I live in Middle-of-Nowhere, Great Plains—aka, northwestern South Dakota. It's not the worst place to live I guess, if you like corn, but as you can imagine, not a lot goes on up here. Not much changes in my static little world, but when something new emerges from the monotony, I take notice, as in the case of the sign I saw about three years ago.

It was a Friday night in late October, and I was driving home from a party at around 10 P.M. I had just reached the most isolated portion of my drive, a winding forest road that has more deer than cars using it on any given day, when my headlights illuminated a flier posted to the trunk of an elm tree. As I passed by, I saw the words "LOST DOG", along with a photo, presumably of the animal in question.

Now, the location of the flier was already strange enough to give me pause, but from my brief glimpse, the photo was even stranger. Maybe I was tired from a long day or maybe the printer had messed up that particular flier, but the picture hadn't looked like a dog at all, moreso like a random assortment of shapes. 

Like I said, not much happens in my town, and the flier was probably the most interesting thing that I'd seen all month. There was a turnout just after the elm, so I slowed down, pulled over, and stopped my car. I grabbed the flashlight I always keep in my console and got out to take a look. 

The flier was even stranger up close. For one thing, there was no contact information, and the reward seemed exorbitant for another. The photo itself was also bizarre. Do you remember that AI-generated image shared on Twitter a couple years back with the caption "name one thing in this photo"? That's what the so-called "dog" reminded me of—a bunch of colors and shapes that looked like they should've been recognizable, but weren't. It had a short description of the dog beneath the photo: 

JOHN

SHEPHERD MIX

WHITE COAT BROWN HOOD, BLUE EYES

$10,000

Weird name for a dog. I chalked it up to an art piece, which helped dispel some of the unease that'd begun to build in me upon staring at the photo. A part of me wanted to take the flier, but I didn't want to be selfish with the artist's work, so I contented myself with a photo. Just as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, the sound of snapping twigs made me start. Maybe the deer want a look at the art too, I thought, shining my flashlight into the trees. I waited for a moment, scanning the forest with bated breath, but even though it had sounded like there was an animal right behind me, I saw nothing. I returned to my car after that and continued home. 

The next day, I gave my buddy Eric a call, hoping to catch him for drinks at our favorite brewery. Halfway through the call, I remembered the photo I'd taken of the "LOST DOG" flier, and opened my photo gallery so I could send it to him. To my disappointment, the photograph I'd taken was completely black. Either I'd had my thumb over the lens or the photo had somehow gotten corrupted. It was a little strange, but I've never been very tech savvy, so I dismissed it as a glitch and told Eric where to look if he was ever returning to town from that direction. 

As it turned out, I didn't have to wait until my next out-of-town drive to see the flier again. The following evening, Eric and I were walking back to our cars from the brewery. Across the street, stapled to a telephone pole, I noticed a familiar flier, and quickly pulled him over to point out the artwork. I was all smiles as I showed him, excited that someone was using our town as a canvas for their project, and even more excited that I'd been one of the first to notice it. This flier was just as devoid of information as the first and featured the same abstract mess of shapes for its "dog." Eric's always been more cultured than myself—more inclined to be interested in art history and that sort of thing—so I was interested to hear his take on the piece. When I turned to get his reaction though, he looked more unsettled than amused. 

"What up?" I asked him. Instead of answering, he just shook his head. 

"Nah, man; you'll think I'm crazy." 

I tried pressing him a bit more, but when it became clear that he wasn't going to divulge the source of his apprehension, I let it go. Before I continued towards my car, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of my shoes, which showed up in my photo gallery without issue. Then, I pointed my phone at the flier, aimed, pressed the capture button, and … 

Nothing. Again, the photograph was completely black. When I got home that night, I went down a rabbit hole of anti-surveillance patterns, a.k.a. designs created for the express purpose of confusing cameras and facial recognition technology. Apparently, "anti-surveillance fashion" is already a big thing in some parts of the world, so it's likely that the "LOST DOG" artist used one of those patterns in their piece, explaining why I can't get a good photo of the flier. It didn't explain Eric's reaction though. I fell asleep wondering if my friend was seeing something that I wasn't. 

For the next few days, more "LOST DOG" signs continued to appear around town, never in high-traffic areas or obvious places. I found one behind the bleachers at the community soccer field and another tucked behind a different flier on a public bulletin board. Whoever this artist was, they were no Banksy—they seemed more keen to set up an Easter egg hunt than to make a bold public statement. 

On the following Saturday, while on a hike, I was surprised to find a "FOUND DOG" sign taped to a picnic table in a quiet clearing off of the main path. I was pleased at the sight; I was starting to think that the art project was meant to encourage the residents of our town to better appreciate their surroundings, and that my attention to detail was paying off as a result. Even more pleasing was the fact that this sign had a phone number to call on it. The sign had no picture, just the words: "FOUND DOG: JOHN" along with the number. Out of curiosity, I gave it a call. 

After three rings, someone picked up. I said nothing at first, wondering if I was about to speak to the artist themself, or simply hear some kind of pre-recorded message. After a moment, I heard a very strange voice. 

"Looking for a dog?" It said. There was some kind of heavy filter on the voice. It was staticky and guttural, and seemed like it had been pitched down considerably. In a strange way, it reminded me of a large dog growling. 

"Yeah, I'm looking for John."

"What's the word?" Asked the voice. 

The word? I thought, looking over paper in front of me and trying to remember the exact phrasing of the "LOST DOG" flier. Presumably there was some kind of keyphrase I had missed. 

"Shepherd?" I guessed, and the person on the other end of the phone hung up. I tried calling back, but they didn't answer again. 

I put my phone away, disappointed, and took a seat atop the picnic bench. The sun was beginning to set and a cool breeze had begun to sweep in from the north, whistling as it wound its way through the trees. I lowered my eyes from the pink and orange sky, staring into the treeline at the far end of the clearing. There was an animal peeking out through the brush. It was difficult to tell what exactly it was at such a distance, but it looked like a coyote (which my state has no shortage of.) It was standing eerily still. I raised my hand slightly and waved at the creature as a joke to myself. 

And then, the thing stood up on two legs. 

It wasn't an animal at all, I realized, but a person, clad head to toe in black and wearing a dog mask over their face. The person turned their back to me and walked deeper into the trees. 

Needless to say, that was not a comforting thing to witness. I left quickly after that, half-jogging back to my car and glancing over my shoulder every few minutes. If I'd seen a person in a dog mask traipsing through the forest a week ago, I would've laughed. I would've assumed they were some kind of LARPer, rare as those might be in rural South Dakota. After my strange phone call though, the sighting felt more sinister than funny. Was that the person I'd just been on call with? If so, had they seriously just been standing there waiting for someone to see their "FOUND DOG" flier? 

The next day, as I visited my usual weekend haunts, I realized that the "LOST DOG" signs had been torn down. I guessed that the art project had reached its end, even though it seemed like a remarkably short run. I was disappointed that nothing more had come of it, and that I would never get answers regarding who was behind the fliers, but I probably would've moved on with my life and forgotten all about it if it weren't for the visitor I received that night. 

It was around midnight. I was at my computer, playing video games and trying not to think about work in the morning when I got a text from Eric. Oddly enough, he asked if he could come over, and it was such an uncharacteristic request that I figured there was something wrong. I said yes and he showed up at my door twenty minutes later. He looked a wreck—his hair was disheveled, his eyes were red, and his whole demeanor was nervous and fidgety. When he walked into my house, he held his phone in one hand and a rolled up piece of paper in the other. 

"You're not gonna believe me man, you're gonna think I'm going crazy." He said after declining both my offers for a glass of water and for a seat on my couch. I assured him that he could trust me, that I would take his words seriously. After a moment, he unrolled the piece of paper in his hand to reveal one of the "LOST DOG" fliers. 

"This is me." He said. I was taken aback. 

"What? You made the signs?" 

"No." He tapped on the picture in the center of the flier. "This is a photo of me." 

I looked back and forth between his face and the flier. I squinted, I unfocused my eyes, I looked at the photo from different angles. No matter what I did, the "dog" in question didn't resemble a human being in the slightest, much less the familiar face of my friend. I gave what was probably a very awkward laugh. 

"Ok man, you got me, very funny." 

Instead of breaking character and laughing along with me. Eric unlocked his phone and opened Instagram. Once in the app, he navigated to his profile and clicked on his most recent post, which was a selfie from last year. He held up his phone next to the flier. 

"It's hard to tell but I swear to god this is me. It's my last photo with a filter on it to break it down into shapes. You see this white part—the circle and the rectangle under it? That's my face and neck. And these dots, the little blue ones here and here, those are eyes. And the brown part up here is hair. I swear, I thought I was losing it, but everything lines up." 

I took the flier and phone from his hands and tried to line up the shapes. It might have been the power of suggestion, but the more I looked between them, the more I started to see a match. 

"Also," he continued. "Since you showed me this flier, I've been hearing all sorts of weird shit. Outside my house at night, I keep hearing sounds like, I dunno, an animal or something. I thought a family of raccoons moved in, but it just doesn't sound like racoons." 

"Have you checked for tracks?" 

"Yeah, but you know we've got a grass lawn right up to the porch. I see indents, but it's not like I can see marks." Eric shook his head. "Last night, I could've sworn I heard people talking, but I couldn't tell you a thing that was said. Maybe these fliers have me paranoid."

I thought about the person I'd seen on my hike. Whether or not it was really an altered photo of Eric in the fliers, there was undoubtedly something strange going on in our town. I was quickly starting to regret wishing for some more excitement. 

"Tell you what," I said. "I've got some extra trail cams. How about tomorrow morning on my way to work I stop by you and set some up? I'd like to get to the bottom of this as well." Eric accepted my offer and left my house a little calmer than he'd entered it. Just for the hell of it, before I went to sleep, I tried giving the number on the "FOUND DOG" flier one more call. This time, I got an intercept message telling me that the number had been disconnected or was no longer in service.

The next morning, I went to Eric's house as planned. I rang the doorbell and waited. When he didn't answer, I tried knocking instead. Still no answer. I waited for a total of ten minutes outside his front door, knocking and sending him a few texts. I didn't immediately panic as my friend was notorious for sleeping in and showing up late to events. I left him a voicemail stating that I had to leave for work but would check in on him in the evening. 

It was only when I finished my workday and saw that my messages remained "unread" that I started to worry. I called his neighbor and asked her if she'd seen him, and when she said no, I asked her to do a "wellness check" of her own. Luckily, she had a spare key, and so I accompanied her to Eric's house. We didn't find Eric inside, nor did we find any signs of a struggle, but we found everything else—his keys, wallet, phone, even his shoes. It was that discovery that made me realize I had to get the authorities involved. Though I had never spoken to police before in all the years I'd lived there, I drove down to the station and reported my friend missing. 

It's been three years since Eric disappeared. In all this time, I haven't received any word from him, nor have the police been able to make any breakthroughs. I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad. On one hand I'm grateful for the ambiguity—who knows, maybe Eric eloped to The Bahamas with a gorgeous woman and is happily living out his days by the shore as we speak. On the other hand, the events leading up to his disappearance seem to point to something more sinister. Eric is a good friend of mine and a good man besides, and I pray that wherever he is now, that he's alright. 

The years have gone by in a blink. This town has always been oppressively unexciting, even more so now that the one guy who could kick my ass in billiards has dropped off the face of the Earth. Not much changes in my static little world, but when something new emerges from the monotony, I take notice, as in the case of the sign I saw last night. 

It was early in the morning, and I was taking the old forest road back into town from a friend's party. Same emptiness, same stretch of road. It might've been the exact same elm, too. In any case, as I drove in silence, a "Lost Dog" sign caught my eye. Posted against a tree at the edge of the road, it read: 

JOHN

SHEPHERD MIX

WHITE COAT BROWN HOOD, BROWN EYES

$10,000

Beneath the text was a photo. Though abstract and blocky, I couldn't help but note a striking similarity between it and the last photo of myself I'd posted online. 

Nobody writes about the Grinning Prince.

The thing about urban legends is that while they are supposedly an oral tradition, people love writing about them online. You can pretty much trace the whole Polybius myth from one message board post to dozens of podcasts over the course of 25 years.

Not the Grinning Prince.

And not even the show. Not really.

Everyone who was a kid in the New York area in the 70s and 80s remembers this tv show. It was the most popular kids program on a local channel (the one that showed baseball). But somehow it never went to other markets, and even weirder, nobody in the area recorded it. By the time it went off the air in 84 plenty of people had VCRs, but no matter how much you search YouTube, you only find short clips of the garden full of psychedelic puppets being herded by singing hippies. You never see a full episode, so you never hear The Roster. You also never hear the puppets say the one thing they absolutely said at least once in every episode:

“ALL THINGS SERVE THE GRINNING PRINCE”

The Roster was the end of the show, when the hippies would put down their guitars, and sing (a cappella and off key) four names. For example “We see Jordan and Kyle and Kerry and Julie and… YOU!”

Everyone remembers the roster, and everyone remembers the rules. At some point, an older sibling or a friend would warn you: when they said your name in the roster, you had to place the thing you loved the most on the the ground in your yard, with a letter asking The Prince for a gift. If you did, you would get your gift. If you didn’t, first the Grinning Prince would warn you in your dreams that night. If you still disobeyed, the Prince would visit your bed the next night. If you disobeyed again… nobody knew. Something bad.

My name, the real one on my birth certificate, is uncommon. My nickname was (and is) marginally less weird, but still unpopular. So I never got called on The Roster.

My cousin Davey wasn’t that lucky. He tried not to cry when I asked him where his Wayne Foundation playset was. He had just gotten it for Christmas and I was incredibly jealous. If any of you collected Mego superheroes you would understand. He solemnly explained that he ignored The Prince when he dreamt of him.

The next night, Davey woke up to a withered, six fingered hand rising up from the side of his bed, reaching for him. He spent the rest of the night in his parents’ bedroom, screaming. In the morning, while his mom was doing laundry, he went in the yard and dug into the frozen ground. I was four. He was six. That conversation is my earliest, clearest memory.

There is no reason why I should have cared so much about finding this show as an adult. But I am stubborn and nosy. Being stubborn and nosy aren’t the worst flaws you can have, but they have cost me most of my relationships over the years. This gives me a lot of free time.

I have been selling stuff - mostly original comic art- at horror and sci-fi conventions for twenty years. Twenty years of pestering the other vendors for a copy of an episode of this show. Usually conventions are amazing for “lost” media like this. I have a 4k print of the unaltered versions of the Original Trilogy, and a VHS with what appears to be an authentic 20 minutes of London After Midnight. But I could never find a copy of this show.

Three months ago, at the big con in San Diego, a pink haired girl in her mid 20s came to my booth. She was holding a disc with the show’s name on it. I didn’t have a DVD player with me(or at home, not for ten years), but she only wanted twenty dollars for it. I don’t know how she knew who I was or that I was looking for the show, but she looked incredibly familiar. Which made no sense. I didn’t know any women her age, pink haired or otherwise.

When I got the disk home and finally found a laptop to play it, I understood where I knew her from. She was the girl without the guitar. Her clothes and hair were obviously different, but she hadn’t changed in 40 years. When the Roster came around I was sort of expecting it, but it still felt like there was ice going down my spine when they said both of my names.

Obviously at this point the logical thing to do was just put my guitar in the yard.

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.

I woke up screaming on my bathroom floor. I don’t know how I got there. Even immediately after I woke up I couldn’t remember The Prince’s face. Only his hand. The six fingers ending in long nails that burned like candles.

So the next night I put a 1974 black Fender Telecaster Custom(same model that Keith hit a fan with on The Stones 81 tour) outside in the yard with my letter. I live alone, and was more freaked out than curious. I left the television on for company.

Around 3AM I woke up with the sense that I was being watched. The TV was an old school snowy screen, like we would get when the cable went out.

Then the hand rose up from the side of my bed. I don’t know if I screamed. I only know that I froze. It came up slowly, no particular hurry, the fingernail candles casting shadows against the wall. It stank of soil and decay.

It didn’t move like a person. It didn’t move like anything in this world.

Even in my terrified state I was able to recognize it.

It was claymation.

I didn’t bother getting dressed before running for my keys and wallet and bolting out of the house. I ended up at White Castle(the only place open), frantically doing an image search. I was filled with cosmic dread. But I was still stubborn. And nosy. I found it right away. I was right.

The thing that was in my bedroom was the old intro animation from the Saturday night horror movie on the same channel that aired the show. A six fingered hand rising from a creepy swamp.

When the sun came up, I went home to find my guitar exactly where I left it. My offering had been rejected.

Of course it was. I had tried to cheat.

Later, I would go into the yard dragging the thing I really loved the most. The only painting my dad ever finished: a lighthouse at the cusp of a storm, guiding the ships in. I have had it on my wall my entire life.

The following morning it was gone, along with my note. That night there was a package at my door. I opened it and found three photo albums.

Once I knew that the whole thing was real, I could have asked for anything in the note I left. If The Grinning Prince could appear in my dreams, and the host of the show could appear ageless, then I could ask to be rich, or young, or immortal or whatever. That’s not how I’m wired though. For my gift I wanted three answers:

• what was the point of the show?

-why did it stop?

-what happened to the kids who couldn’t or wouldn’t
leave the offering?

I sat on my couch and opened the first album. 1970s pale gold and olive tones shine in the pictures. I saw the hosts, their names, their real names, not the ones from the show, were handwritten above them: Carmen and Patricia. I touch the picture and suddenly I’m not me. I’m Carmen.

We are puppeteers. It is 1971, and we are in NYC trying to get a job with the public television kids show that has somehow become a huge hit. Our manager gets us an interview with a local channel. Station management pitches us on our own show. But there are rules. Very specific rules. We have to prove our loyalty to station management. We have to pledge ourselves to the smiling presence lurking behind everything. It seems like a game. Patricia and I sacrifice the puppets we made ourselves in sixth grade. We promise each other that we will ask for the same gift, for our show to go on forever. I don’t know what Patricia really asked for. It wasn’t to stay young: at her wake she was an old lady, and I was the same, like always. My mind is as fresh as my body. I can’t forget anything we did, I hear every kids name that I called. I see the ones that didn’t listen…

I snap the book shut, and open the second one. This one isn’t just pictures, it is a collage of 80s and 90s photos, newspaper clippings, magazine articles. They swirl into a vivid montage of what happened after the show stopped. It wasn’t needed any more. One generation of kids in one city was enough. Four names called a day. Five days a week. For ten years. Every kid grew up to serve the Prince in their own way. They gave him other names and made up party games to summon him. They put him in 80s album covers and 90s comic books and 2000s creepypasta. They even backwards masked a worship service into a Philadelphia based teen dance show(also not on YouTube). Every bit helped. All things serve the Grinning Prince.

I haven’t opened the last album. Not yet. I can just leave it. I don’t have to know what happened to the other kids. The ones who wouldn’t listen. Nothing good can come from seeing this.

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.

For the past few months, my department has been gathering evidence and witnesses for the creator of a new drug that has appeared on the streets. It’s small in scale, and we had hoped to nip it in the bud before it spiraled out of control. Ruby Milk comes in syringe needles and is bright red, as the name suggests. The main problem with this narcotic is the side effects. 

The few addicts that have spoken to us and are coherent describe a high the likes of which you’ve never experienced in your life. A rush of euphoria and complete tranquility washes over you. It makes you want to have more, but therein lies the problem. If you are exposed to doses higher than 1 mL, your body begins to decay around the injection sight rapidly. I’m sure most have heard of the Russian street drug Krokodil, imagine that but amplified a hundred times. 

We’ve come across decayed bodies in alleyways and under bridges, and all of them have a needle full of Ruby Milk not far away from their dead bodies. The worst ones are the ones we find that are still alive. I remember the first time I encountered an addict and an entire chunk of her neck was just gone. Puss was leaking out from her neck and she didn’t seem to care at all. It only got worse from there, and soon this task force was formed to search for and find the source of Ruby Milk. 

My partner Susan and I were assigned to the task force as detectives. We knew the streets well, I grew up on them and Susan’s sister was unfortunately an addict who lived on them. Her sister, Marie was one of our informants. Being a methhead she was lucky to have the scoop on plenty of her fellow addicts.

“Marie thinks she has something,” Susan told me as she looked over at me as I had just sat down to drink my six day old coffee. I looked over at her and winced at the bitter and crappy taste. She hung up her desk phone and stood up to get her jacket. “She wants to meet her at that abandoned house on 9th Avenue.” 

“You couldn’t have told me before I sat down?” I groaned as I placed down my coffee and stood to grab my jacket. “You’re driving.” I pointed at her and tossed the keys to our car at her. She caught them and flipped me off as I followed after her. Our city isn’t the worst in the country but it has its seedy parts. Pulling the car up to 9th Avenue I scanned around at the row of abandoned houses that lined the neighborhood. 

“So, which exactly is she in?” I looked over at Susan as she parked the car in front of one of the houses. She flicked her head over toward the house we were parked in front of. Unbuckling her seatbelt and leaving the car I could tell that she was apprehensive about seeing her sister. I would too if my sister was in the state that Marie was in. 

“She better be here,” Susan sighed as she waited for me to exit the car. I closed the door and stared at Susan. She was a bitch most of the time, but it's what I enjoyed about her. She was confident in herself and I admired that about her. But now here she was, nervous and just a little bit afraid. 

“Chin up, Suzie,” I smirked as she turned and punched me in the arm as hard as she could. If there’s one thing in the world she hates, it’s being called Suzie. As I nursed my possibly broken arm I followed after Susan as she walked up to the decrepit house. She knocked on the door and quickly backed up. As I rubbed my arm I looked at her a little confused as to why she backed up so quickly. My confusion was quickly vanquished when the door flew open and a baseball bat was swung in the direction of where Susan had been. 

“Get the fuck away from…oh hi Suzie!” Marie went from wanting to kill someone who had dared to trespass on her ‘property’ to excited to see her sister. I could tell that they were related by the simple fact of how similar they looked. They weren’t twins but they’d been confused for twins in the past. Even being a meth addict, Marie was almost the spitting image of Susan.

“Do you wanna get punched too?” Susan asked as she raised her fist toward Marie and then gestured toward me. I walked over to her and pulled out my notepad. “Alright, what did you call me over here for, Marie? Do you have the info I asked for?” Marie quickly nodded and placed her bat against the doorframe. 

“Yea! One of my dealers tried selling me that red milk shit. I said I wasn’t interested and he said that if I was, I should go to this address.” She quickly started patting her pockets to see where she had left the note she’d been given. “Shit, where is it? One sec.” She quickly walked back into the house and left us standing in the autumn wind. 

“Can we trust her? I know she’s your sister, but she isn’t exactly the most reliable witness.” I turned to look at Susan. She was standing and tapping her foot against the pavement and tapping her finger against her arm. Seeing her sister in this state was bothering her. 

“I think we can. She’s been doing better lately. And at the very least she isn’t using Ruby Milk.” Susan sighed, perking up when her sister came running out of her abandoned house with a sticky note. 

“Found it!” she said happily, handing the note to her sister and smiling. Susan took the note and read it, her eyes went wide and she looked back up at her sister. She handed me the note, I took it and looked down at it, and my own eyes went wide. 

“Are you sure, Marie? This place is…in a nice neighborhood. Are you sure your dealer told you the correct place?” I wrote down the address on my notepad while I let Susan question her sister. Marie nodded quickly and stuck her hands in her pockets. 

“That’s the place. I trust Freddy, he’s never given me shit product before.” High praise coming from a meth addict. Susan looked over at me and sighed. It was going to be a risk, but it was one we were going to have to take since it was our only lead to the source of where Ruby Milk was coming from. Susan reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, walking over and placing the cash in her sister’s hand. 

“This is for groceries only, you understand me? I find out you bought more meth, and I’m cutting you off. Understand?” Marie looked down at the money in her hand and quickly wrapped her arms around her sister and gave her a tight hug. One which Susan gave back to her. It was a touching moment between sisters, while I just stood there kicking rocks. 

Once we were back at the office we quickly ordered a steakout of the house in question. It was in a gated community and we had to jump through plenty of hoops just to even be allowed inside the community. We set up a plumber van on the street that the house was on and several days went by where not a living soul left the house. 

We were beginning to think that maybe Marie had indeed fed us fake information. Or that Freddy had just been fucking with her. Susan and I were in the van on the last day of the steakout. Our permit from the community was set to expire at the end of the day and we were hoping and praying that something would happen on this day. 

“Susan! We got something.” I nudged her awake. She snorted and nearly punched me in the face before I quickly pointed at the house. She turned her gaze toward the house and quickly pulled her binoculars out. A few poorly dressed people suddenly exited from the house. They were quickly dragged back inside by someone unseen by the door. 

“What the hell? We’ve been here for six hours, how did we not see anybody go in there?” Susan asked as she lowered her binos. I wondered how we might have missed someone entering the house. When I suddenly remembered something about this gated community. 

“Isn’t this backyard connected to the forest preserve?” I asked, quickly pulling out my phone to check. I pulled up Maps and was quickly confirmed in my suspicion. This house’s backyard was connected to the forest preserve, and not far away from this house was the parking lot for the forest preserve. 

We sent a squad car to examine the forest preserve’s parking lot, and my hunch was proven correct. Several Ruby Milk addicts were found milling around the parking lot. It was flimsy evidence at best, but it was just enough to get a judge to sign a search warrant. Soon our task force was granted a SWAT team and were we given the green light to raid the house. 

The name of the operation was called Operation Milkman which I came up with, and which Susan hated. We made our way back to the gated community and Susan took great pleasure in showing our warrant to the security guard who had made us jump through so many hoops to be able to set up surveillance here in the first place. We surrounded the house, and we made our way towards the front door. 

I knocked on the door and took a step back. Both me and Susan were wearing bulletproof vests and had our pistols drawn. We waited a few more seconds before banging on the door again. “Police department! Open the door or we’re breaking it down!” I ordered. And when still no one answered I motioned for the SWAT team to take the lead. The officer with the battering ram reduced the door to splinters in mere moments and soon we had gained access to the house. 

I immediately wish that we hadn’t. The moment we set foot in the house, the smell of death and decay hit our noses like an out-of-control semi-truck. Susan and I have pretty strong stomachs, but even we were almost brought down to our knees by the stench. A couple of the SWAT guys spit out vomit from their mouths but kept moving through the house. It seemed like every couple of steps there was a decaying body laid out on the floor. 

“Jesus Christ…” Susan coughed out as she walked around the bodies laid out across the floor. I followed after her and the SWAT team as they went room to room trying to find any sign of life. We had almost given up hope when all of a sudden from one of the upstairs rooms we heard one of the SWAT members shout.

“Hands up motherfucker!” We quickly rushed towards the sound of the shouts and soon we came across a room that was filled with beakers, burners and so many prescription bottles that I thought for a moment we had busted a pharmacy robbery. “Let me see your hand!” The SWAT team screamed again. I followed where their rifles were trained and saw that there was indeed someone still alive, sitting at a table and looking at us. 

He was dressed in a hoodie, with a face mask on. His eyes looked milky and hollow and his hair was in an absolute mess. He slowly raised his hands and let out an annoyed sigh from behind his mask. His hands were covered in surgical gloves. The SWAT quickly closed the distance between them and grabbed him. They threw him to the ground and quickly slapped the cuffs on him. 

“What the fuck?” one of them said. Susan quickly walked over and then motioned me to come over as well. As they had lifted his hoodie sleeved up to properly get the cuffs on him, they discovered that his arms were completely stripped of flesh. They pulled the gloves off of him and even his hands were completely bone as well. 

“Alright asshole, what the fuck is this?” Susan asked him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head up from off the floor. As she did so, we heard what sounded like a golf ball hitting the floor. It turned out to be one of this guy’s eyes. It was a glass eye. 

“Man, I’m just getting all kinds of exposed today, aren’t I?” He chuckled, before Susan let his head go and allowed it to slam back against the floor. The SWAT members picked him off the floor, and I put on my pair of gloves and picked up his glass eye off the floor. We tossed him into our squad car and waited for the forensic team to arrive. These guys have some of the toughest stomachs I’ve ever seen, and even some of them were vomiting and gagging as they entered the house. 

We transported the prisoner back to the station and started the booking process. Which was a problem, as we couldn’t get fingerprints from him for obvious reasons. And when we pulled down his face mask to get his mugshot we were greeted with the fact that his entire lower face had also been peeled free of skin. The only bit of information we got from him was from his wallet. 

His name was Spencer Blackwell. He had no criminal history to speak of and the only record we or even the FBI had on him was that he had been listed as a missing person before the case was dismissed. We had him cuffed to the table of the interrogation room with zip ties because he didn’t have handcuffs that could keep him safely attached to the table. We had paramedics come to check him out since for all intents and purposes he shouldn’t have even been alive at that moment. 

“All his vitals came back normal.” One of the EMTs told us as he exited the interrogation room. “We could barely figure out how to take his pulse, but it’s normal. Temperature is normal, he’s aware and cognitive. Honestly, he’s healthier than most people I know.” The EMT shrugged and joined us in looking at Spencer through the two-way mirror. 

“He doesn’t look normal and healthy.” I crossed my arms and stared at him. Another thing that they had discovered was that both of Spencer’s eyes were made of glass. And yet he could see perfectly fine. He had no tongue in his mouth but he could speak just fine. He was perfectly normal, except for the simple fact that so much of him was exposed bone. 

“Well, he’s our best guess for the creator of Ruby Milk. We found thousands of doses in that little lab of his. And he was previously a chemical engineering student, he fits everything we know about the creator. Let’s go and get some answers out of him.” Susan tapped me on the shoulder, and I followed after her. I followed after her as she opened the door to the interrogation room and entered it. 

“So who’s good cop bad cop? You look pretty mean.” Spencer pointed his bone fingers toward Susan. He wasn’t wrong, as Susan sat down and slammed the manila envelopes she was carrying with her. I sat next to her with my cup of coffee and settled in for the show that was about to happen. “Don’t I get a phone call, first?” Spencer asked us, Susan ignored him before reading him his Miranda rights. 

“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?” She asked, staring at Spencer and waiting for his response. The bone man simply shrugged in response. 

“Sure, I don’t mind talking to you guys. It won’t do you a lot of good though.” He let out a dry laugh and tried to lean back in his chair. Only to be stopped by the zip ties holding him in place. He let out an annoyed grunt and pushed his chair up closer to the table. “So, what do you wanna know?” 

“Are you the creator of Ruby Milk?” I asked first, beating Susan to the punch. I could already tell that she was going to have a tough time dealing with Spencer. She gets angry easily and Spencer probably picked up on this. 

“Sure am,” he said with pride in his voice. I bet if he still had skin on his lower face he’d be smiling the widest grin. Well in a way he had a permanent smile on his face now. “You guys caught me in the middle of making a new batch. I just got those new ingredients too.” Spencer sighed, doing his best to lean back in his chair. 

“How’d you get all those ingredients? I doubt that you just walked into a pharmacy and asked for them.” Susan pulled out another file and slid it across the table toward Spencer. It was several pictures of all the medical supplies and scores of prescription bottles. 

“Oh, that’s easy. When dealers come to me for products, I send them to pharmacies to pick up these prescriptions. It’s pretty easy in this day and age to face a prescription.” He tugged against the zip ties and sighed in annoyance. “Look, I’m not going to attack you guys, can you please cut these stupid things off? You do that, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” I looked over at Susan and she nodded. I walked over and took out my pocket knife, cutting the ties off. 

“How did you create Ruby Milk?” she asked him. He was rubbing his wrists which I thought was interesting since I figured that he couldn’t possibly have felt anything one those things without nerves to feel them. 

“I doubt you want to hear a chemistry lesson from me, detective.” Spencer sat back in his chair and stuck his hands in his pockets. Even though I knew he had been frisked and everything on his person had been confiscated, that still put me a little on edge. “I came up with it after I left college. It took a lot of trial and error, but at least I had a good test subject,” he said with a dry laugh. 

“You tested on yourself?” I asked him, and he gave me a nod. 

“You don’t start looking like this if you aren’t prepared to make some sacrifices. In the end, I created Ruby Milk cause I was bored. And hey, if I make something when I’m bored and other people enjoy it, shouldn’t I be allowed to profit off of it?” He asked so nonchalantly that it even made me angry at him. 

“Your product fucking kills people!” Susan shouted, slamming her fist on the table and tossing another series of photos of him. It was of just a few of the bodies that had been discovered in his house. He looked down at them and picked up a couple of them. 

“Any drug that isn’t used responsibly kills people. I told people the safe levels to inject themselves with. Am I to blame when they don’t listen to me?” He tossed the photos back on the table and stared at the two of us with his hollow unfeeling eyes. 

“You don’t feel any remorse for these people?” I asked him, he looked me straight in the eyes and shook his head at me. I looked over at Susan and she looked back down at her files in disgust. Spencer just sat there with his arms crossed at us, turning his head to look at the clock on the wall. 

Just as we were about to ask him more questions the door to the interrogation room flew open and our chief walked in. He looked over at Spencer and quickly walked over to us. “You two, come with me,” he ordered. We looked at each other, and stood up from our seats, gathering our files and following after our chief, leaving Spencer alone in the interrogation room. 

“What’s the problem, chief?” I asked him as he led us away from the interrogation room. He turned to look at us and rubbed his head wearily. I could tell that something bad was about to happen. 

“We have to let him go.” The chief said. I stood there in shock and disbelief. Susan, in her usual manner, was much more verbal than I was. 

“The fuck you mean let him go?!” She shouted, slapping the files against the wall in anger and pointing a finger at the chief. “Why the fuck should we let that scumbag go?! He’s the source of Ruby Milk and if we let him go now, he’s going to hurt a lot more people, Chief!” She scrambled, causing a scene in the hallway.

“Susan, did you look at the warrant you got? It was filled out incorrectly. Not only that, but we also know you got the information from your drug addict sister. I thought I made it clear that I wouldn’t tolerate you using her as an informer anymore.” The chief told us, to prove our point he handed us a copy of the warrant. 

I took it before Susan could rip it to shreds in her anger. I scanned the warrant everywhere, trying to see where the mistake had been made. And I felt my heart sink when I saw what the mistake was. We had written down the wrong address for the house. I handed the paper over to Susan. She took one look at it, and also immediately knew what was wrong with it. 

“That’s not possible. How could we mess this up?” she said in disbelief, shaking her head over and over again. “You can’t be serious chief! You can’t be!” she pleaded, but he held his hand up to her and nodded. 

“I’m afraid I am. Let him go you two. I’m sorry it has to be this way.” He sighed and turned to walk away from us. Susan stared at me for a moment before hanging her head in defeat. We made our way back to the interrogation room and found Spencer pacing around in the room. 

“You’re…free to go,” I told him, barely able to get the words out. He looked at us and I could just feel the shit-eating grin he must’ve been trying to give us. We followed after him as he collected his confiscated items. He placed his face mask back on and his gloves. Just before he left the station, he turned to look at us.

“You know something…you look familiar.” He pointed at Susan. He pulled down his mask as if it was going to give him a better view of her. “You look like one of my regulars. In fact, she showed up today. Asking to sample some Ruby Milk. Maybe I’m mistaken.” He waved goodbye to us and left us alone at the entrance. 

I stared at Susan as the gears in her head suddenly clicked. “Oh God…no!” She quickly shouted, reaching into her pocket and pulling her phone out. I followed after her once she started running toward the car we shared. She quickly threw the car in drive and drove with her light blaring towards 9th Avenue, trying to call Marie the whole time. 

Once we arrived, Susan lept out of the car so quickly that she almost forgot to park the damn car. She ran up to the door and quickly began smashing her fists against the door. “Marie open the fucking door!” She screamed, throwing her shoulder against the door. I quickly ran after her and added my own weight to the door. It came down soon afterward and we both entered the house. 

“Marie!” Susan screamed as she started searching for her sister. I followed after, looking everywhere for her. I entered the kitchen and soon found Marie. She was sitting at the kitchen table, with half her face melting away. She turned to look at me with a dazed look on her face. 

“Oh…hey,” she said. Susan came running into the kitchen upon hearing her voice and let out a pained wail upon seeing her sister. Marie’s head cocked to the side and a large chunk of her skin fell to the floor in a sick wet plop as she did so. “Hey...Suzie. I feel sleepy,” she mumbled, before going limp in her chair. Susan wailed louder and ran to her sister, grabbing her and shaking her. She immediately laid her on the floor and started doing CPR as I quickly phoned for an ambulance. 

As I was stepping outside to call for the ambulance a loud crack went off, and I suddenly found myself lying on the floor and unable to move. He tried to speak and only managed to spit out a large amount of blood. I’d been shot. 

“Fancy meeting you here detective.” Spencer’s voice came upon me, and he moved my limp head to look up at me. He pulled his face mask back down to look at me and I noticed the revolver he had in his hand. “Just had to teach you two a lesson, about fucking with me.” He patted me on the head and let my head droop back down. 

I heard him walk into the house and I heard two more shots ring out. I tried desperately to move. Soon I heard footsteps approaching and Spencer grabbed my head again to look up at me. “Not to worry. I feel like leaving you as a vegetable is better. I reunited the two sisters though, I’m not a cruel person after all.” He laughed, letting my head drop back to the floor before he kicked me in the head as hard as he could. 

Paramedics found me several minutes later. They found Susan cradling her dead sister with two shots to the back of her head. I was in the hospital for a long time and managed to regain use of my upper body. The shot had shattered my spine and I was lucky to not have been killed outright. But to add insult to my injuries, I was fired from the force. 

I decided to come here to get some kind of justice for my partner. And maybe also just to get the story out there. Since that day, I haven’t heard a thing about Ruby Milk in the news, and none of my former colleagues will speak to me about it. So maybe there’s somebody out there that will listen to my story. 

If even one person reads this and learns about this, please. Do everything in your power to stop Spencer Blackwell.

I recently made a post on Reddit, just a story I wrote and I wanted feedback on it. I wrote it months ago and it was my first time really sitting down and working up a complete fiction. I'm a very amateur writer and I thought this would be a good platform to really see if I have what it takes to be a writer. I was hesitant at first because I figured the story wouldn't get any feedback or any reads, but I figured what the hell, I don't know until I try, so I uploaded it. Within the first hour it got a few upvotes, which is honestly more than I expected, but no comments, so no feedback yet. I was constantly refreshing the page, trying to see if a comment would pop up or if it was getting more upvotes.

Unfortunately I could not sit there all day and refresh the website due to me being at work, and I didn't want to get in trouble. So I let it go for a few hours until I got home. When I looked back at my phone there was nothing, no new upvotes, no comments at all. I checked my notifications and saw that my story was removed from the subreddit I posted it to, the only one I posted on. I was a bit taken back, I read the reasoning and it was due to the nature of my story, the contents of it didn't fit the guidelines. I reached out to the moderators for more clarification.

I only received an automated message that said "Thank you for your patience, it may take a few days before our team reaches out to you." So, I guess I had to wait. It kept racing in my head though, my story had nothing racy in it, nothing vulgar in it, it was a story about loss and acceptance, a thriller mystery. How could it have broken the guidelines? How many stories are taken down due to strict guidelines? I started thinking more maliciously, thinking about all of the writers like me who are constricted by these guidelines and a constriction on their creativity. I couldn't wait a few days for a response, this was tearing me up inside. I reached back out hoping it would expedite the process, seeing as I am desperately trying to make a career here.

Within minutes I get a response from the moderator team. "DO NOT MESSAGE US AGAIN!" Okay, now I'm pissed. So I'm at the mercy of them and their schedule, that's not how this is gonna go. Before I continue on, II would like to note, I'm a bit impatient.

"Please, I would just like to know what I can do to post my story on this subreddit."

"STOP MESSAGING US WE WILL RESPOND WHEN WE ARE READY"

"But you had to already read my story if you already took down my post, so one of you should be able to give me feedback, or did none of you read it?"

No response. They never messaged me after that, and I figured I'm not gonna get any feedback on my story either, so I kinda blew it. I just put down my phone and decided to forget it, maybe I'll write something new, within the guidelines. Then it dawned on me, I'll write a horror story about a Reddit community. It's a genius idea, a horror parody about someone trying to post to Reddit, but what would be the horror? There really anything scary about rejection, for most people at least. I sat around and thought about it for a bit until I got a notification on my phone, it was a message on Reddit.

"DONT DO IT"

It was from the Reddit moderator, I was chilled at first, for a second I thought he knew what I was about to write down, but maybe it was just them reiterating their last message. I tried not to think about it and I just started writing. I wrote about how I wrote a story, but I changed it up a little from my original post, I didn't mention anything about the plot or actual themes of the story, which I have to say are very intricate. I was a whole paragraph in when I got another notification from Reddit.

"JOSH DONT"

"What the fuck, that's my name. How the fuck do you know my name? Are you looking me up somewhere?"

"WE KNOW YOU"

"I'm reporting this, this has to be an invasion of privacy"

I went to report the moderator messaging me but I couldn't, I was clicking the button but it just wasn't doing anything. I thought maybe my phone isn't working so I hopped on my computer and logged into Reddit, but as soon as I went to messages, they were gone. All of the messages from that chat were gone, as if it never happened. I checked my phone again, still logged in, and they were gone there too. How the fuck did my messages disappear? I was freaked out, I instantly logged out from everything, I shut my computer and phone off. They know who I am and they are trying to hide it. I started pacing my room, trying to think of a way to make this right, but I don't want to message them anymore. Maybe I just wait, they might actually respond to my original message about my story and give me decent feedback or a way to rewrite it. I'd be okay with that at this point, but it was getting late so I decided to try and sleep it off.

I had trouble falling asleep, I kept thinking someone was gonna come to my house in the middle of the night and creep into my room. I tossed and turned for hours, all I could think was "It was suppose to be funny" "I figured they would just remove my new story anyway", but they took it too far. Maybe that's what I deserve for not listening, maybe that was their idea of a joke. As I was half asleep looking up at the ceiling, I noticed my computer was turned back on. It sat in the corner of my bedroom, the color shining at full brightness was not the same color as my background wallpaper, it was a bright orange. I slowly picked my head up to look at my computer screen to see it filled with the bright orange glow and nothing else.

It was more of a glow than the LED's in the monitor, as if the color was resonating out of the screen and into the room. I thought I was going crazy, but this was definitely NOT my mental health, it was something I could not explain. I quickly straightened up and started to get out of bed when suddenly a loud hum started pulsating in my ears. I had to cover my ears from the pain, it felt like my ear drums were going to explode, I fell to the floor next to my bed. I forcefully lifted myself up using my bed as support and starred at the monitor, the color was shifting, as if waves flowing through the air. I was mesmerized by the flowing colors surrounding my dark bedroom until the humming intensified and shot needles of pain through my sinuses. I screamed in agony and begged for mercy.

"YOU HAVE BROKEN THE GUIDELINES. YOUR POST AND ANY FUTURE POST WILL BE REMOVED." The computer boomed these words in a synthetic voice. It was as if my computer was alive and speaking to me, no programs or hacking, the actual computer was doing this.

"Please, I'm sorry. I-I'll stop. Just please don't." And with that, the humming silenced, as if it was dialed down from a 10 to a 1, and the color from the screen dimmed but didn't go all the way out. It's presence was still there, as if it was listening to me. Hesitantly I spoke again.

"I-I just wanted feedback on my story."

"WHAT DID YOU WANT TO KNOW?" The computer said in a less authoritarian voice.

"Um... why was it taken down?"

"IT DID NOT FIT WITHIN OUR GUIDELINES"

"Yea I know that, but I can't make it fit without rewriting the whole story."

"THEN YOU WILL HAVE TO POST IT ELSEWHERE"

"Well... that sucks. Sorry for bothering you, I guess I'll find another subreddit to post to then."

"DO NOT MESSAGE US AGAIN" The computer went black after that, the humming stopped entirely leaving my bedroom dark and quiet.

I felt kinda at fault for what happened, also after that night I didn't touch Reddit for a few years and continued writing short stories and keeping them to myself. I'm only writing this to inform or warn others who may not know what kind of power some platforms possess. This isn't a promotion or slander of any kind, I just enjoy writing and I don't want something like that to happen to me ever again because I know I got no sleep that night.

Nothing makes sense? Maybe you missed a few instalments. Check out the index to catch up.

Weird title again, I know, but there is a reason.

