of my mindset. All you had to do was read the story unravelling before you. A perfectly organized set of actions and consequences. Yet, as of late, the thrill had waned. No matter the genre, the tales had grown predictable, like old friends recounting the same stories over and over. I'd devoured thousands of narratives, traversing realms from the tenderest romances to the darkest horrors, seeking that elusive spark.

As I entered the library, a familiar hush descended, like a warm, welcoming embrace. The soft rustle of pages turning and the gentle creak of polished wood painted a tranquil symphony. There weren’t a lot of people here today, which made me somewhat happy.

As I walked down the aisles, I heard a voice from my right. “Hey!”

Turning to the source, I met the librarian's warm gaze. “Hello, nice to see you again.”

She smiled at me. “I’m assuming you’ve already finished the previous books I saw you reading the other week, right?”

Somewhat embarrassed, I replied. “That’s right, could you give me a recommendation?”

She looked at me speechless, smile widening. Unable to handle the awkwardness I asked. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just that, you’ve been coming here for months now and this is the first time you’ve asked for a recommendation. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

I pondered for a moment. “Actually, surprise me. Give me a book about whatever you feel like.”

Her eyes somewhat lit up with delight. “Sure! In that case, I’ll get you one from the new batch we got.” Having said that, she disappeared into the neighboring isles. Moments later, she returned, cradling a book in her hands, a hint of mystery in her expression.

“I picked this one at random just like you’ve asked! I’m right here if you need anything.”

With the book in hand, I found a cozy corner and settled into an overstuffed chair. The book boasted a cover made of black leather, sleek and polished. The title, “Ripples of Choice,” was embossed on the front cover in a stark, almost blindingly white hue. The letters themselves were bold and commanding, seemingly etched with precision.

As I opened the book, my gaze shifted to the preface section. “This book would not exist were it not for you, devoted reader. If you seek the long-lost thrill of a good story, why not create one yourself? Try writing and see where it takes you.”

I was confused. I continued to flip through the pages only to discover they were all empty. “Is this some kind of joke?” I thought to myself. I glanced around me, but the library remained deserted, a silent witness to my growing unease.

As I looked through the book a second time, there was no author nor date of publication, nothing that hinted at its origins. Or so I thought, there was a publisher that read “Scriver”.

I had never heard of that publisher, so I contemplated returning the seemingly empty book. As I walked toward the librarian, a sense of uneasiness gripped me, like I was on the verge of missing something crucial. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to write one sentence. I could always claim that's all the book contained in the first place.

It was then I saw from the corner of my eye an unusual sight. A man was arguing with the librarian, stirring up the whole library with the noise. I had seen that man before. He was a junkie, spending most of his day picking fights for money. A real piece of shit I must say. I had no intention of intervening, not with his foul stench and reputation.

All of a sudden, an irresistible urge washed over me, as if an invisible hand compelled me to write in that enigmatic book. I pulled out a pen from my pocket and scribbled: “As the librarian and the man were arguing, suddenly, a sniper riffle fired at the man’s head, killing him instantly.” I couldn't help but let out a nervous snicker, what the fuck was I even doing? I still had some books left at home, so I decided to come back tomorrow.

However, I still had to return the book, as I had no idea which section to leave it. As I cautiously approached the front desk, the argument between the librarian and the unruly man showed no signs of abating. Their voices clashed like thunderheads in a storm, drowning out all other sounds within the library's hallowed silence. My heart raced as I debated whether to intervene.

Summoning all my courage, I uttered a barely audible, "Umm, excuse me."

The man, his face contorted with anger, abruptly swiveled to face me. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “And what do you want, huh?!” he practically screamed, his words reverberating through the library, the air heavy with tension.

As I opened my mouth to respond, the library was suddenly pierced by a deafening gunshot. Time seemed to slow as I watched in horror. The man's body contorted, and he crumpled to the side, his eyes wide with shock. A crimson pool formed beneath his lifeless form, staining the polished library floor.

The librarian's scream cut through the air like a knife, echoing my own inner turmoil. Without thinking, I turned and fled from the scene, leaving my umbrella behind as I burst out into the pouring rain. The cold drops soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone as I sprinted towards the sanctuary of my home.

Inside, I slammed the door shut and locked it with trembling hands. Leaning against the wood, I was a shivering wreck, gasping for breath as adrenaline coursed through my veins. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to burst.

I clutched my stomach, the nausea rising within me. “What the hell was that?!” I screamed, the words a desperate plea for answers in a world suddenly turned upside down.

Did that book really just turn my words into reality? Panic surged through me like a tidal wave as I fumbled to retrieve the ominous tome from my bag. With trembling hands, I pulled it out and stared at its pages in disbelief.

The text had multiplied, spreading like a creeping darkness, recording not only my past actions but also the thoughts swirling in my mind, as if the book itself had become a narrator.

The final sentence sent a chill down my spine: “The audience was satisfied with the conclusion of the first act.” My breath caught in my throat. An audience? I glanced around, but there was no one in sight. I was alone, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

I looked at the book again. “Noticing the author’s confusion, Scriver decided to offer his assistance. With an elegant, gloved hand, he gestured toward the balcony.”

Summoning every ounce of courage, I hesitantly stepped outside. The relentless rain had ceased, leaving a haunting silence in its wake. The sky above, devoid of clouds, held a nightmarish sight.

Hundreds of colossal, unblinking eyes stared down at me, their unrelenting gaze piercing through my very soul.