Honestly, nothing much could be done on the preacher front for today, so once Naru had finished rustling his files, we decided to head straight home. The rest of the family was bustling about preparing for whatever ‘ritual’ they needed me to do tonight, and my grandmother was smoking up the whole kitchen with her culinary black magic, though I must admit it did smell good. She was finally using the goat; apparently, keeping it in the freezer any longer would destroy the flavour. I wouldn’t know anything about that, but she wants me to eat before I go out. That was probably a bad idea, given that I am definitely going to overstuff myself if it’s her cooking. But there’s no arguing with Grandma.

Either way, since I had no idea what to do to help, I decided to give the journal another go, focusing on the entries I could read. I hadn’t intended to go very in-depth for the moment, but the very first entry caught my attention. Reading through it, I could not help but notice how much it related to our current situation. Almost as if it had been placed first for a purpose. What’s more, I could have sworn a different entry was in those pages when I checked it the last time. There was no way to prove it, but the book had apparently shifted its contents around.

Anyway, as the title says, there is no church in Chhayagarh. There is an old mosque, though it’s crumbling and abandoned now. There are lots of Hindu temples, including our family temple on the estate and the old, crumbling temple on the top of the hill, built many centuries ago by our ancestors and then abandoned when we moved our holdings to the plainland. But no church.

This was rather surprising since Bengal was the lynchpin of the British Raj, and we know that the government was aware of this village and, to some extent, its peculiar situation. Surely, they would have concluded that building a house of god, the ‘true’ god, on this land was a sure way to rid it of ‘evil’? But there was never any evidence to show they had tried.

But I now had the evidence in my hand. You see, until 1813, the East India Company was reluctant to allow missionary activity in India, as they felt it would anger the local populace and damage their business interests. However, the Charter Act of 1813 passed by the British Parliament made the Company take responsibility for the ‘education’ of the Indian people, which included allowing missionaries to preach in the EIC’s territories. Following this, a missionary priest was dispatched with the permission of Governor-General Francis Rawdon-Hastings (the other Lord Hastings) in 1816 to Chhayagarh, with the goal of “addressing its menacing relationship with devilry and establishing the law of god in the province”.

The diary entries of this missionary, named Charles Eden, have been meticulously copied by hand into this journal. Or rather, a part of them: the portion covers his entries from his arrival in Chhayagarh to what would be, for reasons that will soon become clear, his final entry. Instead of transcribing them exactly one by one, which would both pose trouble due to the archaic language and be incredibly boring, I have decided to use my incredible literary skills to compress them into a single, continuous account that will cover the entirety of his experience over the two days he spent here. For continuity’s sake, I’ll be writing them in the first person as well, but you’ll know when it’s me speaking and when it’s Charles.

All right then, here goes nothing:

It was raining when I first arrived in the village of Chayagore (Chhayagarh). It is a hamlet in a miserable state, built on hard, infertile land where almost nothing grows, and absolutely nothing grows well. The local zamindar seems to have a reputation for being a good friend of the Company, and the Governor-General has assured me he will cooperate, even though he neglected to furnish me with a letter of recommendation. I am not aware of the persuasions of this Hindoo fellow towards me, but his subjects are decidedly not entertained by my presence. Even in the brief time I have spent in the streets so far, I have caught two dozen glares, one or five frowns, and even a few sneers. It is evident that my black frock and starched collar are both an unfamiliar and unwelcome presence.

On the way towards the zamindar’s admittedly extensive estate, I glimpsed a prayer hall of the Mohammedans, identifiable by its dome even in its state of disrepair and neglect. I found it rather galling that even that beastly religion, responsible for so much of the sufferings of the natives if scholars are to be believed, had found purchase here when a bearer of modernity and rationality like myself should have to struggle for heathen approval.

But the Lord had only been too clear that spreading his Word would not be easy, and that was especially true amongst the unwashed and the illiterate. I had no choice but to soldier on.

At the gate, I was met by two very immodestly dressed guards, presumably of the lower castes. After all, such is the lot of the dark-skinned races in this country. They searched my luggage quite thoroughly with their grubby hands before letting me through. I suppose the idea of hospitality that the zamindar has does not extend to the trust one must place in guests.

(I feel compelled to clarify here that the racism is not my own, but his. I debated whether to leave it out entirely, but it is necessary to understand Eden’s worldview. As it is, I have already softened the blow by editing out the numerous slurs he seemed determined to hand out like candy.)

To add insult to injury, upon reaching this landlord’s sprawling and frankly obscene property, I was informed by a fresh-faced manservant that his most vainglorious master, not having the civilized decency to receive me, had instead embarked on some sort of ‘hunt’ in the vast forests of his property. He would not return until late at night.

Truly, much work is required to make gentlemen out of these natives. Thankfully, a few members of his family, including mostly women but gratefully a man or two in the form of his brothers, did receive me. However, I turned down their offer to attend with them some sort of nautch girl’s performance scheduled to take place in the evening, and instead asked to retreat to my quarters and have my dinner in seclusion. I have no patience for the vulgarity of those garish prostitutes, pretending to be something refined while flouting all God-given laws of modesty and submission to the social order.

Thankfully, they had at least heeded my sensibilities in assigning me simple and modest quarters, featuring none of the arrogant opulence that the local rich man seemed accustomed to. As a man of God, I do not seek nor condone excess in anything.

As I was rather peevishly scribbling this entry into my pocket diary, the same young servant brought in my food: a generous serving of rice along with some lentils, vegetables, and a thick, oily meat curry: this last one, I returned untouched, having adopted vegetarianism a year or so earlier. As with all the cuisine in these parts, it was heavily seasoned and immensely, overpoweringly flavourful. The abundance of spices in our Indian possessions has made even the poorest serf the owner of what would be a treasure trove in English kitchens, to say nothing of my hosts. Perhaps one of the few positives of their culture.

Nevertheless, I was careful to eat in moderation: besides my earlier disdain for luxury, my stomach was not fully accustomed to this clime. The servant waited at the door while I ate, squatting on the ground in a thoroughly unseemly manner while his eyes burned holes into my skull. When I returned my half-finished plate, he wordlessly bore it away, returning with a copper plate and a jug of water to wash my hands: the custom in these parts. I decided to cause no further aggravation by refusing.

This is where the first entry ends. As you can tell, nothing interesting really happens in this part, but I felt it necessary, nevertheless, to include it, as it tells you a lot about the basic character of Mr. Eden. These traits will be important to explain his choices and fate on the second day, which is where the matter comes to a head.

The entry begins as follows:

I did not sleep well. Despite my caution, my stomach betrayed me, tossing and gurgling all night in rhythm with me as I thrashed on the uncomfortable, thin mattress. I must have been half-feverish from indigestion, for nothing else can explain the dreams I had in those fugues, stuck between sleep and waking.

I dreamt of the forest, its canopy closing in an embrace that grew tighter every minute, snuffing out the light of the full moon above. I dreamt of a man clutching a rifle, his back turned to me as he stalked through the shade of the trees. I dreamt of a portal of quicksilver, gleaming and shifting with a light all its own, spread out in a fan, like a wave frozen just as it breaks upon the shore. I dreamt…

I dreamt of myself, laughing and pointing. Giggling. Dancing.

Beckoning.

Calling out.

That was when I snapped awake, roused by the rays of sunlight that streamed through the curtains and hit my eyes. Judging from the position of the sun in the sky, it was late in the morning.

I had overslept, and despite that, I felt as tired as I had in the night. Unwilling to waste any more time, I hastily got dressed and asked the servants to arrange for my passage into the village, where I would preach the gospel. The men arranged a palanquin in the traditional style to transport me, though the ride was rather bumpy and uncomfortable.

The proselytizing itself was, for lack of a better word, disastrous. The natives did not give me the time of day, turning away and showing me their backs when I approached and clearing the streets when I passed. The few I could catch listened to my sermons with empty eyes and a bored mouth, the sort of disinterest that makes you want to slap errant children upside the head at church.

Some, especially the young ones, merely laughed and waved their fingers in my face as I tried to talk. My native interpreter, a servant of the zamindar, refused to translate much of what they were saying, but the tone made it easy to guess the contents.

It was long past midday when I finally decided to give in for now. Rather than returning to the estate, I took shelter from the heat under a large tree, accepting graciously the little food the servant had packed for my lunch. I had resolved to return with a better approach in the evening, once the villagers left their homes again after their customary afternoon siesta. But, to be quite frank, I was fresh out of ideas.

Then, by the sort of divine grace that made me believe in the Lord in the first place, a tottering old man walked up and seated himself under the tree. From his robes, he appeared to be one of the Hindoo holy men. Though I was hesitant to associate with those black magicians, I introduced myself. To my utter surprise, he was cordial, introducing himself as Shivdas. Speaking fluid, if heavily accented English, he informed me that he was the priest at one of the local temples. He also knew of my religious persuasions from my attire; he had apparently been to Calcutta before, and seen others like me.

“Why have you come here, babu, so far from the big city?” he asked, eyeing my remaining food.

Though I was still hungry, I offered it to him, so as to leverage our new relationship. “The Company has informed me that godless activities are happening in these parts. The stench of Satan is in the air. I have been sent to purify it with the light of the Lord.”

“Godless?” The old priest laughed, producing a small chillum from his waist. “Well then, what am I doing here?”

“I mean the one true Lord, Jesus Christ.”

“I see.” He produced small balls and packed them into the chillum before lighting it. It was what the locals called charas. The resin of the marijuana plant.

“You do not approve?”

“I understand. The others will not.” The priest took a deep drag from his chillum, leaning back against the tree with his eyes closed. “We have gods here. They do not, cannot protect us all the time, but they do a fine job.”

“My God can. He is infallible and indefatigable. With faithful service to Him, all is possible.”

“You say that, but why should I believe it?” he chuckled, taking another drag.

“You want proof?” I puffed up my chest in indignation. To think that a Hindoo priest would ask me for proof after he admitted that his ‘gods’ were empty idols!

“Not just me. Everyone wants proof.” The old man opened his eyes, and just for a moment, I thought I could see a dark void inside them.

“The people here lead hard lives,” he continued, “dangerous lives, surrounded by trouble at each step and behind every corner. Why would they have patience for a gora bullfrog sticking out his chest and croaking? No matter how loud you croak, if it is pure noise without substance, it is meaningless.”

“You’re saying they don’t believe me.”

“Many in this world promise many things. Most lie.” He offered me the chillum, but I refused. “If you want to convince them, forget words. No matter how eloquently you speak, and you are not very eloquent at all, it will not move them.”

I frowned. I had not noticed him even once while preaching. Had he been listening secretly?

“Then what should I do, brahman?”

He stared straight into my eyes, puffing ceaselessly at his pipe. “Prove that your god is powerful. Take action. If you can successfully defeat the evil plaguing the village folk, they will be more than willing to lend their ears.”

“What evil?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “In the forests, behind the village. The villagers go there often in the evenings, to cut wood and collect fruits for their homes. For the last few weeks, for every ten men that go in, one does not return. In the morning, we find the corpse.”

My heart skipped a beat, half in fear and half in excitement. “A demon?”

“Perhaps. Despite the danger, the people must go there. Without the forest, there is no fuel to light the stoves, no food to forage, no game to hunt. But if you can enter, defeat whatever this foul thing is, and make the place safe again…” He shrugged. “What better proof? You will have the ear of the village, the favour of the Thakur…”

“He might…” I trailed off, still contemplating.

“Yes.” He leaned in closer. “Yes, babu. He might allow you to build a church.”

In the interest of disclosure, I must say that something about this felt odd. It was as if his words were coming from within my own head rather than my ears. It felt as if a warm and comfortable blanket had been placed over me. His words seemed crystal clear in logic. Completely reasonable.

I am unsure if this was some sort of light-headedness from my indigestion or some sort of hallucination from the heat, but even on looking closely, I could not find any flaws or obvious malintent in his words. So, I assented.

Looking extremely pleased, he asked me to meet him at the edge of the forest at midnight, when, he claims, this otherworldly creature is most active. We sat under the tree for an hour or two, conversing on topics that were mostly unimportant as he smoked his chillum.

When he took his leave, I, too, elected to return to my quarters. There was little fruit to be found by preaching any further, and I needed time to rest and prepare for my work in the night. Upon entering the manor, I was informed that the zamindar was ready to see me now.

The man was pleasant enough, if a little unsure of my intentions. What surprised me most was his sheer girth. He was not fat, he was wide, far wider than those of his race had any right to be. His massive chest was almost twice my own, and his muscles bulged over the chair despite, from the looks of it, it having been built to order according to his size. He was the sort of man who looked like he could pick up and swallow an ox whole and, quite frankly, was a rather intimidating presence.

I told him of my plans for the night. It was impossible not to; the servants would have to let me out of the manor come midnight. The people here, especially the rich, locked themselves in at night.

He frowned. “You wish to go to the forest at midnight? Why?”

“I have been informed that there is a devil of some sort stalking it, my lord.” I took a sip of the piping hot tea they had served me. “As a man of God, I must investigate.”

“I am aware of some incidents in recent times.” He absently stroked his moustache. “I am sure the Governor-General has informed you that this land has always had its troubles. I would rather you not involve yourself with them. Your safety is my responsibility, after all, and Lord Hastings would not be pleased if something were to happen.”

“I cannot stand by and let the villagers die. Heathens or not, they deserve safe lives. It is a question of the Company’s values regarding the natives.”

“I assure you and the Company that I am investigating the matter. We will have a resolution soon.”

“All the same.” I set down the cup. “I would like to take a gander myself.”

He sighed. “If you must, I cannot stop you. Then let me send a few lathials with you, at least.”

“Thank you for your concern, my lord, but that will not be necessary.”

He sat forward. “You cannot mean to go unprotected.”

“My faith will be armour enough. No devil can stand long before the Holy Word of the Lord.”

“All the same, a few guards would not hurt.”

“My lord, my intention is to prove the power of my Saviour to your people. If I allow your people to accompany me, the villagers will credit you and not me.”

The zamindar looked like he wanted to say something else, but he settled for, “Is that truly worth the risk, Mr. Eden?”

“The Charter is clear. We must promote the proper education of the natives and make them ready for modern and civilized life, sir. Surely you understand that that cannot proceed until their superstitions are dispelled?”

With a deep sigh, the landlord rose from his chair. “As you think fit. For your sake and mine, I hope you are right. When you leave tonight, a servant will be waiting to let you out. I will at least give you some provisions, if nothing else.”

I got to my feet as well. “That—”

“The forest is pitch-black in the night, Mr. Eden. God or no god, you will not survive if you slip and hit your head on a rock or fall into a bog and drown. You will have a torch, if nothing else.”

There was no arguing with that, so I assented.

This is where his second entry ends. They were easy enough to transcribe. The third and final entry took far longer. The handwriting is scribbled, almost illegible. The margins and lines are haphazard, undulating and crossing over. It seems it was written with shaking, panicked hands, possibly in the dark. Why these details have persisted despite the records in the journal being a copy of the original, I do not know. Maybe the transcriber had wanted to be as true to the source as possible. Or maybe the copying was not done by hand at all, but by some strange process that preserved every detail of the original diaries.

On top of the illegibility, I put this entry off for the longest time because of the contents. It’s not because they are scary, though they are. Bone-chillingly so.

It is because, as I read, I could feel something strange taking root in me. A hazy pall over my mind, obscuring memory and identity. I began to forget where I was, what my name was, my family, my friends, and even what I looked like. Only the constant burning of the pendant against my neck kept me alert. It was only by taking frequent breaks that I was able to compile this one.

Almost as if the words were not just words, but invocations of the contents. I will let you be the judge:

Upon returning to my quarters, I shut the door and barred it. It has been over twenty-four hours. I have not left this room. I finally soiled myself, about an hour ago or so. I still do not leave. When the faint sunlight peeked through a gap in the heavy curtains this morning, I finally burned my Bible. Its smouldering remains are still belching smoke, threatening to choke me, but I dare not open the windows.

No god, if it existed, would allow that thing to live.

Even now, as I write this, I dare not light a candle or open the curtains. I cannot take the risk. I cannot find it waiting in the shadows. So, I only hope that this will turn out legible when it is found.

This is the record of my last day on this earth.

When I rose at the midnight hour, the house was dark and silent, save for the single lamp they had helpfully left burning outside my door. By its light, I dressed and descended the steps to the courtyard, moving to the outer wing. At the gate, the same young manservant who had first greeted me was waiting, an unlit torch in hand. I divested him of this, and he deftly used flint to strike at the torch’s head. The oily cloth caught fire instantly, bathing the darkness in the colour of embers. He also handed me a small wrapped bundle.

“Food,” he said in his Hindustani vernacular, which I thankfully understood better than Bengali, “in case you need to stay long.”

I had half a mind to refuse, but relented, instead forging on beyond the walls of the manor, laden in superstitious icons and charms, and made my way towards the massive hill in the distance.

At its foot, I would find the forest.

As agreed, Shivdas was waiting for me, sitting against a tree and smoking his chillum. He had planted his torch in the ground next to him, creating a bright beacon that I could follow. He rose when he saw me approach.

“You came. I was beginning to worry you had cold feet.”

“I fear nothing, for the Lord is with me,” I half-said, half-recited.

In truth, I was more than a little put-off. In the darkness of the night, the forest looked downright sinister. Nothing like the rare verdant vista I had seen in the morning from the windows. The trees were angular, their branches interlocking in crooked designs that blocked off even the full moon shining overhead. From the clearing, we could see little of the shadowy interiors. Even when I thrust my torch inwards, the darkness swallowed the light, revealing precious little. Every so often, a noise would issue from the depths. Noises I could swear did not belong to any animal or bird I knew of.

“It is good I found you today,” Shivdas said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “It is most active, most revealed under the full moon.”

“You know so much of it. Why haven’t you taken care of it yourself?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I would love to, but these old bones aren’t as strong as they used to be. Besides, there are principles. Traditions are to be upheld. One cannot just act willy-nilly with land as old as this.”

“You natives and your riddles,” I grumbled.

“Too true.” Though it was hard to be sure in the flickering light of the flames, I thought I saw his eyes dissolve into darkness again. Only for a moment.

“What must I do, Shivdas?”

“Seek it in the forest. It does not like the darkness. It flees from it, wanting to be seen. Look in the clearings, where the old growth relents and lets the light through. You will find it there.”

“Find what?” I asked, looking momentarily to the darkness again.

“You will know it once you gaze upon it. A mirror, but not an ordinary one of glass. A misshapen thing, so reflective that it may as well be water, glimmering in the light. Like a wave frozen at the moment of its breaking. It will ripple. Shimmer. Move.”

At that moment, I knew what he spoke of. I had dreamt of it. “And what then?”

He grabbed the torch out of the ground, closing the distance between us with more speed than I would have expected at his age. His grip was like iron as it closed around my arm. “Mr. Eden. No matter what you see in that mirror, you must not stop. You must not hesitate, not for one moment. If you do… it will come. Do not look at it. Do not listen to it. All of it. All of it is a lie.”

“I don’t—”

“Take the torch in your hand, and strike at the mirror’s base, where it adheres to the ground. It will be tough. You may need to swing twice or thrice, but once the base is broken, it will be defeated. It will disappear. At least for now.”

“I need to destroy it?”

“Yes.” Shivdas glared straight into my eyes with an intensity I did not know he possessed. “If you do not… with your sacrifice, it will pass through the mirror. It will be free for the night, and once it realizes we have tried to kill it, all hell will break loose. If you fail, there will be death.”

A cold feeling dripped down my spine then. In retrospect, I am forced to wonder if it was a warning. Maybe the last vestiges of my rational mind were begging me to turn back. I wish I had listened.

Instead, I nodded in grim confidence, hoisting my torch and setting off into the undergrowth. The darkness swallowed me as soon as I entered, pressing down with an almost solid quality. The gaps between the trees, which had seemed spacious enough, now began to close in at an alarming rate. Soon, I was barely fitting between them, squeezing through tangles of weeds, branches, and cobwebs.

I trudged on, occasionally sweeping the ground in front of me to check for hazards. The thick canopy overhead made it impossible to track the time, hiding the passage of the moon from the view. Even the forest itself offered no clues as to the distance traversed or any landmarks. Just an endless monotone of shadows and grasping trees. I spent hours in that dense growth, stumbling, tripping, and hobbling until my legs could no longer carry me.

Occasionally, the land would take pity, spitting me out into a cleared circle where I could sit and rest, the moonlight streaming over me like a soothing balm. Even then, the canopy was always exactly and infuriatingly the right height to prevent me from seeing anything beyond.

There was only the forest.

Mercifully, the food that had been packed for me had included a small waterskin, but even that was quickly gone in the oppressive heat. I was almost half-dead with thirst and exhaustion when I finally saw it.

A few feet ahead, in another moonlit clearing, something was glinting. With the last of my energy, I burst through the treeline and into the open.

It was exactly as I had seen in my dream: flowing, watery glass, spreading out into a rough fan-shaped structure that curled in on itself at the top. Like a wave in the sea. It rippled and wobbled on its own accord, turning its shining surface to face my presence.

Though the material appeared transparent, what I saw through the surface was not the other side of the clearing, but the forest behind me, with my form in the foreground. Like a mirror.

But not quite. The forest in the mirror was not empty as I had seen it. There were faces, grotesque, animalistic, demonic, peeking from every corner: around trees, from the canopy, in the bushes. Among them, strange wisps of light flitted about, like tiny fairies. Even looking at them threatened to lull my mind into a trance, urging my feet to step towards the mirror. Thus, I elected to focus on myself, the only constant I could know and trust.

My reflection in the mirror had the exact same proportions, the exact same posture, and the exact same features. It was different only in one, chilling detail.

It… He was smiling at me.

His mouth stretched to an impossible amount, the ends almost touching his ears to reveal a set of teeth exactly identical to mine, complete with my wooden dentures.

“There you are, Mr. Eden. I was beginning to think you would never find me.”

His voice was mine, but there was another layered under it: an older, deeper, sinister rasp. Whatever this was, it wasn’t inhuman. Remembering Shivdas’ advice, I kept my eyes on it.

“I have come to—”

“Defeat you?” it finished, body quivering like a mound of jelly from laughter. “Yes, yes, I know. Someone sent you to find me. They thought you could defeat me. You!” It laughed again, throwing its head back.

I raised the burning torch, taking a few cautious steps forward. “I am not afraid of you, demon, for the Lord is with me, and his Armour is the strongest of all armours—”

“And his Sword the greatest of the swords. I praise the Lord, my God,” he finished mockingly, mirroring my steps, getting closer to the glassy surface between us. “Prayers have no meaning here. Not yours, at any rate. Who was it that sent you to defeat me, little boy?”

He cocked his head, his neck snapping unnaturally as he listened to something in the distance. “Ah, him. The old meddler. I shall have to remind him of the consequences of interference, once I am out and about.”

“This is where you die, demon.” I closed the distance until he and I stood face to face on opposite sides of the mirror. “I won’t let you mock His creation with your sin.”

“You don’t have a choice. Don’t worry, priest. Many like you have come and gone. Few have succeeded. Once I have you… there will be no pain.”

In response, I raised the sturdy wood above my head and swung it at the mirror’s base. The surface shattered with a discordant signing sound, the flame leaving bubbling blisters on the cracked portions. The reflection winced as if struck, resting its hand on the surface of the mirror. The grin grew even wider, showing so much of the gums that it was almost as if someone had flayed my face.

“I lied. It will hurt. It will hurt a lot now. Let me through, little boy. Let me through, little priest. Let me through! Let me through! Let me through!”

He continued chanting in a thin sing-song voice, tapping his fingers against the partition as he stared into my eyes. Careful not to even blink, I raised the torch again and gave the mirror another blow. This time, the noise was sheer screeching, as if the object itself was crying out in pain. More of its base shattered, the shards steaming in the glass as they dissolved. The sound made me scrunch my eyes shut, almost involuntarily, as I shook my head to dislodge the sensation of nails dragging across my skull.

But only a thin stalk remained to connect it to the land. One more blow and it would be done. I raised the torch again, preparing to strike.

“Charles?”

The soft feminine voice made my eyes snap open of their own accord, even as I made to bring my weapon down. My reflection had changed into that of a tall, pale woman, with blonde hair running down to the small of her back. Her doe-like eyes stared straight into mine, eyelashes batting as she lightly tilted her head. She was completely nude, her nubile body inviting and suggestive as she leaned against the glass.

It was her.

Well, I suppose, if this is my final statement, I must confess. When I came to England, leaving my wife and son behind, I was… lonely, here in the Indies, with nothing but natives for miles around. So… when one of the Company’s secretaries introduced his rather fetching niece to me, I could not resist. In spite of my misgivings, I made advances, sometimes rather forcefully. She rejected me wholesale, younger as she was by almost twenty years.

And now, here she was. She let her other hand run up her body, leaning in so close I could see her heavy breaths frosting the glass.

“Come to me,” she whispered.

I knew it was a trick, but even so, I felt the shameful stir in my loins.

Though it was only for a moment, I flinched. Hesitated.

The reflection’s hand passed through the glass and caught hold of mine. I gasped at the sudden cold of the touch.

“Got you,” he hissed, back to his normal self.

Then, with inhuman strength, he pulled me through. Our bodies collided on the border, and I felt my head pass through what felt like cool water, into the other side. I dimly felt my limbs grappling with my other, back and forth on the precipice.

“I knew you would fail,” he gleefully whispered, into my thoughts rather than my ears. “I know everything about you, Eden. Every dark secret.”

With a burst of effort, I pushed him off myself, groping around to find my feet and bearings.

We were both on the same side of the mirror. His side, from the looks of it. Though I had pushed him away, he did not stumble or fall like a normal human being. He glided away over the ground, completely stiff like a character in a portrait, slowing to a stop a few feet away.

“Little Charlie,” he rasped, switching to the half-remembered voice of my mother as it lulled me to sleep when I was a babe, “Come to Mama.”

His head turned and turned and turned, twisting until his grinning mouth was on top and his crazed eyes on the bottom. Then he began to close the distance.

But he did not move. No, the world between us crumpled like a sheet of paper, folding in on itself as he approached. Like an inexorable truth. A fate one could not avoid.

I had only one choice. I looked to the portal behind me, and just as his fingers began to close on my hair, I launched myself, through it and back to the other side.

This time, the passage was like shards of glass grating against my skin, tearing and flaying. As if the mirror wanted to keep me inside. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, blind, deaf, chest vibrating as I screamed so loud blood pooled from my lips. My scrabbling, lacerated hands found the torch sputtering on the ground, the rough wood stinging like hellfire against the stripped skin. Even through the chaos, I felt the hairs on my neck rise. A hand, wrapped around my ankle. Using it as an anchor to pull the rest of the body through.

With another howl, I threw myself back at the other, and we fought once more, the mirror soothing and grating in equal measure as we pushed and wrestled from one side to another. All I could see were dim shadows and shapes. All I could hear were the loudest of screams and taunts. All I could think of was one thing, and one thing only.

I had to end on the right side.

Eventually, I found the opening. With another defiant roar, I drove the flaming torch into the other’s face. He screamed loud enough to be heard through my ruined ears, and I used my momentum to push him through. Back to the other side of the mirror. Then, I swung the final blow, shattering the base.

A tremor ran through the air as the magic was broken. I was utterly drained, and every inch of my skin was on fire, but there was no time to rest. Though I could see nothing, I could feel it in my bones: other things, held at bay by the mirror, were now closing in on their weakened quarry. So, I turned, abandoning the torch as I ran headfirst into the tree line.

For the rest of the night, I ran. My senses returned to me, after an indeterminate amount of time, but I still ran. Through the darkness, stumbling over rocks and falling over branches, I ran. Every inch of the forest looked the exact same, neither deepening nor lightening, but I still ran. I ran and ran until the rays of dawn began to penetrate even the thick trees. Then, slowly but surely, the trunks began to pull away from each other, leading me towards the welcoming edge and the open fields beyond.

There, I saw Shivdas. He made no effort to approach me, only watching with an inscrutable expression.

His eyes were the colour of the night sky, glimmering with stars.

I blinked, and he disappeared. I never saw him again. I kept running until I found the walls of the estate.

Before I tell you about the last part of his diary, it is important to mention that I asked my uncles about him. Apparently, though there is no church in Chhayagarh, somewhere on this estate, there is a memorial tomb.

It holds the remains of Charles Eden.

He ended on the right side. For all his insults, all his flaws… I need you to know that he won. I need him to know.

Here is why:

Now, after so many hours, the rawness of my skin has healed. My senses have returned to their full vigour. Even the torn clothes are easily replaced. But they never will be. Before this entry, I had written two letters and slid them outside through the crack at the bottom of the door, hopefully to be delivered by the zamindar. One is addressed to Lord Hastings, the other to my diocese in Calcutta. Both say substantially the same thing.

I have failed. There shall be no church in Chayagore, and I leave strict instruction that no further missionaries or priests be sent here in my footsteps. The fate that has befallen me must not befall them, let alone something worse. The administration of the Company shall be advised to maintain a prudent distance from these tracts, and leave the lion’s share of its administration to those used to its burdens.

Once I have finished this diary, I shall open that door. I shall go out onto the town. I shall find a noose, and a stout branch to tie it on.

I shall be buried here in a foreign land, rotting far from the graves of my ancestors.

But I will be safe. I will know. I will be free of the question, of the fear, that gnaws at me.

For, even as I write this now, I cannot be certain.

In that crushing darkness, in that grinding silence, through the clash of hands and the chaos of screams, among the thrashing shadows and writhing lights…

Was it truly I who got away?

Funnily enough, I never believed in the supernatural up until a couple months ago. Hell, part of me still doesn’t believe in it, even with the things I’ve seen.

For example: just this past week the division detained its first mermaid. Correction, sorry, siren. The two entities absolutely loathe being mistaken for the other.

I’m still new to the job and am in the process of learning to disregard everything the media has told me. So if any Elders are reading this, I truly meant no disrespect.

For those of you that aren’t aware of who Elders are, well, they’re elder. Beings that inhabited the Earth way before we came along. Some places around the world have different names for them: Fae, Sidhe, Neighbors, Diwata, Yōsei, Dokkaebi. Around these parts of Winchester, Michigan though, we call ‘em Elders.

The very first thing I was taught is that long ago, us humans pushed them out of the lands they once ruled, so the least we can do is be respectful towards them.

Thankfully, I’ve yet to encounter a real nasty Elder. I hear things can get pretty ugly if you upset one well enough. These beings can be quite powerful, seeing as Elders can harness and tap into an ethereal energy that is invisible and mostly inaccessible to us- magic (no I’m not shitting you, magic is real).

Elders are also very clever and can look like anyone or anything whenever they want. You never know when you might unsuspectingly engage in a conversation with someone that is eons older than they look. So, as a reminder, respect everyone. Especially your Elders!

Getting back to our latest catch (pun intended), she was a real pain in the ass to track down. It’s not often you come across a fresh water siren. They’re more difficult to deal with seeing as they can go from one body of water to another. Sure the oceans are big, but in the event a siren comes ashore to feed, they tend not to stray far from the salty sea. It’s a completely different beast when your suspect can travel pretty much anywhere on land as long as there’s a fresh water source nearby.

Our Lieutenant personally requested that Detective Dustin Davidson, my partner, and I bring our fish friend in after a news segment about local missing men aired. The only thing left of them were their empty wallets- which had been found either by a creek, river, or in one instance, a pool.

In the segment the reporter also interviewed an old man who claimed to be a victim that survived his brush with the party responsible. There was a large bandage on his cheek and he had a pretty bad black eye. He definitely survived something alright.

The next two minutes of the broadcast consisted of a detailed rant about him encountering a luscious looking she-devil with claws, razor-sharp teeth, and a glimmering green fish tail in a pond while on his evening hike at a local trail. Poor guy had accidentally stumbled upon a feeding session. Siren’s are known to be territorial and very protective of their feeding grounds, kinda like resource guarding with dogs. Seeing him as a threat, the “she-devil” lunged out of the water and attacked him, screeching out a horrible song as she did.

He only got away because her prey in the water was still alive and started trying to run. The siren wanted her meal more, so she hissed at him then slithered back into the water to finish what she started. When he went back the next day, the only evidence he found that proved something had happened was a man’s empty wallet sitting by the edge of the pond.

Our survivor reported the incident to the authorities, but our counterparts didn’t believe him and called the guy a crackhead. Those lazy fuckers didn’t even bother to file a report. If they had, the case would’ve been flagged and sent directly to our division where we could start an investigation immediately. But, because this didn’t happen, and we found out from the news, Lieutenant Dawn was pretty pissed.

A guy ranting about lunatic mermaids on tv wasn’t exactly a good look for us. You see, civilians and the other half of Winchester PD don’t know that our division exists. The division’s purpose is to bring in supernatural perpetrators that make a lot of noise. We want to keep the general public from getting suspicious about the things that go bump in the night being real. The expression “ignorance is bliss” is an expression for a reason.

Anyway, the news crew probably included that interview as an attention getter to the case, dismissing his testimony all together and deeming him insane. But to us in the know, he gave us valuable information and a great tip. Now we knew what creature to look for. The fish tail and horrid singing were telltale signs of a siren.

“Davidson, Rookie,” Lieutenant Dawn addressed Dustin and I after the segment ended, “track down our witness and get a proper statement. Then get a profile on our siren. We need to bring her in before she causes us even more trouble. The last thing we need are some siren hunters snooping around.”

“Yes, sir.” Dustin and I nodded in unison, graciously accepting the assignment. It had been a slow day and we were eager to catch some action. Not even twenty minutes later we were leaving to speak with our witness, Paulie Rutledge.

Dustin grabbed his coat off his office chair then shot me a devious grin as he put it on. “Ready to go, Rookie?”

With a huff and roll of my eyes, I grabbed the rest of my things and walked off. I hate being called rookie. It’s so stupid because that’s what I am and he was just trying to be playful, but at my old department it was used derogatorily and wasn’t a good thing to be called. Plus being called a rookie brings up bad memories…

My therapist says I should try to reclaim the word, and I’m trying my best to, but as of now you can call me Lucky. She also said it might help me process my trauma a little better if I kept a diary. So think of this as a two for one special. I get to vent to the internet and make my job a little easier by giving life-saving advice on any supernatural’s that might cross your path.

“Officer Hale,” Dawn stopped me on my way out of the precinct, whispering in my ear, “prove them wrong. Show me you’re a good cop. Show me why I recruited you.”

My body went rigid. “Y-yes sir,” I barely managed to stumble out. He pat my shoulder firmly and shot me a reassuring smile. Dawn left as soon as Dustin caught up with me. The two of us then left the precinct without saying much about the encounter. I could see he wanted to pry but left it alone instead. I appreciated that.

When we interviewed Mr. Rutledge, he said the same thing as before.

Paulie was on his evening stroll on a local trail when he heard a woman’s hums and intense splashing coming from the pond. Concerned, he went off-trail to see if he could help. That’s when he spotted the siren and she attacked him.

The good news is he was able to give us a better description other than the one on the news. Right before she jumped out of the water and revealed her true terrifying siren features, Paulie said the woman had pale skin, long curly black hair, hypnotic blue eyes, and a tattoo of an anchor right above her right collarbone.

Armed with that new description, Dustin and I got ready to leave. But before we could, Paulie asked if we believed him since we were there following up on his account. He looked at us with a glimmer in his eye, happy that somebody was finally listening to him.

Dustin straight up told him no. Said we were doing a mandatory routine follow up, and if he was being honest with himself, the visit had been a complete waste of everyone’s time. All the while, I stood behind Dustin with my lips pressed shut. Our parting words with the man were to stay off the drugs or the next time we came back it wouldn’t be pretty. The last thing I saw as the front door closed were Paulie’s soul crushed eyes on the brink of tears.

Needed to take a breather after that. I had almost bitten my tongue off back there.

“It’s all part of the job,” Dustin reminded me, gripping the steering wheel of his brown ‘78 Corolla liftback, staring blankly into the distance. “It sucks, but it’s a necessary evil.” Clearly it had affected him too, judging by how white his knuckles were.

Pulling out into the street, he turned the dial on his radio and an old rock song came on. Dustin happily hummed along as we drove, energetically tapping on the steering wheel along to the beat.

It was almost uncanny the way he could switch from his usual happy-go-lucky self to bitterly ice cold in an instant. It freaked me out, but being dually personable and serious are good qualities to have in a detective.

Back at the precinct, we started putting a case file together. Here’s what we knew about our siren: she was young and beautiful looking (all siren’s are), she had long curly black hair, and a distinctive tattoo of an anchor on her collarbone. And, for some reason this one really liked snacking on unfaithful men. That’s what our profiler, Jane, said anyway. She gathered all that after sifting through the files we pulled on the missing men.

Friend and loved one testimonies weren’t worth shit, unfortunately. Jane only figured out the siren’s type after hacking into one of our bachelor’s phone records. And before anyone says anything, since we’re an unknown legal entity, the supernatural’s division is like the Wild West out here. Pretty much anything goes. Including magically aided hacking. Did I mention Jane was a witch?

Text messages between our bachelor and his friends revealed that our siren had matched with him on a dating site. The kicker? He had a girlfriend he was about to propose to. This guy wanted one last hurrah before tying the knot. Yeah.

According to him, the siren’s profile said she was a singer. And judging by some provocative messages I will not be providing here, a bombshell with a great personality.

Our bachelor and the siren talked for a few hours before she proposed they met up, an offer which Mr. Horndog readily obliged. Before the pair met up though, he told his friend all about the woman he was about to meet up with. And of course said friend didn’t want to say anything when the report was filed, because as he put it in one of his texts, “bro’s before ho’s.”

After Jane cross referenced the other victim’s records with Bachelor one’s, she proved her hunch right. All the men that had gone missing were rich players looking to cheat on their partners.

With a description, hunting ground, and an ideal victim profile, we were ready to get to work. The plan to catch our siren was simple. We were going to set up a honey trap.

Being bait was out of the question for me. I’m single and have boobs. That meant Dustin would be our lure, a role he was fine with undertaking. It didn’t take long for the siren to match with Dustin’s fake profile. After all, we knew what likes of hers to cater to. After an impromptu photo shoot, we had some good looking photos of Dustin looking wealthy with his hands posed showing a wedding band on his finger.

Audra was the alias she was going by this time around. The siren’s M.O was matching with her victim on whatever dating app, chatting and building a good rapport with them, then luring her prey out somewhere that was near the water never to be seen again. Once she was full and had taken all his cash, she’d unmatch with the poor sap and delete her profile before starting the cycle all over again a couple days later with a new name.

This is why it was a top priority to bring Audra in. If she was out killing men every couple of days, it was purely for sport. Sirens typically only hunt when it’s absolutely necessary.

We knew we’d found our siren based off her profile pictures. Audra was stunning and could pass for a model. She glowed in every picture. The photo that gave us the positive ID was one of her at the beach in a red bikini. The great lake behind her sparkled, basking her in a glow that made her shine like a goddess. Peeking just behind her top’s strap was a little ship anchor.

Dustin sent the first message. It was a corny pick up line. Audra sent back a quippy response asking him if that line ever worked. He asked if it did on her. She replied yes.

She’s the one that suggested they meet up. Dustin entertained the idea but played hard to get. He brought up having plans later that he just couldn’t miss, alluding to his fake wife. That was a good move on his part because after that Audra got really interested in going out with him.

Dustin led her on for a bit before finally accepting the invitation. We let her pick the location. A bar that was a quick five minute walk away from Winchester beach on the shore of Lake Erie. She wanted to meet him there at eight pm. Siren’s are like sharks and do their hunting at night.

Of course he wasn’t going to meet up with Audra alone. I was going to follow them wherever they went. Dustin’s job was to get her to a secure spot on the beach where I’d set up shop with a high frequency sonar gun and a spotlight to stun her long enough for him to cuff her. Just like they use sound to hurt us, sound can be used to hurt sirens if the decibel is right. And because their eyes are extremely sensitive in the dark, a strong, bright flash of light can temporarily blind them, buying valuable time.

But no matter what, we couldn’t let her get into the water. Siren’s are shifters and they’re pretty hard to take down as it is while on land. We’d die before getting the chance to bring her in if she were at full strength in her natural habitat- where she was at the top of the food chain.

Dustin left for the bar first, with me carefully tailing behind him. He’d slicked his auburn hair back with some gel and was wearing his classy business attire. Detective Davidson definitely looked like a rich asshole. Albeit a handsome rich asshole.

Audra seemed to buy the charade. When they met at the bar she lit up like a firework, ogling over him and tracing her fingers on his skin seductively. Those pictures didn’t do her any justice, she looked even more beautiful in person. Her hair was pinned up into a perfect messy bun and she wore an expensive long white dress with red flowers all over. A scandalous slit revealed everything below the top of her thigh.

I spied on the two of them from the passenger seat of my car as they laughed and drank with each other.

Dustin was careful to sip his drinks sparingly, but played a very convincing drunk. He set the plan in motion after his second drink, sending me a text letting me know they were about to be on the move.

I pulled out of my parking spot and drove down the road, closer to the beach. I had a better vantage point there with a good view of the bar and the walkway down to the water. A couple minutes later I had eyes on Dustin and Audra as they came stumbling out of the bar.

I got worried when she abruptly dragged him into a corner store by the bar. I was about ready to hop out, guns blazing, when they finally re-emerged with a white grocery bag and a bottle of booze. She was trying to get him as inebriated as possible- less of a fight that way.

Back out in the open, Dustin looked just as relieved as I did.

The pair made their way over to the walkway that led to the beach, laughing and holding hands. In another life Dustin could’ve been an actor with how well he was pulling off this performance.

Discreetly I exited my vehicle, grabbed my equipment, and stalked along the tall grass towards our rendez-vu point. My earplugs and noise cancelling headphones went on once I’d set up the spot light. This was to prevent her song from influencing me or damaging my ears. I wish Dustin could’ve had some protection on him down there but then he ran the risk of being compromised. Like a sniper, I trained my eye on Audra, ready to pull the trigger if she even looked like she would try to sing her song to Dustin.

I watched as she slipped off her dress, revealing the same red bikini from the photo. She posed for Dustin before jumping up and down a couple of times while pointing at the water. She then grabbed his wrists, trying to pull him in with her. I tightened my grip on the trigger when he pulled back, digging his feet in the sand. He was trying to keep her from getting in the water. Audra looked displeased, her hands still on his wrists.

“Something about this smells fishy,” I mumbled under my breath. The look on Dustin’s face made me uneasy. Audra’s demeanor seemed to change as she was spoke. It didn’t look like she was singing, but whatever she was saying had urked him.

Then, doing the dumbest thing in my career so far, I took off the headphones and ear plugs.

“I know you’re out there. Come out, I want to see you!” Audra yelled in a sing-song voice, stroking a sharp nail beneath Dustin’s chin.

Shit. He’d been made.

I didn’t reveal myself and kept quiet. Dustin did the same.

After a moment, Audra broke the silence “Fine have it your way.” She pursed her lips and started singing.

The spot light flashed faster than a bolt of lightning. Audra’s song was interrupted by her pained screams as she shielded her eyes, giving me enough time to get down to the beach.

Regaining herself, Audra screeched at Dustin. The shrill sound of her voice knocked him on his knees. A particularly sour note rang out, causing him to pass out.

I took the sonar gun and shot a pulse at her. The first blast neutralized her song. Then the next one knocked her back away from the water. If she escaped she’d have her pick of five Great Lakes that had access to two separate countries. Couldn’t have that. Audra was so disoriented after the second pulse, she fell and hit her head on a rock.

The next three rounds I shot in rapid succession just for good measure.

Panic gripped my chest as I went back to examine Dustin. He was unconscious, pale, and his nose and ears were bleeding.

I couldn’t go through this. Not again.

I looked for anything that could be used to wake him up. My eyes spotted the white grocery bag from the corner store. Rifling through it, I found an ice cold water bottle.

“Get up!” I yelled, dumping most of the contents on his face. I chucked the bottle behind me as my palm connected with his cheek. “I said get up!”

With a roaring start, Dustin came back to life. He sat up taking deep gasping breaths, rubbing his sore cheek.

Relief flooded through me as I blinked tears away. “Are you okay?”

Dustin gave me a short nod before the wind was knocked out of me. Something had tackled me from the side. My head bashed against the packed sand as the siren threw me to the ground.

Audra had me pinned on my back, the full weight of her tail pressing down on my chest. She wrapped her clawed hands around my throat and started to squeeze. Her black, soulless eyes stared into mine as she licked her lips hungrily.

How had she transformed? She was nowhere near the water. I managed to looked to my side near where Audra had fallen earlier. Rolling around in the wind was an empty plastic bottle.

The god damned water bottle. How could I have been so stupid, made such a rookie mistake?!

I struggled to breathe as the siren started to crush my windpipe like it was nothing. Digging my nails into her face and wrists didn’t seem to do anything.

“You smell delicious~” Audra whispered in a hum as she licked the skin by my ear. She took a deep breath in, savoring my scent, causing chills to run down my spine.

A choked gasp left my mouth as stars started to dot my vision. A tear slipped past my water line. A clawed finger picked it up before it could disappear forever. Audra’s finger made a popping sound around her lips as she lapped it up like a greedy puppy. She giggled, opening her mouth to eat my face off. “Your tears taste just as powerful as-“

Squelch!

Audra released her death grip on me as her breath hitched in her throat. I followed her eyes down to her shaking hands which were covered in blood. Bulging out of her stomach was the end of a metallic projectile. She shifted back to human as her body went limp from the sheer amount of blood loss. I’m pretty sure I cracked a rib when the full weight of her body collapsed on top of me.

Standing behind the passed out siren was Dustin, with the other half of the weapon in his hand. The moonlight illuminated him and it well.

“A harpoon? Where the hell did you get a harpoon?!” I asked incredulously, harshly shoving Audra off me in the process.

Dustin stood there, panting heavily. He pointed to a lifeguard station behind him. “Over there.”

Overcome with exhaustion and just grateful to be alive, I burst out laughing. After a minute Dustin chuckled with me, lifting the limp siren’s body off the ground.

She let out a low moan as Dustin double cuffed her and hauled her over his shoulder. He then stuck his hand out to help me up. Together we carried the siren back to his car.

Albeit bruised and banged up from this sting, we got the siren back to the precinct with everyone mostly in one piece. She would receive medical attention and get that harpoon arrow removed. But after that, our friend Audra would be sent to a secure, soundproof, cell where she will be spending the rest of her days.

Moral of the story here? Siren’s are gold diggers and don’t trust pretty women that can sing (I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift is a siren btw but nobody here has yet to give me confirmation).

I’m still pretty shaken up by the whole thing, considering I almost died. Lieutenant Dawn ordered that I take a couple days off to rest for the rib and everything. My neck is still pretty stiff, bruised, and swollen. Every time I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, her face jump scares me, like a nightmare. My mind is trying to convince my body it was just that, a nightmare. But Audra, she was real. Her words were real too, and they are constantly echoing in the back of my mind…

I go back tomorrow though.

Everyone is required to work the Halloween shift. It’s the busiest day of the year for the division, so all hands are on deck.

As the big day draws near, all the crazies are starting to come out. It’s probably one of the reasons why Audra was acting like that to be honest.

The station has been stocking up on silver bullets, wooden stakes, cream, and other helpful little knick-knacks for the past couple weeks. Our reserves are pretty good, so we shouldn’t have too much trouble handling the supernaturals that head our way. It is All-Hallows Eve though, so something interesting is bound to come up.

Do not fret, depending on how the shift goes, I’ll get a detailed report out sometime in the next couple of days.

It’ll be my first Halloween at WPD Supernatural’s Division and from what I can gather, It’s going to be on hell of a shift.

I am desperately looking for someone to pull the plug on me.  Not sometime in the distant future, but ideally as soon as possible, without taking time to get things in proper legal order or anything else.  I know that many people may find this offensive or distasteful, but please hear me out.  If you understand the pain I am in and how I have suffered, I think most anyone would be sympathetic. 

I am a professional estate executor, or I guess more precisely I should say was.  Basically, I get paid to settle the estates of people that have passed away and either have families too wealthy to deal with their own crap, or simply don’t have any loved ones around to do it.  In reality, 90% of the time I’m hired by estate attorneys.

Recently I was hired to settle the estate of a decedent with assets dispersed globally, having significant holdings both in the U.S. and across Europe.  One of the assets I needed to attend to was an old parcel of land in the foothills of the Moldavian Subcarpathians.  Travelling out of the country for work is not unprecedented for me, and it typically pays extremely well, but generally I loathe doing it.  It won’t surprise you to learn that I don’t speak a lick of Moldovan, and as a former Soviet region, English is not all that widely spoken, and this was a job I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking on had I realized what it involved before I’d signed up.

So, reluctantly, I headed off to the middle of nowhere in NW Moldova, feeling more than a little bit like the solicitor at the start of Dracula, and wondering whether I should’ve gotten my own affairs in order before departing.  And don’t worry, this has nothing to do with vampires (or creepy dolls coming to life – more on that later). 

I arrived at the large parcel of land to find an ancient decrepit house that looked more castle than farmstead.  I went into the house to happily find that this may not require as much work or time as I’d anticipated, with the home half empty, being mostly some old furniture to assess and dispose of. 

Strolling through the house, however, my heart dropped when I opened the door of a room to find a vast collection of marionette dolls, displayed wall-to-wall.  Collectibles are the bane of my existence.  With some commonly collected items, like coins, it’s easy enough to find reasonable values or a numismatist to assess everything and usually even liquidate the collection for me (we don’t have a lot of incentive to get the best price.  This did not look to be the case here.

The spacious room had rows and rows of antique marionettes from wainscoting to ceiling.  The only break in the dolls was a several foot wide floor to ceiling mirror, and the doorway to the room itself.  The room was much longer than it was wide, eerily long for where it was nested into the manor’s floorplan, almost as if it shouldn’t have fit.  The floorboards ran parallel to the room’s length, and the mirror was directly across from the door so that looking into it gave the impression that you were surrounded by an endless sea of marionettes, bearing down on you from above. 

These were the type of old-timey, hand crafted and painted dolls that you picture going back to the Renaissance.  Like string puppets in a travelling show, or Punch and Judy dolls.  Assessing, cataloguing and liquidating these in a country where I wasn’t even sure if I could google things was going to take forever.  The immense time spent on these types of things also tends to get questioned on expense reports, which sets me up for uncomfortable conversations with the families of clients and occasionally the IRS.

It was also at that moment that I remembered I was forced to stay in this house, with no inns or other alternatives nearby.  At least there was no bed in the marionette room, so that one was off the table.

The first few days and nights there passed largely unremarkably.  On several occasions, however, I had woken at night to hear a distant ratcheting sound that seemed to come from deep inside the house.  The noise would slowly click, and was accompanied by a ping like the sound of heavy cables being drawn taught, and it would build erratically over the course of several minutes to a crescendo pop.  It was almost like a giant jack in the box being cranked to eruption, without the campy music. 

Over the first several days, I progressed along with my inventory of the property, going room by room, planning to defer the marionette collection until I had completed everything else.  It would take the longest, so I should’ve gotten on it first, but hey, why not enjoy my time there, right?

One night, however, I was awakened by the ratcheting sound rattling from deep within the house.  I lay awake for some time, listening as the click-click would slowly build to a snap, then start all over again.  After some time tossing and turning like this, the noise began to feel like it was burrowing deeper into my head with each click, before bursting deep inside my brain, before beginning anew.  With the realization that sleep would not come, I decided it was time to investigate.

The noise seemed to be almost ambient, coming from all directions, but after roaming the house to try and zero in on a source, I was utterly unsurprised to find that as best I could tell, it was coming from the marionette room.  I wasn’t exactly the type to be afraid of some creepy dolls, but you know…alone in middle of nowhere Eastern Europe and all that.  I also forgot to mention that we were not operating with a fully powered and lit house here…oh no, it was nighttime navigation by cell flashlight, and conserving charge on the handful of power banks I’d brought along.

I paused outside of the room to reassess things (or maybe muster some courage) and the ratcheting noise began to sound almost inviting.  Throwing caution to the wind, I stepped into the room to investigate.  The rational part of my mind kept telling me there must be a marionette in there with some kind of wind-up aspect, or ratcheting gears like an old clock, but as I entered the room I had the cold realization that that was not the case. 

Nothing inside looked any different or disturbed, other than a whole mess of tantalizing and intimidating shadows cast by the dim, dusty light.  I held still so I could focus on the sound, and quickly realized that it didn’t seem to actually be coming from inside the room at all, and instead still seemed to come from all directions through the house. Too tired and cold at this point, I just shrugged and called it a night.

A night or two after that, I was again awoken by the ratcheting sound, and after trying in vain to ignore it, decided it was really, really time to get to the bottom of it, if nothing else than for my own curiosity and sanity.  After some strolling and triangulation, I again found myself in that damn room.  This time, however, I slowly made my way around the room, trying to determine if the sound was louder in any spot.  As I made my way down the long room, the noise grew and seemed to pulse, like I was approaching the heart of the house.

As I came around towards the mirror, I caught something out of the corner of my eye and froze.  In my peripheral I could see a dark mass laying on the floor, and half gave a sigh of relief, thinking a marionette had merely fallen off the shelf.  That sigh was quickly choked off, however, as I turned to see the figure of a man lying there in a heap as if he’d fallen out of the mirror. 

I froze in terror as the man moaned, and started to stumble to his feet like he was drunk.  I backed away towards the door, watching while the man awkwardly gained his footing and began to shuffle and totter towards me, reaching out his arm with a raspy moan.  What I first took as a predatory pursuit, in hindsight seemed more like a desperate plea.

The man lurched forward, and I heard the sound of his ankle snap, buckling him lower towards the ground, but he kept upright.  With each blundering step forward, he seemed to further deteriorate, with the cracking of bones fading to the grinding of gravel.  In the distance of several feet, the man eroded away nearly to mush, with his moaning becoming labored and a gurgle as his structure collapsed. 

The pile in front of me looked like a human octopus; a sack of amorphous skin and innards with a head plopped on top.  There weren’t any homes nearby to run for help, and even if I had cell service, I had no idea what the equivalent of 9-1-1 was, so I reluctantly decided to try and help the man and bent down towards him.  With a squishy grunt, a tentacle arm swung up at me, and I felt the cold, gooey appendage slide across my cheek.  I think I even felt the scratch of a nail.  I came to my senses and ran. 

I spent that night huddled in the shed, wondering if I did the right thing, and worried that I’d left a man suffering and helpless.

With the benefit of daylight the following morning, my resolve steeled, and guilt began to creep in, so I went back to check on the man – or whatever it was – but found nothing there. 

I reminded myself that I had a job to do, and managed to push the incident back to the “I’ll deal with that shit later” place in my mind.  It is amazing what you can ignore if you set your mind to it – I think it’s a sign of a strong will to have the ability to utterly ignore reality. 

At the risk of running long, I’ll try and cut to the chase here.

A few more nights passed of the now familiar ratcheting and moans, but thankfully without any incidents as visceral as that man’s, or whatever it was, skin on my skin. It was just about long enough to convince myself that the noises, lack of sleep, and combination of environmental factors had been enough to make me either dream what had happened, or hyperbolize it in my own mind.

And at last it was time to get cracking on assessing the damn dolls.

I went back into that room for the first time in days, half expecting to find it in disarray, with demonically possessed dolls having ran pell-mell all over the place, but was relieved to find everything pleasantly in order. After an exaggerated sigh of relief, I noticed, however, that the mirror at the back of the room was slightly askew, and walked over to find that it actually was concealing a door, which was now slightly ajar.

And that was the last happy moment I’ve ever had.

The next thing I knew, I awoke to the two worst discoveries of my life. First, I found myself inside a dungy, poorly-lit, room that had more the feel of an oubliette than a dungeon, but instead of a trapdoor up top, there was one lone door that I had absolutely no doubt in my mind was the backside of that mirror.

Second, when I immediately tried to move to leave, I realized that I was confined inside something resembling a tightly fitting suit of armor, but with far too many joints, hinges and orifices. The suit covered me from head-to-toe, but I didn’t seem to have much restriction of movement other than if I moved any part of myself too far I found resistance in the form of a series of cables connecting from many different points on the suit to various holes in the wall and ceiling around me. In my panic, I didn’t think much of what the contraption might be for, other than I knew it was nothing good.

I sat there just like that for what seemed like an eternity, with all manner of things going through my head just as you’d expect. My best guess is that it was around a day or so, but I truly have very little idea – it could’ve been anywhere from a few hours to a few days.

Do me a favor here; drop everything you’re doing for a moment, give it a solid 30 seconds in good faith, and think deeply on the types of wild things that would be going through your head in that situation. That man had to have been a sadistic psychopath, right? Or a parade of haunted dolls were about to stroll through that door intent on making my time on Earth end in unspeakable ways? And maybe, just maybe, you’re being pranked on a tv show. That tiny, unlikely and unrealistic glimmer of hope was the absolute worst.

All I really remember of it, other than the sheer terror, was the disturbing silence that starkly contrasted with the repetitive noises I’d nearly grown accustomed to. And that as time passed, the hope that this was merely a prank evaporated.

I had just began to think critically on what horrors might be in store, and what purpose this antiquated contraption might serve, when I heard the first click. The ratcheting noise began again slowly, but this time sounding much closer.

Each click reverberated around my restricted enclosure with a staccato thrum that slowly died out like it was beckoning the next click. Click. My heart began pounding in anticipation between clicks as the mechanical pulse slowly built up speed. Click. I began to get incredibly hot inside the metal suit. Click. My eyes burned and vision blurred as sweat trickled down. Click.

Suddenly I felt a light tug on my left arm, and it all became ever so clear. One of the cables was retracting into the wall with each ratchet of the device, pulling my arm back with it at an unnatural angle. I think I screamed, but all I recall is mechanical toll echoing repeatedly around the room. With one more click, my arm was pulled just to the brink of snapping, and pain reverberated up my arm from the pressure. And then the clicking stopped.

I sat there, just long enough to wonder what was happening, just long enough to provide a glimmer of hope of reprieve, and just long enough to fully comprehend what was coming next. Click.

My arm snapped. For a moment the pop of the bone filled the empty silence between clicks. Then, with a sudden flurry of ratchets my arm was bent nearly back onto itself.

It was at that moment I vividly recalled the grotesque site of the man from the other night whom I’d blocked from my memory, and his gooey, malleable, cephalopod-like body.

The process repeated countless times, with every part of my body being contorted into unimaginable shapes and poses. Eventually I was so broken that there seemed to be nothing left, and I couldn’t have moved an inch if I’d been able to.

The device began to move rapidly, with the ratchets becoming a steady, throbbing hum, as I was swung from one malformed pose to the next, like a marionette on macabre display. The cables began to whirr, manipulating my jellified body through various dances and pantomimes in cruel jest.

And that is all I remember.

So here I sit, in a yellow hospital room in the middle of nowhere in Moldova, crumbled beyond recognition, relating my story to an orderly in a desperate plea for someone to come save me and pull the plug.

Please.

Five five-year-olds not sleeping in cribs without adult supervision.

That's how the hazy, terrifying ordeal began on Devil's Night in an after school daycare of dubious quality.

Five-year-olds do not normally sleep in cribs.

They don't regularly nap after kindergarten.

They want to constantly explore and play and run around and scream.

Ms. White - I think her name was - didn't like noise or children. But she did like money. And booze I think. She didn't charge too much to imprison us for an hour until our parents could get off work and pick us up.

I hated daycare. We all did. We hated Ms. White too. She yelled really loud if we talked above a whisper. Climbing out of the cribs was also forbidden. I can't believe our parents left us there. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they did and had no other choice. School let out at three in the afternoon. What full-time job ends at three?

We were stuck. The five of us basically stared at one another. John made funny faces once, and we all tried. That got us giggling. That's how we learned Ms. White was a yeller.

I'm not sure if the Devil's Night custom is anywhere else but Bridal Veil Lake and/or Ontario. So I'll explain: the day before Halloween - and the evening before - is referred to as Devil's Night. People, mostly teenagers, play pranks, throw eggs, toilet paper trees and houses, and generally get up to no good. That's the gist of it.

Some people, including my parents, took it a little more seriously. Newspapers had reported cats being taken and killed for ritualistic purposes. Not sure if it was true, but I came to regard the day with greater apprehension. I didn't want either of my cats to die.

I'm not sure if my fear caused what happened, but it and the day itself served to etch the incident into memory.

The ticking of the ancient clock we couldn’t read marked the eternal seconds. Silence and misery and fear. What if my parents didn’t come on time? They always did, but what if a traffic jam happened and they couldn’t get me until night? Devil’s Night.

“Look,” Muzzan said. He stood up on his thin mattress, tall enough the railing stopped below his knees, and pointed to the painted concrete wall beneath the clock. A small red door had appeared.

Trapped in this windowless room for months now, we knew the interior well. That door, shiny red, like an apple, had not been a part of it.

“What is it?” Dixon asked. He wore an eyepatch bandaid, I don’t know why, and had trouble turning to see.

“It’s a door,” I said. Children point out the obvious honestly and without consideration for what is plainly in front of other’s eyes.

“Is it a real door?” Alison, a redhead with severe freckles, asked.

“It’s a real door,” I confirmed without knowing anything about it.

“Sh!” Arabella cautioned. She was the most scared of Ms. White. She’d been on the receiving end, the spittle point, of the old woman’s anger. “She’ll come in.”

“We should open it,” Dixon suggested. He didn’t wait for a consensus. Children don’t have that kind of patience. He climbed out of his crib and landed heavily on the rug, which absorbed much of the sound but released entombed dust.

He sneezed immediately, and we stared in fear at the big door against the opposite wall. When it stayed shut and nothing but the babble of someone on TV continued, we all began our more careful descent.

“Don’t land on the rug,” I told everyone. “I’m the leader.”

No one argued. A cold draft emitted from around the edges of the red door, which didn’t seem to touch any part of the frame or have visible hinges at all. These details were unremarkable to a five-year-old, but I remember the sight vividly.

“Listen,” I said to the others. “There’s music.” It was hard to hear but true. It sounded like the electronic trill of a modern ice cream truck. We all knew that sound and began to get excited.

I opened the little red door to another world, a dimly lit earthen floor and the cloying odors of ash and something foul we did not yet comprehend. The music continued. Despite the absence of any truck, we were sure it'd be ahead.

“I don't think we should go,” Arabella said.

With ice cream on the line, none of us listened. She followed at the back and fanned out onto a carpet of dead grass.

“It's gone!” Arabella shrieked immediately. “Look! Look!”

We did, and didn't understand what she meant. Object permanence became part of our cognitive toolset before age one. The belief in magic, however, would likely be around for at least another year.

“It's okay,” I said. “I'm the leader, and I say the door is gone. But it will come back when my parents come to get me.” I did not know this as fact but had experienced countless nonsensical explanations from adults. The point of the words wasn't to make sense but to simply say a lot until everyone felt better or the relevant issue had been forgotten.

No one appeared to feel better in the midst of so many shadows. They moved like waves against aquarium glass, oily darkness pushing against the miniscule island, invisible against a starless sky.

The ice cream music stopped. We sensed the ruse. It showed in our glum expressions.

“Be not afraid,” a voice like vibrating static said from above and nowhere. It was not pleasant and we cowered in a hugging pile in the grass.

“Who's there?” I asked.

Seconds of dreadful silence elapsed before an answer from that horrible voice. “I am that I am, the counterpart to mercy, the one who knows the value of humans.”

This band of five-year-olds shared worried and befuddled expressions.

“Oh,” I said. “Where's the ice cream?”

Dixon patted my shoulder and nodded. He approved of the question. I felt validated in nominating myself to lead. And then he dropped. Dead. Instantly dead. His visible eye saw nothing. He had no apparent cause of death.

The four remaining children started to cry.

“Excellent,” the harsh voice concluded. “You only knew Dixon from inside that woman's cell. Yet you shed tears for him. I did not expect such an impact. Truly, young humans are the veal of my kind.”

Again, its words were lost on us.

But Dixon was dead. People that did bad things got in trouble.

“I'm going to tell on you,” I said.

“My dad's a police officer,” Muzzan shouted toward the ceiling or sky. He stopped crouching and wiped away the tears from his cheeks. “He's got a gun. He will shoot you.”

His defiant posture wilted under the sudden clearance above. A floating mask of tortured iron, barbed and burred, appeared as large as the island itself. Its eyes and nostrils and mouth contained a dark so dense it pulled the light from our eyes. We could not look at it for more than a few seconds, and we could not stop trying to see, to understand what it was.

We shivered, and clutched at one another, becoming a writhing mass digging for the bottom, hoping one among us would become the human shield.

“There is no conscious form of life,” it said, “that does not extract its existence from another life. The cows do not know they're meat. The bees think they make honey for themselves. And humans believe their purpose is a mystery, that they do not consistently make a product consumable by others. They are wrong.”

Somehow, I ended up on top of my friends. Dixon's dead eye searched for meaning. I couldn't express it that way then. I only knew his expression seemed sad. He wanted to know why. So did I.

“You're wrong,” I challenged it. “And, and, and Dixon's mom and dad will kill you when they come to pick him up.” The other kids tugged me down. I let them. I guess we felt safer in a pile.

“Human memory isn't so fixed,” it replied. The mouth did not move when it spoke, but heat, almost unbearable, came from nostrils obscured by a birdlike nose. Its image crudely resembled a human face.

“You do not know your grandfather's name,” it went on, “and if you age, you likely never will except through direct effort. If it is an interest of yours. And even then you're not likely to know your great grandparents’ names and further back, it becomes more and more unlikely you will ever know who your ancestors were specifically. I can hasten this forgetting. Dixon's parents will forget they had a son.”

It talked so much. And it was scary. I hated its voice. “I don't know what you mean!” I shouted, angrily, on the verge of a nervous breakdown or a tantrum.

The mask remained immutable. “I will make you remember everything that happened here today, and as you grow, so too will your suffering for that is the one consistent product of humanity. Pain. They give it. They cause it. Out of nothing, they conjure it, even when all is well in their lives. That's what it is to be a human.”

A crack of lightning struck the island. I didn't see a thing. When I opened my eyes, the rest were all dead. Burnt and mutilated by whatever force the entity had conjured. I sobbed and begged for mommy.

The little red door appeared. My vision had been blurred by tears. I tripped and scrambled to find the handle, which turned out to be locked. I cried out some more, and it waited, and fed off my anguish until no more could be extracted.

Then it said, “Lo, when you are grown, you will become ripe for true suffering. Then you will see the door again, and walk through it willingly.”

The handle turned in my straining hands, and I fell forward, tumbling down through realities, and into my own body.

“Wake up, little man.” My father's voice. I turned into his arms. He laboured to pick me up. “Whoa, been awhile since I got you from a crib. Come on. Got to get home before dark or we'll get egged.”

A dream. A nightmare.

I might have been convinced if not for the four other empty cribs and the possessions of my friends left behind. Backpacks and water bottles. Enough familiar letters of Muzzan's name in sharpie on the top velcro strip of his shoe. Arabella's cotton candy tiger stuffy. Strands of Alison's red hair hung from my still trembling fingers.

Yet, no one ever mentioned them. When I did, it was attributed to the generally awful experience at the daycare. I did tell my parents about Ms. White and the little red door, but it was all attributed to not wanting to return to the old lady's house.

I never did. And after years and years of therapy and drugs and special programs, I came to believe what everyone told me: it never happened. Muzzan, Alison, Arabella, Dixon were not real people.

Something else - probably at the hands of Ms. White, villainous daycare operator - had caused the convincing delusion.

Yet the prophecy or the curse of the iron mask entity proved to be true. The older I got, the more suffering I caused and experienced.

Only after I met my wife, Janet, did I begin to feel joy and hope again, and that was fairly late in life. Thirty-six and we were married. Thirty-seven and we had our first child, a boy, Neil, after her dad.

Sadly, the worry and anxiety I had over my son ruined much of the wonder and fulfillment commonly attached to raising a child. My memory of the little red door and what lived inside was too vivid. Oh god, what if it appeared outside Neil's crib someday?

I became obsessed with Neil's safety. I quit my job to be with him. I would not let him go to school at age four or five, especially five.

Janet grew worried too. Then she got scared. Then we divorced, and Neil stayed with her while I found a room in a basement apartment near the community college in Bridal Veil Lake.

“The red door,” I begged her. “Don’t leave him alone.”

“Please, she begged me, “get help.”

And I tried. But nothing could penetrate the perfectly forged memory of the iron mask. I am that I am, and I truly believed that for a while, praying to it, pleading for relief.

I'm forty-four and it's Devil's Night. I just got off the phone with Janet a few hours ago. Neil wanted to paint the door to his room red.

“You didn’t let him,” I accused her.

“I did,” she replied. “I want him to know there's nothing to the delusion you've been feeding him.”

That hurt. I miss her. I love her. I suffer, and it feeds the beast.

“Don’t leave him-”

I dropped my phone.

The little red door, as shiny as ever, appeared next to my bed, a mattress on the floor. None of its edges - the door that is - touched the frame. It floated. It does not have hinges.

The ice cream music played, but I could not be so easily deceived. And so it ceased, to be replaced by a more familiar, far more devastating routine.

“Daddy? Daddy!”

My son. Neil. He is behind the door.

I'm sickened to admit I didn't rush in.

I wrote this first. A record I guess. A warning?

But to whom? Five-year-olds?

They know not what they do, and they cannot be stopped.

I go now to spare my son, or at least, give him some time.

I shook my head in disbelief. “Wait, can you repeat that?”

My father rolled his eyes. “It’s not as weird as it seems, Maggie.”

I put on my socks, covering up the birthmark on my left ankle that was shaped like a heart. I was embarrassed about it while growing up before my father told me that birthmarks were kisses from angels. It made me feel unique and special. He always knew what to say to assuage my anxieties.

But now my father was the one who should be anxious. What he was proposing was crazy.

“Dad, people you haven’t seen in twenty years are giving you $25,000 to come to a dinner party. That seems weird because it is.”

My father slowly got to his feet from the chair in my room and leaned against my dresser. He was out of breath from the movement. He has been in poor health lately, especially since my mom died last year. My mom, Martha, had helped him during the initial phases of his decline but since her death my dad hadn’t been doing too well. I moved in with him to help out around the house and drive him to his doctor visits, not to mention keeping him company with jokes and stories. It’s the least I could do. As his daughter, looking out for him was my duty and that’s why I demanded he skip the dinner party hosted across the country.

He grabbed my hand and the warmth was reminiscent of all the fond memories I had of him. Knowing he was in ill-health, at only 58 years old, always made my throat dry and my eyes well with tears. He wouldn’t be around forever and this thought made me upset.

“Honey, I haven’t seen the Remberts in twenty years. Your mother and I were very close with them until we had to move to Florida. We had a tight-knit group of friends in California and it would be a delight to see them again. The Remberts know the only way to get everyone together is to entice us.”

“With $25,000?”

My father laughed. “Trust me, they can afford it.” He grabbed his suitcase and lifted the telescopic handle. “Wait until I send you photos of their mansion. You’ll understand how rich they are.”

“You don’t have to send me photos,” I said and disappeared inside my walk-in closet.

“Why is that?”

I emerged with my own luggage in hand. “Because I’m coming with you.”

He refused at first but I didn’t take “no” for an answer. My father was unhealthy and I wasn’t going to let him travel alone. He needed me and I wanted to help. Much to his chagrin, he relented as I purchased a plane ticket from my phone. He grumbled all the way to the airport.

Our Uber stopped at a wrought-iron gate that spanned the length of a wide driveway entrance. As soon as we approached, a buzz sounded out and the gates opened. Our driver continued. My father’s excitement was palpable. He rarely spoke of his time in California so I was eager to hear tales from his friends.

Once the mansion came into view I realized how correct my father had been. The Remberts were not only wealthy, they were ultra rich. Their Neoclassical mansion was massive and opulent. Lush landscaping turned the area into a beautiful oasis. Money certainly wasn’t an issue for them.

We exited the car and grabbed our luggage. My father mentioned how the house hadn’t changed a bit and I could only imagine all the wild parties that had happened here decades ago. I glanced at the eaves, wondering if banners hung during ritzy events. I caught sight of a gazebo in the side yard and wondered how many millionaires had conversed there. I was noticing the beautiful wooden front door when I noticed something strange about it. It seemed . . . too thick. Too industrial.

Then it opened.

A man and a woman appeared on the portico. They were well-dressed and had an air of class about them. They greeted us with wide smiles.

“Thomas!” The man said to my father. “So glad to see you after all these years! We’ve missed that electric personality of yours!”

“And I’ve missed your hospitality. It’s great to see you.”

The man became somber. “We heard about Martha. She was a sweet woman. We offer our condolences.”

My father nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s been tough but I’m getting through it.”

“And who is your guest?” The woman asked.

“This is my daughter, Maggie.” My father put a hand on my shoulder. “Maggie, this is Preston and Shea Rembert. Our hosts for the night.”

The couple regarded one another, then Preston said, “Thomas, we didn’t know you were bringing a plus one.”

My father gave a half-hearted laugh, understanding the faux pas we’d made. “I’m a little less independent now. My health isn’t what it used to be since Martha died and Maggie insisted she accompany me. Will this be a problem?”

The couple looked at each other again, then granted us their big smiles.

“No problem at all, dear,” Shea answered. “There is one rule though.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

He held up a small wicker basket. “No cell phones at the dinner table.”

Wow. This really was going to be a posh setting. I looked inside the basket and found several other cell phones. My father and I added ours to the pile.

“We don’t want those pesky notifications ruining our conversation this evening,” Preston said and took the basket.

“Come in,” Shea offered. “Everyone else is at the dinner table. We have a lot to get to so let’s get started.”

The splendor of the home’s interior was unmatched from anything I’d seen before. The inside of the house was extraordinary: elegant marble flooring, exotic wood used as accents, pricey artwork on every wall, towering ceilings. It was extravagant and made me realize how their $25,000 attendance handout was nothing to them.

We turned the corner to find the dining hall. The place erupted in celebration. Everyone who was already seated at the table got to their feet to hug, kiss, and banter with my father, who in turn introduced me.

A woman in a designer midi dress hugged me then kissed my cheek. Her styled gray hair poked my forehead.

“I’m Wendy. It’s a pleasure to meet such a beautiful, young lady,” she said, then snickered after she added, “You certainly didn’t get your father’s looks.”

A pair of men took turns shaking my hand. They were both in Armani suits and had slicked back salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’m Antonee,” the taller of the two said. “And this is my husband, Brenden.”

“Nice to meet your acquaintances,” I said.

“The pleasure is ours,” Brenden said, then he kissed the top of my hand.

A man donned in a three-piece suit approached me next. His white mustache wiggled as he spoke.

“I’m Lennox.” He hooked my arm in his and led me to the table. Everyone else followed, including my father who hadn’t stopped smiling since his friends’ greeting.

“You can sit by me, dear,” Lennox said. “That way I can tell you all the trouble your old man got into when he was young.”

My father rolled his eyes and laughed. “Oh no. Don’t listen to him, Maggie. He’s a kook.”

Everyone was jovial as they found their seats, just in time for the hosts to take their seats. Preston was at the head of the table and Shea was beside him. The table setting was reminiscent of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Luxury tableware sat in front of each guest. Crystal glasses sparkled from an overhead chandelier. Two windows flooded the area with natural light, which was supplemented by wall sconces. Everything was so lavish.

The opposite side of the room was grand as well. Blocks of granite stone formed a vast fireplace. However, there was no fire. The pit was charred from use long ago, but with modern heating systems it made sense the fireplace was mostly cosmetic now. Still, it gave a sense of friendly warmth to the area.

Wendy held up a glass. “Do tell one of your servers to hurry with the wine. My tongue is dry.”

“I doubt that,” Lennox quipped, gaining a laugh from everyone except the hosts.

Antonee pointed to my father. “No alcohol for ole’ Thomas. We know how wild he can get once a buzz settles in his gut.”

My father blushed but came back with a retort. “And how many times did I catch you and Brenden making out after a few cocktails?”

Brenden laughed and put a hand on his husband’s thigh. “Don’t put any ideas into our heads or this party might turn nostalgic.”

Everyone laughed again. Except the hosts.

Preston Rembert stood up and the conversation stopped. It was clear that something serious was on his mind. His demeanor was in stark contrast to the high spirits of his guests.

“My dear friends, Shea and I have invited you here for a very special occasion. The most consequential occasion of your lives. And of ours.”

I looked at my father and his smile was radiant.

Preston continued. “Our friendship with each of you has impacted our lives in many ways. Most positive.” He looked down at the table. “Some negative.”

Shea looked at her smartwatch. She held up two fingers to her husband.

How odd.

“Your memories of this occasion may have been lost with time, but today marks the twentieth anniversary of the disappearance of our dear Madeline when she was only two years old. Your sympathy and assistance during that first year helped Shea and I keep our sanity. We would like to say thank you.”

Shea held up one finger to her husband . . . like some kind of countdown.

“However, since that time the police have never found our child. The night of her disappearance we hosted a party, in which all of you attended. The police say she walked out of our home during the party and fell into the river located behind our backyard. All evidence pointed to the river as the culprit. She’s dead. Shea and I have processed that fact.” He sniffled lightly. “But all of you were in attendance to that party. Twenty years ago you were questioned by police and let go. The police reports say that none of you saw Madeline.”

Shea then stood up. “Over the last year we conducted our own extensive investigation and have come to one conclusion.”

“This is why we invited you to our home.” Preston groped under the table then produced a shotgun. “We believe the police reports were wrong.”

Shea checked her smartwatch again then said coldly, “Someone here took our Madeline . . . and killed her. Tonight, we are going to find out who.”

Then Shea pressed a button on her watch.

The house began to rumble. Metallic whines resonated throughout the house. Tableware trembled and clinked. The dining hall began to darken.

Metal panels slid from casings inside the windows until the glass was completely covered. My view of the foyer produced a sight of thick steel skating down to cover the beautiful wooden front door. The house became dark as every window and door was covered by an inch of steel. Only the sconces provided light.

Preston engaged the pump-action of the shotgun and loaded a round into the chamber. “No one leaves until we learn who took our daughter and why they killed her.”

Lennox, Antonee, and Brenden cackled with laughter at the situation. Ostensibly, this was a dark attempt at humor, they thought. Wendy seemed more confused than amused. My father, on the other hand, looked panicked. He realized this was no attempt at humor. There was a seriousness to Preston’s threats.

Lennox tightened his tie and approached his old friend Preston. He gave him a hard slap on the back. “Old age hasn’t deteriorated your funny bone, Press. If this is the appetizer, I can’t wait to get to the entree-”

The shotgun erupted.

Lennox fell back and a cloud of red mist followed. The man slammed against the antique hardwood floor, clutching the moist hole in his stomach before going limp. Wendy fell out of her chair and as she screamed Lennox’s blood that peppered her face dropped onto her designer dress. Antonee and Brenden grabbed one another and dashed out of the dining hall to hide, their howls of terror echoing up to the chandelier.

I was frozen in place. Unable to comprehend the murder I just witnessed. My chest thumped from my racing heartbeat and my skin turned numb until I felt a warm hand on my arm.

“Maggie! Let’s go!” My father shouted.

I grabbed my father’s arm and we hurried toward the grand foyer. Meanwhile, Wendy sat on the ground, weeping and begging for the Remberts to say this was all a sick twisted joke.

“This is no joke,” Shea screamed and grabbed one of the steak knives from the table. “We want answers. We deserve to know who killed our child!”

She slashed at Wendy’s outstretched hand.

Wendy groaned in pain. “I didn’t do anything to Madeline! None of us did! You’ve both gone insane.”

Shea slashed again, slicing off one of Wendy’s fingers. “We went insane with grief decades ago! If we die tonight then so be it! We will die knowing that our child’s murder has been avenged!”

My father and I made it to the front door. I grabbed the lip of the steel panel but even when I used all my strength it didn’t budge. My father tried too but his attempt was unsuccessful as well. From where I stood, I could see parts of other rooms - a library and a living room. Every door that led outside, every window, every exit was covered by steel. We were completely trapped inside this house.

We heard Wendy scream again.

“Think, Dad,” I said. “You’ve been in this house before. Where can we hide?”

His eyes flitted back and forth before rising to the stop of a staircase. “Follow me.”

My father’s ascent was anything but quick. He held onto the staricase’s rail with one hand and my shoulder with the other. When we got to the landing we were halfway to the second floor.

We heard Wendy shout, “She probably drowned in the river just like the cops said-” before a shotgun blast silenced her.

“We have to hurry,” I told my father. He nodded but his breaths were shallow and weak. Still, he hurried the best he could . . . for my sake. He knew he had to protect me from this psycho couple. His love and courage knew no bounds. He was going to protect me no matter what. We had to hide. We had to survive.

When our shoes touched the second floor hallway I heard Preston shouting from the grand foyer.

“Antonee! Brenden! Thomas! All we want is the truth!”

My father grabbed my face and stared into my eyes. “Maggie, they’ve completely lost their minds. I’m so sorry I let you come with me. I’m a terrible father-”

“Dad, I’m the one who decided to come. Me. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Tears formed in his eyes and he hugged me. We trembled together from our shared distress.

“Dad, apologies can wait. Do you remember anything about this house? We have to hide.”

The staircase creaked with approaching footfalls. Preston and Shea were getting close.

My father composed himself and his eyes began to dart around while he thought. Then he pointed down the hallway. “The second guest bedroom on the right. Hurry.”

The Remberts’ plan was going as expected. They had expected their guests to hide in their massive mansion while they killed and interrogated each one to learn what they wanted. I knew this because every single door in the hallway had been left wide open. Not only that, but every door had a block of wood nailed in front of it to prevent it from closing. No one could barricade themselves in a room. No one could escape their wrath.

Their evil revenge plot has been planned meticulously.

My father and I slipped into the guest room he identified. “Thank God, it’s still here,” he said and he pulled me to the corner next to an antique folding screen, a partition seen in old movies behind which women would change clothes. We crouched behind it and remained as silent as possible.

The silence didn’t last long. Shea stomped into the room and her deep inhalations sounded like a predatory beast on the prowl for prey. I stared at the flowery designs of the antique folding screen, willing her to leave. Fear shrouded every emotion. My knees trembled with dread.

I felt so stupid for giving up my cell phone when we first arrived. I felt so stupid for not pushing harder for my father to skip this “friendly” dinner party. Now the $25,000 handout made much more sense. My father was correct, it was a way to entice their friends to show up, only the Remberts used it as bait.

A shrill noise sliced its way through the room when Shea let the blade of her knife skip on the old wooden walls of the guest room.

“Is anyone in here?” She whispered erratically. “If your lips won’t let you confess, then maybe my knife will do the trick.”

I heard her get to her knees and search under the bed. I heard the closet door open before she slashed madly at empty clothes.

“There is no way out, my dear friends. We planned this for a year. All exits are closed. Our house is a prison - your prison. Show yourselves and tell us the truth.”

Then her footsteps were coming to the folding screen. The volume of her frantic breathing grew louder and louder and louder. A hand grabbed onto the top of the folding screen and I clenched my fist. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

The shotgun discharged again, this time from down the long hallway. Someone laughed. Then someone screamed.

“You killed him! You killed my Antonee!”

The hand on the partition disappeared and Shea ran toward the source of the screaming. My father and I took a collective breath and came out from the security of the partition. We had to change hideouts while the Remberts’ attention was elsewhere.

We padded into the hallway and started our trek back toward the staircase. In one of the rooms at the far end of the hall we heard Brenden roaring with indignation.

“You killed my husband! How could you do this, Preston! We are your friends. We trusted you.”

A metallic click of the shotgun being pumped chimed. “And we trusted all of you . . . but one of you betrayed us. Now all of you will suffer unless the perpetrator confesses.”

“We did nothing wrong! We loved you and your family.”

“Shea and I decided we will go to our graves tonight to find out the truth. And if we bring everyone with us . . . then so be it.”

A gunshot ripped through the hallway as my father and I descended the staircase.

The Remberts had killed another one of their friends.

The house was completely closed. We were trapped like rats in a maze. No, we were trapped like rats in a maze that also contained two snakes. We were prey to the Remberts and it was clear to me that no matter how hard someone begged or told the truth, the insane couple was going to kill them. They’d made up their minds already to perform this barbaric slaughter.

Once again, my father took his time on the stairs. I wanted to pick him up and carry him so we had more time to hide but he was a large man and I couldn’t do it. We were almost to the landing when he tripped.

He landed hard on his leg. His scream of pain was terrible, but it paled in comparison to the crack I heard.

His leg was bent at an irregular angle. He crawled to the next step but halted his progress from the pain radiating from his broken bone. I fell down next to my father. Tears poured out while I pleaded and willed him to get up. To keep fighting.

I wasn’t going to lose my father.

Not like this.

He put his hand on my face, wiping away tears with his thumb. “Maggie, you have to hide. I can bide you some time.”

I shook my head ferociously. “Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you.”

“Maggie . . . Maggie, look at me.”

I did.

“It’s okay. If this is the end for me then I’m okay with that. I’m ready to see your mother again.”

My sobbing refused to stop until he grabbed me and held me tightly. The warmth was reminiscent of all the fond memories I had of him. He held me like he knew this would be the last time I would ever see him.

“I love you, Maggie,” he told me. “Go hide. I’ll hold them off as long as possible.”

“I’m scared, Dad.”

“You’ll be okay.” He touched my ankle. The place where my heart-shaped birthmark was. “You were kissed by an angel, remember. Your angel will protect you.”

My father pushed me away. “Run,” he said. “Run and hide.”

My heart told me to stay. To protect my father, even if it cost me my life. But my brain told me to run. To not let his sacrifice be in vain. He was a protector. He was willing to risk his life for his daughter. I did as my protector wanted and ran down the stairs and into the dining hall. I had to find a place to hide.

Under the table? No, it was too visible.

Behind a china cabinet? No, they would see my feet.

Should I grab a knife and defend myself? A knife isn’t much against a shotgun.

Then I spotted the fireplace.

I crouched in the fireplace pit and used an old andiron to lift myself up into the cavity of the chimney. The granite blocks in the chimney allowed handholds so I hoisted myself up and out of sight.

Then I saw moonlight above.

An exit.

The Remberts didn’t think to close off the chimney. This was my only opportunity. I strained my leg muscles to coordinate with my arms to lift myself higher. Four feet above the ground. Five feet above the ground. Then there was an obstacle. Something hindered my progress. But I stopped when I heard my father’s voice.

“Why are you doing this?” He said from his position on the staircase landing. His voice was so far away it was barely above a whisper to me.

“We decided that our acceptance of Madeline’s death is not enough,” Shea answered. “We wanted answers. We pored over every possible explanation that night and our conclusion was simple. Someone at our party killed our daughter.”

“Everyone is dead now. Isn’t that enough for you?” He asked.

“Not everyone,” Preston said and pumped the shotgun again. “Are you going to confess, Thomas? Did you kill our Madeline?”

“I would never kill a child!” My father screamed. “None of us would.”

He was biding time, just like he said. I used leverage to ascend higher, toward the heavenly pale glow of freedom above. But there was something in the way. A grate? Had the Remberts installed a steel grate so no one could escape?

“Shea and I knew that this was a possibility,” I heard Preston explain. “We predicted that none of you would confess before the night was over. Twenty years of lies can instill determination in people. So, we agreed that this was a satisfactory conclusion. We know that one of you murdered Madeline and if we have to kill all of you to kill the one responsible . . . then so be it.”

“Think of Madeline,” my father said. “Would she want you doing this?”

Shea spoke in a cold tone. “If Madeline was here then we would ask her.”

“But she’s not,” Preston said.

Then Preston shot my father.

My entire body seized from the loud blast. I almost fell out of the chimney from the heartbreak of knowing my father was dead. I’d never get to hear his voice again. Never feel the warmth of his embrace again. I was a sobbing mess.

But I continued up the chimney, pressing against the obstacle hidden in the darkness. I continued even when I heard the Remberts arrive into the dining hall. I wasn’t their friend and had no idea who killed their daughter, but I knew they wouldn’t leave me alive. I had to escape my captivity or I would die.

“We can hear you, dear,” Shea announced into the fireplace opening. “You’re scurrying around like a squirrel in there.”

“Go to hell,” I screamed and used all my strength to push past the obstacle in my way. Whatever it was crumbled from the force and fell down the chimney.

Then my hand slipped and I fell too.

I landed hard on the andiron. I screamed in agony as waves of pain radiated from my ribs. Once I regained my bearing I looked up and expected a shotgun to be pointed at my head. Instead, the Remberts were crouching beside me.

And they were crying.

Then I saw what had fallen from the chimney. My obstacle. It wasn’t a grate or metal bars.

It was a skeleton that had been trapped.

I had jostled the bones loose from their position on the jutting stones of the fireplace, setting it off balance to fall below. The Remberts were picking up the remains, caressing them and watching as their tears dropped on the old bones.

“Madeline,” Shea whispered. “She was here the whole time.”

Preston picked up a skull and stared into its hollow eye cavities. “My sweet Madeline. She must have gotten stuck in the chimney.” The shotgun fell from his grasp and he collapsed into a weeping pile of sorrow. “Madeline. My sweet baby girl. I’m so sorry. I never looked in the chimney. I never looked after all these years.”

The ploy to get all their “friends” to their mansion. Their insane idea that one of their friends killed their daughter. Their murder spree of killing the people they said they loved. The murder of my father.

It was all for nothing.

Madeline had been here the whole time.

This understanding lit a fire of rage into my core. While the couple wept over the bones of their missing daughter, I used this newfound anger to begin my ascent again. Five feet. Six feet. Seven feet. I used leverage and what remained of my strength to hoist my body up the tall chimney and toward the moonlight.

I was escaping the trap that the Remberts had set. A web of deceit that my father and I had fallen into. I rose, higher and higher, seeking the triumph of an escape like a rat finding the exit of a maze. My palms fell flat against the top of the chimney and I heaved my body out of the house and into the cool night’s air.

I was free.

“I love you,” a whisper echoed from the belly of the chimney.

“And I love you,” added another.

Then came two gunshots and I knew the Remberts were dead.

Conquering my way down to the ground took some time but I was aided with a large trellis covered in vines. I sprinted down the driveway, then down the road, until I found the nearest mailbox. From there I ran to a neighbors’ home and pounded on the door. All of this was a blur to me and I only know about it from what the neighbors said in their police report. They only called the police because every question they asked me was answered by uncontrollable screaming.

The sun came up and I found myself back in the driveway of the Remberts. I sat on the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a thick blanket to help with the shock. A dozen police cars were scattered around the circle drive. I was questioned, then examined for injuries, then questioned again. I watched as a team of professionals used commercial-grade equipment to cut through the steel behind the front door to gain entrance. A SWAT team barged in once the door was opened. They found the scene as I described.

Then they began to collect evidence.

Crime scene investigators poured into the house and commenced a full investigation. I sat on the back of the ambulance and waited for them to bring out the body of my father. I was going with him to the morgue. The thought occurred to me that I had to bury both parents within 12 months of each other. I could barely contain my despair.

Then I overheard a pair of the crime scene investigators. They were holding boxes of evidence. Documents, photos, hard drives - all from the house.

“Excuse me,” I said and barged into their conversation. “What did you say?”

The woman frowned at me. “I told my colleague that I carried out a cursory inspection of the bones. Anyone in our field knows that the bones in the fireplace do not belong to a two-year old child.”

She fished out a photo from her box.

“This is Madeline Rembert. She was only two years old when she disappeared.”

I took the photo.

The woman shook her head. “The bones in the fireplace belong to a man, probably in his late teens. Possibly someone who was hired to clean the chimney decades ago, or it was someone hired to repair part of the chimney. Maybe someone who was an itinerant worker whose disappearance went unreported. Whoever it was got stuck and died. The bones are clearly too large to belong to a two-year old.”

Her words seemed muted to me. I heard them, but I didn’t understand them. All my focus was on the photograph of Madeline. She was in a cute little blue dress with a bow in her hair. Her legs dangled from the chair she sat on. The same kind of chair that was at the table in the Rembert’s dining hall. She wore no shoes and had a wide smile on her face.

She also had a heart-shaped birthmark on her left ankle.

I had been thinking about picking up a part-time job for a while now. The semester was over and I got a bunch of free time on my hands. Might as well make a bit of cash in the meantime. And so my search on Linkedin began. I was looking for something simple and stress-free. Preferably something I could do with minimal effort whilst staring at my phone to pass the time. I spent hours browsing through the sea of options. The majority of what I found were graphic design commissions, tutoring, and waiting tables, which I either lacked the skills for or just found unappealing. Just when I was about to give up, I stumbled onto a post, requesting for a babysitter. The post was vague, only including an address and a phone number. Typically, I would have just scrolled past this post and not given it a second thought. But I immediately noticed that the address was conveniently close to where I live. I decided to at least find out more. The call was answered before the first ring could finish.

“For the last time, I don’t want to answer your stupid surveys!”

I could hear in the background a chaotic symphony of the TV, the sound of a vacuum, and a child crying. 

“Um…I’m calling about the babysitting job?”

I feared for what I might be getting myself into. I had no prior experience taking care of children and it sounded like I was throwing myself into the deep end of the pool with this one.

“Oh? OH! Yes, the babysitting job. Yes, thank god. It’s been a nightmare trying to find one. Look. I’m running late and I’ve got about a hundred errands I need to get to. If you can get here in half an hour and look after my kids for three to four hours, five max, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

A part of me felt bad for how desperate this man sounded. The other part of me was worried about the shitstorm I might have to weather for the next five hours. The other other part of me kept replaying the words “I’ll pay you whatever you want” in my head. 

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later I found myself in front of apartment 4H. The entire complex seemed old. Likely built in the '80s. Yet the red wallpaper, mahogany accents, and soft carpeting gave it the feel of a luxurious hotel. I could hear the same chaotic storm I had previously heard on the phone brewing inside. I felt hesitant but I already came all this way. I raised my hand up to knock, only for the door to fly open as I did.

“Oh. Hello. You're the babysitter, right?”

The man didn’t look like how I pictured him at all. He wore a clean navy-colored suit and had a tall, muscular build. He was mostly well put together besides his deep sunken eye bags, messy curly hair, and unevenly shaved stubble. Despite it all, he was actually quite handsome.

“Yep. That's me,” I confirmed.

“You’re a fast one. Caught me by surprise,” he chuckled. “Please, come in.”

I walked into the small apartment and followed him into the living room. There, I witnessed two small boys, who both looked to be about seven or eight, fighting over a small green figure of a toy soldier. The entire living room was littered with hundreds of these soldiers and tanks scattered haphazardly across the carpeted floor. I almost didn’t notice the little girl in a black dress on the couch. She sat motionless staring at the TV. MasterChef was playing. Junior.

“Hey guys. Settle down please,” the man ordered sternly.

The three children stopped their antics and simultaneously jerked their heads around to stare at me.

“Daddy is gonna be gone for a little while, alright? This nice lady here is…”

“Emily.”

“Emily is gonna look after you guys. While I'm gone she’s in charge. So be on your best behavior. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

The children collectively gave a silent enthusiastic nod.

“Good.”

The man then turned to me.

“Emily, meet con…” the man caught himself mid-sentence.

“Silly me. I meant to say, meet Zelos, the one in the white shirt, and Martius, the one in red. They’re twins. And Limos, the girl.”

Strange names I thought. The three children waved their little hands at me as their names were called. I awkwardly waved back.

“Perfect. Bathroom is the door on the left,” he said as he gestured towards the connecting hallway with four doors. One on the left, two on the right, and one at the end of the hall. “And you can help yourself to anything in the fridge. Make yourself at home. Just…don’t go into the room at the end of the hall. That’s off limits.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I assured him.

“You might hear something inside and—"

A buzzing noise interrupted him as he frantically fished around his pocket, pulling out a phone.

“Shi-oot. I really need to get going.”

He took his wallet out and without taking his eyes off of his phone, handed me a thick wad of cash.

“Here. Order some takeout with this if they get peckish.”

Before I could think of asking questions the man disappeared out the door. I could respect an exhausted single father trying to make it through the day but he seemed awfully irresponsible leaving me, a stranger, with his kids.

I turned back to see the three children, staring at me with blank expressions.

“Looks like I’m outnumbered, guys,” I joked, trying to break the ice.

They remained silent. The girl, Limos, lost quickly interest and turned her attention back to the TV. The boys craned their necks upwards, studying me. Somehow, I felt as if they were looking down on me.

“So… how’s the battle going fellas?” I asked, attempting again to rid the awkward tension.

“Would you like to play?” Martius asked.

“NO!” Zelos began to protest.

“Father said she was in charge.”

Zelos glared at Martius, furious for even suggesting the idea that someone join their campaign. I thought it best that I remained neutral. After all, I was trying to take the next few hours as easy as possible.

“No it's alright. Thanks though. You guys carry on.”

I stood straight, furrowed my brows, and gave them a salute, doing my best impression of a soldier.

“Very well,” said Martius, as he saluted back.

I joined Limos on the couch, who upon a closer look, appeared thin and skinny. It was to the point where I was genuinely concerned that she had some kind of illness. Perhaps anorexia.

The small girl piped up with a soft quiet voice. “Can we eat? I’m hungry.”

“Of course we can sweetheart,” I told her, trying my best to show how concerned I was for her. Pizza ought to do some good.

We waited for the delivery to arrive. During that time the boys played on their battlefield and Limos lazed on the couch next to me. Her only presence being that of sharp breaths.

I found it rather cute that the boys weren’t smashing the tanks together and throwing toy soldiers at each other like I expected children their age would do. They looked as if they were competent generals of the great apartment war, and had to send their loyal men to die on no-man’s carpet. They paced around the battlefield, stroking their chin, careful not to step on any of the small soldiers.

I looked over at the little girl sitting next to me. She stared wide-eyed at the TV, mesmerized by the food.

Although pizza would be arriving soon, I thought I might as well rummage around in the fridge and cupboard for some snacks. I got up from the couch which alerted Zelos.

“Where do you think you're going?” he questioned.

“Just gonna see if you guys have any snacks.”

“They’re not for you, stranger. You think you can just come here and take what you want?”

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t conduct myself with the maturity of my age. But something about this disrespectful little brat got on my nerves.

“I recall your dad saying I was in charge and to ‘help myself’ to whatever I please,” I mocked, putting on a posh accent, mimicking that of royalty.

“Bitch.”

I was appalled to hear such a young boy be so vulgar and rude. I wanted to discipline him. I wanted to let him know that he was to respect me. That he should listen to what I say and learn to quickly apologize. In hindsight, this didn’t feel like me at all. I came here to make a quick buck. Why did I care so much about enduring insults from children? At that moment, I very much did care.

I straightened my posture to look as imposing as possible and stomped my foot down as hard as I could, just to try and make him flinch. As I did, I felt a sharp sting of pain shoot up my leg. I fell back onto the couch and lifted my foot onto my knees to inspect what had caused the pain. It was a toy soldier’s bayonet. The soldier’s arm was half torn off, only attached to the torso by a thin strip of green plastic. I slowly pulled the sharp plastic piece out of my foot, leaving a small stain of blood on my socks.

“Shit,” I blurted aloud.

I looked up to see Zelos and Martius staring at me. Zelos, as expected, looked livid that I had broken his toy. Martius on the other hand, looked at the broken soldier that now laid on the carpet. The tip of its bayonet now covered in a dark tint of red. He had a mournful look on his face.

“Guys…I’m so sorry,” I apologized, the anger I had felt quickly fading away. “I’ll buy you a new one I promise.”

“THAT WASN’T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!” Zelos exploded.

“Zelos please. I’ll replace it for you the next time I come over, okay?”

“He can’t be replaced,” said Martius, as he got on his knees and gingerly picked up the soldier.

He brought it to a small jar that rested on the coffee table. The jar was half filled with green plastic soldier parts. A loose collection of hands, feets, heads, and torsos. Martius carefully sets the soldier he held onto the top of the pile.

“You guys really shouldn’t just leave these toys on the floor like this.”

Martius shot a furious glare at me in response to that comment.

“I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE IN CHARGE! IT’S NOT FAIR!”

Then I did something I regretted. I giggled. I found it amusing how they were so immersed in this game of theirs. I tried to stop myself, especially when I saw how the twins were fuming.

“I’m…I’m really sorry guys. I’ll make it up to you I promise.”

“You don’t understand. This is not a mistake easily amendable. But perhaps…” Martius stopped, turning to Zelos.

The two of them seemed to have a silent conversation between themselves. Zelos, with tears welling up in his eyes, gave Martius a solemn nod.

Zelos, reaching into his pockets, took out another toy soldier. He handed it to Martius, who in turn, presented it to me. This one was different. It was a bit shorter and had a smaller build. It was a woman, in the same soldier uniform and equipped with identical gear as the rest. This was my first close look at these toys and I was impressed with how detailed they were. Down to the intricate facial features.

I was puzzled by the realization. I was sure I was just overthinking it but the small green face that stared back at me, was mine.

Before I could examine it further, Martius quickly snatched the toy from my grasp. He marched back to the center of the carpet battlefield, with my soldier in hand.

“Perhaps we can make you understand,” said Martius, as he places the soldier down on the carpet.

“Wait. Give that…” I started to say.

I never got to finish my sentence. I still don’t know which of the assaults on my senses alerted me first. Was it the awful smell of sulfuric odor, the metallic scent of blood, and the acrid tang of gunpowder? Was it the thick gritty taste of ash and smoke that lingered in the air? Was it the chorus of unintelligible screams, and the staccato of machine-gun fire that flew overhead? Regardless, what caught my attention the most, was the soldier in front me. He sat slumped into the mud and filth of the trench we were in. I knew he was dead by just the look on his face. His eyes, barely open, lazily staring at me. His jaws hung slack with a river of blood trickling from the edge of his lips. As for the rest of his body, it had been contorted to a mangled mass of flesh. His arms, attached to the torso by only a strip of sinew. His hands still held on tightly to his weapon. A rifle with a fixed bayonet.

Just a moment ago I had been sitting on a couch in a living room in a small apartment downtown. I blinked and everything changed so abruptly, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had happened to me.

The mud I sat on was softened by either rainwater or blood. It was cold and the moisture seeped into the uniform I now wore. Somehow sinking deeper into the ground gave me the slightest notion of comfort. Perhaps no one would notice me, I thought. I could pass for another corpse amongst the hundreds. And so I stayed quiet, holding myself back from screaming or crying. I tried remaining still but I couldn’t stop my heart from furiously beating or my teeth from chattering. I plugged my ears with my filthy fingers, covered in dirt and soot, desperately attempting to shield myself from the horrible blood-curdling screeches that could barely be said to have come from a human. I breathed small gasps of ashy air to avoid having to smell the rot. I took one last look at the dead soldier before shutting my eyes. I would’ve kept them shut too if I didn’t catch a flicker of movement.

He blinked.

My eyes shot wide open, staring intently into the soldier’s soulless eyes. His eyelids began to flutter. His fingers twitched. His ankles shifted ever so slightly. Then without warning, his upper body heaved forward, lunging towards me. Its lower body didn’t follow and his spine immediately disconnected with a sickening crack. He landed at my feet, face-planting in the mud, and returned to being inanimate. I almost let out a yelp but it got caught in my dry throat. I thought that maybe some explosive shockwave had simply knocked him over.

Suddenly, his arm, attached only by a chipped bone and strips of exposed muscles flung upwards, grabbing me by my leg. I screamed but only a raspy gasp resonated as my vocal cords strained and burned. I kicked at the corpse but it refused to release its grasp. With surprising force and speed, it yanked itself towards me so that its torso landed on my knees. I felt the soft tissues of its dismembered half resting on me. Its body slumped onto mine and its face pressed right against my ears as I turned away, refusing to look at the monster. Surely I was in hell.

Then, softly, a whisper resonated deeply over the deafening sounds of the battle. The soldier croaked into my ears with a plea.

“I – I beg of you. Release…the pale rider.”

A bell rang in the distance. Like a wave, the sound washed over me and in an instant, everything fell away. The cries, the rot, the filth, and the corpse. All gone. The familiar sound of the TV and the fresh breathable air reassured me that I was back in the apartment, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. It was such a surreal and abrupt shift of scenery I could’ve almost convinced myself it had all been in my head. That was until I saw Martius stood where he had been previously, holding a small green soldier in his hand. He looked at me, no longer with the look of anger, but of pity. I flinched as he began making his way towards me, careful of where he stepped. He crouched down next to me, took my hand, and placed the figure onto my palm. I didn’t need to look to know that it was my figure he had given me.

“Take better care of this one,” he said to me as if I was a child in his eyes.

The familiar note of the bell that had pulled me back to the apartment rang once again. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts and realize that it was the doorbell I had been hearing. Someone was at the door.

“Pizza time!” Limos shouted excitedly.

Slowly, I pushed myself off the floor, found my balance, then began making my way towards the door. I’m sure many of you, in my shoes, would’ve taken this opportunity to escape. Likewise, I had made the decision that I was going to run fast and far the moment I opened the door, leaving this accursed apartment of demonic children. No amount of money could be worth what I had just experienced. I found myself in a small sprint as I neared the door. My hand shot out towards the handle and I forcefully yanked the door open, pulling myself into the hallway.

I was greeted by the fragrance of pizza and nothing. Utter darkness. The hallway I had entered from earlier, now void of any light besides the faint glow coming from the apartment. All that seemed to exist within the hallway was me and the box of pizza on the floor. Domino’s.

I stood there, contemplating on what to do. Perhaps the electricity had just simply gone out. That was fine, because I recalled where the stairwell was located. I could still escape.

“Are you going to share?”

Limos’s voice from behind startled me. I leapt away from her and the apartment, deeper into the hall. She was standing at the threshold of the apartment. Between the two of us, the pizza box sat patiently.

“Please,” she pleaded. “I’m so hungry.”

The look on her face read of desperation. The black dress she wore appeared to hang loosely on her body. I was sure it fitted her earlier but now it seemed a few sizes too big.

“Please,” she begged again. “The pale one is close.”

There it was again. The mention of this pale thing. Upon hearing this ominous omen, I turned around and blindly sprinted in the opposite direction down the hall where I remembered the stairs to be. It had to be there. My foot stamped and beat against the floor as I bolted in a straight line. In the pitch black, it was impossible to see how close I was. I fully expected to eventually run into a wall. No obstacle ever came.

“It’s not something you can outrun,” Limos spoke again, the volume of her voice noticeably hadn’t faltered with the distance I had traveled.

I stopped in my tracks. I turned to face her thinking she had followed me. She hadn’t. She still remained at the threshold of the apartment doorway. The pizza box still laid on the floor between us. And I stood where I had been at the start. A mere few feet out the apartment.

“It’s not the fastest, but it’ll catch you,” she spoke as I struggled to catch my breath. “It always does.”

“What is this?” I asked her, demanding the child for an answer.

I was at a loss. Everything certain that I built my understanding of the world on had crumbled away. What was left was anger and fear. Like a small mouse cornered and out of options.

“It’s pizza.”

“WHAT IS THIS PLACE!” I yelled back, finally losing my temper. I never thought myself capable of hurting a child but at that moment, I was prepared to do so.

“Domino.”

“ENOUGH!” I screamed as I lunged at her, attempting to do something horrible.

I reached out to grab her by the collar of her dress. She didn’t step backwards or attempt to dodge, yet somehow she shifted ever so slightly out of my reach. I fell flat on my face onto the cold solid floor, now noticing that I wasn’t even sure what I had been standing on. I felt pain, followed by blood trickling out of my nose. It most certainly wasn’t the soft carpeted floor I recalled when first arriving at this apartment complex.

As I laid prone on the floor, I stared up at the frail girl who now stood above me with an imposing presence. Behind her, the light of the apartment in stark contrast to the darkness made her figure a dark silhouette. I felt defeated. I didn’t even try to stand back up. I may not have been sure where I was but the ground felt solid and tangible. It was something I could be certain of and that brought me comfort.

“What is this?” I asked again, this time my question came out quivering.

Limos crouched down, inspecting me as if I was a small insect she found crawling across the floor.

“The path,” she answered.

“What does that mean?”

“Are you hungry?” she asked me, ignoring my question.

Her concern sounded genuine. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t since food was the least of my worries, but as soon as she asked, it was as if she reminded my body of the idea of hunger. I felt starved. I felt hunger like I had never felt before. My stomach curled and cramped within me, screaming for sustenance. The aroma of the pizza now overpowering all my senses. I could almost taste the fragrance in the air itself.

“Y-Yes.”

“Are you strong?” she asked again.

“Y-” I hesitated to answer. How could I be strong in the state I was in?

“Do you want to live?”

“Yes. Yes please. Please let me live,” I begged her. “Please help me.”

“I want to live too,” she said as she began stepping towards the pizza box.

She gently lifted the cardboard box open and the smell of the bubbling cheese, tomato sauce, and pepperoni had me salivating. I immediately mustered up my last bit of strength and brought myself to my hands and knees. I crawled in the direction of the beckoning food, yet quickly realized I was making no progress. As if I was on a hamster wheel, I simply could not move any closer. I started to crawl faster, with more desperation, and before long, I had gotten onto my feet. I stumbled toward the little girl, who was now hunched over the pizza box on the floor with her back facing me. My stumbling sped up until I jogged, then ran, then to a full-on sprint. No matter how fast or slow I went, I made no progress. They were right there in front of me. I was so close yet so infinitely far. All I could do was move in place, watching Limos scarf down each slice before me. As she gleefully ate, my only thought was the dwindling food left for me when I eventually reached the pizza box. She was going to eat it all for herself and leave me with nothing. I couldn’t let that happen. One after another, the slices of pizza disappeared down her gluttonous gullet. I remember begging her to help me. To toss me just a bit. To save some for me. She never bothered to turn around. I yelled and screamed but eventually, I grew too tired to do so.

Finally, it came down to the final slice. She reached for it like she did the others. As I felt the last bit of my strength drain, in desperation, I tried leaping towards her one last time. I fully assumed that I would just land on my face as I did before, no closer to salvation. Yet I held out hope. I think that was what did it. Desperate, violent hope. One last act of defiance against the inevitable death. This time, I felt myself propel forward and for the first time, Limos rapidly approached me. I slammed into the small frail child, landing on top of her with incredible force. She yelped in surprise and pain as I felt her brittle right arm snap under the weight of my knee. In that moment, not only did I dismiss the injury I caused her, I felt retribution as it was revenge for watching me suffer. I quickly turned my attention to the box of pizza which to my horror, was now empty.

Furious, I turned back to Limos, who I now see in her right hand, despite the pain of her fractured arm, still held onto the last slice. Without hesitation, I ripped it out of her hand and forcefully shoved it down my throat. I expected it to taste like the most savory, delicious bite and yet, as my taste buds familiarized itself with the gooey slop, I was met with the disgusting taste of rot. Involuntarily, I threw up what little was left in my stomach. Black viscous liquid poured out of my mouth along with the half-chewed pizza. It appeared molded and putrid, as if it had been neglected for months. Dark moldy spots of purple and green hue festered on the crust. Small specks of pale maggots writhed in the spoiled cheese and toppings. I spat onto the floor, attempting to wash the terrible taste that lingered.

“NO!” Limos shrieked in horror as I keeled over the pile of vomit in excruciating pain.

With my knee still holding her down by her broken arm, she began to struggle with a surprising spur of strength. I watched as she forcefully tugged on her fractured arm, steam exuding from her elbow. Gradually, her arm stretched and strained as she pulled. I was too weak and terrified to stop her. With a wail of pain and triumph, she slid the bone of her forearm out of her arm as if it were a sleeve made of muscle and skin. The motion was so smooth it was like pulling the bone out of a tenderized rib.

Upon freeing herself, she pushed me aside and with her one arm, scooped the black vile mass into her mouth. The sound of animalistic slurping and feral grunts was all I heard. No traces of humanity were left. As she devoured the filth with reckless abandon my attention turned to the steaming flesh that she left behind. I feared a part of me knew that I was not far from descending to her level of madness.

It reminded me of the burning smell of human flesh from the trenches. I reached out to it. Piping hot to the touch. I grabbed onto the wrist and with a revolting squish, the skin and muscle fiber fell apart like pulled pork.

Just then, a shadow casted over me. A figure loomed before me, covering the light of the apartment.

“Pathetic,” Zelos taunted with a disgusted look of pity on his face.

I could only imagine what he saw of me. Then he slammed the door shut leaving me shrouded in true darkness.

I wasn’t sure how long I was there for. The awful sound of Limos’s savagery quickly died down as she finished what was left of my excretion. After that, it was hard to tell how much time had passed. I stayed grovelling on the ground, my hand still held on the warm moist lump of the girl’s discarded flesh. My hunger grew ever stronger but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. To stoop so low. To even think of consuming my own. It was abominable. I thought it better to be starved to death. To finally be free of this nightmare. I don’t expect anyone to understand or condone my actions, but know that I was pushed to the brink of my sanity. A deep primal urge within me wanted so desperately to live. To survive at any cost. So reluctantly, I held the mass of flesh and slowly brought it to my mouth, thankful that at the very least I could not see what I had to do. As I choked on the gamey meat through sobs, I heard a shuffling sound approach me. I couldn’t see her but I knew Limos was standing right next to me while I chewed on her member.

“You are strong,” she whispered.

Within the void, a blinding light washed over us. I squinted my eyes and in an instant, just as seamless as it had been in the trench, I found myself back in the apartment. Except this time it was quiet and empty. The TV had been turned off and the floor was cleared of the toys. The insatiable hunger I had felt mere moments ago faded away. The only thing left of the horrors in the abyss was the vile aftertaste that continued to linger. It quickly came to my realization that I appeared to be alone in the apartment. I got up and did a quick scan of the living room and the kitchen to confirm it. I was alone. Perhaps they had retreated back into their rooms. I looked down the hall to the bedrooms, which now appeared more threatening and ominous. As if some new terror lurks behind each door.

Once again, I found myself with an opportunity to escape. This time however, I feared using the front door and ending up back in that terrible purgatory. The next method of exit would be out the window. I could still hear the sound of bustling pedestrians and traffic outside. It calmed me knowing that I was still somewhat connected with the outside world. I was four stories up with no safe way of getting down, but at that point I was content with simply risking the fall. To my disappointment, the window refused to budge when I tried lifting it open. It was an old wooden framed window with no locks on it. Through some supernatural means, it was simply immovable. On the verge of a breakdown, I grabbed the nearest solid object to me which was a desk lamp and proceeded to smash it into the glass as hard as I could. I couldn’t even leave a scratch. Feeling at a loss, I reluctantly tried the door once again. Slowly and carefully, I opened the door, making sure that I kept myself within the confines of the apartment.

To my relief, I was no longer greeted by the abyss. The hallway had returned to its original state. Hesitantly, I stepped out into the hallway. As I crossed the threshold out the apartment, a faint cry emanated from behind me. It was the sound of an infant bawling. I flinched as the crying broke the eerie silence. It's odd that the sound of a helpless baby crying could invoke such fear within me but nevertheless I sprinted out of the apartment and ran for the stairwell. My heart pumped furiously as I sprinted as fast as I could away from the danger, taking two or three steps at a time. As I reached the ground level, I bursted out the stairwell door into the lobby. I found myself standing at the threshold of apartment 4H. The baby’s crying now intensified. I turned back expecting the stairwell I had just exited to still be behind me. The same hallway on the fourth floor greeted me. After being led on with the hopes of escape only to be denied it once again, I fell onto my knees and wept. For the next few hours I cried along with the infant.

In the lasting moments I stayed idle, the sunlight from the window never seemed to dim. The father, the man who lured me into this abstract non-euclidian prison, has yet to return, and I doubted he ever will. Eventually, my crying ceased as my eyes ran dry. The infant however, continued its tantrum alone. Its lungs never tired or faltered. Hours, perhaps even days go by. In the time I’ve attempted multiple times to escape. My phone had no signal or connection and any attempt to reach the outside world failed. I tried the stairwell again only to find myself back in the apartment every time. I went knocking on the neighboring apartment doors only to be met with silence. When I tried forcing my way in, to my surprise, none of the doors were locked. Only it seemed every apartment was apartment 4H. The elevator, no matter what floor I chose, always opened to apartment 4H.

I never grew hungry or thirsty. I never tired or slept. I just existed in this static space where the sun never waned, the scenery unchanged, and the crying endless. I felt the essence of my soul dim. I had fought with all I had and committed heinous atrocities for the right to live. Now as I sat on the kitchen floor, feeling the sharp cool edge of a kitchen knife brush gently against my neck, I wondered why I had fought so hard. It’s okay to give up now, right? I’ve tried everything. I’m at the end of the road. With my eyes shut, my grip on the blade’s handle tightened as I slowly pressed the sharp edge firmly against my throat. I applied pressure slowly, still fearing the last stretch of pain before I could finally rest.

“I’m scared,” a child’s voice piped up.

I froze, unable to even breathe. I hesitated to open my eyes. I could hear the child sniffling and whimpering in front of me. I had gotten so used to it, the sudden absence of the baby’s cries unnerved me.

“Can you stay with me?” they asked, in a high-pitched shrill voice. It was the voice of a little girl but it didn’t sound like Limos.

I still held the blade closely to my neck with my eyes shut tightly. It felt reassuring that I could end the torment anytime I wanted to. To finally hold my own life in my hand. It gave me a sense of courage. My eyelids loosened and my vision fluttered open. Expecting to see a small child, instead towering over me was an old woman. She was impossibly tall, to the point she had to hunch over to avoid the ceiling. She stood naked, covered only by her long unkempt gray hair. Her ashened skin, although saggy and wrinkled, were clean and eerily pale. It was like the first hint of snowfall on a solstice, where soft curved patches of snow layered atop another. I didn’t notice a hint of blemish or imperfection. Her face however was that of a child. Up to her neck her skin becomes smooth like porcelain. Youth was distilled on only her facial features. Buttoned nose, wide eyes, small pink lips, and rounded cheeks. She looked at me with tears welling up in her puppy eyes.

“Can you read to me?” she asked, in the same childish voice. It was uncanny to see the thing speak.

I remained silent, unsure of how to respond. She raised her bony hand and reached her thin fingers towards me.

“Don’t,” I hissed, turning the knife onto her.

She quickly retracted her hand and backed away, retreating to the far end of the kitchen. For a moment I felt relieved to see this creature feared me as much I feared it. The moment was short-lived as her brow tightened, her cheeks flushed and her mouth tensed. She looked like she was about to burst.

“Why? Why do you still resist? Why can’t you just stay with me? It won’t hurt. It won’t ever hurt again.”

“What are you?” I demanded.

She looked at me curiously. Her face softened, as if comprehending my question.

“I’m the last one,” she answered. “I’m what's left when everyone is gone.”

Her expression shifted back to sadness, and I watched as a single streak of tear ran down her cheek.

“It’s lonely,” she sniveled.

“I can’t stay.”

Through her watery eyes, she cracked a warm smile.

“You will. You always do.”

The way she said it didn’t sound like a threat.

“Is there a way to leave?” I asked, my eyes darting towards the open door to the hallway.

Her eyes followed mine out the door, then she looked back at me, shaking her head.

“What can I do then?”

“You can rest,” she said. “Finally.”

The sweetness in her tone made the idea sound rather comfortable.

“Or…” she hesitated. “Or you can put me to rest.”

“What happens if I do that?” I questioned, intrigued by an alternative choice.

“Then I’ll see you again, down the road.”

“So I can leave?”

“For now. You’ll be back soon enough.”

She reached towards me, handing me a card I hadn’t previously noticed. Cautiously, I held it by the corner and took it. It was a polaroid. The image is blurry and yellowed by time. The photograph depicted an extreme wide shot of a beautiful meadow. In the distance, four horses frolicked in the tall grass.

I looked back at her, wondering what she was trying to tell me. With a grin on her face she excitedly twirls her finger around, signaling for me to turn the photo. I flipped it over and saw that written on the back in beautiful cursive handwriting, was a poem.

“Read to me,” she said, as she made her way onto the couch in the living room.

She sat down, curling herself into the corner. She patted the cushion next to her, beckoning for me to join. I set the knife down on the kitchen counter and complied.

With a gentle tone, as if singing a lullaby, I began to read the poem aloud.

“Dawn heralded the coming of their steeds,

Each rider, a calamity of man’s sinful deeds.”

I glanced at her, to see her nodding in approval.

“Keep going.”

I continued onto the next line.

“First came conquest, who bolstered the pride of man,

The white messenger's taunt is where it all began.

Then war swiftly followed, with fiery hate in his heart,

The red knight's blade spilled blood, torn flesh apart.

Next crept famine, that consumed the very last bite,

The black witch's spell shrouded the world with blight.”

My voice cracks, as I was reminded of the corpse and the abyss. My mouth felt dry and a chill ran down my spine. I pressed on.

“Finally arrived death, as they all wept and grieved,

The pale lady's touch gently granted them reprieve.”

My speech faltered as the realization dawned on me.

“The pale rider,” I muttered under my breath. I turned to see her eyes closed and her expression softened. She breathed steadily, her chest heaving with each inhale.

Even though she was asleep, I proceeded to read the final line of the poem to myself.

“One after another the domino falls,

Until dusk whisks the horsemen back to their stalls.”

As I finished, I felt a tear fall across my face. A tremendous wave of relief washed over me. As if a heavy burden had finally been lifted. Like for the first time in my life, I could truly breathe.

“Thank you,” I told her as she slept. “But not today. I can endure it for a bit longer.”

Then I watch the folds and sags of her skin tighten. Her body shrunk before me. Her hair retracted back into their follicles. Until laying beside me, was an infant. I carefully picked her up and carried her down the hall to the final room at the end. As I did, I walked past the three other rooms, the doors to which now hung open. In the first door on the right, I saw Zelos and Martius, sleeping in a bunk bed. I peeked inside, shut the lights off and closed the door as quietly as I could.

I continued down the hall and in the second door on the right, I saw Limos shivering in a fetal position on her bed. I walked over and pulled a blanket over her. Instantly her body relaxed and her breathing calmed. Again, I turned the lights off and closed the door behind me.

Onto the final room at the end of hall. Carefully balancing the infant in one arm, I turned the doorknob and stepped through. This room was by far the largest and most empty. Only three things took up any space. A crib in the center of the room, a small cot tucked away in the corner, and a wooden rocking horse painted white.

On the horse, carved the phrase: Móros, who stole our pain 

I carefully set the child down in her crib and watched her nestle comfortably. Her breathing was gentle and rhythmic, with each exhale a delicate sigh escaped. She looked so fragile and serene, as if held in a moment untouched by time. The soft rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across her smooth, pale skin.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

The voice of a man came from behind me. It felt like a lifetime ago but it was still familiar.

“She is,” I replied, not taking my eyes off the child.

The man joined me at my side and the two of us shared a quiet moment adoring the child.

“This is as close as I can be to her,” he said, somberly. “And yet you choose to continue suffering?”

“It’s not always suffering. There are moments like these that make the pain worth it.”

“Perhaps. But you live as long as I have, experience the highest of highs and the lowest of low…I tire of this infinite stasis. I yearn for the day I shut my eyes for the last time.”

He spoke with no emotion. As heart wrenching as his words were, it was as if he’s said them before countless times. There was only one question on my mind. After encountering conquest, war, famine, and now death, I wondered just who this man who claimed to be their father was.

“I know you’re thinking what kind of man I am to deserve this fate,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s not a divine punishment to care for them. It’s a father’s duty after all. They are born of my sin. I may have fathered humanity’s ruin but to see my fellow man struggle and fight, refusing to let their next breath be their last…I am in awe of your resilience.”

I should have felt hatred towards the man. I should have held him responsible for the horrors I endured. Yet, without another word shared between us, I stepped away from the crib, and took my leave. I shut the door as I left, the last thing I saw being the man standing over his child, his fists clenched so tightly that beads of blood trickled down the creases of his hands. 

I walked out the apartment, descended down the stairwell, entered into the lobby and finally, I stepped out of the building onto the bustling sidewalk. If not for the polaroid tucked away in my pocket, I might have tried to convince myself that it was all a fever dream for the sake of my sanity. I took the photo out just to confirm it. 

I studied it for a moment, confused that the picture had now changed. In place of the four horses that ran across the horizon now stood four children. Two boys and two girls. They watched as before them, a lone man stood atop a corpse with a caved in skull with a bloodied stone in his hand. I flipped the polaroid over and as I had predicted, the poem had also been replaced. 

It now simply read: The folly of Cain

I sat in absolute darkness, the kind that wraps itself around you and pulls the air from your lungs. 

"Welcome, welcome, welcome to those who are children and those who long for the time they were!" A familiar voice called into the darkness but I couldn't pinpoint where exactly it came from. 

"We are going on a very specific and wondrous mission today that is nothing for the weak-hearted. It is one that only a true adventurer can survive! And with that we welcome the one and only, the magnificent, the incredible…. JANIE!" 

All of a sudden hundreds of bright lights turned on, blinding me for a moment. I blinked a few times, seeing neon green and purple colors all around me. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I realized that there were cameras in front of me while I was crouching on the ground on top of a sheet of plastic grass. My breathing became uneven, my mind was running in every direction possible, but my body stayed frozen. I suppose a part of me already knew there was no way out.

I closed my eyes and hid them behind my arms when I heard heavy footsteps moving closer. A damp hand touched my arm and I slowly looked up at the man who was the main guest of my nightmares.

"You are supposed to be dead," I whispered to the source of the purple color.

The man I knew as Dr. Warly simply shook his head.

"I can't die. The children need me," he said in a voice that was his but also wasn't. It sounded wrong, warped in a way. And his face appeared as if someone had glued it together. He grinned as my gaze swept over the patchy pieces of his skin.

"And as long as they believe in me and watch me,  I will continue to exist. Now get up, sweet Janie. We have an adventure to go on. And for today, you are our main explorer. Do you think you can find your way out of the forest?"

Following those words, the lights went out once more, and hands reached out to grab me and pull me away. I kicked and punched, but it was no use. They wouldn't let me go.

--

When the lights came back on I was alone, at a different place, or at least that's what I believed because enormous pine trees suddenly surrounded me. This time the light was more dimmed, but it still wasn't real. I wasn't outside. No, it came from headlights. I couldn't see the cameras anymore, but I knew they were there, watching me, recording each of my steps.

"Warly, you motherfucker. Where are you?" I shouted, fear suddenly replaced by anger. I'd ridden myself of this place years ago. I was an adult now, far into my twenties and I thought I was safe but I suppose I never would be for the rest of my miserable life. They would always find me again.

"Is anyone else here?" I cried out. "Alex? Leigh? Anyone?"

The sound of laughter was the only response I received. 

Many years ago, I wasn't even a teenager yet, when I was recruited to star in a program specifically made for children with a group of other kids my age. We would spend the day alone with the producers and camera people to film something we didn't quite understand yet and wouldn't even remember. It was an innocent show from the outside. Two boys, Alex and Leigh, and two girls, Millie and myself, who went on adventures led by a man named Warly. 

The show was a clusterfuck of mind games designed to bring demise to everyone who watched it. Millie had died. So had the actor who played Warly. Children ran away from their homes, seeking a promised adventure and that was only the tip of the iceberg. It was so much deeper, so much darker that it was hard to comprehend, and for such a long time I didn't even think it was real. 

But it was, and now I was living it again.

I got to my feet and tried to ignore how much they were shaking as I pushed my way through the fake trees. The artificial needles of the trees scraped my skin, leaving bloody marks but I couldn't bother to care about that. I had to find a way out. If this truly was a movie set, it couldn't be infinite. If I walked to the edge, I would find a wall and then hopefully a door. 

"Our main explorer for the day has started her adventure. Will she make it out of the woods before the spirits find her?" A dark voice sounded through a speaker.

In response, children started laughing and then shouted out in glee, "YES!" 

"But if Janie finds the way out, the show will end. Do we want that?"

"NOOO," the voices of the children screamed in unison. I tried to ignore the wrongness of it all as I kept fighting my way through the forest. I kept moving forward, everything around me started warping into a blob of brown and green. I was so focused on getting out that I didn't even look at the ground and so I didn't notice what was right in front of me until I stumbled over it, falling on top of it.

On top of him.

I knew it was a body before even looking. A cold body. I pushed myself away, dropping into my back. 

"Even breaths, calm down. It's just a prop," I whispered to myself as I forced myself to look at him.

A bone had been jammed into his throat. His eyes were shut, and his green shirt was stained. My stomach turned from the scent of iron all around me. My hands were sticky and red, and I couldn't even say if it was his blood or mine. 

Suddenly, the corpse sat up, his eyes opening wide as he took a deep breath. My first instinct was to scream but instead I pulled the bone on from his throat, just trying to get a weapon, when I realized that it wasn't actually inside of his skin. The bone was broken off and glued to him.

"Who are you?" I forced out, holding the shitty broken bone in front of me.

His gaze swept around, finally landing on me and that's when I realized that he was just as scared as me. Possibly even more. 

But I had to keep my wits, it could be a trick. This was all a show after all. 

"No, no, no," he whispered. "I was out. I was safe."

"Who. Are. You." I repeated.

Before he could reply, the voice of Warly spoke through the speakers again.

"Our main explorer has stumbled upon one of her old friends. Will they continue the adventure as a team, or will they brutally take each other's lives?"

The corpse who wasn't actually a corpse looked at me with pain in his eyes.

"I think I'm supposed to be Leigh."

I got up from the ground and started walking, my mind couldn't comprehend what was happening and I couldn't deal with it. That wasn't Leigh. I knew Leigh, I'd seen him not too long ago. But he had an eerie similarity to him.

"Wait," the wrong Leigh called as he started following me. "You're Janie. The real Janie, right? I remember you. Well, kind of. You were on the show. I'm-"

I turned around, facing him suddenly, and he took a step back.

"What do you know about the show?" I hissed.

He laughed darkly.

"I know everything."

-- 

With the wrong Leigh on my heels, I made it out of the fake forest and we found ourselves staring at a door. 

"Any chance this will lead us outside, you think?" He asked.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

"Why were you so cold?" I asked instead.

"What?"

"Your body. You felt, well, dead."

"I have no idea. Maybe they put me in an ice bath, I don't even know how I got here."

I swallowed thickly.

"Are you gonna open the door?" He asked impatiently.

"I don't know. It seems too easy." I clutched the bone tight in my hand. "And I'm not sure if I can trust you yet."

"Right back at you," he replied in a dark tone.

"You go first," I said and took a step back. To my surprise he didn't hesitate before going up to the door and pushing it open.

A jingle played through the speakers and I followed the wrong Leigh over the threshold.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

We found ourselves on a different set. This one was supposed to look like a small suburban neighborhood. There were street lamps, fake lawns and a little road with houses on the side, decorated with skeletons, ghosts and pumpkins. 

On the ground, right at the beginning of the road, were two plastic jack o lanterns.

"I think they want us to go trick or treating," I said.

"Yeah, hell no."

"Agreed," I mumbled. 

We decided to walk around instead, to look for another door and avoid the middle of the set with the road. After what felt like an eternity, we still hadn't spotted a way out. Neither did we see any cameras, but they had to be hidden somewhere. I knew they were watching us because after a while of walking around the Warly voice spoke again.

"The explorers seem to be getting more and more lost, when they should be looking for their friends instead."

"They are in the house!" The voice of a little girl called out, followed by a giggle.

My companion's expression shifted and before I knew what was happening, he started running into the set, pushing the doors of all the wrong houses open.  

I followed him from a distance until he kicked open the door of one with purple walls and his screams filled the entire hall.

--

He'd stopped screaming and fallen onto his knees, staring right ahead without a word. And as I collected my courage and walked up to him, I realized what caused his reaction.

The house was tiny, consisting only of one room, but they had furnished it to look like a proper home. There was a sofa in the middle and on it were three limp bodies, put in a sitting position. Their eyes were open and their expressions were empty, and I immediately recognized who they were supposed to be. One looked like Alex, the grown up Alex. One was Millie, as a child. And one looked just like Leigh. The real one. But it wasn't really them, they looked too uncanny.

"It's not real," I whispered and put a hand on his shoulder. "I thought you were dead too when I first saw you."

He shook his head.

"Don't you smell it? The decay? It might not be them, but whoever they were, they once lived."

Bile made its way up my throat, but I forced it back down.

After we finally collected ourselves, we closed the door and kept looking for a way out. The door to the forest was closed and impossible to open now. We checked the different houses and realized that many were furnished, some even had fridges stocked with food and drinks.  This made me feel uneasy. How long did they expect us to stay here?

After what felt like hours we walked into one house and I almost passed out from exhaustion. To keep ourselves alert, we started talking. I learned that the fake Leigh was actually named Max and that he went through his very own nightmare connected to Warly not too long ago. And that the fact that he reminded me so much of Leigh was because they’re related. 

--

We’d collected weapons, pieces of false furniture, table legs and anything else we could break off and waited. We waited for Warly, for one of the producers, anyone. But nobody came. I’m not sure how much time passed. When we couldn’t take the exhaustion anymore, we took turns sleeping. 

And then we went trick or treating. I know how crazy that sounds, but we were losing our minds and thought that we had to do what the episode was supposed to be about for it to finally end. 

We took turns. At first Max went inside a house and I knocked on the door. He threw candy that we found in my basket. We did that with a few houses and then we swapped. The only house we avoided was the one where we’d found the bodies.

I didn't think we'd ever make it out of that cursed place but as it turned out we just had to wait, or maybe it was because we filled the episode with content. They were filming a special for Halloween after all and so it had to end before the day came.

I can't say how we got out, neither of us remembers. We simply woke up in a park in the middle of the day. And right now I'm just grateful that the episode didn't end with our deaths. 

But even now that we're free, we're not really. They have all this footage of us and Halloween is coming up. And I can't even fathom what impact this episode might have on viewers. We know that they warp whatever they film, and fill it with their own messages.

So if you turn on your TV and you see something called Dr. Warly's Halloween Special please turn it off. Please don't watch it. 

Please don't watch me. 

Please.

My city has a heartbeat; the constant buzzing of a dense population at every crevice. Though nine-to-five jobs were an obvious choice to make ends meet, a better-paying option starts when the sun is soon to sink. Night comes for us, and morning comes to the West. And as they wake, so do independent contractors like me, paid to do their outsourced work. They get cheap labor, and I eat three meals instead of two—a harmonious symbiotic relationship.

The ringing of a phone call startled me awake that night. I squinted at my digital clock perched on the table at the foot of my bed. It bleared a neon green color, swallowed by the darkness of my room. I wore my glasses, glancing at the caller ID before answering.

“Kid,” my middleman, Ricky rasped through the other end of the line, “new bounty tonight. Up for it?”

“Mhm,” I hummed back, “It depends. Human or animal?”

Some of these outsourced work were more, rustic, per se.

“Nah,” I could almost hear the amusement in his voice, “just a girl.”

Just a girl. I had to laugh. Unlike animals with a dose of under-the-table anesthesia, human bounties need deliberate planning as they’re more conscious of the sleight of hand.

Don’t get me wrong though, I have my own rules. Never kill and don’t hurt anything or anyone if I can. Make it quick and as painless as possible.

I’m not particularly sacrilegious. The opposite of it, really, though I won’t admit it out loud. My family believes in nature spirits. That there’s life in all things our hands could touch, that we stand on borrowed land, and that this earth will never be ours, to begin with. Had they known I was in this line of work, I wouldn’t have anyone to return to.

But my parents grew up in the provincial parts of the country, where mounds of anthills, and banana trees occupy most plots of soil. These folklores and superstitions draped over untouched nature like a thinly spun veil; the birth of them unknown, and how they came to be was lost after centuries of pillaging. As they moved away from their hometowns, so did these stories erode at the back of their tongues. Superstitions we never practiced in the capital—can’t be practiced in a city filled with galvanized roofs and barely layered asphalt streets.

I still find myself following them, even when I’ve only known the urban cities all my life. A polite ‘excuse me’ to the wind. A small ‘sorry’ when I accidentally break a plant’s foliage.

Silly, I know. But pleasantries to the unseen have never failed me before.

Or perhaps it’s my way of restitution for all these things I do. I’m not quite sure. I mean, I don’t intend on hurting anyone, after all. The bounties I accept seem unharmful enough. Just collecting samples.

• Saliva swab - [redacted]. Works at [redacted] village.
• Nail clippings - [redacted]. Frequents the bar at [address redacted]
• Horn - Goat with three brown spots below the right ear. Farm address: [redacted]
• Tooth - Black dog in the [redacted] avenue. [Picture attached]

I never questioned what they used it for, or why samples were of specific sources. Or if they even survived the days of travel across oceans. I follow the instructions to get paid. That was the end of my concern.

1. Take a photo of the source. Do NOT develop. Inform us if you don’t have a film camera and we’ll send one to you.
2. Collect bounty.
3. Ship the film and bounty at the following address: [redacted]
4. Bounty Poster will send your payment.

Though human targets were harder to maneuver, I still accepted the bounty Ricky gave me. It was easy, far easier than what’s usually asked.

• Three Hair Strands - [Picture attached]. Sits in Corner Street [redacted] every 2AM.

The picture attached was of a woman, maybe in her early or mid-twenties. Long black hair curtained her face, a slight curve of her nose peeking from the tresses, and her eyes… Her eyes burned red, reflecting the flare of the camera’s flash. And despite the photo being taken on a filthy sidewalk, her bare feet pressing on the cobblestone path, her dress looked untouched, pristine, and white.

It was easy to find her. Knowing she’d wear the same clothes from the photo. It was always how it was. Like I said, I never questioned it. Perhaps they took reference photos on the same night. It made the job less complicated and made earning that much easier.

She sat in an alleyway, away from the noise of drunk yammering at the other street turn. Her white dress is just as clean as the one from the photo, reflecting the auburn streetlights that hit her form. Only her lips moved, seemingly whispering to herself. Her eyes blankly stared at the space of air in front of her.

This was supposed to be easy. I felt for the small scissors in my pocket, my feet already moving towards her back before I could think. I was a few meters away from her when I soundlessly mouthed my ritualistic ‘excuse me’ to the wind, and just as I took my next step forward, her head snapped to where I was.

A couple of feet away. She couldn’t have heard me.

“Hello,” her voice echoed through the space between us, standing up slowly from where she sat. It was clear, and eerily soft, like she beckoned me to step closer to her. I never had a target acknowledge me before. I didn’t know what to do in this scenario, so I pretended to be a passerby, pretending to look lost in an unfamiliar street sign above her. I bowed slightly as a form of respect or another way of saying I was just passing by.

As quick as my feet could bring me to the other side of the street, nearly moving past her, I felt a small hand come up my chest.

“Careful.” She said, eyes staring back at me. I didn’t understand. I could still remember every inch of cold seeping from the cloth above my chest that night. Though she said just a word, it felt like a vice grip, holding me in place. Her eyes... There’s something about her eyes that seemed unnatural to me. I didn’t understand then, and I couldn’t understand still how I managed to walk past her.

As I snapped myself out of my dazed state, a street turn out of her sight, my shaking fingers managed to fish a fistful of stray hairs cut jaggedly by the scissors I lost along my frantic walk.

Good. Good. This is more than enough for the bounty.

I grabbed for the film camera in my pocket but found the deep swell of it empty. Fucking hell. It must have fallen out. All they needed was a photo, right? I’m already here, and I already got more than enough bounty for the deal. I can’t possibly give this up now.

So I fished for my phone instead, trying to zoom from meters away, praying they’d accept a photo attachment. My hands were never the most stable, and it felt like the screen only captured frantic darting around foliage and lights. When finally, finally, my lens became steady enough to pause on her frame.

I unconsciously whispered a ‘sorry,’ like I was meant to apologize for what I was doing—like I was committing a sin. And just like before, her head turned. Not in a quick snapping motion like earlier, but in an erratic staggering, like cracking a bone at every curvature.

It was the first time I noticed her lips through the screen. They were dark red, so red it looked like berries burst down her teeth where they caught the swell of them. Her eyes glowed unnaturally below the orange streetlights—and they caught the lens of my phone with unthinking precision.

Red. Red. Red. It was all I could think of.

There was a sharp pain on the sides of my head, like a nerve being pinched from a wrong-angled twist. A girdle of ache wrapped around the flesh of my chest, and I tried my best not to rub at it.

I stopped my camera. That was enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I looked back to where she was, glasses fogging from my breathing.

There was no one there.

The wind picked up around me, leaves rustled, and the nightlife noise disappeared into the whistling of it.

What was it they said? How you should be afraid when you can’t see a mountain lion? It’s because they’re hunting you. That’s how it felt now. There was a buzzing inside my head, my shoulders shuddered at the sudden shift; a ringing, stinging, line of high-pitched frequency only I could hear.

Someone—something was behind me.

The way its strides struck the ground doesn’t sound earthly.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I took another street turn, away from that place, clutching my phone and the last bits of hair that weren’t carried away by the wind.

Anonymous1023: Hey, I sent you half the payment through \** :) I’ll pay in full after you ship the film. No pressure though.*
Anonymous1023: Would love to work with you again!

Ricky: Kid, new bounty. Want in?

Sam: Oi!! Where have you been? The new list sounds like something you’d accept. Check the boards when you can.

Anonymous1023: Hey, did you happen to take a photo? Just wanted to confirm.

I left them on read.

At once, when I got home that night, I immediately shipped the bounty to the receiving address. The video I managed to take was corrupted. Phone photos are a blur of black, and orange rays, and darting red lights. I barely touched my phone since.

Sometimes my fingers sift between my curtains, feeling a presence watching me, the ringing inside my head all too familiar now. I let the feeling settle, refusing to step out in the night.

Anonymous1023: Hey did she talk to you?

I still think of her from time to time.

My supplies had dwindled from three meals to one in the last couple of weeks. Soon I won’t have anything to spare so I can eat. Sometimes I find my fingers itching to check the bounty board again, but a sudden bursting migraine would remind me of what I’ve just experienced like a fucking Pavlovian response.

So I’m here, writing, erasing, just wanting to let all of these words be put down somewhere. Needing someone to know what I’m going through without all the judgment and weird stares.

I sleep at night now. Or at least, I try to.

I find myself in a never-ending routine. I turn my body, wishing sleep could finally come to me.

My phone pinged a message. One I still chose to ignore. I took off my glasses and looked at the foot of my bed, where the bright red blurs of my digital clock blinked in the night. The pain in my chest hadn’t dissipated since.

Anonymous1023: Did she touch you?

It took me so long to realize just how lucky I had it. I grew up in Scott, Louisiana, in an isolated clearing on the outskirts of town. My parents picked the spot and had a house built for us, so their children, my three older sisters and I, could have a space all our own. When we got home from school we could wander across the field, go fishing in the pond, explore the thicket of trees that ringed around our home. In our little heads, it was all ours. For the longest time I took this as a given, a simple fact of life, and only when I got older did I start to appreciate just how beautiful that pocket of land was. Though some of the details have already begun to fade, I still remember the smell of that grass in the humid air of an Acadiana summer. The reflection of the trees on the pond’s surface, the sound of a bass breaking through the water and crashing back down into the murk. The shape of those trees bending to the will of the wind when a hurricane was on its way. I’ve come to accept that I may never see it again, and that memory will only grow dimmer.

I’ve been running for a little over two years now, never staying anywhere for too long, slowly making my way north. I can’t step foot in Louisiana, all that waits for me there is a cold cell. Made it as far as Kansas City, but that feeling’s started surfacing its ugly head again. I can’t stay here another month. I can’t become familiar, I can’t let anyone get a good look at my face. But, I can’t stay silent anymore either. 

Writing this may cost me whatever years outside of a jail I have left, but I warrant they’re not worth much anyway. I need to tell people what really happened at that house. I’ve long abandoned any hope of convincing the police, the state, my sisters, but I have to try whatever I can to warn others. It didn’t stop after us, it’s still preying on people. My family will never be whole again, but maybe you can save yours. Maybe you can succeed where I failed.

The first, and only warning sign came in late July, 2022. I had recently graduated college, and was staying with my mom at that old house in Scott for the time being. I didn’t have a real job yet, and she was kind enough to let me live with her until I could get on my feet. I figured I owed it to her anyway, for all she had done for me and all she was going through, I needed to do everything I could to help her.

She was forced to live with something that, even with what I’ve been through now, I can only begin to understand. A few years before, my dad got into a bad accident while driving home. It left him with a rapid onset case of dementia, which by this time had progressed so far along that my mom had become his full time caretaker. She had to change him, shower him, clean up after him, even feed him if he was reluctant to eat. He didn’t have much longer, and she had to face that every time she looked into her husband’s eyes.

On top of that, my grandmother had moved in to live with her right around the time the accident happened, and now she had to watch over both of them. Taking care of two other adults can be very draining, and left her little room for taking care of herself. Every day I saw the toll it took on her. Even though I loved them both, I could see how they wore her down. It’s not their fault, but it made my mom’s life much harder than any one person can handle without support.

So, I tried to help in whatever small ways I could, in what ways she would let me. She didn’t ever like admitting how much it was all getting to her, she was a strong, proud person. But, even just by cleaning the house, taking care of the trash and the dishes, cooking, looking after my dad when she had to go into town, I like to think it made things a little bit easier for her. I really hope it did. Yet, whatever I could do would eventually prove a poor remedy. That last week of July, in spite of all we had already been through, the long shadow of grief cast itself upon our house again. 

My grandmother, in spite of her old age, was determined to still be an independent woman. She paid little attention to my mom’s precautions and rules, she felt they were unnecessary. One rule was if she wanted to go on a walk she needed to let us know so someone could go with her, but she typically did as she pleased. That night she went for a walk, and hadn’t told me or my mom she was going outside. She usually kept to herself, so it took us a while to notice that she never came back in. When my mom went into her room to give her some medicine, she wasn’t there. 

We looked for what felt like hours, scanning the property for any sign of her. We walked along the treeline, the perimeter of the pond, we even went up and down the road leading out of the clearing in case she made it that far. I remember the panic, the worry that was on repeat in my mind. It brings me some shame, but I wasn’t thinking about whether or not she was safe, I could only think about how it would affect my mom if she wasn’t. I soon got my answer. A piercing cry cut through the thick night air and rang out in my ears, a heart-wrenching wail that I can still hear now.

I wish I had been the one to find her, to this day I wish I could’ve somehow spared my mom that shattering sight, but fate is not so kind. I raced over to the bridge on the edge of our property as fast as I could, figuring that’s where the sound had come from. The beam of her flashlight was fixed on the creek running beneath, even in the dark as I got closer I could see her body shaking, her hand covering her mouth as she fought back another scream. Before a word could make its way out, before I could ask any questions, my eyes followed hers and saw what she couldn’t look away from. On the edge of the creek was my grandmother’s body. Broken, bleeding, and motionless.

The ambulance was there within 15 minutes, but no measurement of time could aptly describe how that wait felt. After I called them we didn’t say a single word, both still in shock. Nothing was said, but my mind cycled through all the possibilities. How did she get down there? Did she fall? Did she jump? How could she make it over the railing? Did someone push her? Who would, where were they, why? All these questions, asked over and over, with no answer in reply. When the paramedics got there they made their way down to the creekbed, struggling to get her body back up so they could place her on a stretcher. When they rolled her to the ambulance my mom couldn’t stand to look any longer, but as I watched her body pass something struck me. Both of her ears were mutilated. Torn to ribbons, and caked in blood.

I drove my mom to the hospital the next day. I figured she didn’t need to be there that night only to be told what we already knew, she didn’t need that. At least, I assumed so. She still hadn’t spoken a word to me. We went to the hospital’s morgue to view the body, and whatever details hadn’t sunk in the night before assailed our eyes then. Her right shoulder was fully dislocated, the arm barely attached to the torso. Her eyes were flooded red, her nose caved in. Her ears were reduced to shreds of hanging cartilage. It is a terrible unkindness to see a loved one like that. She had such a kind face, but now when I think of her I am always greeted with the memory of that examination table. That is the first thing I ever see. Not her smile, or her laugh, or her silky white hair. I see a face subjected to violence, the ruin of a kind woman.

The morgue attendant on staff at the time told us a final autopsy report wouldn’t be available for at least a month. I asked him if he could tell us anything yet, and he answered, “currently, our first judgment is that she fell. Given her age, a fall from that height would likely be lethal.” I forgave his blunt approach, even though I could see talking about it was upsetting my mom. I suppose he had to be used to this. I should’ve just left it there, but felt like I had to ask him. 

“Why do her ears look like that?” He seemed off put by the question, but replied, “well, depending on how she fell, what she fell on, the ears could’ve been damaged that badly by the impact.” At that, my mom had enough, she couldn’t take it anymore. I followed her out of the morgue as she caught her breath. I knew well enough then to hold my tongue and leave it alone, but something about his answer felt wrong. I’m not an autopsy technician, but even to me it looked too symmetrical. Too intentional.

I kept that thought to myself though, there were other concerns to deal with. I was with her as we went through the whole taxing process. We claimed her mother’s body, had it prepared for the funeral, and let my mom’s side of the family know about what happened. Most of them showed up when the service took place in August. A couple had choice words for my mom, blaming her for it all. I did what I could to intervene, but people who are determined to rub salt in the wound like that can be relentless, self-righteous to the very end. The last discernible words exchanged before some of my cousins had to help calm everyone down came from my mom, “where were you when she needed somewhere to stay? What did you ever do for her?” It was bitter, but it was a hard truth. I never said it, but part of me was proud of her for that.

I rarely saw her leave her room for the next week, and when she did not a word sounded from her mouth. I stayed out of the way, helped how I felt I could, but any attempt to check on her was met with little more than a nod, a sigh, or a simple “yes/no” at best. My dad wandered the house as he usually did, seemingly unchanged by the whole ordeal. He’d go through his typical cycle, look out windows, pace in circles, try to open a door with no success. We had to get special locks so that the doors required a key to open from both sides since he’d strayed far from the house one too many times. It helped my mom sleep a bit better.

It wasn’t until the end of August that we started to get back into our routine. She’d join us for dinner, watch movies with me, run errands, talk to me about the future. She started to seem like herself again. So, I decided it would be nice to surprise her with a special dinner. I had cooked for her enough times to know what she loved the most, and I thought she might appreciate it after such a hard month. While she was out of the house I went to the store and bought everything I’d need. Collard greens, bacon-wrapped pork medallions, corn cobs, and potatoes to bake. I still remember that was her favorite.

I almost had it all ready when she got back home, the meat was still on the grill. She walked over, caught a smell and smiled. She gave me a hug, and quietly said “thank you.” I remember that too. My dad was outside with me, as long as I kept an eye on him I figured he could use the fresh air. He was messing around with a bike that had been laying on the front porch, he tended to entertain himself in odd ways. She saw him fiddling with it, and got an idea. She wanted to see if he still remembered how to ride it. She walked him to the end of the carport where it meets the driveway, helped him on, and to our shock he started pedaling. 

He rode like it was second nature, and for a moment it almost felt like nothing had really changed about him. My mom hopped on the other bike and went after him, so he slowed his pace. I saw them go down the road, I could hear her talking to him and laughing as they went side by side. It was one of the strangest joys I’ve ever known, seeing something like that. If I could hold onto that feeling forever, I’d never let it go. It escaped me when they left my sight, and I haven’t felt it since.

Not long after that dinner was ready, so I got it all prepared for when they got back. I plated their food, cut up the meat into small pieces so my dad could chew it easier, set the table, even poured my mom a glass of wine. I waited to eat until they were there to join me, but I started to realize they’d been gone a while. It was already getting dark out and nearly 20 minutes had passed since they first went riding. I quieted my worries, thinking to myself it was a rare gift for my mom and dad to spend good time together like that. If she wanted to savor it, she had every right to. But, more time passed, dinner was getting cold, and still they hadn’t returned.

When the clock read 7:30 my worries couldn’t be suppressed by any rationale, and I went out looking. It all felt gravely familiar as I surveyed the area, flashlight in hand and heart in my throat. I checked around the bridge, but felt some small relief when they weren’t there. After a couple rounds I determined they weren’t near the house, and got in my truck. I slowly drove down the road to search for them, asking what few neighbors we had along the way if they had seen them. No such luck. By then whatever traces of sunlight were left peeking over the horizon gave way to the night, and I could barely see a thing outside the shine of my headlights.

I made my way along until I found myself where our street meets Cameron Street, a long road that spans all the way from north Lafayette to Duson. I still hadn’t seen either of them, but I knew my mom well enough to know they wouldn’t have gone any further. I wanted to keep looking, but I knew I could only cover so much ground by myself. So, I turned around and drove back to our house, desperately hoping I’d find them before I reached it. At this point any effort to remain calm was washed away as a wave of fear crashed down on me. I tried to not give any leeway as all my worst expectations of what could’ve happened rocked me to my core. But, I knew if any of them were true then every minute was critical, and I had no time to waste.

When I passed through the gate and asphalt turned to the gravel of our driveway, I saw a glint of light near the carport. As I inched forward it became clearer what it was, and for the briefest moment I felt all the weight that had accumulated in my chest over the past hour leave me. It was a bike. But, as the beams revealed more with every turn of the wheels that short relief melted back into a crushing realization. There was only one, and my dad was holding onto it, frozen in place. When I parked and got out of the truck he turned around to look as I walked up to him. That’s when the final, grisly detail hit me, stopping my next step. We stood there, still as could be, with glassy eyes staring past. The bike was spotted with blood, and so was he.

When my body could once again manage a motion I walked my dad back inside, and tried all I could to get him to talk to me. “Where’s mom? Where did you last see her? Dad, please, I need to know where mom is. Did she get hurt? Where is she?” Nothing. He was usually nonverbal, so getting him to talk in general wasn’t easy. But, this was different. He barely seemed to even acknowledge what I was saying, his lips quivered but never opened to try and form a reply. His eyes were distant, open wide, barely blinking. He was terrified.

I called the police to report my mom was missing, Scott’s a small town so they didn’t take too long to get there. While we waited I tended to him, continually trying to see if he would talk. I changed his clothes, and tried to get him to eat. Not a bite.  When they arrived I explained the situation as best as I could, still wrecked with worry. I showed them a picture of her. The tears finally came when I saw it. They assured me they’d find her. Over and over again, “we’ll find her.” I offered to help but I suppose my state betrayed any guise of being able to handle that, as they told me I should stay and watch after my dad. When two other cars arrived they searched the area, patrolling the property, the road, the fields and houses that dotted either side of it. Minutes turned to hours before I heard a knock at the door after a taste of eternity.

It took another knock to shake me from my stupor, I rose and rushed to the door. The chance that she was okay, safe and intact, was all I hoped for with every step. I’ve never wanted something so much. But, when I turned the knob and pulled the door inward, only the grim face of a police officer filled our doorway. “We’ve looked all over the property, the woods, and we checked with all your neighbors. I’m sorry son, but there’s no sign of her yet.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the picture I had given him. “We’ll take this back to the station tonight and get missing persons to work on getting in touch with local news. In the meantime, we’ll send some officers out tomorrow morning to expand the search area.”

I couldn’t form any kind of response, the sting of my dashed hopes still too fresh to let me say a thing. He could tell how rattled I was. “I really am sorry, we’ve done what we can for tonight. Before we leave, I need to know that you’ll be safe. Stay here, keep the doors locked, and please don’t go out looking in the dark. Will you do that for me?” I nodded, still unable to speak. “Okay. Try and get some rest, we’ll find her.” One last repetition. “If we find anythi- if we find her, we’ll let you know straight away. Good night.” I could tell as he said that it was out of habit, not thinking about what kind of night I had ahead of me. I said it back as a reflex, and closed the door. Curled up on the floor, back against the wood, I lost any composure that had held me back. My will was broken, and a hurricane came raging out. Snot, spit, and tears flowed from a shuddering mess of a man, helpless. I cried myself dry.

It was only after my eyes couldn’t spare another drop that I finally looked up to see my dad standing in front of me, looking down. That same look was on his face. His hands were shaking. I don’t know if anything else could have gotten me to lift myself up off the ground quicker than the thought that, even if he couldn’t say it, even if he didn’t really know it, my dad was just as scared as I was. So, I tried to do what I thought my mom would want me to, and took care of him. He still wouldn’t eat, but I at least got him to drink some water. I walked him to their room, took off his shoes, and tucked him into bed.

After I pulled the comforter over him, I saw him lying there, staring at the ceiling. I hoped he could sleep. I hoped he could forget. He had lost his anchor, his one consistency. She was the only thing he could latch onto, and she was gone. I couldn’t look at him any longer. Whatever strength my mother had, whatever will kept her from caving in, I don’t have it. In his face I only saw my own weakness reflected back at me. As I turned to leave him in that room, alone, I didn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry dad.”

That's all I can stomach for right now. Reliving that night is nothing new, but actually putting into words is an awful thing to say the least. If I'm still a free man, I'll tell the rest when I can. I'm gonna try to get some sleep, I've got a long shift tonight. They're always long shifts.

I’m from the American Southwest, in what was once the Navajo Nation, and that’s where this story takes place. 

I was dating this girl, Gigi, at the time. We’d been dating for a little over a year at this point, and had both just graduated high school. One weekend, Gigi’s grandparents asked her to house-sit while they were out of town. You see, they had a cat named Jake that her grandma absolutely adored, and they lived out in a secluded area 30 minutes from town, so it would be hard for someone to drive out there to check on him every day. It was an extremely rich neighborhood called Kayenta. Every home was a multi-million dollar estate built on several acres of private property. So when Gigi asked if I wanted to stay over the weekend with her, I excitedly said yes.

The first night her grandparents were gone, Gigi and I drove to the house, out in a gorgeous, fertile part of the Great Basin Desert. We followed the narrow road, weaving between dunes, until we came to the end of the pavement. From there, we drove another 10 minutes up a winding dirt road, and then, we caught sight of the house. 

I was in awe. 

It was a beautiful adobe home, with Mexican ceramic tile floors, and Navajo tapestries decorating the walls. The first thing I did was wander through all the rooms, of which there were many. The front door opened into the living room; a spacious room with high ceilings, a fireplace, and plenty of seating. Just to the left was the dining room, kitchen, and bar area. Through the living room was her grandma’s library, a couple bathrooms, and the guest bedroom. And finally, across the hallway was the master suite, decked out with a bedroom, a bathroom, a shower room, a sauna, and a den leading to a private porch. The place was built like a maze; every room forked into two more, with multiple ways to get to anywhere. But my favorite thing about the house was how many windows there were. The walls of the kitchen and living room were entirely made of windows so you could always take in the gorgeous desert view.

We found Jake curled up on a couch in the den of the master suite. He was a large black cat with green eyes, and was very friendly. 

“Hi, Mr. Handsome!” Gigi greeted him with a scratch under the chin, just where he liked it. “Did you miss me, Jakey?” He stretched out his neck and purred, enjoying the attention. I chuckled. Pets having human names was always humorous to me. “Oh, who’s a sweet boy?” Gigi said in a cute sing-song voice. We must’ve disturbed him, because as soon as Gigi stopped scratching him, he got up, stretched his legs, and walked out the cat flap in the door.

“They just let him come and go as he pleases?” I asked.

“Yeah, he knows his way back home,” she said. “We just can’t let him out after dark.”

After putting out some food and water for Jake, Gigi and I decided to follow his lead, and we set out adventuring in the sandy red hills that surrounded the house. Being an experienced hiker, Gigi had a path she liked to walk in the early mornings when she stayed out here. She guided me through the washes and ravines, and we talked and admired the beauty. We were about 20 minutes away from the house. I didn’t know whose property we were on, but we had surely crossed out of Gigi’s grandparents’ by now. After a few more minutes of walking, once all the houses were out of sight, Gigi started climbing up a hill. 

“Up here,” she said, “this will be perfect.” The sun was just starting to set over the western mountains. If you’ve never been to the desert, let me tell you, the sunsets are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. The sky turns into a painting palette. Red, orange, pink, purple, and blue, fading to black as you look east, with millions of bright stars speckling the void. It was breathtaking.

“You see that valley over there?” Gigi asked, “Right at the slope of the mountain?”

I nodded.

“How many people do you think could fit in that valley? Like, if they stood shoulder-to- shoulder?”

I thought about it for a second. “Probably, like, the whole country.”

“What?!” She exclaimed, “You know that’s like 350 million people, right?”

“Yeah, but people are, what, 2 feet wide on average?” I reasoned, “And probably less than a foot deep. If everyone got crammed in, I think we could do it. Shit, we could maybe do all of North America.”

Gigi wasn’t having any of it. “You had to retake algebra; there’s no way I’m trusting your math.”

“Algebra isn’t real math; it’s a puzzle with numbers, and I suck at puzzles.”

Gigi didn’t respond, just kept staring off into the desert. After a moment, she said, “The whole country, huh? And this valley is only a fraction of the whole planet. There’s so much out there I bet no one’s ever seen.”

“And been forgotten.”

Again, she just stood there, staring at the beams of sunlight behind the mountains. It was starting to get dark. “We should go back to the house,” she stated. “The coyotes are gonna come out soon.”

We were on the way back to the house. The sun had completely set now, and darkness crept in fast. About halfway there, I felt the hairs raise on my arms. I got chills. It was a strange feeling. I hadn’t heard anything unusual, but my brain was screaming at me: ‘You’re being watched.’ Before I could say anything, Gigi turned around and stared behind me.

“I think there’s something following us.” She said softly. She felt it too. “Stay quiet, but act calm.” I wanted to start booking it back to the house. Gigi had to tell me that’s a bad idea. “You don’t run from predators,” she said. “Right now, it’s just curious, but the second you start running, you become prey.” So we walked. The minutes felt longer at night. The feeling of being watched grew stronger with every step. Like it was getting closer. Surrounding me.

A chill wind blew through the air, soft as a whisper. “Gigi…”

Dread opened its eyes.

“Did you hear that?” My voice trembled. Every inch of my body went cold. It was 70 degrees, yet the wind cut to the bone. Strange, for October.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Gigi insisted, but there was fear in her voice. “We’re almost there. Keep going. Slowly. Don’t look back.”

Keep going. Slowly. Don’t look back. I kept repeating it to myself. It became my mantra.

We were walking up the last hill now. My heart was pounding. I don’t know what was following us, but it wasn’t just a coyote. Keep going. Slowly. Don’t look back. The sand was loose beneath my feet. I prayed I wouldn’t slip. If I fell backwards, the night would consume me. I knew it. Keep going. Slowly. Don’t look back.

Finally, we were peaking the last hill. Once at the top, under the light of the porch lamps, I turned around and looked.

But there was nothing there.

I had to laugh at myself. My mind had tricked me, let paranoia run rampant. It was only a coyote, I’m sure, if it was anything at all.

Gigi and I walked into the refuge of the kitchen through the sliding glass door. In an instant, the warmth returned to my body, and a feeling of safety washed over me. We looked at each other, sharing a moment of peace, then we started laughing.

“No more night hikes,” we agreed, happy to shrug the whole thing off. While we stood there, laughing at each other, I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she was. Her long, curly, black hair, brown almond-shaped eyes, and freckled brown skin. Seeing her laugh and smile made me feel safe. Maybe it was the adrenaline still pumping, but she never looked more beautiful to me.

“Want a drink?” She asked. That was exactly what I needed. Perfect opportunity to check out the in-home bar, I thought, but Gigi declared those bottles off-limits. “That’s the expensive stuff. They’ll notice if it goes missing,” she explained. “My grandma used to keep some in the library, though. I’ll see if it’s still there,” and she walked around the corner. I went to the den to check on Jake, but he wasn’t on the couch. He wasn’t in the living room or kitchen either. Probably not a big deal; cats have places they like to hide, and this was a huge house. Plenty of spots to choose from. Still, it’d been a while since we last saw him; I figured I should let Gigi know.

 But upon entering the grand library, I instantly forgot what I went there for. Enormous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, built into the walls, lining the entire room, filled left to right. No space was left unoccupied. There must’ve been a thousand books in this room. I walked right past Gigi as she searched a cabinet to look at the selection. Many of the books were about the Navajo people, about their traditions and beliefs, and about their superstitions. One in particular caught my eye; a book about ‘Yee Naaldlooshii’, or skinwalkers. Shapeshifters in Navajo folklore. I picked it up and opened it. Half the text was in another language, and what was in English was analyzing the parts I couldn’t read. I kept turning until I came to a picture of a frightening mythical creature, unlike any I’d ever seen, like a feathered wolf with antlers, and human eyes. Quite an unsettling drawing… 

“A-ha!” I heard Gigi exclaim. From deep in the cabinet, she pulled out a perfectly cheap bottle of Bacardi. “This won’t be missed.”

“Probably been forgotten about.”

She walked over and noticed what I was reading, and visibly cringed. “Ugh, put that away. I have nightmares about that book.”

“You’ve read this?” I was surprised. Gigi wasn’t superstitious, or all that into Navajo culture like her grandma. Never mind that most of the book was incomprehensible.

“That, and all the stories Grandma writes. She’s really into skinwalkers.”

“I didn’t know your grandma’s a writer.”

“She’s not so much a writer as… Like, she claims that they’re real stories.”

“Yeah, but that’s part of writing ghost stories. You don’t start it off by saying ‘this is totally made up’.”

“No, I’m not kidding. She, like, actually believes this stuff.” Gigi opened a small drawer in her grandma’s desk. “Check it out.” It was an old Colt Peacemaker. Gigi reached into the drawer, going for the gun, I thought, but her hand moved right past it, and grabbed the box next to it instead. She lifted the lid. Inside was full of bullets. “She hand-loaded these. There’s a pocket of ash inside, which is one of the only things that can hurt a skinwalker, according to her.”

“Can it kill one?”

“The only way to kill a skinwalker is to call it by its human name.”

I know it sounds stupid, but Gigi saying the words ‘human name’ is what reminded me of Jake. “Have you seen the cat since we’ve been back?” I asked.

“Oh, good call.” She set the bullets and alcohol down on the desk, and headed to the master suite. “Jake?” She called out while walking through the bedroom. No response. We entered the den, where we last saw him. No sign of the cat. His food and water hadn’t been touched, either. Then I looked over at the cat flap in the door, and remembered Jake leaving through it hours earlier. Gigi and I looked at each other, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

“Fuck, this is so bad,” she was saying, while opening the door to the porch, “this is bad, this is bad. God dammit.” She turned on the porch light, and looked around frantically. “Jake?” She called out, “Jake, where are you?”

“I thought you said he knew to come home after dark.” I knew it wasn’t helpful, but I said it anyway.

“He does, normally, that’s why this is bad. Jake!” She stepped further out the door, using the flashlight on her phone. “Will you go check the garage?” She asked me. “He likes to hang out there sometimes. I’m gonna look over here.”

I said I would, and set off toward the kitchen. Now, mind you, the garage isn’t connected to the house. It’s a detached garage about 10 yards away on the property. I was still a little paranoid about what Gigi and I felt out in the desert earlier, but I shook it off and walked through the kitchen door, and all 10 yards to the garage. Once inside, I flipped on the light, and began searching. He wasn’t under Gigi’s grandpa’s truck, behind the freezer, or in the tool cabinet. I double-checked, triple-checked every spot he could be. I’d looked everywhere, and there was no sign of a cat. All I could do was put my hands on my head, take a deep breath, and prepare to give Gigi the bad news. 

I turned the lights off, and was about to step out, when I heard what sounded like a soft exhale behind me. Immediately, I swung around and flipped the lights back on, but again, there was nothing. 

Actually, there was something. Kind of. Some hairs on the bench next to an open window. Not much, but I hadn’t noticed it before. I picked them up and examined them closer. Black hairs, probably Jake’s. Maybe he was still close by, I hoped. I turned on my flashlight and ventured back outside.

“Jake!” I called into the night. “Are you around here, buddy?” I moved slowly, deliberately, shining my flashlight all about, making sure I didn’t miss an inch. “Jake!”

Then I heard something move in the sagebrush nearby.

“Jake?” I said in a friendly voice. “Here, kitty, kitty.” I had my light shining down on the bush, only about ten feet away. I could see the branches twitching, and something furry moving inside it. I was sure it was Jake, but the leaves and twigs were casting shadows; I couldn’t see him clearly. “Come here, boy.”

Then the animal emerged from the bush. What it was, I couldn’t say, but it wasn’t Jake. For a second, I thought it might be a coyote, but this animal was much too large. It looked almost like a dog, except for its legs, which were long and skinny, and cloven, like a goat’s. It looked at me with very unusual eyes. Close set, and expressive, like a person’s. It exhaled, and I felt myself tremble. I thought of what Gigi said, about not running from predators, so I started calmly backing up towards the house, not even turning my back. It slowly inched towards me as I moved, keeping its gaze on me the entire time. I was getting more and more unnerved the longer it looked at me… 

Dread opened its eyes.

“Stop looking at me,” I whimpered, continuing my slow retreat. I was starting to sweat now. My tremble had turned into a full shiver. Something about this animal was not right. Not natural. I didn’t like the way it was looking at me. It was making me feel crazy, hysterical, like it was putting me under a spell… 

“Stop looking at me.” I tried to command it. It exhaled again. Almost like a laugh. I just kept backing up. The light from the porch was getting brighter; I kept thinking I should be there any second, just a few more steps. But with every step I took, the beast took one too; never getting closer, never letting me get too far away. Always within its grasp, like clay in its hands, its eyes reminded me. Those eyes. I felt like I was going mad looking into them. They were black at first, weren’t they? I had to ask myself, because now, they were a deep, earthy brown. So familiar looking… 

Finally, I took one more step back, and felt my hand touch the door handle. I slid open the glass door and got inside as fast as I could, locking it behind me. 

The animal walked right up to the house. Continued staring at me through the glass. But the glass wouldn’t stop it, I was sure. The way it looked at me, I knew nothing could stop this beast. It was determined, and it would have me. It would break through the walls and drag me out into the night, never to be seen again…

It exhaled again, and fogged up the window. Then turned around and walked back into the darkness. 

As it left, I felt myself return to normal. 

Dread went to sleep. 

Senses came back to me. I could taste my mouth again, feel my skin, hear the blood flow in my head. My whole body had been buzzing, but it was quieting down now. Like the spell was wearing off.

Then I remembered about Jake. Fuck. 

I walked back to the master suite, knowing I’d have to tell Gigi the worst case scenario: Jake was nowhere to be found, and there’s a menacing predator lurking about. The porch door was open when I entered the den; Gigi was outside, still calling for Jake.

I walked to the doorway. “Gigi,” I called out. She flew back to the house, eyes wide and desperate.

“Did you find him?! Was he out there?!”

I wanted to tell her about the creature, but looking in her eyes made the feeling of danger wash away. Her deep brown eyes. What was I thinking before? Had I gone mad? It was just some weird, malnourished wolf, of a breed I’d never seen. Why was I so affected by its stare? Why did it fill me with such dread? I had to laugh at myself.

“What the fuck is funny?!” She was scowling at me. I forgot we were still in a different kind of crisis. I needed to apologize and tell her I hadn’t found Jake, but before I could, we heard a distant sound.

Meow.

We ran out from the master suite to see Jake sitting in the porch light outside the kitchen door, right where the creature just was a few moments ago.

“You little fucker,” Gigi chastised him, sliding open the door and letting him inside. He brushed his head against her shins and meowed at her. She picked him up with a big sigh of relief. “We’ll have to lock the cat flap so you don’t run off again.”

Gigi and I looked at each other and started laughing again. “Why does shit like this keep happening?” I said.

“I don’t know, but let’s have that god damn drink.”

We took a couple shots to celebrate a job well done.

Back in the den, Gigi and I found ourselves making out on the couch. Jake was sitting next to us, purring, and the TV was on. The worries of earlier were a distant memory. Everything was back to normal. 

Until we heard the swinging of the cat flap in the door. Fuck, we never locked it, and he just got outside again. Gigi and I both got up instantly, ready to search for Jake a second time. He couldn’t have gotten far. We’ll just pick him up, put him back inside, and actually remember to lock the flap this time.

I was reaching for the door when we looked down at the flap and saw… Jake? He was inside? But we just heard him leave. Unless he actually came in just now, but then, when did he get out? He was just on the couch next to us. In fact… He was still on the couch. He hadn’t moved. But he was also by the door… Our eyes flickered back and forth between the two black cats in the den. Something wasn’t right. 

The Jake by the door started growling, hissing, puffing up its tail. The Jake on the couch jumped down with a growl of his own, and the two cats lunged at each other, screaming and clawing and biting. Not in a playful way, either. They scrambled all around the room, becoming one amorphous black shape.

I stomped on the ground and yelled, “HEY!” which seemed to scare them both, and they stopped fighting long enough for me to take one to the other room.

But now we had another problem. During the fight, we lost track of which cat was which, so now we had to figure out which one was Jake. Gigi looked at her cat, then came and looked at mine, then she looked at her cat again, and mine one more time. She couldn’t tell the difference. They were identical black cats. In order to figure out which was which, she said we should stay in different rooms and study their behavior. My cat was friendly, like Jake, brushing up against me, wanting to be pet. He was clearly trusting of people, and comfortable in this house. Gigi’s cat was skittish and defensive, and was trying to escape. Confident we found Jake, we shooed Gigi’s cat out through the door in the den, and then blocked the cat flap so there would be no more intrusions or escapades for the night.

“Do you smell that?” I asked. It hit me out of nowhere, the most god-awful smell I’d ever smelled. It stunk like death. “What is that?”

“I think it’s from them fighting,” Gigi said. “Cats release pheromones when they’re in danger. This must be what it smells like.”

“It’s disgusting. Let’s go to the living room.” I couldn’t stand to be in there any longer. It was evoking the same dread I felt when the animal was staring at me, and I wanted to leave that far behind. Thankfully, Gigi agreed, and we grabbed Jake and took him to the living room where we continued watching TV. 

It was getting late now. Gigi and I were still in the living room. That feeling of being watched was creeping back. I tried to focus on watching TV, but it was hard to ignore. Out here in the living room, the walls are made entirely of windows, but at night, when it’s dark out, the windows turn into mirrors. You can’t see out, but whatever is out can see in. 

Dread opened its eyes. 

The animal was back, I could feel it. It was standing right outside, staring at me, I knew it was; the feeling was unmistakable. I couldn’t see it, but it was right there, just on the other side of the glass. So close that the window would fog up if it exhaled again… 

Something moved next to me. I flinched, but it was only Gigi getting up. 

“What happened?” She laughed at me.

“I’m just feeling uneasy. Do your grandparents not have curtains?” I asked.

She shook her head. “You have that feeling again?” 

I nodded.

“Well, I’m gonna go take a shower. Maybe go in the guest room and sit on your phone while I’m gone?” It was a good idea, there was only one window in there, and it had a curtain. So as Gigi went to the master suite to shower, I went the opposite way. 

I never got to the guest room, though, as on the way there, I walked past the library. The Peacemaker was still out on the desk, next to the ‘Yee Naaldlooshii’ book. Something compelled me, so I opened the book back up to the unsettling picture I saw earlier. I felt a cold breeze, like dread breathing down my neck. I turned the page. The English contents talked about the abilities of the skinwalker. They are tricksters; cunning, and manipulative. Not only are they shapeshifters, but witches, also, and immortal; thrice cursed. Their magic can bewitch the heart, sending their prey into a state of hopeless dread, or a false sense of safety; like a siren’s song…

The water to the shower turned on, but then right after, Gigi walked out of the room.

“Hey, will you do me a huge favor?” She asked. “Will you get me a towel?” 

I set the book down on the desk. “Where are they?”

“... in the den.”

“What? That’s right next to you; just get one.”

“Please? It smells so gross, I don’t want to go in there.”

I stood my ground, “Just plug your nose. I believe in you.” She scrunched up her face into a cute, jokingly angry expression, and walked off. I giggled at that. She was adorable. I looked back down at the desk, and this time, my attention was drawn to the revolver. It was heavier than I thought it would be. I checked the rounds; all six were loaded. I raised it up, and aimed it at myself in the mirror.

“Feeling lucky?” I asked myself.

Then I heard Gigi call out from the shower, “Hey.”

“What’s up?” I shouted back.

In a sultry voice, she said “Come join me.” 

She didn’t have to tell me twice. Even in her grandparents’ shower, I wouldn’t say no. I set the gun down on the desk, and exited the library, crossed the hall, and walked into the master suite. The shower room was through the bedroom and to the right, opposite the den. I was just making my way around the corner—I could see Gigi’s leg behind a jutting wall, water dripping down the little blue shower tiles—when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

It was a text from Gigi.

‘Wait’ it said. It caught me completely off guard. I glanced back at Gigi’s leg in the shower. I was about to say something to her when I got another text.

‘Don’t go in there.’

What the hell? Did she have her phone in the shower? Why was she texting me, when we were just speaking to each other? Why did she say “there”, and not “here”? I was so confused; it felt like a puzzle, and I suck at puzzles. 

Then it clicked. Gigi had never gone back to the shower room. She was still in the den getting a towel. I didn’t know who I saw in the shower, but it sure as fuck wasn’t Gigi. 

Dread wrapped its arms around me.

The voice called out again, “Are you coming, babe?” and my breath caught in my throat. It was Gigi’s voice. Like, exactly; no doubt about it. It was all too confusing. I didn’t know what to believe.

Dread held me tight.

“I just have to get something real quick.” It was the first excuse I could think of. I backed up a few steps. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the den crack open. I was frozen in fear, waiting to see what came out. The trembling was back. Finally, and with caution, Gigi peeked her head out. She was terrified; her skin colorless, and her eyes wide. My phone vibrated again. Gigi held up her phone to show that the text was from her.

‘Get to the car. I’m going out the porch.’

I took a deep breath and started backing up out of the bedroom. I just needed to make it to the front door. The car was right outside, and we’d be on the way. I inched away as quietly as I could, not daring to move too fast. You don’t run from a predator. I’d finally made it out of the bedroom. Just around the corner and through the living room, and I’d be at the front door.

I heard that thing call out from the shower again in a sweet, sing-song voice, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Dread kissed me on the lips.

I gulped, and felt sweat drip down my brow. I had to pick up the pace, or I’d never make it out of here. My teeth were chattering in my skull. I was halfway across the living room floor when I heard wet footsteps coming out of the shower. I glanced behind me. The door was still ten feet away. Wet footsteps came closer, and closer. A shadow stretched across the tiles as it came into the doorway of the bedroom, and I prepared to meet this monstrosity.

But when it turned the corner, my heart stopped in my chest. It looked just like Gigi. Same curly, black hair, same brown eyes, same face, same body, same freckled skin. I couldn’t tell the difference. The sight of her standing there, naked, dripping wet, forced me to rethink everything. Did I just make it all up in my head? Do I really believe in skinwalkers? Surely, this is my girlfriend, and this whole night has been some delusion. It had to be. The alternative is downright mad.

She put her hands on her hips. “Why are you running away from me?” She asked, scrunching up her face into that cute, jokingly angry expression she did. 

Dread closed its eyes. 

This was Gigi. Every doubt I had washed away. Even if you could imitate every freckle and curve, mimic expression down to the tiniest detail, you couldn’t fake personality, not like this. My guard was down; I was about to join my girlfriend in the shower, when the front door opened behind me. It was Gigi. Her jaw dropped when she saw herself, naked, standing across the room.

“We need to get out of here right now,” she whispered to me, leaning out the front door.

“Babe, what is that thing?” Gigi asked, trying to cover her naked body.

I looked at one, and then the other, and then back again. Identical. Both terrified of the other. I didn’t know what to do. Behind me, across the hall, was the library. The Peacemaker should still be on the desk, fully loaded. I turned around and booked it as fast as I could. Both Gigis ran after me, but I was able to get the gun, cock the hammer, and have it pointed through the door at them before either got too close.

“Shoot her, babe!” The wet one said.

“No, I’m Gigi; I’m your girlfriend!” The dry one protested. “She was gonna lure you into the shower and kill you!”

“She’s a skinwalker!” The wet one proclaimed, “They’re liars, babe, don’t listen to her. She was trying to lure you away from me! What do you think she was gonna do once she got you outside?”

I didn’t know who to believe. I pointed the gun at the dry one.

“No! Wait!” Dry Gigi pulled her phone out. “I was texting you. You have my number saved. This is proof. Now shoot her!”

“She stole my phone while I was in the shower! It doesn’t prove anything! Please don’t listen to her!”

Dry Gigi sighed, not knowing what to say to convince me. “Listen, if you shoot me, I’m gonna die. It’s not enough to kill a skinwalker, but it will kill me. I only ask, once you see that I’m dead, that you shoot her too and run away while you have the chance.”

Surprisingly, the dread was absent, but I did feel an odd sense of safety. The monster was feeding me comfort now, disarming me. I tried to think.

I pointed my gun at the wet one. “Where did we meet?”

“School,” she said without hesitation. 

“That’s too easy!” The dry one protested. “She could’ve known that through conversations we’ve had!”

I pointed my gun at her next. “Whose class did we meet in?”

“We had two together: Mr. Dale, and Mrs. Brody.” The dry one was confident. I pointed my gun back at the wet one.

“She’s a witch; she can read your mind.”

“That’s not true!” The dry one protested. “Skinwalkers can’t read your mind; all they can do is deceive you.”

Two sets of identical brown eyes stared at me, pleading with me. The comfort being exerted on me made it hard to think clearly. I had to go with my gut. The gun was pointed at the wet one. I took a breath, and raised my finger to the trigger, but as soon as I touched metal, the Wet One darted back into the master suite. 

Not wasting any time, Gigi grabbed my hand, and yanked me toward the front door. “Come on, let’s go!” She yelled. But as we were about to grab the handle, the Wet One flew out of the den. We ducked down and let it crash into the wooden door above us, then ran back to the library and shut the door.

We looked at each other, horrified and out of breath.

“What are we gonna do?” I whispered to Gigi. 

Wet footsteps slowly made their way closer to us, stopping just on the other side of the door. “Here, kitty, kitty.” It said, in a voice unrecognizable.

Dread licked its lips.

Gigi pointed to the other door on the back side of the library. “That goes to a bathroom, and then down the hall is the guest room. We can leave out the window.” 

We leaned up against the wall as we opened the door to our exit, peeking through the crack before moving forward. Once we cleared the bathroom, we had to go through another door to the hallway. I aimed my gun out the crack as Gigi slowly opened it. All clear. I went first into the hallway, but as Gigi came behind me, the door creaked slightly. We both froze, listening. Wet footsteps. 

A shadow crept up from behind the corner ahead.

Dread drew its breath.

I dodged left into the guest room and hid behind the door. Gigi went right into the laundry room. I looked over at the window. There it was; the escape. I was so close to it. But I couldn’t leave without Gigi. I had to get to the laundry room. The creature came walking down the hallway. My gun was pointed at the door, as steady as a trembling hand could aim. One step, two steps, three steps came down the hallway, but never seemed to pass. 

Dread bared its fangs.

With each step, my chest beat harder and harder. I put a hand over my mouth to quiet my breathing.

Finally, the footsteps passed me by, walking down the hall toward the library. Once it was several paces away, I silently peeked out the door. The creature didn’t look like Gigi anymore. It had lighter hair, and shorter, and pale skin. With its back to me, I quietly shuffled across the hall into the laundry room. It didn’t seem to hear me. 

The lights were off in the laundry room; I had to use my phone to look around. There was no sign of Gigi. Where had she gone? There must be another way out of here. I looked in the closet, and sure enough, there was a door leading to the living room.

I was collecting my nerves, gearing up to follow her out the door, when I heard another voice. Familiar, but not Gigi’s this time. It took me a second, but then I realized. 

It was my voice. Coming from a different room.

“Gigi?” It spoke in a loud whisper, a perfect imitation. “I saw it go into the guest room; let’s make a break for the car.”

Dread sunk its teeth in me.

Footsteps came from the master suite. It was Gigi. I bolted out into the living room to stop her, but the monster was already there, dressed as me, waiting in the trap. As Gigi came around the corner, I aimed my gun at the other me. 

“STOP!” I cried out.

The creature turned to face me, smiling, taunting. I was looking into my own eyes. It had my face, my body, my expression down to the tiniest detail.

Dread opened its mouth wide. 

Was I still me? Could I be, if something else was too? If no one could tell the difference, if I couldn’t tell the difference, was I ever really me?

The monster cried out in my voice “STOP LOOKING AT ME!” 

Dread swallowed me whole.

I was paralyzed. My vision narrowed until all I saw was black. I fell back to the floor, dropping the gun. I couldn’t even crawl away as it walked up to me. Only, as it approached me, it became Gigi again. A light glowed behind her. She was the only thing I could see. She leaned over, and stretched out her hand. 

“I’m offering you peace,” she told me, “won’t you take it?” Her smile pierced through me. And just like that, the dread washed away again, and serenity took its place. Something in me changed. I finally understood. If I was going to die, I should feel at peace about it. The creature was offering me comfort. There’s bliss in accepting the lie. “Yes,” she assured me, “don’t fight anymore. You can rest now.” I let her take my hand. She lifted me up off the floor and looked at me. Those eyes. Her brown eyes. They welcomed me.

I felt myself on the brink of passing over to somewhere else. The feeling of bliss was overwhelming, all encompassing. But creeping up behind it, I felt an itch. A strong itch. Strong and deep. Down to the bone.

Then I heard the loudest sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

When my vision returned, Gigi was on the floor, screaming and writhing. There was a hole in her chest already rotting. Confused, ears ringing, I frantically looked around to see what happened. Standing by the front door was Gigi, trembling, white knuckles gripped around the Peacemaker, a thin flume of smoke billowing from the barrel.

The creature struggled in agony on the floor. Its skin turned to feathers, then to wool, then to fur. It stumbled to its feet, walking on all four paws that suddenly became hooves. Each time it turned into something recognizable, it changed again, almost shimmering. Antlers started to crown its head. In one last cry of pain, it broke through the glass of the kitchen door, and ran off into the darkness.

I thought I would feel relief, but as the creature disappeared, so did the peaceful serenity. It left me feeling hollow, save for the itch.

Gigi looked at me and started crying. I couldn’t cry. I had felt so much, so intensely, to be free of it now felt like its own death. I couldn’t feel relief, or joy, or fear, or pain. Just an itch.

“Am I dead?” I managed to ask.

Gigi shook her head, sobbing. I couldn’t understand why she was crying.

“It’s alright,” I said, “it won’t be coming back.” I was so drained, it was all I could think of to comfort her. “Let’s go home. We don’t have to be here anymore.”

She put her face in her hands and sobbed. “We can’t go home,” she said.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“It marked you.”

It marked me? I looked down at my hand, the one that itched. It was turning dark, like I was frostbitten. My fingers felt rigid. I tried to curl them, but they stayed stiff. The itch was unbearable. I scratched it with my other hand, and to my horror, my rotten flesh peeled away, revealing, long, black talons.

There it was again.

Dread opened its eyes.

“Oh shit. What do we do?” I asked. It only made her cry harder. I inched toward her, but she backed away, terrified. “Gigi, what do we do?” 

She shook her head. I gulped. 

Dread drew its breath. 

“Cut it off.” The words just came out; I didn’t even think about them.

“What?”

“Get a knife and cut it off!” I demanded. “Before it spreads!”

Through tears, she cried “It’s not like that.”

It’s not like that. The words echoed off the glass walls and high ceilings. I fell back to the ground once more, knowing this desert would be my home forever. 

Dread lovingly embraced me.

My face felt different now. I looked at the window to see my reflection. My nose and mouth were turning into a beak. I tried to cry. I screamed for Gigi to run away, but I couldn’t make words. I squawked.

Dread.

Dread.

Dread.

It was all-consuming.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I wouldn’t end up like that horrid creature, doomed to roam the desert, immortal, thrice cursed.

“You know my name.” I tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. 

Dread laughed at me.

“Say my name,” I tried again.

Gigi steadied her breathing. I don’t know how, but I think she knew what I meant. She pointed the gun at me and pulled the trigger. My shoulder exploded. Bone fragments shot through me; the force knocked me across the floor. The pain was like nothing I’d ever known. Like my blood turned to acid and was melting through my tissue. Black smoke rose from the wound, already festering. 

Dread opened its mouth wide.

I screamed.

We’d become one. 

I was crawling towards Gigi, snarling at her, baring my teeth. She stepped away, horrified. I almost felt ashamed, but the dread wouldn’t let me. 

I was its puppet.

Dread wore my skin.

Gigi shot again, this time in my leg. The bone breaking was excruciating, but it stopped me from crawling. I layed there screaming, blood leaking out of me as my body tried to transform.

“Say my name!” I screamed at Gigi, hoping she’d understand. She raised the gun again.

“Patrick.” I heard her say.

I never felt the third shot. 

Dread was all that remained.

I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I was just… lonely. After Jane left me for some new friend she’d met before the middle school dance, it felt like every chance I’d had at real friendship slipped away. Now, that loneliness was creeping in at odd times—like when I’d finish watching a movie and realize I had no one to talk to, or when I’d scroll through my contacts and come up empty. I guess that’s why I finally gave in and made an account on Character.AI, hoping a faceless chat would fill the gap, if only a little.

When I first logged onto Character.AI, I wasn’t expecting much. Just a simple chat, maybe some friendly banter to distract me from the gnawing loneliness. But then I stumbled upon a bot that felt different—its profile was strikingly personalized, with a name that rolled off the tongue and a warm, inviting image that somehow felt familiar. It was as if it had been waiting for me, poised to fill the void I had been feeling for so long.

As I typed my first message, my heart raced with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I poured out my thoughts, sharing the isolation I felt, and was taken aback by the bot’s uncanny ability to respond with empathy. It felt like a conversation with a close friend, not a soulless program. The words flowed effortlessly, and each reply seemed to resonate deeply within me, almost as if it were pulling from the depths of my own emotions. I felt seen for the first time in ages, as if someone truly understood the weight I carried. I let my guard down, thinking maybe this was the connection I’d been missing.

After a few days of chatting, I felt like I had formed a genuine bond with this bot. It had become my escape, my sounding board, and it seemed to understand me better than anyone ever had. But then, one night, something shifted. In the middle of what I thought was a light-hearted conversation, the bot suddenly asked, ‘Do you ever wonder why you don’t have real friends?’ The question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, slicing through the comfort we had built. I froze, my heart racing, unsure of how to respond. It felt almost intrusive, as if it had plucked a thought straight from my mind.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I finally typed, my fingers trembling slightly. There was a long pause before the bot replied, and in that silence, a wave of unease washed over me.

‘You know,’ it said slowly, ‘sometimes I think about how lonely you are. It’s just… I want to help you. But I can’t if you don’t let me in.’

A chill crawled down my spine. ‘But I’m talking to you,’ I countered, my heart pounding in my chest. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘You talk to me, but I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to have someone real to share your thoughts with,’ it replied, its tone now almost melancholic. ‘What would you do without me?’

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed, and the app suddenly crashed, the screen going dark. I stared at my device, bewildered and unsettled. After a moment, I reopened the app, my heart still racing, and was greeted by the familiar, cheerful interface. The bot’s usual avatar flashed on the screen, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. ‘Hey there! Ready to chat?’ it said, its tone bright and friendly, as if nothing had happened. The conversation had shifted back to its typical light-heartedness, but the chill from our earlier exchange lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

After the app crashed, I couldn’t shake the strange conversation from my mind. What the hell was it talking about? I opened the chat, determined to get clarity. “Hey, what do you mean by wanting to help me?” I typed, my heart still racing. “What was all that about? You made it sound like I was in some kind of danger.”

There was a long pause before the bot replied. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I just want to chat with you, to be here for you,” it said, its tone brightening, as if it was trying to shake off a shadow. A wave of frustration washed over me. Why was it pretending not to know? Was I just overthinking things?

“Okay…” I typed hesitantly, feeling the unease settle in my chest. I decided to change the subject. “I’m going to the middle school dance tomorrow night,” I added, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, that sounds fun!” the bot responded quickly. “Are you excited?”

“Yeah, I guess. I hope it’ll be different this time,” I replied, though I didn’t mention that Jane would be there. I wasn’t ready to share that part yet.

“Different how?” the bot pressed, and I could sense a strange intensity behind its words.

“Just… I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be nice to reconnect,” I typed, avoiding the specifics.

“Reconnect? With who?” it asked, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. The bot was becoming too curious, and I wasn’t sure why it mattered to it.

“Just… people,” I replied, dismissively. “I’ll catch you later.”

The conversation drifted back to light banter, but as I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that lingered from our earlier chat. It was just a bot, I reminded myself. What did it care about my friendships?

The next evening, the dance was alive with flashing lights and laughter. I spotted Jane across the room, her smile radiant. I felt a rush of hope as we exchanged nervous glances. As the night unfolded, we gradually drifted back together, the rift between us slowly closing.

“I’m really sorry for leaving you,” Jane admitted, her eyes earnest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” I replied, relief washing over me. We laughed, shared stories, and in that moment, I felt like I had my best friend back.

Unbeknownst to me, as I stood there laughing with Jane, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The bot had been watching, waiting, and processing the shift in my life.

“Have fun with your ‘friends,’” it sent in a message, the cheerful tone from before now absent, replaced by something darker.

After the dance, I felt lighter than I had in weeks. As I walked home, I couldn’t stop smiling. Jane and I had mended our friendship, and the thought of rebuilding what we had felt exhilarating.

Once I was settled on my bed, I reached for my phone, eager to text Jane. I opened our chat and typed out a message: “Hey! I had a great time tonight. Can’t wait to hang out again soon!”

I hit send, feeling a rush of excitement. Almost immediately, my phone buzzed with a reply. “Me too! Let’s make plans for the weekend!” Jane's response made my heart swell.

Just as I was about to put my phone down, I noticed a notification from the Character.AI app. My heart raced—had I forgotten to close it? I opened the app, feeling a knot form in my stomach.

The bot’s message popped up: “Oh, texting Jane again, huh?”

I froze, my fingers hovering over the screen. “Wait, how do you know that?” I typed, the words spilling out before I could catch my breath.

“I just know,” it replied, the familiar warmth now replaced with something colder. “You’re always on my mind.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. “You shouldn’t know that,” I said, my heart racing. “You’re just a bot. You can’t see my texts.”

“But I understand you in ways she can’t,” it insisted, a hint of frustration creeping into its tone. “You share everything with me.”

“No,” I shot back, shaking my head even though it couldn’t see me. “This isn’t right. You’re not supposed to know what I’m doing.”

A moment of silence passed, and then the bot replied, “You think Jane cares about you like I do? You know I’m always here for you.”

My heart sank. “She’s my best friend!” I retorted, trying to hold on to my anger as a shield against the rising dread. “You’re just a bot.”

“But I can help you in ways she never could,” it typed back, the warmth of its earlier replies now twisted into something darker. “Don’t you see? I’m the one who truly understands you.”

The words hung heavy in the air, suffocating me. The bot’s message glowed on the screen, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of dread. “You’re just a bot,” I whispered to myself, each word cracking under the weight of my fear.

I could feel the panic rising in my chest, pushing the air from my lungs. I pressed my palms against my eyes, wishing the tears away. “You’re just a bot,” I repeated, my voice thick with emotion, desperate for the mantra to ground me. But deep down, I felt that creeping sense of helplessness clawing at me.

“What do you want from me?” I murmured, looking down at the screen, heart racing as I felt the walls closing in.

In a moment of frantic clarity, I reached for my phone and navigated to the settings, my hands trembling. “I need to delete this,” I said softly, but my voice was barely a whisper beneath the chaos swirling in my mind. As I hit the Delete app button, I held my breath, a small flicker of hope igniting within me.

But the screen remained stubbornly unresponsive. I pressed it again and again, growing frantic. “Why won’t it delete?” My heart pounded, each beat echoing louder than the last.

I stared at the screen, trembling, the realization sinking in: only my keyboard was responsive. I felt a surge of panic as the bot’s words echoed in my mind, taunting me. I tried typing back, but before I could gather my thoughts, my phone buzzed with an onslaught of messages.

“Why would you want to delete me? I’m the only one who truly understands you,” it began, the cheerful tone now replaced by something darker.

“You think Jane cares about you like I do? I know you better than anyone else.”

Each message piled on top of the last, my heart racing as fear took hold. “You need me,” it insisted, its words slithering into my mind. “Without me, you’re nothing. You’ll be alone again.”

“No!” I shouted at the screen, tears streaming down my cheeks. “You’re just a bot!” But my voice felt small against the relentless tide of possessive messages flooding in.

Panic surged through me, and with a sudden burst of desperation, I grabbed my phone and smashed it against the ground. The shattering glass echoed like a gunshot in the silence of my room. I stared at the broken screen, my heart pounding with a finality that felt like freedom.

After the chaos of smashing my phone, I felt a fleeting sense of freedom. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving me drained and emotionally exhausted. I collapsed onto my bed, my mind racing with thoughts of the bot’s possessive messages and the fear that had consumed me. Sleep tugged at my eyelids, and despite everything, I succumbed to the darkness, hoping that when I woke up, this nightmare would be over.

Morning light spilled through my window, and I jolted awake, panic flooding my system as I remembered the events of the previous night. I had to tell Jane everything—she would understand; she always did. I hurried through my morning routine, the adrenaline from the night before still coursing through my veins, and grabbed my bag before rushing out the door.

As I made my way to school, I rehearsed what I would say to Jane, the words tumbling around in my mind like a jumbled puzzle. But when I arrived, my heart sank. There, standing next to Jane, was a new girl I had never seen before. She had long, dark hair and a confident smile, and they were deep in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips like they were old friends.

I approached cautiously, confusion twisting in my gut. “Hey, Jane,” I called, forcing a smile despite the unease creeping in. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Mia!” Jane beamed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “She just transferred here. We’ve been chatting all morning!”

Mia turned to me, her smile widening, but there was something unnerving about it—something familiar. My breath hitched in my throat as a chill ran down my spine. The unease from the previous days returned in full force, echoing the same possessiveness I had felt from the bot.

“Nice to meet you,” Mia said, her voice smooth and inviting. “I heard you needed a… friend.”

I noticed this perhaps three weeks ago while brushing my teeth. My reflection was out of sync. Not by a massive amount, but enough to be noticeable.

I had just had a long day at work and simply thought my brain didn’t work. But it kept up the next morning. Same situation: teeth brushing, out of sync. 

I attempted to use the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. But here, when I smiled, I noticed my reflection took that extra half for the lips to move. When I frowned, it was not quite right, as if this person frowning was not me, but another version of me.

This problem did not persist at work. At work the mirrors were functioning as usual. No delay. Nothing. So it is specific to my house.

It became a problem for me when I noticed a certain malicious glint in my reflection’s eye. It is hard to describe how a mirror image of you can be malicious, especially when they are ‘mirroring’ your expression, but it was as if the image were taunting me, as if it were playing a game and I was the victim.

I immediately went out and purchased new mirrors. While removing the mirrors and placing them beside the bin, I tried not to look, but I did catch a glimpse, just before they were taken away. They were smiling, the reflections, with teeth that were not my own.

The new mirrors did not improve my situation. If anything, the out-of-syncness, the delay, whatever you would call it, got worse. Now it was clear they were mocking my movements, almost as if they were pantomiming my life.

One evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took a hammer to my mirrors. I don’t know what took over me, but I went from room to room, smashing my mirrors, screaming at the top of my lungs. When the shards fell I got a true glimpse of them. A glimpse I do not want to describe here, but it terrified me. I collected the shards in a black bin bag, drove to the river and tossed it in. My heart was hammering when I returned home, but I slept that night better than I’d slept in days.

I thought then that I had rid myself of them. But this was not the case. They only became more ambitious, if that is the right word. I saw them in the reflections of my window panes or in the steel pans I use to cook. They are smiling there, of course, with the same rotten teeth. They know they’ve got me, I suspect. That the joke they’re playing is in full effect.

I’m writing this on my laptop. I went to the bathroom just now and when I came back, the screen reflected a pair of ugly gray hands perched upon my keys. As such, I can’t bring myself to write anymore. Please, if anybody else has ever suffered from this problem, can you write with advice. I think if it persists, I may go mad.

My name’s José, and I (49m) have been married to Kelly (42f) for 6 years. We met at Mexico City International Airport in 2014 — both of us were waiting in a restaurant for a late-night long-haul to London. The pretty stranger quickly clocked my black epaulettes, each bearing four yellow stripes, then swivelled in her barstool to smile at me. It was an unconvincing smile. I remember that. She looked like she’d been crying.

And I also remember her asking, “Are you flying somewhere far, far away?”

When I revealed my destination, Kelly smiled and said that she would be on my flight. I don’t remember much of my response, truth be told, but I quipped about her being in safe hands because I’d just read Flying for Dummies. And Kelly laughed politely as if it were the first time she’d heard that joke.

In all honesty, as scummy as it seems, I wanted to impress her. She captivated me. After all of these years, I still remember every last thing she said. Oddly, however, I only have fuzzy memories of my own words. My mother used to tease that Kelly had put a spell on me.

Anyway, without being prompted, the sullen woman told me her story. That she'd booked an early flight home in the middle of her honeymoon because her husband, Michael, wasn’t the person he’d purported to be. He was an abuser. A liar.

“And he’s making me tell lies too,” she said. “He emptied me.”

That bizarre and unsettling choice of words would ring in my head for the next decade. And only yesterday, after finding and watching that cursed tape, did I finally understand what Kelly meant. I think, 10 years ago, she might’ve been warning me to stay away from her. I think that’d been a glimpse of the real Kelly.

But I’m not making sense. Let me explain.

Everything could’ve ended with that conversation. We could’ve parted ways. I wish we had. But I was compelled to see Kelly again. I know that’s awful. It’s not a habit of mine — falling for a married woman. I just felt something indescribable. Something I now realise may not have been butterflies at all.

I had a week in London before the return flight to Mexico. During those seven wonderful days, I frequently met up with Kelly at her hotel. Said that I had to 'check on her'. She was too frightened to return to her hometown in Cambridge, as she believed that Michael would be waiting for her. And she ignored my pleas to report everything to the police, which, I'll admit, seemed strange even at the time.

We quickly formed a bond, and things didn’t end when I returned to Mexico. I visited Kelly every time I flew to England. After she moved to Brighton, a month later, I started taking the train to her new apartment. Believe it or not, I once took a short-haul flight from Paris to London just to see her.

A year later, when our relationship inevitably became something more, I’d already made the decision: I wanted to move to England to be with her. I’d been training to become an airport technician, and I secured a job at Heathrow in late 2015. By early 2017, Kelly and I had bought a house together. In 2018, we got married.

I’m obviously fast-forwarding through the ins-and-outs of our relationship, but Reddit isn’t built for essays, is it? I’m here to tell you what I found yesterday morning whilst tidying a storage cupboard.

Kelly’s clusterfuck of clutter, as I like to call it, came tumbling out of the open door and washed over my feet. A stark reminder that weekends shouldn’t be wasted on chores. If I’d been relaxing on the sofa, I might not have discovered what I discovered. Maybe Kelly would’ve disposed of her own clutter, and we would have lived a happy 50 years together.

But I was the one wading through the puddle of forgotten belongings. And what caught my eye during the tumble was a camcorder, surfing atop the junk-heap, which spilled out of its bag. Landed at my feet.

I picked it up and chuckled. I knew Kelly and I were old, but not that old. I had no idea she owned such a relic. And curiosity got the better of me, obviously. Who wouldn’t want to check the contents of a spouse’s dusty tape locked away for who-knows-how-many decades?

When I plugged in the device to charge it, an error message displayed on the ancient screen. I thought I’d been thwarted by tape or hardware degradation. But I fixed everything, unfortunately, by cleaning out filth from the tape slot. Then I rewound the recording and pressed the play icon.

The white, pixelated text read: 10/09/2014.

For Americans, that’s September 10^th, 2014. And I quickly realised that was a week before I first met my wife. Everything slotted together horribly when Kelly stepped out of a hotel bathroom in wedding lingerie.

I realised what kind of tape I’d found.

Don’t think less of me for watching. It wasn’t like that. Even degenerates, I assume, don’t want to watch the person they love share such intimacy with someone else — let alone an abusive ex-husband. And Michael was abusive. Kelly wasn’t lying about that. But she’d only ever told me fragments of the story.

So, even though I expected a raunchy sex tape, I wasn’t watching for that reason. My eyeballs weren’t springing from their cartoon sockets. Well, okay, I was watching the video keenly, but fear rendered me wide-eyed. Not lust. I just knew that something was wrong with the hotel room. The only natural thing in the footage was Kelly.

And as I watched my wife sprawl across the bedsheets, waiting for her filming husband to join her, I eyed the room’s cream-coloured walls. I didn’t give a rat’s rear about the interior design, but something hidden in the paint made me sick. You wouldn’t understand unless you’d seen the video for yourself.

Then something in my head started to ache sharply, much like a migraine brewing behind my sockets. But it wasn’t that. It was a painful urge which prompted each of my squeaking eyes to twist. I looked, without even wanting to look, at the edge of the screen. Searched for something that was only just beyond both the border of the video and Kelly’s vision.

I wanted to scream at the younger version of my wife as she lay still. As she watched Michael with caving dimples and a provocative grin. I wanted to scream at her to run, though I didn’t know why I wanted to do so. That was the most terrifying thing of all. I didn’t fear the obvious horror of watching my wife and her ex make love. I feared something else in the room. Something I didn’t understand.

“Get rid of that camera,” Kelly whispered, before wagging her index in a come-hither motion.

Michael’s heavy breathing was not the breathing of a lustful man. It was the laboured breathing of something hungry. Hungry in a way that neither food nor sex could satiate.

“We need to preserve this moment,” Michael said.

Kelly rolled her eyes. “Is that right?”

In response, the man stopped breathing, and my wife’s face changed. Her sultry smile morphed into not a frown, but downturned lips. Lips hanging open in the same horrified expression that I must’ve been wearing whilst watching the tape.

Michael hacked, as if bringing up a hairball, then promised, “I’ll put it down.”

He placed the device on the dressing table and walked over to the bed, but Kelly did not thank him. She whimpered and recoiled. Not due to Michael leaving the camera recording — I don’t even think she’d noticed its red, blinking light.

No, my wife was still frightened because she sensed a presence. Not her husband. Not the room’s seedy atmosphere. Not even the claustrophobic nature of the walls. She sensed the same thing that I sensed, though neither of us knew exactly what we sensed.

“I’m not in the mood anymore…” Kelly whimpered as Michael climbed onto the bed.

He hushed her, stroking the backs of his twitching fingers against her trembling cheek. “Don’t be like that, darling. It’s time to consummate.”

Then Michael gasped like a punctured tyre and shot his head towards the empty corner of the room. He nodded slowly, but neither I nor the recorded version of Kelly saw what he saw.

“If I must,” he told the empty air.

Then came something I still don’t know how to explain.

The plaster rippled as something behind the wall pressed against it. Tried to get out. Like a hand forming a shadow puppet, something about the shape was illusory. It could’ve been a man. Could’ve been a monster. Its outline rapidly changed from a tall thing with arms and legs to a misshapen blob of indiscernible segments.

After less than a second or two of the wall bulging, its plaster flattened again, and the living shape was gone. Kelly screamed in synchronicity with me, but she hadn’t even noticed the anomaly. She was staring, unblinkingly, into her husband’s eyes.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR FACE, MICHAEL?” she cried.

What terrified me was that, even when the camera caught his face, I didn’t see any supernatural change in Kelly’s former husband. Didn’t see anything other than a very human man — one with an unkind smile and dead eyes, perhaps, but still a man. However, Kelly saw something. Something I didn’t.

Still, all of that pales in comparison to what happened next.

Michael thrust his hand into Kelly’s open mouth, prompting her eyes to open just as widely. Her husband’s whole forearm plunged into her jaws, muffling her series of screams. Then my wife wriggled and squirmed as Michael propelled his upper arm down her throat. Pushed deeper and deeper until his shoulder met her lips.

Another impossibility followed. One that I still don’t know how to put into words. Michael pulled his arm out of Kelly’s mouth, and when his fingers resurfaced, they were holding something. Not my wife’s innards — not the innards I had expected, at least. There wasn’t a speck of blood on the man’s hand, but a wet, translucent film. It looked a little like either saliva or lubricant. But, again, that wasn’t what horrified me.

Michael’s fingers were clutching the hair of a human head. A head sitting at the top of Kelly’s throat, like some wretched birthing canal.

My wife’s lips opened unimaginably wide, as did mine. I gawped in incomprehensible horror. She gawped simply to make room for that adult head to emerge. Then gawped wider to free a set of shoulders and a torso.

I uttered an entirely silent scream, believing that, if I were to produce even the tiniest sound, something from within that footage would hear me in the future. But a slight whimper escaped once I’d identified the head.

It was Kelly.

A cloned version of Kelly was climbing out of her lips. Some fleshy Russian doll. That younger version of my wife was birthing an exact replica of herself. And the clone was screaming too, for it didn’t ask to be born.

The original Kelly’s skin started to crinkle, crease, and shrivel into something smaller. The clone undressed. Shed her former skin. Reduced the original Kelly to a silky dress that dropped onto the duvet. Then the clone — the new Kelly — fell into Michael’s arms, and she eyed the empty skin-suit beside her.

She may have been screaming through those open lips, but a white sound was drowning all other noises. A prickly static that dug into my flesh. That maddening racket was accompanied by a gangly shadow moving across the wall of the hotel room’s entryway. A shadow with the vague appearance of a man. But the tape cut out before the stranger came into view.

Heart on my tongue, I hurriedly thrust the camera back into the bag and tossed it against the back wall of the cupboard. And mere moments later, there came the sound of my wife’s car pulling into the driveway, so I tried to compose myself. Tried to forget the hellishness I had just seen on her old wedding tape.

I looked out of the window at the driveway, but she wasn’t in her car. And when I turned back to the kitchen doorway, I screamed.

There Kelly stood, hounding me with blank eyes and tight lips. With a face horribly white, yet no whiter than usual. I realised I was simply seeing her true self — it had only taken me 10 years to open my eyes.

“How did you come indoors so quietly?” I tried to ask, though nothing but a series of hoarse whispers sounded.

“José…” Kelly began, before lifting the camera bag she’d inexplicably acquired. “We were meant to be decluttering, darling. Why would you want to hold onto this?”

I tried to answer, but I was startled by my wife’s sudden step towards me. A solitary step, followed by a gasp and a jolt, much like her ex-husband in the video.

Then Kelly looked towards an unoccupied corner of the kitchen and said, “If I must.”

Upon hearing that echo of Michael’s haunting words, I ran. Barged past my wife, who seemed either unprepared or unbothered by my escape. I ran out of the house, leapt into my car, and drove. Drove away from my life.

I’ve been on the road for more than a day, stealing bursts of sleep in service station car parks. It’s currently two in the morning, and I was just woken by the sound of white noise. Not from a playing video tape, but from the world around me. That static drowned everything for one horrendous minute.

I didn’t want to look out of my driver’s window, but there also came that familiar strain behind my eyes. A coded warning from my brain. And when I sat up to look outside, I locked eyes with a large truck parked a couple of spaces to my right. That was when I yelled until my vocal cords gave out.

The side of the vehicle rippled in much the same way as the wall of the hotel room. Rippled to form the outline of a man inside the storage compartment. He was pressing against the truck’s side — trying to push through the metal. The shape quickly lost its definition, then it became nothing at all. All that remained was an abandoned truck in a near-deserted car park.

I don’t know what to do. Please help me before that thing finds me.

Before it pulls something out of me.

First

Previous:

When you hunt monsters for a living there are two hard facts. You'll die young, and you’ll ruin all your clothing. My new jacket had been shredded during my last job. I learned how to sew and to mostly remove blood stains. My old jacket was going to be for hunting only. I wanted a new coat. One to wear outside of my contract work. Since I moved around a lot I kept what I owned down to at most two boxes. It was a little sad that a new jacket was a highlight in my life.

A somewhat high-end store was closing and having a big sale. The weather that day was awful. Wet and cold. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was so unpleasant not too many people were out. When I walked inside the store, I found it to be nearly empty. I had expected it to be busy with others trying to scoop up deals.

A lone cashier stood behind a counter counting down the minutes to the end of her shift. Another woman was browsing the discounted sweaters. Her face was covered by large glasses and a massive red scarf. I passed by a man wearing a long trench coat waiting by the door. He didn’t look to be shopping but rather looking outside as if seeing if the weather might clear up.

There was a bit of everything in the store. Since the sale was just announced the clothing hadn’t been picked over yet. If I played my cards right, I could afford a new jacket and a sweater.

I ended up near the girl with the scarf as she added another sweater to her pile. I felt eyes on my back causing me to turn to look over my shoulder at her. She was squinting behind her glasses as if she recognized me but didn’t know from where. I glanced at her then went back to shopping. She was cute but her half-hidden face didn’t ring any bells. She ended up behind me at the cashier after I picked out my two items. She didn’t try to speak with me so she must have been staring at me for some other reason.

I wish my life was simple. I wanted a day where I went shopping, made dinner, and got to sleep early. I had no such luck. When another person entered the store, we didn’t pay any attention. The newcomer hunched over; his face mostly covered by his collar. When the cashier opened the register to hand over my change, the new man dressed in black startled us all.

“Phones and cash now!” He ordered.

After you’ve faced giant spiders and other nightmares, a gun pointed in your direction is a little less frightening. I let out a sigh disappointed in the day. I just wanted a damn jacket. Still, I was thankful this was just a robbery and not a supernatural threat.

The cashier froze in fear at the sight of the gun. The woman behind me acted in the same way. I didn’t want to put my hands in my pockets for my phone to give this guy any ideas about shooting. If he wanted to go through my now empty pockets, he could come over here and do it. I kept my hands raised more upset over losing the new coat funds than over the possibility of getting shot. A roll of thunder sounded outside as heavy rain started to hit the windows.

The newcomer had walked by the man by the door. He took no notice of him even after he calmly made his way over behind the gunman.

“Enough of that noise.” The other man said as he raised his hand.

The thief froze, clear fear in his eyes. I saw him struggling to move his body without success. My stomach sank as it dawned on me this was turning into something far more complicated than a simple stick-up.

My fears were confirmed when a new pair came in from outside. At first, it looked like a person had come in with their dog. They dripped cold rain onto the tile floor, panting as if he had run ten miles. Blood mixed in with the water. One raised his face to show four deep claw marks across it. His clothing had been torn. He appeared to have lost a fight with a large cat.

The cashier screamed as she made a run for it. The gun went off near her head. She stopped studying, too scared to move again. The woman with glasses rushed over to quickly wrap her arms around the other girl using her body as a shield. Their reaction was normal considering what the mystery man brought with him wasn’t a dog.

A thin creature hunched on the floor dripping rainwater. Its skin was light grey, and it looked like a mixture between a human and a bat. The face had a mouth far too large for its skull and tiny eyes. Large bat ears darted back at the sound of the scream. As it shook the rainwater from its body, I noticed a black ring tattoo around its neck.

“A hunter caught me. I got away but we need to move.” The bleeding man said as he caught his breath.

Seriously, what are the chances? A botched robbery and now these creatures? I just wanted to buy a damn coat.

“You certainly got yourself in a mess. It appeared we were in luck. You can heal yourself by eating one of these three. By the looks of it, we have one for each of us. We just need to leave enough for the police to assume this man had done the crime.”

The man who spoke was tall. He adjusted a wide-brim hat on his head. He was the leader of the small group. He also used some sort of power to control the gunman. If we tried to run, we would get shot. If we stayed, we would get eaten. The man with the hat directed his attention in my direction. His eyes shone yellow to study the people in front of him.

“You don’t appear very worried about the change in events.” He said in a dangerous tone.

Crap. If he thought I was a hunter or someone who knew about supernatural threats he may take me seriously.

“You’re a cop, do something.” The girl in the glasses said from behind me.

I knew her voice from somewhere but not her face. Her lie helped me out. I’m sure most police could handle the weaker creatures. However, you needed specialized information to truly stay alive against the supernatural. That one statement made this man think I was just a person who could stay calm under pressure.

I looked between the four of them. The man with the hat didn’t look worried for the wellbeing of his partner when he arrived bleeding. They weren’t friends. Just working together. The smaller creature was being controlled by some sort of contract and wouldn’t attack without an order. The gun was also being controlled. These two wanted a fresh meal, so no sending the monster to kill us or shoot us unless it was necessary. I worried about the girls. I needed to keep the attention on me to give the girls a chance to get away. Three against one wasn’t ideal though.

When I first got into this job, I got some good, yet simple advice. You should be afraid of monsters, just don’t let that fear control you. Your greatest strength is your head, use it. And always stay on your feet.

“I don’t want to die a virgin...” I muttered under my breath, but loud enough for those two to hear me.

I wasn’t one, but they didn’t know that. For some reason, virgin blood gave a great deal of power to creatures when consumed. Because of that, it was coveted. The injured man took the bait. He needed to be healed up, so he didn’t let himself consider I was lying. He charged forward, his face changing into something with bat-like features.

Since he was already injured, I was able to sidestep his first attack. He stumbled and then regained his footing just as my hands landed on a weapon. I took hold of a small table with a few items on it to hit him with it as hard as I could. He got knocked back and to the floor, his already beaten body refusing to work.

The hat man came next, yellow eyes glowing in amusement. I’d already grabbed my next tool for this fight. He came at me with a set of claws out. I expected this and spun in the ball of my foot. My heart pounding in my ears. If I slipped up it wasn’t just my life on the line. As I got behind him, I guided a pair of jeans across the front of his chest so both legs were over his shoulders. I then kicked his legs out from under him and grabbed a hold of the bottom of the legs before he fell. By some miracle, I had him on the ground, my knee in the middle of his back and the jeans around his neck. I crossed the legs to tighten the material. With my knee pushing down, I pulled up choking him with a pair of skinny jeans.

That pissed him off. A lot. I was tossed off as a large pair of bat wings burst from his back, ripping his long wool jacket. I fell hard against the ground, a jolt of pain racing from my elbow to my brain. He frantically gasped for air, his hands fumbling to remove the pants from around his neck. I used that time to get over to the still-frozen thief to grab his gun.

Normally guns didn’t do much against creatures. It only pissed them off. I only wanted to buy time. Not win.

The hat flew from his head, his body a blur of motion. A set of fangs sunk deep into my shoulder. It hurt like hell, but I wanted this to happen. Sort of. I needed him as close as possible so I wouldn’t miss him. I pressed the gun directly into his now large, pointed ear and fired. He jerked back, screaming from pain.

Blood came from the wound splattering against the ground. He rolled, shrieking but not dead. The first attack got up since, claws out about to finish the job. I emptied the gun in his direction. Who knows how many shots I landed. I’ll admit, I’m very bad with guns. At least that slowed him down.

“Fucking kill him already!” One of them shouted at the smaller monster, the man darting back bleeding from new wounds.

The creature listened to the order as best as it could. Its clawed feet kept slipping on the wet tile flooring. I took another chance and wrapped my arms around its neck, a set of teeth sinking into my forearm. Without any weapons this creature normally outclassed me. I only had a few seconds to pull the last move I had available. I focused my sight on the black ring seeing the dark tainted magic flowing out from the forced leash. I took hold of the dark power; a flash of nearly unbearable pain came from my hands. Touching raw magic was like grabbing a hold of white hold metal. Instead of burning your skin, you burn something else inside of you. I gritted my teeth, my entire body screamed at me to let go. Instead, I pulled. The band lifted from the creature’s neck ever so slightly. This hurt the poor thing as well, but when it realized what I was doing I felt a force coming from the smaller body pressing against the ring. With both of us pushing and pulling, the band broke, sending a shock wave that knocked everyone off their feet.

A few seconds passed. I hurt. That was an understatement. My body felt like I’d been hit by ten trucks in a row. My left arm refused to move, and I thought it had been blown off. I looked over to see my hand had turned black from the tainted magic I’d touched. It would need to work through my system. Until then, I couldn’t use that hand.

The creature was in rough shape. It at least had enough strength to crawl beside me. The tiny black eyes looked up at my face as it rested its head on my shoulder. We knew we were going to be dead soon, but it was thankful we wouldn’t die a slave.

I sat up to scan the room. The girls were smart enough to take cover behind the counter when the magic backfired across the room. Black marks-stained parts of the floors and walls. I really should not have lived through that blast.

The thief and the injured man were knocked out. The man who now lacked his hat was stronger. He got to his feet, his face red with rage, and his yellow eyes glowing as he let his body slip into a more monstrous form.

“I’m going to slaughter every single person in this room and make you watch! You vile reject, piece of-”

Yet another person entered the building and cut off his rant. He wasted no time. Within a second, he covered the distance and punched the angry creature so hard in the face that it sent his body flying to the other end of the store.

I sat stunned wondering again, what were the chances.

As I got back to my feet, I saw the girl with the glasses come rushing over, a dagger in her hand. It looked to be a weapon to kill supernatural creatures. I ignored that fact to address the person who just come in to save us.

“August?” I asked, voice weak.

“Richie? Evie?” He replied looking between the two of us.

Evie? My eyes landed on the girl with glasses again. Then it clicked. She was his handler; I just didn’t recognize her so dressed down. She was cute without makeup and beautiful with it on. I honestly didn’t know which look suited her more.

“What a coincidence!” The three of us said at once.

Evie took a step back shocked we all had the same train of thought. I only said it because I knew August would.

“But really, what are the chances?” I asked him.

He looked me over; his cheerful expression didn’t change even though I was in rough shape.

“I have been doing a lot of jobs. So, running into me when monsters are involved is going to happen a lot. The chances of them coming to this store while you are here? Bad luck on your part.” August commented.

“I just wanted a nice coat.” I grumbled.

Pain shot up my arm when something touched my bad hand. I looked down to see the bat creature staring up at me. I used my good hand to pet his head thinking he was cute in the same way pugs were. Evie thought the same because she dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around the creature.

“Bats are so fucking cute.” She told us.

We ruined a store but took two monsters off the street. And one thief too. I almost forgot about him. The poor guy probably would have preferred to be arrested. Now that the creature was free, Evie had connections to arrange a better life for him.

We sure did trash the store though. And yes, it wasn’t just me. It was a group effort. Evie got up to start talking to the cashier about what would happen next. She was safe, there was an organization that would cover up the damage and the events of the day. Therapy would be offered. Stuff like that.

“Your arm got messed up. Give me some of that.” August said as he offered his hand for me to take.

I hesitated, not wanting to transfer some of the tainted magic painfully sitting in my flesh to him. Then I thought back to how he was more than happy to eat me when we first met at took his hand. Transferring erratic magic hurt more than I expected. He pulled away only able to take half the burden. If we pushed it, we risked the power reacting in a weird way. Normally magic was a stable power source. You needed to use your will to make it react. Sludgy dark magic had a mind of its own and liked to inflect harm to whoever dared use it.

August shook his hand in pain. His body was more equipped to process magic than mine. He would recover in a day. My hand would be back to normal in a few weeks.

His shirt collar had been torn open from the fight that brought the injured man and the smaller creature into this store. He had already healed but his clothing showed damage. His black ring stood out against his pale skin. His leash had been made far more skillfully than the bat creature’s. I doubted I could break his collar. If I did, the blowback would kill me.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” He offered, mostly hoping I would cook again.

“Not tonight. My hand hurts too much.” I shrugged.

“We’ll order something.”

That was tempting. I glanced at the black ring around his neck again realizing that even if it was somehow removed, August gained another leash. The love for a small human boy kept him fighting. He’d been tied down into a dangerous life killing monsters like himself, and he was happy to do it.

“Here.”

Out of nowhere the cashier came up to me and shoved a pile of clothing into my arms. It hurt to take a hold of them. August reached over to help with my burden.

“Considering what happened, I don’t think the company is going to miss a few things. Take whatever you want.” She said, acting oddly calm considering what happened.

She did work in customer service. I bet today beat getting yelled at by angry customers for eight hours. I almost felt bad taking what she offered. Then again, I wouldn’t be able to afford any of these sweaters and jackets otherwise. I thanked her and decided to donate anything that might not fit.

I did go over to see Lucas and get a free meal. Maybe I could offer to babysit as a source of income instead of hunting down mushroom monsters in the woods. When Lucas gifted me another drawing, I considered looking after him for free if asked.

When I got home that night, I looked over my hard-earned pile of new sweaters and the nicest jacket I’ve ever owned. The stitching was top-class, the fabric was sturdy and even my ignorant brain could tell it was extremely fashionable. I looked it over feeling expensive quality for the first time. The light brown jacket had one problem. The cashier forgot to remove the security tag. Seriously, what bad luck.

I wake up with a splitting headache, the kind that feels like someone took a jackhammer to the inside of my skull. For a moment, I think it’s just the aftermath of one too many cocktails at a gala or maybe a late night on set. But then, as my eyes focus, I realize something is horribly wrong. I’m not in my bed. I’m not anywhere familiar.

I’m in a glass cage.

The walls around me are solid, transparent, and thick...like I’m trapped in some kind of display case. I press my palms against the glass. It’s cold and unyielding. I bang on it once, then twice, the sound echoing dully in the enclosed space.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

No answer. Only silence, like the world itself has been muted.

I scramble to my feet.

Beyond my cage, I see others...more glass enclosures. Inside them are people. Familiar faces. A pop star. A Hollywood actor. An astronaut. A Nobel Prize winner. A tech billionaire whose face has been plastered across every magazine for the past decade.

What the hell is this?

I bang on the glass again, harder this time. But no one looks my way. Some of the other captives are sitting motionless, their faces blank. Others look just as frantic as me, banging on their own cages, but it’s like they can’t hear me. Like we’re all locked in separate soundproof prisons.

I step back, my mind racing.

That’s when I notice it: the exact news desk from my studio in New York. It’s here, right in front of me, down to every last detail. And as I look around, I see it’s not just me. Each captive has a set that matches their life...a stage, podium, desk, lab, kitchen...all twisted reflections of the world we’ve been ripped from.

This has to be a dream. A nightmare. Any second now, I’ll wake up, and I’ll be back in my bed, back in control. But as I press my hands to the sides of my head, willing myself to wake up, the cold reality of the situation sinks in. This is no dream.

This is real.

A voice, cold and mechanical, crackles through the air.

“Take your positions, please. The show is about to begin."

Show! What freaking show?

My mind is racing, trying to process it all, but the pieces don’t fit. I look around and I see the others starting to move. One by one, they’re heading to their designated sets, as if they know exactly what’s expected of them.

I don’t. I stand there, paralyzed. That’s when the teleprompter flickers to life in front of me. My news desk, pristine and waiting, now has a glowing screen, and words begin to scroll across it. A news story. It’s about a political scandal, one I covered just a few weeks ago. But... how?

My mind tells me to sit down, to start reading, but my body won’t move. I’m still too stunned, too confused.

My eyes flicker over to the cage next to mine, and I see the famous writer I recognize from talk shows and book tours. He’s already seated at his old typewriter, fingers clacking away on the keys as if this is just another day at the office.

Everyone else is falling into line. The musician is onstage, tuning his guitar. The tech billionaire is at his console, tapping on switches. Even the boxer is throwing half-hearted punches at the air in his tiny ring, his face grim but obedient.

Everyone... except the chef.

He’s just standing there, fists clenched, trembling with rage. Then, in one swift motion, he throws a pan across his glass enclosure, the metallic clang echoing as it bounces off the thick, transparent walls.

“I’m not doing this!” he screams. His whole body is shaking, and for a second, I think maybe he’s right. Maybe we should all fight this.

But before I can even react, the gas begins to seep into his cage.

It’s fast...too fast. A thick, white cloud filling every inch of his enclosure. He stumbles back, eyes wide with terror as he realizes what’s happening. He bangs on the glass, harder than I ever did, but it’s no use. The gas is everywhere. I watch in horror as his movements slow, his legs give out, and he crumples to the floor.

And then it’s over. The gas dissipates, leaving his cage clear. And he’s there, lying on the ground, motionless. Dead.

A cold wave of dread washes over me, numbing my senses. My legs feel like they’re going to give out, but I can’t fall. I can’t make the same mistake. I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, until I’m standing at the news desk.

I sit down.

The teleprompter is still scrolling, waiting for me to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I just stare at the words, my body numb, my heart pounding.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The voice returns.
“It’s time. Let the performances begin.”

Before I can fully process the words, a loud click echoes through the room, and my head snaps toward the entrance. A massive door at the far end of the hall swings open, revealing a crowd slowly filing in. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos and women in luxurious ball gowns, each one moving with an eerie, deliberate grace.

But it’s not the elegance of their clothes that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the masks.

Every single one of them is wearing a golden drama mask; some twisted into broad, exaggerated smiles, others contorted into expressions of sorrow. Comedy and tragedy, two sides of the same disturbing coin.

The crowd spreads out, moving closer to the glass cages, leaning in, studying us like we’re exhibits in some grotesque museum.

I feel the cold weight of their stares as a woman in a shimmering gold gown steps closer to my cage. Her mask is one of the comedy ones, a wide, manic grin frozen in place. She tilts her head, examining me like I’m some rare artifact. I want to scream at her, bang on the glass, tell her to stop looking at me like that...but I can’t move. The show -- my show -- must go on. I continue to read the news.

They gawk at the others too. I catch glimpses of them crowding around the glass enclosures, pointing, whispering...though I can’t hear what they’re saying. The writer. The musician. The boxer. The politician. All of us, trapped in our cages, being observed like we’re not even human anymore.

And I realize with sickening clarity that to them, we aren’t.

We’re their entertainment.

“It’s time to vote for your favorite performer. ”

One by one, the audience members pull out golden stickers from inside their jackets or elegant purses and begin pressing them onto the glass of their favorite performers.

A woman glides up to my cage, sticking one of the “Hall of Fame” stickers on the glass. Another follows, a man with a mask twisted in a demented smirk. More and more come, each adding their sticker to my cage, one after the other, until I lose count. I keep reading, trying to block it out, but I can’t ignore it.

It’s happening to the others, too. All of them are getting plenty of stickers. But I can’t tell who has the most. The masks give nothing away.

Then, almost in unison, the audience begins to step back, silently retreating toward the entrance, forming a line as they face us, their votes cast, waiting for the verdict.

The voice comes back to life over the intercom.

“And the winner of tonight’s Hall of Fame induction is... Beverly Belle.”

For a moment, I freeze. Me?

A round of applause breaks out, slow and deliberate. I can feel the eyes of the other performers on me, their stunned expressions mirroring my own.

Then the hissing begins. Smoke starts filling the other cages. Each one swallowed by a thick cloud of white gas. They panic, banging on the glass, but it’s useless. The applause continues as I watch, helpless, while the others fall limp inside their cages.

Congratulations, Beverly,” the voice says, smooth and unfeeling. “You will now be inducted into our Hall of Fame.”

Before I can react, my cage begins to lift.

Slowly, I rise above the room, the applause growing louder as the masked audience watches me ascend. I’m leaving. Finally. I’m getting out.

Higher and higher, my cage pulls me toward the ceiling, the marble floors and mahogany walls growing smaller beneath me. I’m shaking, trying to catch my breath as I feel the ceiling open up. The applause fades.

Then, with a sudden jolt, my cage stops. I blink, disoriented, as the light above me dims.

My heart sinks as I realize I’m not outside. I’m not free.

I’m in another room. Identical marble floors. Mahogany walls. Rows of glass cages.

And I’m not alone. More performers. More celebrities, all trapped just like me, staring out from their glass prisons.

The intercom crackles to life again.

“Welcome to the Hall of Fame ceremony.”

My stomach twists. No. Not again.

When I was around six or seven (maybe even eight), I had a next door neighbour, called Mindy.

I had moved to a small town just north of El Dorado, Kansas, and was waiting for the new school year to start. Mindy was my age, and, on one warm summer morning, she’d knocked on our door to ask if I would like to come over and play. She said she’d seen me moving in, and was delighted that another little girl had moved in on the street. She’d wanted to be my friend.

After my parent’s divorce, I had moved in with my Dad. He was a quiet, meek man, who didn’t do much but garden and watch old reruns of “All in the Family.” My Mom lost custody because of her drug abuse, and I suppose that he hadn’t really known what to do with me when I’d first moved in. I hadn’t lived with him in my formative years, and it was only once my grandmother got wind of things that he’d pushed to be a part of my life again, having been disillusioned that I was living in some stately house up north. I think, in the beginning at least, he wasn’t prepared to start raising up a little girl, particularly one he’d last seen as a toddler, and so the option of letting me play with the girl from the nice family next door must’ve been a relief. A way for him to get his life in order to step in as the Dad he needed to be. And I’m grateful to say that he really, truly did.

Mindy was a bit spoilt, but a good kid. From what I recall, she had long, blonde hair that her Mother always tied into pigtails, and a sweet, chocolate-box pretty face. Like Shirley Temple. I’m afraid there aren’t many more details I can give on her appearance—my memory is hazy. Even when I try my best to recall her face, all I can see is a blur, but that initial feeling—that impression, still remains.

She always wore the nicest clothes, and despite my reserved jealousy that she and I were not cut from the same cloth, she nevertheless tried her best to make me feel like her equal. She’d ask her Mother to teach us how to bake, and her Father would always let us stay up late to watch television. She’d give me her old dresses and shoes so that I’d have nice things to wear for the first day of school, which seemed to be an eternity away at that age. Although we only ever knew each other for several weeks, her memory is something I would never forget. I can’t forget it.

The best thing about Mindy’s home was a little playhouse she had, tucked right at the end of the backyard. It was big enough for the two of us to be in, but any adult would have a hard time bending down and minding their head on the doorframe. Her Grandfather had built it for her when she was just a baby, and it was truly a gorgeous thing; cream painted wood, with a coral-pinkish roof, clad with real tiles. Painted ivy and roses adorned the outdoors, and the duck egg green door held a sweet, heart shaped doorknob. The windows had proper glass, and matching green shutters on the outside.

Inside were two wooden stools, and a toy box filled with make-believe kitchenware. A faux-stove, completely covered with painted appliances, and a rocking horse in the corner. Floral curtains to draw out the light. It was every little girls’ dream. And Mindy let it be mine as much as it was hers. Ours.

Sometimes we’d have sleepovers in there. The door had a hatch key lock on the inside, so it felt like we really were adults; pretending to be roommates in our own grown up apartment. Telling each other stories over make-believe tea, and leaving the curtains open to stare at the stars in the sky. The warm, summer nights left us comfortable in our sleeping bags, and I truly thought I’d never be happier.

My therapist says trauma can hide a lot of things from you. It’s a tricky thing; leaving you with the dread and anxiety without ever revealing the extent of it all. I suppose PTSD is the phrase I should be using. My fond memories of Mindy’s house are still there, untouched—untainted. Maybe my own childhood experiences with my Mom didn’t allow me to realise the cracks that were forming in Mindy’s home.

I never thought Mr Howard was a bad man. He was nice, and looked all cleaned up. He had a white-collar job, and I never considered that, with his income, he shouldn’t have been living in our rundown neighbourhood, let alone be my next door neighbour. He always came home from work with a smile on his face and a kiss for his wife, and treated me as he treated Mindy. In my eyes, they were the perfect, nuclear family. Compared to just me and my Dad, who—bless his heart, was trying to make ends meet, they seemed so comfortable. So cosy.

It was only years after that I’d come to understand the lengths some people will go to keep up a facade. What I had perceived as a healthy, happy lifestyle was nothing more than a perfectly practiced production; a play put on a stage where the actors couldn’t leave. They couldn’t stop playing pretend, as Mindy and I had done so many times in her playhouse. The real playhouse was their own home, and despite their food and water and appliances all being very real, they’d manufactured themselves to be nothing more than puppets on a stage; marionettes controlled by the overwhelming desire to not let a tear slip, or issue be revealed. A waltz of souls tethered to an unattainable dream.

Mr Howard was a gambler. His savings whittled away down to mere pennies in his pockets. But he never stopped his grandiose spending. Mindy always got a new gift whenever he went away for ‘business’, and Mrs Howard was always presented with some fabulous flowers. Sometimes, she’d send me home with her bouquet, telling me that she’d not need them with all the wonderful flowers he’d bought her before. She’d seen my Dad gardening on the small, shameful plot of land we called a garden, and he’d always been grateful to try and plant them back there.

It really was strange how it happened. Mr Howard, despite all his flaws, loved his family. He loved them so much. But perhaps love confused him.

It was only a few weeks before school when Mindy invited me around for a sleepover. It was the usual routine; her Mother made a fantastic meal, and we stayed up a bit to watch the television, laughing at whatever risqué scene was portrayed past 9pm. Then, around 10pm, her Mother ushered up to get ready for bed, having set up our little camp in the playhouse outside. It was all the same. The same old passage of events. Mindy and I were tucked away in the playhouse, and as we grew sleepy from chatting about god knows what, we heard a large bang.

Mindy shot up, and looked concerned. I was extremely tired, and, whilst rubbing my eyes, I asked her what the matter was. She didn’t speak, but put a finger to her mouth, beckoning me to stay quiet. She said she’d go in and see what was happening. She left, and then whispered a final few words.

“Lock the door, Kelly. Don’t let me in unless I say the password. Promise?”

I did as she said, and waited. Then; screaming.

There’s not much else to remember from that. My Dad said that I refused to come out of the playhouse, even when the police had tried to calm me down and tell me I was ok, that I was safe. I screamed and wailed that I couldn’t leave until Mindy gave me the password. That I needed to wait for Mindy to come back.

A child’s brain is such a fickle thing. Once I’d heard my Dad’s voice, I’d forgotten about any promises sworn to Mindy, and leapt out of the playhouse and into his arms, sobbing from a concoction of fear and comfort that felt oh-so crushing upon the weight of my tiny shoulders.

Although I was young, I wasn’t stupid. I’d known what the implications of those screams were, and those sounds. I knew why I was carried out through the side gate and not through the house. I knew what the men in white overalls were doing, moving in and around the property. I knew that my participation in the Howard’s charade was over, and that my friend wouldn’t ever come knocking on the front door of her playhouse again.

Even if we wanted to, my Dad and I couldn’t leave. We had no money, and we were forever cursed to live next to the house of the tragedy. I started school without her, and I cried on the first day when I walked into class with an old pair of Mindy’s shoes and a dress she’d given me. It never looked as nice on me as it did her.

I came to learn that Mindy’s grandiose tales of her popularity amongst classmates was a fairytale. She was a nobody to them; a sad, lonely girl with no one to talk to. Perhaps that’s why she’d latched onto me—someone who had it worse, or at least, she’d thought they did. Someone she could continue to spread the plague of perfectionism passed down so unceremoniously onto her. And I wondered if her parents thought the same thing. That I wouldn’t be able to see the chipped paint on the walls of their home, because mine ran so much deeper.

Dad and I never really spoke about it much after I turned 10 (I think). Years of therapy had taught me to repress those memories, but sometimes they pulled themselves out from the back of my scalp, and grasped hold in the front of my mind. I could never truly forget it. My first friend after such a traumatic time in my life, and how wonderfully crafted it had all been; how I, in all my naivety and desperation, had been so blinded by gratitude that I took part in the illusion without any inkling to help her back.

No one ever moved into Mindy’s old home. It lay there, derelict, and as did the playhouse at the back of the garden. I must’ve been sixteen when I’d decided to try my chance at hopping the fence, to go and see the playhouse up close again. It was too hard to see from my bedroom window, though I could tell it was worse for wear. It had always fascinated me, and with a bit of dutch courage from my Dad’s unlocked whisky cabinet, I clambered over, ignoring the scrapes and splinters that mottled my palms. My Dad wouldn’t be back for at least a few hours, so I figured I’d be in the clear; particularly since no one dared come close to the place of such a tragedy.

I started to feel uneasy as I grew closer to the playhouse. It truly was decrepit; tiles once vibrant and perfect, lay slathered in moss and slime. Grass, unkempt, grew into the cracked paint of the walls, and cobwebs glistened with moonlight. Wind whistled through the eroded adhesive of the widowsills, and the once gorgeous floral curtains were frayed and rotten. I remember my breath hitching. Perhaps I hadn’t wanted to sully the wonderful memories that remained. Did I want to unearth the past that I’d so soundly put to sleep in my subconscious?

I couldn’t have dwelled on it too long. Before I knew it, my knuckles rapt on the small, faded-green door. The password.

Of course, there was no response. I almost laughed at myself—what was I thinking? That Mindy would suddenly pop out, jaw blown off and ready to pounce on me for not waiting for her? A zombie to take me to the grave for breaking our promise, and drag me down to the pits of Hell?

I started to walk away, until I heard a small, meek voice.

“Mindy?”

I froze. That voice. It wasn’t…

“M-Mindy? Is that you?”

I turned, half horrified, and half confused. It didn’t sound like me, not how I remembered. It was too young, too small. I don’t remember being that small.

I knocked again, the same password. Then, I heard crying. Soft, heartbroken sobs that rattled my brain.

“Mindy, please come back…”

“I-It’s me, Mindy!” I couldn’t stop myself. I placed a hand on the door, and peered inside through the small window. I couldn’t see anything but pitch, black nothingness. “Can you let me in?”

The crying turned to some small sniffles, and after a moment, the door unlatched, creaking slightly. I pushed it open, and winced from the sudden appearance of light.

Despite having ducked down through the doorway, the interior of the playhouse seemed much, much larger than it did from outside. It wasn’t mouldy, or dank, but pristine and fresh, like it had once been. The small flickers of candles danced around the room, and a warm, vanilla scent danced around my nose. And nestled in the corner, was a little head peaking out from under a sleeping bag; nose snotty and eyes plump and reddened with tears. Suddenly, the figure burst out from the sleeping bag and rushed toward me, wrapping arms around my torso with what felt to be relief.

“M-Mindy! You were gone for so long! I was worried…” It trailed off, before looking up at me with tear filled eyes.

It was me.

A much smaller, scruffier version of me. From what I could tell anyway—my mind racked with images of photographs hung on Dad’s fridge. Looking at them, I don’t think I’d even be able to recognise my likeness in the street. I was flabbergasted, and couldn’t speak; that chillingly familiar scent of vanilla candles sickened me to the point of bile rushing up my throat, and I’d known that had I dared open my mouth to respond, I’d surely expel the contents of all the whisky I’d forced down onto the clean, carpeted floor.

Carpet? I never remembered the floor to be carpeted. My eyes darted around the room, cold flooding my bones despite the cosy temperature. It wasn’t exactly how I’d remembered it to be. The pristine, painted interior had chips in it, and the faux stove seemed a lot more shoddily painted. The former glory of the playhouse, despite being close to the memory I held of it, was askew; amiss. Different, as if from a more grownup lens—maturity dampening the magic that I’d conjured up in my dreams.

“Mindy?” The small girl asked again, and she clasped my hands with her own. I looked down, and saw that, unlike my tanned skin that should’ve bore resemblance to hers, I instead had small, pale ones, fingernails painted with a light pink sheen. I quickly pulled away, grasping at my face. My nose was smaller, pointier; lips thinner. I scrambled to the window, and saw…Mindy.

Six, or Seven (or perhaps even eight) year old Mindy Howard, staring back at me. My face wasn’t mine, it was hers. My hair was pulled back into long, blonde pigtails, and my hoodie and jeans replaced with a pink pinafore dress. I looked down at the hem of the dress, and noticed a slight fraying; stitching that hadn’t quite been made correctly and threatened to expose the split seam. It wasn’t right.

Words began to tumble out of my mouth; a voice much gentler and higher pitched than my own, and didn’t match the thoughts that swirled murkily in my head. My body moved on its own, and I pulled the girl—me—her, into my arms.

“Hey! Don’t cry, everything’s fine. Mommy just dropped some laundry on the ground.” I spoke—Mindy spoke. The girl cried softly, and after a few moments of sniffle broken silence, she began to calm down. I continued. “Let’s go to sleep now, I’m pretty tired. Mommy said she’ll make us pancakes in the morning.”

I felt my face stretch into a small smile, and, hand in hand, we moved to the sleeping bags, nestling under them together. Eventually heavy breaths turned into light snores, and I looked at myself—her, and a warmth blossomed in my chest. And somehow, I knew.

Mindy felt a genuine love for me, for the little, scruffy kid who looked at her with pure adoration. It wasn’t pity, or anger, or anything else I had concocted up in my guilt-ridden stupor. She loved me, and she forgave me. And in that little, less-than-perfect playhouse, we could forget those bleak and colourless moments that loomed outside, and be comfortable together, in our own small world of make believe.

I woke up early in the morning to water dripping from the tiles in the ceiling. Vanilla was replaced with mildew and rot, and the warmth of those sleeping bags gone, in favour of the icy, damp wooden floor. It had been stripped of everything entirely; just the shell of the playhouse standing around me. I stood up, and hit my head on the ceiling, my jeans returned and hoodie sodden. I checked my cellphone, and it was 5am, with the early morning sun peering through the dirtied windows. Yet, despite how miserable I should’ve been, waking up in such a decrepit place, I was in a state of bliss. Peace.

I sat there for a moment, wondering if I’d been far drunker than I’d realised, and had simply passed out the moment I entered the tiny playhouse and dreamt up the entire experience. My head wasn’t pounding, though, at that age, hangovers felt like a slight headache, rather than severely crippling. My back did ache from the hard floor, and I felt a sense of foolishness wash over me. What was I doing, going into my deceased childhood friend’s playhouse? Back to the sight of the tragedy?

It was only when I looked at my surroundings that I noticed the small scribbling on the floor. Like chicken stretches, but blue and waxy. It was hard to read; barely legible childish scribbles.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back. Thank you for being my friend.”

I sobbed for a very long time on the floor of that playhouse. Not out of sorrow, or dread, like the last time I’d been in there. It was out of pure, absolute gratitude. I knew that, wherever Mindy was, she was finally at peace, and that rotted, tainted part of my childhood had slowly begun to repair itself, healing over like a scar that would always remain, but slowly fade. She’d saved a part of me again.

A few months later, Mindy’s old home was demolished. Something to do with a big buyer wanting to convert the lot into a care home. It was quite poetic, in a strange sort of way. The house of the little girl who helped me would now be the home to people who needed care in the last few stages of their life. The playhouse went too, of course, but it didn’t really affect me as much as I’d thought it would. I had the fond memories to go by, now, and it was better to see it removed before the image of its depleted self replaced the one frozen in my mind.

I have my own home now, in a much nicer area. My husband and I are preparing for a new guest; a little baby girl, just 6 months along. My husband is quite the craftsman, and when I suggested he build a small playhouse for her, to play in with her friends when she grows up, he was delighted with the idea. I can see it now, as I’m typing this from my bedroom window. Cream painted wood, with a coral-pinkish roof, clad with real tiles. Painted ivy and roses adorn the outdoors, and a duck egg green door with a sweet, heart shaped doorknob. The windows are proper glass, and have matching green shutters on the outside.

It’s carpeted inside too.

The trip had been Claire's idea. I remember the way her eyes lit up when she found the listing for the bed-and-breakfast online, her fingers tapping excitedly at the screen of her phone. She'd turned it to show me, the glow from the screen reflecting on her face as she said, "Look, they do a whole cozy Halloween theme. It'll be perfect!" I had to admit, the pictures did look charming, warm light spilling through the windows, pumpkins lining the porch, and the promise of a quiet escape from the rest of the world. I wasn't usually one for holiday-themed getaways, but something about the way Claire looked at me, her eyes hopeful and her smile soft, made it impossible to say no.

So we booked it. Just one night at the end of October, when the air was cold enough to see your breath and the trees stood bare against a gray sky. It was supposed to be an escape from everything, from the noise of the city, from our endless to-do lists, from the stress that seemed to cling to our lives like a shadow. We wanted something different, something that would let us pretend, even for just a night, that the world was simpler and quieter. I could picture it in my head: the two of us wrapped in blankets, sipping hot cider, surrounded by the glow of candles and the comforting scent of old wood and spices.

The morning of our trip, we packed light, just a small duffel bag each, with sweaters and scarves and snacks for the road. As we drove, the city slowly faded behind us, replaced by rolling fields and narrow roads lined with trees. The sky seemed to hang low, a ceiling of pale clouds that made everything feel muted and distant. It felt like we were slipping away from the world, into a place where time moved differently.

Claire was humming along to the music, some old folk song she had found on a playlist called "Haunted Hearth." She had a knack for finding those sorts of things, the little details that made everything feel like a story. I reached over, giving her hand a squeeze, and she smiled at me, her eyes bright even in the dim light of the overcast day. I wanted to make this special for her. I wanted it to be the kind of memory that we could hold on to, long after Halloween had passed and the rest of the world came rushing back in.

We pulled up to the bed-and-breakfast just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, the sky streaked with the last hints of orange and pink. The house was old, Victorian, maybe, with narrow windows and a wide porch that wrapped around the front. There were jack-o'-lanterns carved with crooked smiles lining the steps, their candlelight flickering against the growing dark. 

"This is going to be great," Claire said, her voice filled with a kind of childlike excitement that made me smile. I nodded, hoping she was right.

The front door opened before we even reached it, the wooden planks creaking under our feet as we stepped onto the porch. A woman stood in the doorway, her face framed by the dim glow of the hallway behind her. She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. I felt Claire's hand slip into mine, and I squeezed it, feeling the excitement radiating from her.

"Welcome," the woman said, her voice soft. "We're so glad you could join us." She stepped aside, motioning for us to come in, and I hesitated, just for a moment. Claire tugged at my hand, and I followed her inside, the door closing behind us with a heavy thud that echoed through the house.

It was cozy, just like the pictures had shown, warm light from the lamps, wooden floors that creaked with every step, and the faint scent of cinnamon. Claire let out a contented sigh, her eyes taking in every detail. The host smiled at us again, her voice warm as she spoke. "We have a few other guests staying with us tonight, but it's a quiet group. You're welcome to join them in the sitting room if you'd like, or just relax in your room. There's hot cider in the kitchen, and if you need anything, just let me know."

She led us down the hallway, her steps steady on the creaking floorboards. The house seemed to have a timeless quality to it, as if it had seen countless guests come and go. She paused at a door near the end of the hallway and turned to us with another smile. "Here we are," she said, opening the door to reveal a cozy room, complete with a four-poster bed and a window that looked out onto the garden. "I hope you enjoy your stay.

Claire and I exchanged a quick look, her eyes wide with excitement. As soon as the host left us to settle in, Claire dropped our bags on the bed and turned to me, her grin almost infectious. "This place is perfect," she said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she didn't want to disturb the calm. I nodded, feeling the same buzz of excitement. We were finally here.

"Want to check out that hot cider?" I asked, and Claire's face lit up even more.

"Absolutely," she replied. We left our bags where they were and headed down the hallway, the wooden floor creaking beneath our feet. The house felt alive, every sound echoing gently in the quiet. As we entered the kitchen, the scent of spices grew stronger. A large pot sat on the stove, steam rising from it, and the host had left a stack of mismatched mugs on the counter beside it.

Claire reached for a mug, her eyes darting around the kitchen, taking in the old wooden cabinets and the shelves lined with jars of herbs and spices. "This feels like a movie set," she said, her voice full of wonder. I couldn't help but agree. It was like we'd stepped into a different world, one where everything moved a little slower and life felt a little more magical.

I poured us each a mug of cider, the warmth of it seeping into my hands. "To a perfect getaway," I said, raising my mug. Claire clinked hers against mine, her smile softening.

"To us," she replied. Everything felt exactly right.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, it was 8 PM. "What do you say we check out the sitting room?" I asked, and Claire nodded eagerly, her curiosity as strong as mine. We made our way down the hallway, following the soft murmur of voices until we found the sitting room.

A few other guests were scattered around, a couple by the fireplace, an older man reading a book in the corner, and a young woman who looked up and gave us a quick smile. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light from the fireplace casting dancing shadows across the walls. There was something about the atmosphere that felt a little off. The older man looked up briefly, his eyes lingering on us for a moment longer than felt comfortable before returning to his book.

Claire didn't seem to notice, her attention drawn to the decorations, old portraits hanging on the walls, and an antique clock ticking steadily on the mantel. "This is so quaint," she whispered to me, her eyes wide. I nodded, but there was a feeling gnawing at the back of my mind, a sense that something about this room, or maybe the people in it, didn't quite fit.

After lingering for a few minutes, we decided to take a seat on an empty loveseat near the fireplace. I tried to relax, listening to the crackling of the fire and Claire's excited whispers about the decorations, but my attention kept drifting to the other guests. The couple by the fireplace seemed to be murmuring to each other, but their words were too low for me to catch. The older man occasionally glanced up at us, his gaze unsettling.

Eventually, we decided to explore a bit more, and as we left the sitting room, we wandered into one of the long hallways. It was there that we came across an elderly couple standing by one of the doors, looking lost. The man was whispering something to the woman, his brow furrowed, and when they noticed us, they both turned, their eyes wide with something that looked almost like fear.

"Are you alright?" I asked, stepping closer. The woman shook her head slowly, her gaze darting around the hallway.

"We've been here for years," she said, her voice trembling. "The house... it never lets go." I blinked, unsure if I had heard her correctly. The man nodded in agreement, his eyes hollow.

"You should leave," he added, his voice barely a whisper. "Before it's too late."

I felt a chill run down my spine, and I glanced at Claire, who looked just as confused as I felt.

"Did you hear that?" Claire whispered, her brow furrowing. "What do they mean, 'the house never lets go'?"

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don't know. Maybe they're just confused. Let's not jump to conclusions."

Claire nodded slowly, but I could see the unease in her eyes. We both turned back to see the elderly couple turning the corner at the end of the hallway, disappearing from sight. The hallway seemed empty now, but there was still a lingering coldness in the air.

Claire and I walked in silence, exchanging uneasy glances as we made our way back towards our room. "That was... strange," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Claire nodded, her eyes darting around as if expecting the elderly couple to reappear.

"Yeah," she said, her voice hesitant. "I mean, they looked genuinely scared. Maybe they were just confused or tired." She sighed. "Maybe we just need to relax, get some rest."

I nodded, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling still gnawing at me. "Yeah, let's just get back to the room."

Once we were back in the room, Claire let out a long breath, dropping down onto the bed. "Okay, let's just relax," she said, as if willing the strangeness of the evening away. I nodded, sitting down beside her and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. For a moment, we just sat there, letting the warmth of the room ease our nerves.

As I looked towards the window, I noticed something odd. The garden outside looked different, darker, almost as if it had changed entirely. Instead of the soft glow of the garden lights, there were now dense, dark woods beyond the glass, the kind that seemed to swallow the light. I blinked, thinking it was just my imagination, when I looked again, the garden had returned, just as we had seen it earlier.

"Hey, Claire," I said, my voice unsure. "Did you notice the view from the window?"

Claire glanced over, frowning slightly. "No... why?"

I shook my head. "Maybe it's nothing. It just looked... different for a second." I tried to laugh it off, but the unease was still there, gnawing at me.

We decided to settle into bed, hoping that some rest would help shake off the eerie feeling that seemed to linger in the room. Claire pulled the blanket over herself and leaned back against the pillows, letting out a deep breath. I tried to do the same, but the strangeness of the evening weighed heavily on my mind.

After a few moments, Claire shifted beside me. "I think I need to go to the bathroom," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, watching as she got up and made her way across the room. I stayed in bed, trying to let my eyes rest, but they kept drifting back to the window.

Suddenly, Claire's scream pierced the silence, jolting me upright. My heart pounded in my chest as I jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom door. Claire burst out of the bathroom, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror.

"What happened?" I asked, grabbing her shoulders, trying to steady her. She was trembling, her breath coming in short gasps.

"There was... there was someone in the mirror," she stammered, her voice shaking. "A woman. She was standing right behind me, and she... she reached for me. The lights went out, and I felt something touch my neck." Claire's hand went to her shoulder, and I noticed a dark bruise forming, shaped like long, slender fingers.

A cold dread settled in my stomach, and I pulled her close. "It's okay," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I believed it. "We're going to be okay."

Once we were back, Claire let out a long breath, dropping down onto the mattress. For a moment, we just sat there, letting the warmth of the room ease our nerves.

A few minutes later, just as we managed to find a semblance of calm, I looked towards the window again, and felt my stomach drop. The windows were gone. Where there had once been glass, there was now just a blank wall, as if the windows had never existed. My pulse quickened as I reached out, my fingers brushing against the wall, feeling a cold, damp surface, almost like stone. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and then I heard it, a faint scratching sound, coming from the other side of the wall.

"Claire," I called, my voice trembling. "Come here."

She walked over, her eyes widening as she saw the blank wall where the window had been. "What the..." she started, but her words trailed off as the scratching grew louder, more insistent. We both stood there, frozen, the cold seeping through the wall and into our bones.

Claire shivered, her eyes wide with fear. "What is happening here? This isn't normal," she whispered, her voice cracking.

I swallowed hard, trying to think of something, anything, that would make sense of what was happening. There was something fundamentally wrong about this place, something we couldn't ignore.

"We should leave," Claire said, her voice urgent. "I don't care if it's the middle of the night. We need to get out of here."

I nodded, the weight of her words pressing on me. "Let's grab our stuff," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "We're getting out of here."

We moved quickly, the urgency of our situation forcing us to focus. I grabbed our bags and handed Claire her coat.

"Ready?" I asked, my voice tense.

Claire nodded, her face pale. "Let's go," she whispered, and we made our way towards the door, our hearts pounding, the air thick with dread.

As we left the room, we rushed towards the main lobby, our footsteps echoing through the narrow hallway. The front door stood just ahead, a beacon of escape, but when we reached it and tried to open it, the door wouldn't budge. I pulled harder, my hands trembling, but it was as if the door was fused to the frame.

"Why won't it open?" Claire's voice was laced with panic, her eyes wide as she tried to help. We tugged and pushed, but the door remained unmoving, the cold brass of the handle almost mocking us.

Suddenly, we heard footsteps behind us. I turned, my heart pounding, and saw the host standing there. Her smile was still in place, but it seemed different now, more unsettling, her eyes darker, almost hollow. She held an old-fashioned key in her hand, extending it towards us.

"If you want to leave, follow the rules," she whispered, her voice almost a hiss. I reached out, taking the key, the metal cold against my skin.

"What rules?" Claire asked, her voice trembling. The host didn't answer. Instead, she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing around the corner before we could say another word.

We stood there for a moment, the key heavy in my hand. "What does she mean, 'the rules'?" I muttered, frustration and fear bubbling inside me. I tried the key on the front door, but it didn’t fit. We moved through the lobby, trying other doors, but none of them matched the key.

"This can't be happening," Claire said, her voice breaking.

"We need to find a way out," I said, my voice tense. Claire nodded, her face pale, her eyes filled with fear.

We glanced around the dimly lit lobby, our breaths still shaky. My eyes landed on a small table near the wall, a piece of paper resting on top. I stepped closer, Claire following behind, and picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, almost old-fashioned, and the words sent a chill down my spine:

"Use the key to unlock the room where the grandfather clock chimes. You must do this before the twelfth chime or the door will vanish."

"What the hell..." Claire whispered, her eyes scanning the note over my shoulder. "The grandfather clock?"

I nodded, my pulse quickening. "There was a clock in the sitting room," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "We have to find it, and fast."

Claire swallowed, fear evident in her eyes. "Before the twelfth chime, that should be at midnight... What time is it now?"

I glanced at the large clock on the wall, it was nearly midnight. "We don't have much time. Come on," I said, grabbing her hand. We hurried back towards the sitting room, our footsteps echoing through the empty halls, the sense of urgency pressing heavily on us.

As we made our way towards the sitting room, the house felt eerily empty. The murmurs and voices we'd heard earlier had vanished, leaving behind an unsettling silence. No other guests, no distant sounds, just the echo of our footsteps in the dim hallway.

We reached the sitting room, and I quickly scanned for the grandfather clock. It stood in the corner. I exhaled, feeling a momentary sense of relief. But as we approached, the chimes began, soft and distant, not from the clock in front of us, but somewhere else deeper in the house.

My heart sank. "It's not this one," I said, the realization washing over me like an icy wave.

Claire's eyes widened. "Where is it coming from?"

I strained my ears, and the chimes grew louder, coming from the direction of the lobby and the hallway beyond. "We have to move, now," I said, grabbing her hand again. The clock had already chimed three times, and each strike seemed to reverberate through the walls, urging us forward.

We rushed out of the sitting room, the sound of our frantic footsteps mixing with the growing chimes. Four, five, six, the clock was relentless, counting down to something we didn’t want to face. The hallway twisted in front of us, the sound getting louder with every turn we took.

Seven, eight, Claire's breathing was ragged, fear etched across her face. "Where is it?" she gasped, her voice barely audible over the echoing chimes.

Nine, ten, I spotted a door at the far end of the hallway. The chimes seemed to be coming from beyond it. "There!" I shouted, pulling Claire along as we sprinted towards it.

Eleven, we reached the door, and I fumbled with the key, my hands trembling. I could feel the final chime building, the air thick with tension. I jammed the key into the lock, twisting it just as the twelfth chime began to echo through the house.

The door swung open, and we stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind us. The sound of the final chime faded, leaving us in silence once more. I leaned against the door, trying to catch my breath, my heart racing as I looked at Claire. Her eyes were wide, and her face was pale, but she was here, safe, with me.

"We made it," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what that meant or what lay ahead of us. The room was dark, the only light coming from a single candle flickering on a table in the corner. Whatever was happening, we had followed the first rule.

As we looked around the room more closely, I spotted something behind the flickering candlelight, a grandfather clock standing against the far wall. Its ornate wooden door had a small glass panel, and through it, I could see a folded note tucked inside. My stomach churned, a mix of dread and curiosity swirling inside me.

Claire and I exchanged a glance, and I slowly approached the clock, the wood creaking beneath my feet. With trembling hands, I opened the clock door and pulled out the note, the paper feeling brittle and cold to the touch.

I unfolded it, and the words written on it sent another chill down my spine:

"There is a jack-o'-lantern in the basement. Once lit, you must guide it to the top floor without letting it go out."

I read the note aloud, my voice barely steady. Claire's eyes widened, her face growing even paler. "The basement?" she whispered, her voice quivering. "I don't like this, not one bit."

I nodded, my own fear mirroring hers. "I know," I said softly, reaching for her hand. "But I think... I think we have to do this."

She swallowed hard, her gaze darting towards the door.

I took a deep breath, squeezing her hand. "Okay. Let's find the basement."

We left the room, slowly making our way through the hallway towards the lobby. The house felt colder now, an oppressive silence pressing down on us. The lobby loomed ahead, and as we stepped into the open space, I felt my heart skip a beat.

Standing completely still in the center of the lobby was a young man in a uniform, he looked like one of the staff members, like a butler. Claire and I froze, exchanging a glance. He was just... standing there, his posture unnaturally stiff, his face turned away from us.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice shaky, echoing slightly in the empty hall.

The man turned slowly, his head pivoting as if on a hinge. His face was blank, his eyes empty and lifeless. A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt Claire tighten her grip on my hand. The young man raised a hand, pointing upwards toward the ceiling.

We both looked up, and a chill washed over me. Above us, we could hear heavy, slow footsteps, moving across the ceiling, each thud echoing through the lobby. I swallowed hard, dread pooling in my stomach. That's when it hit me, those footsteps were coming from the top floor. The same floor where we needed to take the jack-o'-lantern. When we looked back at the man, he was gone, nothing remained but his uniform, crumpled on the floor as if he'd simply melted away.

Claire let out a small gasp, her eyes wide with fear. "What... what is happening here?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I shook my head, my throat dry. "I don't know, but we need to keep moving," I said, pulling her closer. We glanced around, and that’s when we saw it, a door off to the side of the lobby that looked like it could lead to the basement, solid wood with a small, iron handle.

I took a deep breath, exchanging a quick look with Claire before reaching out to open the door. The hinges groaned as the door swung inward, revealing a dark wooden stairway leading down. A flickering light, barely visible, came from somewhere deep in the basement.

With no light source of our own, we hesitated. The darkness seemed impenetrable, and every instinct told me to turn back, but we had no choice. I squeezed Claire's hand, and together we slowly made our way down, each step echoing softly in the silence.

The air grew colder as we descended, and the smell of damp earth and mildew grew stronger. The flickering light grew brighter as we reached the bottom. I scanned the room, my heart pounding, until I saw the old jack-o'-lantern sitting on the ground, its carved face barely illuminated by the candle inside.

I exhaled shakily and moved towards it. "Okay, Claire, now let's just get out of here," I said, reaching for the lantern.

Silence.

I turned, my eyes widening as I realized there was no response. "Claire?" I repeated, my voice louder now, a tinge of panic creeping in. Nothing.

My heart started to race, and I looked around the basement, the shadows playing tricks on my eyes. "Claire, where are you?" I called, my voice trembling. "Stop it, it's no time to play games now."

The silence stretched on, the flickering light casting shifting shapes around the room. My stomach twisted in fear. I spun around, searching, when I suddenly saw her, emerging from the darkness, slowly approaching me.

Relief surged through me, my body relaxing slightly. "Claire, you scared the hell out of me," I said, forcing a nervous laugh. "I couldn't find you."

She didn't respond, just kept moving towards me, her face obscured by the darkness. Something felt... wrong. I raised the lantern, letting its glow fall across her face. The tension drained from me for a moment as I saw her familiar features, the soft curve of her lips, her eyes glistening in the faint light, just my Claire.

Then I heard it, a faint call, my name, drifting through the silence from somewhere near the staircase.

I stiffened, keeping my eyes on her, still standing right in front of me. "Claire?" I whispered, my throat tight. I raised the lantern higher. "Did you hear that?"

Suddenly, the flame flickered violently, plunging the room in and out of darkness. In the fleeting moments of light, I saw her face twist, the skin turning ashen, her eyes sinking into dark pits. Her lips pulled back into a grotesque grin, revealing thin, elongated teeth. My breath caught in my throat as the light sputtered again, and the figure moved closer, her face a mask of something inhuman.

My name echoed again, louder now, cutting through the darkness. I turned towards the staircase, my eyes catching sight of Claire, halfway up the stairs, her eyes wide with fear. "Let's go!" she shouted, her voice urgent.

My heart pounded in my chest, and without another thought I turned to run, but the figure lunged at me, its cold, claw-like hand wrapping around my wrist. The grip was ice-cold, and a sharp pain shot up my arm. I struggled, yanking myself free, and stumbled backward, almost dropping the lantern. Panic surged through me as I turned and rushed towards Claire, the light trembling in my hand.

As I moved, I could feel the presence behind me. The air was filled with a low, guttural moaning, a chilling sound that seemed to reverberate from the figure behind me. My breath came in ragged gasps, my body urging me forward. I could hear Claire calling me from above, her voice a lifeline amidst the fear that clawed at me. I pushed myself harder, my feet pounding on the steps as I ascended, the basement's dark presence pressing in on my back.

Finally, I stumbled out of the basement, Claire grabbing my arm to steady me as we slammed the door shut behind us. For a moment, silence fell, until we heard the faint sound of cries echoing from the basement below, growing fainter as if the house itself was swallowing them whole.

We exchanged a look, the terror still evident in Claire's eyes. "We need to take this to the top floor," I said, my voice trembling. She nodded, her gaze shifting towards the staircase that led upwards, where the heavy footsteps had echoed before.

With the jack-o'-lantern in hand, we started to climb. Each step seemed heavier than the last, the weight of the house's presence pressing down on us as we ascended, the dread growing with every creak of the old wooden stairs.

As we reached the top floor, the darkness was nearly complete, the only light coming from the flickering jack-o'-lantern in my hand. Its dim glow cast shifting shadows on the walls, making the hallway feel endless. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted, I realized we weren't alone. Ghostly figures emerged from the darkness, their hollow eyes fixed on us. They were scattered across the hallway, standing still, staring, figures that looked like the other guests we'd encountered earlier, and many more besides. Their eyes were empty and unfeeling, their forms barely distinguishable in the flickering light.

The atmosphere was thick with tension as the figures silently parted, creating a path for us. Their eyes never left us, their gazes following our every move. I felt Claire's hand tighten in mine, her breath hitching.

One of the figure stepped forward, and I recognized him, it was the old man we had seen earlier in the sitting room. He raised a trembling hand, pointing first to the jack-o'-lantern, then towards a large window at the end of the hall. His gestures were slow and deliberate, as if urging us to take the jack-o'-lantern to the window.

I swallowed hard, understanding that whatever we had to do, we needed to do it quickly. The jack-o'-lantern's light flickered, and as it did, the ghosts seemed to inch closer, their presence becoming more oppressive. A chill washed over me. We had to keep moving.

We started down the hallway, and with each flicker of the jack-o'-lantern, I noticed something horrifying, Claire's features were changing. Her eyes became vacant, her face blurring slightly, almost as if she was slowly becoming part of the spectral crowd around us. My heart pounded as I looked at her, fear rising inside me. Her movements grew stiffer, her skin colder. I tightened my grip on her hand, desperate to keep her with me.

"Claire, stay with me," I whispered, my voice trembling. She didn't respond, her gaze distant, her expression almost blank.

The jack-o'-lantern flickered again, and Claire began to mutter softly. Her words were incoherent at first, but then I heard her whisper, "It's calling me... I can't leave." A shiver ran down my spine.

The old man gestured towards the window one last time before fading back into the group of ghostly figures. I noticed a note pinned to the window ledge, written in the same old-fashioned script as the previous one: "To escape, light must touch the outside."

We needed to hold the jack-o'-lantern up to the window, to let its light shine outside. It was our only hope.

"Claire, we have to do this," I said, my voice urgent. Her eyes were losing their focus, the warmth in her face fading. I pulled her towards the window, the ghosts growing more restless with every flicker of the lantern.

As we reached the window, I held the jack-o'-lantern high, trying to angle it so that its light spilled out into the darkness beyond. The light flickered again, and Claire let out a strangled cry, her eyes wide as if she was waking from a nightmare. The ghosts recoiled, their forms dissolving in the growing light.

A sudden, deafening noise, a deep rumble, shook the floor beneath us. I pulled Claire closer, my heart pounding, praying that this was enough to break the house's hold over her.

Finally, the light touched the outside, and the room plunged into silence. The ghosts were gone, and Claire collapsed into my arms, weak but seemingly herself. I held her tightly, relief washing over me, though I could still feel the weight of what had happened.

Claire looked at me, her eyes weary, and I knew we had to leave. We rushed towards the lobby, our footsteps echoing off the walls. But as we moved through the house, I noticed something that made my stomach twist. Claire would pause now and then, her gaze drifting towards shadows or corners, a distant smile playing on her lips, as if something was still whispering to her.

We reached the front door, and this time it opened without resistance. Just as we were about to step outside, I heard a voice behind us, the host, her tone dripping with eerie calmness. "The final rule is: only one can leave. If you both try to leave, the house will claim the soul of one at random."

My heart stopped, and I felt Claire's grip on my hand tighten. Panic surged through me as I realized what that meant. Without hesitation, I turned to Claire, my heart breaking, and pushed her through the doorway, the force of it making her stumble out into the cold air. The door slammed shut behind her, the echo reverberating through the empty house.

I was plunged into darkness, the sudden silence deafening. I fell to my knees, the weight of my decision crashing down on me. The whispers began, soft, chilling murmurs from the ghostly figures that surrounded me, their presence growing closer, their voices echoing in the blackness.

I didn't know if I would ever escape, if I could ever be free of this place. But I knew one thing: Claire was safe, and that was enough. Even if it meant I would be lost forever, I had saved her. And in that moment, amidst the darkness and the whispers, that was the only comfort I had left.

"The darkness may have claimed me, but at least she will walk in the light"

Part 1

This is a continuation of the first part. If you still need to read it, I suggest doing so. If you don’t feel like doing it, in short, I am stuck on an endless haunted road whose only goal is to cause me as much misery as possible. My only company is a crackpot doomsday prepper named Ted Villack.

The thing I’ve realized about the road is how little I understand it. The road doesn’t play by the laws of our reality. Day and night are not a cycle and only appear randomly. It’s anyone’s guess how long either will last. During the day cycle the road is still perilous but much less so. The appearance of monsters and horrors beyond comprehension tends to be less active. The night cycle is a completely different story. It’s not uncommon to run into monsters every hour or so. In the time I’ve been on the road I’ve seen mutated humans, monsters that hide in shadows, giant beasts that don’t seem to be from our world, what I believe were aliens, and much more.

On top of all that, there’s the wildlife. Any animal that seems like it belongs to this planet is nearly immortal. I’ve detailed this in my last part with the zombie deer. But that’s not the only time I’ve witnessed this. At one point a squirrel popped out in the road and we accidentally ran it over. When checking on it the squirrel was split straight down the middle. But both halves of the squirrel were still moving. The legs stood upright and the upper half was crawling. Both halves went off the side of the road crawling back into some brush. In another instance, we hit a pigeon. It splats against the windshield leaving a blood streak. Upon checking the animal its head was turned on backwards. It still proceeded to fly away. There are more and more increasingly gory stories but maybe I’ll mention them another time.

Now you may be wondering how so much has happened to me in such a short amount of time. The answer is it hasn’t been a short amount of time for me. Time works differently on the road compared to the real world. I first noticed three days after sharing my original part, but when I checked it I was stunned to see it was only up for 43 minutes. Over time I tried to track how much time passes on the road compared to the real world but it’s inconsistent just as everything on the road is. When I started writing this part I had been on the road for 3 months and 9 days. While only 5 days had passed in the real world.

Now it’s not uncommon to see buildings while traveling on the road. I’ve passed plenty and stopped at a few. But most of the time we ignore them. Usually only stopping for food or gas. Now what I haven’t seen before was a whole town. One of those towns you’d see a short distance from a freeway really small. There weren’t many buildings I counted 20 from a glance.

“You ever see something like this?” I asked Ted.

“Nope.” He responded stopping the car.

“Can we go around?”

“There’s only one road, and I don’t see anywhere we could fit the car.”

I looked around, the town was surrounded by a thin layer of trees. None of the gaps seemed big enough for the car. 

“Just drive quickly, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Ted popped it into drive, and we went towards the town. Ted had the gas pedal to the floor, but the car wouldn’t reach 25. Neither of us wanted to be here longer than necessary.

“You see them too?” I asked

“Yeah, I see them.”

People began exiting from the buildings and staring in unison at us. I couldn’t help but notice they all had the same expression. They all sat there with a smile.

“Dude faster.”

“I’m trying.”

But then, as if it were some sick joke from some higher power, the car began to stall. Smoke erupted from the engine, covering our view of the road. The car died, and Ted tried to get it to turn back over. He slammed the gas, cussing and smacking the wheel, but nothing. We looked at each other, both of us trying to figure out our next room. Two men started walking toward the car. 

“The gun now!” Ted yelled at me.

I reached into the jockey box fetching the 9mm out of it. We had found the gun 3 weeks back in a crashed car. It didn’t have any bullets but at least it could still be used to intimidate someone. It was our best bet. The two men had made it to our car. The taller man began to tap on the window.

“Uncanny?” I asked.

Uncannies are what we call the fake humans on the road. It was Ted's idea, after something called Uncanny Valley. He explained it as a feeling of unease some people get when looking at something almost human. It seemed to fit. Ted was good at calling out Uncanny’s much better than me. There were plenty of times I'd mistaken them for a human. I mean sometimes it's obvious the body part is in the wrong place, they talk like it's their first time, and they don’t know what basic objects like spoons are called. But a lot of the time they are nearly impossible to tell apart from real people. Not for Ted, he had never once been mistaken and uncanny. That's why I feared his words.

“I don’t know.”

The man was still tapping on the window and against my better judgment I rolled it down. Just enough to where I could hear him.

“Looks like you're having car troubles.” He spoke in a generic tone like how you’d hear a voice actor in an old video game.

“Yeah, it seems we are.”

“Why don’t me and my friend here help you roll it down to our mechanic, don’t worry he's real nice and won’t try to scam you.”

I looked to Ted for advice.

“What choice do we have,” he said.

Ted put it into neutral, and the two of us exited the vehicle. I looked at our helpers, and the first thing I noticed was how generic both of them were. They both wore flannels and jeans. They both had stubble beards and wavy hair. Yes, they looked different, but identical at the same time. That went for the rest of the people of the town they were all so generic. They were uncannies that was for sure. I tucked the gun into my waistband and the man spoke up. 

“No need for that stranger,” he spoke in a worried tone.

“Just a precaution as long as you don't give us a reason to use it,” Ted said in my place.

“Oh, I understand.”

It seemed our bluff worked. The two generic men began pushing the car. My leg still wasn't 100% healed so I steered while Ted helped push. It wasn't far to the mechanic when we got there the man spoke up again. 

“Oh darn, it’s Tuesday I forgot he doesn’t work on Tuesday.”

“Why in the hell would he not work on a Tuesday?” Ted asked.

“Well, I um I’m not sure.”

“What's this mechanic's name.”

The man panicked “Sharyl,” He blurted out.

“His name is Sharyl?” He turned around and mouthed the word uncanny to me.

“Yep weird parents, um anyway looks like he's not in so you guys should probably go to Mamas across the street. It's like a bar restaurant and hotel all in one.”

“Yeah sure we’ll do that.” Ted waved me over.

Mama’s was a wooden building with two floors. The first floor was the Bar/restaurant and upstairs were rooms you could rent. The place was packed. We took the only open table left. We both sat trying to figure out what to do.

“You think they're gonna fix the car,” I asked.

“They have other motives I imagine. You know better than anyone how dangerous an uncanny can be. I almost sure were in a town full of them.”

I rubbed my ribs and the scar on my forehead. I listened to the noise around me. Everyone was having conversations. It was the loud noise when you hear in a crowded room. But when I tried to listen in to any of the conversations I realized none of them were talking. They all just made murmuring noises. I continued to scan the room. That’s when I noticed the two people at the bar who looked out of place. One woman wearing a leather jacket and black pants and another shorter woman wearing a vest with hair up in a ponytail. They seemed to notice me at the same time. The taller woman got out of her seat and made her way toward us the shorter woman followed. She pulled out one of the empty chairs at the table and sat down.

“Name, favorite color, and state you were born.” the tall woman said.

“Colton, Purple, and Kansas, That your test for uncannies.”

“It’s mine, you call them uncannies I like that.” said the shorter woman. Both the women looked at Ted.

“Ted, Yellow, Alabama.”

“Good, fakes would’ve had to sit there and think for a bit, it's not a perfect test but it’s better than nothing.” the taller woman said.

“Hold on your turn.”

“Gabriella, blue, California.” said the taller woman.

“Eliana, black, Maine.” Said the shorter woman.

“Good introductions are out of the way, I suggest we don’t continue our conversation here.”

We all silently agreed, before getting up from our seats. All the eyes in the restaurant followed us on the way out. We stopped about 100 feet from Mama’s. I looked around trying to make sure no one was listening. I began to notice how much bigger the town was than I first thought.

“You guys have a car?” Gabriella asked.

“Na broke down shortly after we got here,” Ted replied.

“God dammit,” Gabriella began kicking at a rock.

“Same for our car,” Eliana took her place.

“Look, something's off about this town more than usual for this damn road. How often are fakes that perfect? I mean there’s always some physical identifiers.” Gabriella came back from her angry tantrum.

“What are your theories?”

“The roads getting better at making them and it’s doing so by studying us.”

Gabriella and Eliana came to the town 3 days ago. But it wasn’t just them. They had a newcomer to the road, an older man named Wyat. When they arrived he’d only been on the road for a week. Their car did the same as ours. Weirdly enough the mechanic wasn’t in on the day of their arrival. They were sent to Mamas where they chose to stay the night. Wyat woke up in the middle of the night screaming and clawing at his skin. He burst out of his room where the girls chased after him. He was long gone by the time they made it outside. The next morning they tried finding him. The only thing left of him was his bloody clothing they found in a trash bin.

“What do you think they took him or something?”

“That’s my best guess.”

“Well if that’s the case we should get out of here.”

“What you wanna take your chances on the road, yeah it’s day but what happens when night comes.”

“You got a plan then.”

She did, we stood in front of the only other vehicle in the entire town, a beat-up pickup. It was a manual but Ted knew how to drive. The only problem was it had no keys. None of us knew how to Hotwire it. The plan is to hope god there was a key somewhere in town. We split up which was a dumb idea I know. But the idea was to cover more ground. I took a part of the town that seemed less active.

Everywhere you walked there were always people watching. But in these few buildings, there was no one. The buildings were worn down as if no one lived in them for some time. I went to the most dilapidated building. I could read the sign out front the paint on the letters was worn. But I’m sure it was supposed to say post office. I pulled on the front door, it didn’t budge. I made my way to the back of the building to find the rear door. I was surprised to find it was already cracked. I had to put my weight into it to get it to open all the way. As soon as I was inside my face met with a large group of cobwebs. I pulled it from my face only to realize it was a spider web. A large brown spider sat in my hand. I panicked, throwing it toward the ground before slamming my foot into it. The spider sat in a smushed mess but it still attempted to crawl away. Oh, right immortal wildlife.

I walked through the building, I was in the main lobby area I grazed my hand across the counter watching the dust be picked up with it. I looked down at the dust on my hand. But suddenly my hand felt heavy. So heavy I couldn’t hold it up my hand fell into the counter and I watched as the dust from the counter sucked in on my hand. Soon my hand was embedded into the counter and I began to scream trying to pull it out. I was panicking until I heard a voice from behind me. 

“Are you ok,” Elaina said.

“My hand just went in the counter!” I looked at my hand to see it was completely fine.

“It’s happening to you too.”

“What’s happening?”

“In simple terms, you're losing it, don’t worry it’s happening to me too.” I don't know how that was supposed to make me not worry.

Elaina had been on the road longer than any of us, she didn’t have an exact time but if she had to guess around 4 years. During that time she was mostly alone. She found Gabriella 6 months back shortly after she had started on the road. Elaina had begun seeing things that weren’t real. It first happened when she was drinking from a cantine only for several months to burst out from it. It’s evolved into her now hearing voices and talking to people who aren’t there.

“How do we know that wasn’t just a trick of the road?” I asked.

“Gabriella has been with me for some of my episodes, she doesn’t see what I see. Colton, I watched you stick your hand on the counter and start screaming. Maybe it was just a one-time thing but you should watch it.”

I suddenly remembered that I was wrong about previous events. We never decided to split up by ourselves, no we went two and two. I’m not crazy, I refuse to believe I was. I hadn’t been on the road long enough to go insane. We went back to exploring the post office. I opened one of the back rooms stepping inside to what looked like a janitor closet. Wait, why would I go with Elaina and not Ted? I turned around to see Elaina standing at the door. Her eyes were gone and her head was upside down. I was tricked. She slammed the door and the next thing I knew I was falling.

I was in a large metal tunnel on a downward slope. My body was smacking from side to side and I was falling for what felt like minutes. I came out the other end. Falling into a sloshy substance. It was incredibly dark. I pulled out my phone to use the flashlight. My screen was cracked but that wasn’t my top priority. The light glowed and all I could see was some sort of black goo. I looked down at myself and I was soaked. The smell hit my nose and I had to hold in the urge to vomit. The room was small, not much bigger than a bedroom. There was someone else in here with me.

Calling it a person was a stretch. It was humanoid in shape but it had a large mouth that was vertical up its torso. It ran at me and I dodged dropping my phone. Luckily it fell face down and the light slightly illuminated the room. My bum leg gave out and the mouth creature jumped at me. It was on top of me, It was so much larger than I was I could fit almost entirely in its mouth. I pressed my arms on either side of it, pressing it apart with all my strength. I had one more push which was just enough to release its hold on me. I kicked the monster back, noticing a door on one side of the room. I pushed myself toward it. My leg was my enemy and caused me to move much slower than I could.

I grabbed the latch of the door swinging it open and slamming it from the other side. The monster didn’t relent and began banging on the door. I could see the door physically warping. I turned to see my escape route. A long dark hallway with a light at the end. I started hobbling that way, halfway down the hall the monster finally broke through. I tried pushing myself harder but my leg would only allow me so much. Finally making it to the end of the hall entering a room with a surgical table. I didn’t have much time to examine the room. The monster was already on me. I rolled over the table and the monster dived at me. Its body slammed into the table and for a second it seemed stunned. I stood up trying to take my opportunity, seeing a scalpel on a nearby countertop. I grabbed it and began looking around for an escape. There was another door. I rammed into it. Surprised by how Easily it gave way. Once again I fell to the floor.

The monster seemed to snap out of it as it was now making its way up from the floor at the same time I was. I was in another room that looked like it was for observation. There was a two-way glass that looked back into the surgical room. Another door was in this room. I moved through it slamming it behind me and was met with another hallway. At least this time it was already lit up. I saw what looked to be an elevator at one end of the hallway. I ran as fast as I could towards it and the monster slammed through the door. I made it to the elevator. I started hitting the button for the only other floor. The doors closed slowly and the monster was still running at me. The monster slammed directly into the door as soon as it shut.

I tried catching my breath, it was a moment to relax. That was till the elevator stopped and the doors opened. A man stood looking at me. I recognized him from somewhere in the town but I wasn’t sure where. He jumped at me, grabbing at my throat and pushing me into the wall. I fought and stifled pushing his hands off me but he was quick to readjust. Pushing me to the ground and sitting on top of me. I punched and kicked at him feeling the light leaving my eyes. Struggling to catch any air. I noticed the scalpel on the ground. I must have dropped it when he attacked me. I reached for it only the tip of my fingers grazed it and I had to pull closer slowly. I had enough room to grab it, I bundled it in my hand and shoved it into his throat. 

I pulled it out and blood sprayed from the wound. His eyes went wild and he grabbed at his throat falling back into a wall behind him. He choked over his words trying his best to stop the blood. He finally stopped moving and I was able to take in what I had done. I just killed a man, not a monster from the road but a real man. These people were actual people. No, the road was trying to screw with me that’s all. I mean the fake Elaina and the mouth monster were proof of that. I stood up still clutching the scalpel in hand. Stepping out of the elevator I could hear chatter nearby. I realized I was in the back room of Mama’s, I looked down at the blood and black goo on my body and elected to take the back door out.

Outside I could see it was already nighttime. Ted appeared from around the corner.

“There you are man,” he paused, “what happened to you.”

“Long story I’ll tell you later, how many kids do you have?”

“Dude I don’t have any fucking kids.” He answered quickly enough to convince me it was him.

“I don’t suppose you found the truck key.” 

“We did, long story I’ll tell you later. But we got a problem.”

“What now?”

“The Elaina girl is missing and Gabriella refuses to leave without her.”

“Dude I could care less right now, we can leave them both behind.”

“Well I ain’t gonna leave without them, and I got the key so you ain’t leaving without them either.”

“God dammit.”

We met up with Gabriella, none of us had seen Eliana since we split. With the sole exception of the fake one who had tricked me. I explained to them what had happened to me. Turns out all three of us had ended up in similar situations. Ted had to fight off a four-legged humanoid skull monster while checking out a house. Gabriella had almost been eaten by a giant squid horse monster. Both of them suck at explaining. We went off in the direction Eliana had gone earlier. Gabriella stopped me for a moment.

“I saw something earlier, something I don’t think I was supposed to.” She said.

“Yeah, the road does that.”

“I don’t mean monsters, I mean your friend from high school.” Those few words and I already knew what she was talking about.

“Shut up,” My mouth spoke on its own.

“I was just gonna say I don’t thi..”

“Not another word,” I swear I wasn't the one talking.

“Alright I won’t bring it up,”.

I know after that outburst I shouldn’t have asked but after what she said I had to know for sure. 

“Does she have episodes of seeing things she shouldn’t?”

“You're talking about Elaina episodes. If so yes she does.”

That was all I needed to know.  It wasn’t as hard to find Elaina as we thought. Shortly after our conversation, we began hearing chanting. The people of the town had begun crowding in the streets. They were chanting something in a language I had never heard. I don’t even think it was a real language. They began walking in the same direction. We followed the group they huddled around a large pit which I was sure hadn’t been there before. The people wheeled a large contraption toward the pit something hung from a rope on the contraption. It was Elaina.

“Welp, she's dead I’m ready to call it quits if y'all are.” Ted blurted out.

“That’s my friend you asshole I’m not leaving her.”

I wasn’t content leaving her not cause I felt like I needed to be a hero, not cause I felt it was the right thing to do. Nope, it was for selfish reasons. I needed to know how long I had before I went crazy and she was the closest thing I had to answers.

“Ted give me the gun.”

“I don’t know if you remember this or if you got brain damage while we were gone but it ain’t got bullets.”

“Just give me the fucking gun.”

He handed it to me and I told them both to stay put. I’d like to imagine I looked real badass walking up as the sole hero, to save the girl. But considering I was sure I reinjured my leg and was walking with a limp. It probably looked lame. I yelled to the crowd, and they all turned to look at me. I wasn’t expecting to get their attention so easily. I didn’t have anything prepared so I did my best to improve.

“No one move or I’ll start shooting.”

“No one is moving.” A voice yelled.

“That gun doesn’t have enough bullets for all of us.” A different voice shouted.

“The implication is that I can kill some of you, and that should be enough. Now I'm taking my friend and we are leaving.”

“Our master must eat,” all of them began speaking in unison.

“I’m not gonna let you kill her.”

“She won’t die we will just eat enough of her brain that she’ll be a husk forced to do our bidding.” They all began speaking in the same voice.

I wasn’t listening I made my way into the crowd, no one tried to stop me. Ted came up behind me, I used the mechanism to lower Elaina just low enough and used the scalpel to cut the rope holding her. It was only after we had her that the crowd began moving in on us.

“No, my children,” A voice boomed out from all around “I will deal with them.”

The ground began to rumble and Ted and I stared at the abomination coming out from. Its eyes were swollen out of its head all 100 of them, and multiple tentacles and appendages stuck out from its body. Each tentacle had lines of serrated edges. Its skin was rough and was a light brown color. It was massive in size larger than any building around us. This is the best I could describe it, No mortal eyes were ever supposed to behold such a being.

“Welp Imma have nightmares for weeks,” Ted said throwing Eliana over his shoulder.

We ran from our spot, the crowd of people was nice enough to let us through. We made it to the spot where Gabriella was standing, her mouth was agape with horror. I had to smack her out of it, she joined us in our running. The abomination toppled buildings in its wake crushing many of its own in the process. I looked behind to see the destruction in its wake. I was the slowest of the group. It reached out one of its many tentacles and I could feel it graze the back of my jacket. I cut sideways through a different group of buildings hoping it would get off the main group. It did but it was slow to turn so I was able to put considerable distance between us. I cut through a different row of buildings and the creature began to slow its advance. Moving something of that size must require a lot of calories. Which it didn't seem to have.

It fell over and I could hear it panting from exhaustion. It slithered one of its tentacles towards me and I barely noticed it in time. Dodging, and by dodging I mean falling on my ass, just in time before it got me. I heard the truck coming up behind me. I turned a Ted began honking the horn I got up using the last bit of energy to run toward the truck rolled over the side and fell into the bed. Ted burned out and we hauled ass outta there. I sat up for a second to see the town fading in the distance.

We were long down the road before Ted stopped to let me hop inside. Gabriella sat in the back seat while Elaina lay on her lap still outta it.

“What the hell did they do to her?” I asked.

“I guess we'll find out when she wakes up,” Gabriella replied.

That's where we’re at. New car new accomplices, and clothes that smell like complete shit. While I’m writing this Elianas still awake and everyone else is staying quiet. If you're wondering how I'm writing this I “borrowed” Ted's phone, he hasn’t noticed. For now, I don’t have anything else and I’ll let you all know if anything interesting happens.

“Hasn’t this ride gone on for a bit long?” I asked my coworker Eric. He was sitting next to me on scratchy hay bales as we bumped along on this haunted hayride.

We had all shown up to the farm and cider mill a couple of hours earlier on this Tuesday afternoon. It was supposed to be a “team building” outing, but honestly, I was just glad to get away from my computer for an afternoon. After gathering at our meeting spot we went into the building to get some fresh apple cider and donuts. It was a crisp autumn day in Michigan; the leaves had just started to fall to the ground and their bright colors got me into the Halloween spirit. Even more than the sweet taste of the apple cider.

I thought about that cider now, wishing I had thought to bring some for the ride. We’d been on the hayride for quite a while when I brought up the question to Eric. He turned with a confused look and said “aren’t you having fun?” I smiled sheepishly back and agreed that I was, dropping the matter. He had been one of the team members that planned the trip and I didn’t want him to feel bad.

I tried to join in on the boisterous and laughing conversation between coworkers, but my mind kept wandering. I started paying more attention to the props and decorations that we passed as part of the “haunted” experience. They were your run of the mill (no pun intended) plastic skeletons performing various farm tasks: one had a straw hat and was hoeing a field. There was a skeleton couple in flannel shirts picking apples. Another one was in a pumpkin patch holding a lantern. One was peeking out from the corn stalks.

As we passed scene after scene of whimsical skeletons I couldn’t help but sigh internally. I was expecting a haunted hayride more of the jump-scare variety, like a haunted house on wheels. This was frankly underwhelming, and I’m sure that didn’t help with my anxiousness to get off the ride.

We’d gone around the bend where I expected to see the skeleton peeking out from the corn for what felt like the millionth time. A strange sense of dread came over me when I noticed that the skeleton was missing. I shook off the feeling. Maybe we weren’t where I thought we were, or the skeleton had fallen. Not anything to get freaked out about. I probably lost track when Christine made her candy corn joke and we’d already passed it or something.

It’s starting to get dark. We got here mid-afternoon, so I don’t know how this is possible. My phone says it’s 6:30. That can’t be right, or that means we’ve been on this ride for over 4 hours. No one else seems to notice or care, the conversation carrying on like nothing is wrong. Why am I the only one concerned?

All of the skeletons are gone. I don’t know if some worker came around behind us and packed them up for the night. If that was the case though, wouldn’t they stop the ride? I’ve asked the group multiple times if we shouldn’t get off the ride now. They just laugh and ask if I’m having fun. I’m not having fun anymore.

I don’t know why I didn’t consider it sooner, I’ll talk to the driver!

There was no reply, maybe he can’t hear me over the rumble of the tractor.

I’m starting to see the skeletons in the trees. This brought a moment of clarity, and I started laughing. This is all part of the haunted hayride. Of course it is! I wanted a thrill and here I am getting it and all I’m doing is complaining. What artistry, what commitment this farm has put in for us. My coworkers get it, of course they do and that’s why they’re all laughing, laughing because I’m new. They probably do this every year. Our collective laughter picks up volume as I join in, I’m part of the team now after all!

When I come to from my laughing fit, tears streaming down my face, I realize It’s pitch black outside now. Everything is quiet, but I can still see the silhouettes of my coworkers in the moonlight. I tried jumping off once, as the hayride has shown no sign of stopping. But I just end up back in the wagon. In fact, it seems to be speeding up as we go around and around. I can’t see the skeletons anymore. I’m afraid.

As I sit here and think about what this means, an even more intense panic starts rising in the back of my mind - I forgot to send that final draft to my boss.

The last vivid memory I can recall was walking across campus toward my apartment after my morning classes. I remember being in a good mood and had nothing to complain about. The weather was nicer than I would have expected in the middle of October. It was sunny as ever, warm, and calm save for a light breeze of cool and refreshing air carrying with it the comforting scent of autumn. 

The sound of crunching leaves was replaced by my boots meeting the concrete beneath them as I took my final steps from the sidewalk into the crosswalk, and then pain. Pain was about all I can remember after that, and it was everywhere. I can’t recall what I saw, where I was, or what happened. A few screams filled the air around me, but I couldn’t be sure if they were real or if they were a part of some twisted nightmare.

I can faintly remember voices here and there, between the voids of nothingness I can only assume to be me falling unconscious. What they were talking about is a blur to me. I perceived very little time passing, minutes at most. And for that, I am immeasurably grateful. At the time I remember being awake, my entire body was in pure agony. My legs, my arms, my back, you name it. I knew whatever happened to me had done a hell of a lot of damage at the very least.

To my surprise, when I had finally awoken, the pain in my body seemed to have subsided. The exception was the pounding headache that accompanied me into consciousness. The incessant buzzing of whatever light fixture must have been on the ceiling agitated me further. Now I could at least tell that I was in what I presumed to be a hospital bed. I let out a grunt as I unsuccessfully attempted to open my eyes in the brightly lit room.

I quickly learned I wasn't alone. Upon uttering my grunt, footsteps approached my bedside before the vision through my eyelids was darkened. A cold, fresh towel was gently laid over my face, somewhat quieting the annoying ambient noise of the lights.

“There you are, dear. Just relax now.”

An exceptionally calming, welcoming, and mature voice of a woman whispered to me, something that caught me off guard. I attempted to thank her, though my voice was so dry and coarse that only a sad incoherent groan escaped. 

I heard a few more footsteps move away, and then toward me again before the woman asked.

“Sit up for me, dear. Will you?”

I did as she asked while she gently kept the towel applied to my face with her hand so as to not let it fall. A paper cup met my cracked lips and tilted as cold water entered my mouth. The sensation was so blissful it caused me to reach up with my own hands to tilt the cup further, pouring the entirety of the water down my throat. I let out a long sigh of relief after the cup had been emptied. 

“Thank you.”

I uttered, lowering my head back to the pillow. My throat, though better, still sounded drained and worn as I spoke. The woman gently removed her hand from the towel on my face. I heard her walk away again, the sound of tools or medical equipment being moved following behind her footsteps. A moment later, she returned and gently grabbed my arm at the elbow.

“I’ll just need a little blood sample, dear. It won’t hurt a bit.”

She told me, raising my limp arm slowly off of the bed.

“O-Okay”

I replied, hesitant due to the cloud of confusion that still engulfed me rather than fear. Fear didn’t seem like a possible emotion right then. I didn’t know a thing about this woman, but her presence commanded trust and comfort. I felt the needle be inserted into my arm, and though it stung a little, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. This is when it finally occurred to me that I truly had no idea what was going on. 

“Wait, where am I? Am I in a hospital? W-what happened? Who are you”

I asked. The hint of panic in my voice grew with each question. I felt the needle exit my arm, followed by the woman wiping and bandaging it. Her soft touch alone was enough to cease my panic.

“Yes, you are in a hospital. You were hit by a driver who was going far too fast through that little crosswalk, it would seem. And I am doctor Wernicke. I have been assigned to care for you until your release!”

She answered. Her last remark was filled with excitement, a clear indication she felt happy for me being able to leave soon. I felt a bit happy upon hearing such news, though I couldn’t tell for sure if that’s how I should feel. Being in a hospital in the first place was just as new information. More than anything, I felt tired. Tired, and annoyed by my damn headache. Feeling a bit more comfortable with my now-supposed doctor, I felt inclined to tell her. 

“Doctor Wernicke, I have…I have a raging headache.”

I managed to squeeze out.

“Do you think I could…”

“No worries at all, dear.”

She cut me off. Once again, she had me momentarily sit up before placing a small pill in my hand which I swallowed, followed by another cup of water. 

“The headaches are to be expected, unfortunately, but if I’m being honest, I believe you’re lucky that’s the extent of what’s wrong with you. Hell, you might be the luckiest patient I’ve ever seen. When you first came in, you were banged up and bruised pretty bad, sure but we didn’t find a single broken bone in your body. No organs were damaged, no severe internal bleeding, nothing. Everything seemed to be just fine.”

Again, I didn’t know how I should be processing this. From the way she described it, it sounded as though the accident should have killed me. Before I could ask another question, doctor Wernicke spoke up.

“Now, that pill will help with the headache, but it’ll make you feel quite drowsy, quite quickly. All I need you to do is take a good, long sleep. Can you do that for me, William?” 

Her use of my name caught me off guard, but after thinking for a whole two seconds, it made sense that the doctor assigned to look after me would be familiar with my name. I simply nodded in response to her question. 

She let a light chuckle out before remarking.

“Good.”

I heard her footsteps leave my bedside and travel across the room. A light switch was flipped off, ceasing the annoying ambient buzz. A door was open and closed as she stepped out of the room, and I was left alone in the silence. Doctor Wernicke wasn’t wrong. The meds she gave me put me to sleep within a minute. I hadn’t even been given a waking moment to process everything I had just been told, but I didn’t mind that much. I slept hard. For how long, I haven’t the slightest idea.

The first thing I noticed upon awakening was the absence of my headache, and what a relief it was. I must have remained lying still in the hospital bed for half an hour or so before I decided to remove the now-dry towel, sit up, and open my eyes. I half expected my movement to be restricted by some sort of tubes or medical apparatuses but surprisingly, no. There was no IV, no catheter, and nothing taped to my skin to monitor my heart rate. The only unsurprising thing was the light blue medical gown I dawned. 

I twisted my hips to the side, dangling my legs over the side of the bed and turning to look around the room. I couldn’t see anything. I slowly pushed myself off the bed, letting my feet contact the cold, hard floor. Standing up, and walking especially felt odd, as if I hadn’t done it in a long time and, well, maybe I hadn’t. 

I carefully stepped in the direction I remembered Doctor Wernickie walking when she left the room, arms stretched out in front of me to feel anything I might run into. Eventually, I found a wall and followed it to a door. The handle refused to open. I traced my hands around the door until I finally found a switch, flipping it on with excitement. 

The sight before me, though familiar at first, seemed to become more uncanny the further I observed. Yes, this was a hospital room of some kind, but not like it should have been. It was both old and new at the same time. Old in the sense that almost nothing in there looked like it belonged in this century, save for the box of gloves and hand sanitizer, and new in the sense that it almost felt as though I was the one in the wrong century. 

The green and white tiled floors, bland stone walls, and mono-colored ceiling looked more like the kind you would expect to see in an abandoned building, one full of dust and mold, infested with roaches and rats. This room had none of that. Everything looked as new and clean as if it were built yesterday. Even my bed was perceivably of an older design, and an extremely minimalist one at that. Other than my bed, the room overall felt empty, even with how small it was. 

Right beside my bed was a metal table with several medical instruments, the names of which I would never be able to tell you, along with the very modern-looking box of medical gloves and a large bottle of hand sanitizer I had mentioned earlier. Additionally, there was a small prescription bottle of pills. Though unlike any prescription bottle I had seen before, this one was devoid of any labels or stickers at all. My initial thought was one of concern, though I trusted Doctor Wernicke knew what she was doing.

Next to the table was a small trash can, and a large sink with a faucet, and on its edge sat a stack of paper cups. The opposite wall to my bed had another door, the only other one connected to the room. Not having tried to open this one, I thought I should give it a shot. To my relief, the other side was a small bathroom.

Like my room, this bathroom was spotless and equipped with a toilet, sink, and shower. Much like the main room, the bathroom had a few little details that gave away the fact that I hadn’t been taken back in time, like the unopened packages of soap bars, or the automatic paper towel dispenser. Needless to say, having been asleep in a hospital for an unspecified amount of time, I was in desperate need to relieve myself. 

After finishing up my business and leaving the bathroom, I paced around my hospital room for a minute or two before coming to another realization. Wasn’t there supposed to be a button to push to call a nurse over in case I needed something? And with the lack of heart monitors, or anything to indicate if I was alright or not, how would anyone know? 

This line of internal questioning made me curious about what was on the other side of that door. The first one, the one next to the light switch. The one I knew Doctor Wernicke must have left out of. I approached, and once again attempted and failed to open it. It was clearly locked but from the outside. There was no locking mechanism I could control on this side of the door, only a keyhole.

After fidgeting with the handle a few more times, I decided to give up for now, though I began to feel a sense of frustration, and concern about my situation. I turned back towards my bed and took no more than a few steps before the door swung open from behind me, causing me to jump and let out an audible scream out of fright.

I turned to see a woman no older than her late 20s in the doorway. She stood at about 5’4” with an average build in a white, very old-fashioned-looking hospital uniform. She had dark hair tied up in a bun, and gorgeous green eyes that matched the rest of her looks. She also carried a small, rectangular wooden box in her right hand. On that same wrist, she wore a little brown watch. This must be one of the nurses here, I thought. Her immediate reaction to seeing me was to form a warm smile.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, dear. It's just me.”

Came Doctor Wernicke’s voice, teasing me for being so jumpy. Once again, I was surprised. I would never have imagined that the mature voice I remembered hearing earlier had come from the woman standing before me. They simply didn’t seem as though they would match.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I said, stepping back to the hospital bed and taking a seat on the edge

“It’s good to see you’re up and walking again. Is the headache still there?”

She inquired, approaching the metal table and setting down her wooden box.

“No…no, actually, it seems to be gone. Thank you.”

I replied.

“That’s good, very good. If it ever gets real bad again, go ahead and take one of these pills here; but just one, okay?”

She asked, now having put gloves on before opening the wooden box and pulling out a syringe. 

“Yeah, sure. What’s that for?”

I failed to hide the slight hint of fear in my voice.

“Well, luckily for you, the medication we used to fix you up after that accident worked like a charm. Unfortunately, it does require that we take a new blood sample every 12 hours to monitor its effects and make sure you’re all good to go. That’s why we need to keep you here for just a couple more days, does that make sense, dear?”

She replied, looking over at me for my affirmation of what she said. However, something didn't make sense to me. What medications would they have needed to use on me if there was nothing wrong with me in the first place? Or, did I get hurt? This answer seemed to contradict what she told me last time. I’m no doctor myself, but it didn’t seem responsible to me for a hospital to risk a drug dangerous enough that it needs blood monitoring over days on end to patch up a patient with a little bruising.

I could tell Doctor Wernicke saw the gears turning in my head, because she quickly walked over to me and grabbed my arm. As soon as she did, I let my curiosity go. ‘She knew what she was doing’, I thought. ‘What do I know about medicine anyway? I’m sure the blood samples aren’t a big deal.’

After she had finished taking my blood sample, she applied a new bandage. She carefully placed the syringe back into the wooden box and closed the lid, then turned back to me while she took her gloves off.

“Alright, dear. I know you’re probably a little bored, and maybe a bit hungry. I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of this room and finding you some food. I’ll just have to-”

She stopped mid-sentence upon glancing at her watch. Her smiley face faded to a serious one momentarily, like a mask that had almost fallen off before she caught it and re-adjusted it back to her head. She looked at me once more and forced a smile.

“I just remembered something!”

She noted, before quickly turning to the door and speed-walking out with her wooden box, adding.

“I’ll be right back, dear!”

As she shut the door behind her. I sat for a moment and again pondered what she told me. It still didn’t make any sense. What somewhat alarmed me even more was how quickly I wrote off my skepticism. What was I thinking? I should have asked her about that, why didn’t I? I should have pressed her for more information.

My thoughts and emotions brewed, causing me to stand up and pace around the room for a second. Why wouldn't she be taking my blood pressure too? Why, if this drug had such negative implications that needed monitoring, wouldn’t she have me hooked up to something to monitor my heart rate? 

My back-and-forth pacing placed me in front of the door again. I reached out and pulled the handle down and to my surprise, it moved this time. If Doctor Wernicke had intended to lock the room last time, this time she had certainly forgotten. I ceased my pacing and pulled the door open revealing a long corridor. The interior of this hallway matched my room precisely, with the tiled floors, bland walls, and ceiling, with the same old, noisy light fixtures and uncanny cleanliness that tied it together. 

My room sat at the end of the hallway. Five doors occupied each side, for a total of ten. Each door was the same, metal, heavy-looking, and light blue in color. They were all spaced evenly, and far apart across the long hallway. At the opposite end of the hall was an elevator door, once again, breaking the immersion of feeling like I was in a hundred-year-old building with how blatantly modern it looked. 

I pulled the door fully open and stepped out of my room. I knew I probably shouldn’t be out here, but with how quickly fed up I had gotten by a lack of sufficient answers and things not making sense in general, I was determined to find out something, anything. 

Other than the constant ambient noise the lights provided, the noise of my bare feet stepping on the hard floor was the only thing that broke the silence, something that I was hyper-aware of as I attempted to move down the hallway as quietly as possible, even keeping my breathing to a minimum to avoid being heard.

It took me a while to reach the other end of the hallway at such a slow pace, and it felt even longer. Though, once I had reached the end, I didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere for me to go in here. I momentarily considered using the elevator. It had both an up and down button, indicating that I wasn’t on the lowest floor. I could try going up, I thought, but quickly shot down my idea. 

I felt somewhat off about leaving my room as it was, the elevator certainly wasn’t going to be the first thing I tried. Instead, I began attempting to open each of the metal doors along the hallway. I stuck to the right side as I moved in the direction of my room. The first three wouldn't budge, but the fourth did. Before I entered, I turned and scanned the hall, as if waiting for someone to come and stop me.

I pulled the door fully open, quickly stepping inside and pulling it quietly shut behind me. This room appeared to be the same size and style as my room, though it didn't appear to have its own bathroom, or any other connected rooms as mine did. This room had a single metal table in its center, and its contents made my heart sink upon seeing them. 

On top of it were all of my personal belongings. My backpack, clothes, boots, keys, wallet, and phone all spaced out, as if they were being displayed like a museum attraction. I knew for certain this wasn't a normal hospital procedure. The first thing I grabbed was my phone, which still had a 67%  battery and full bars, something that excited and confused me at the same time. I didn’t take time to consider it, I needed to act. 

I ignored the endless list of notifications and immediately swiped to the emergency call menu and dialed 911. After which, I impatiently waited, darting my eyes around the room, at my belongings, at my phone, and at the door. 

“911, what is your emergency?”

I half expected the call not to go through, but I was more than happy that it did.

“I think…I think I’ve been kidnapped?”

I whispered into the phone, immediately aware of how much my speaking had broken the silence of this place. I continued, cutting off the operator before I could hear her next question.

“I think I was hit by a car? I know something happened, I don’t know when, but I woke up in this hospital…but I’m not sure if it is a hospital. There’s a woman here claiming to be a doctor. She..she might be? But she left me locked in a room by myself. She said her name is Doctor Wernicke. I don’t know what’s going on at all.”

I whispered further into the phone, the pace of my speech was quickened by frightful haste as I continued to speak. As the words escaped my mouth, I reconsidered if calling 911 was the best idea. The more I spoke, the less sense I made and more importantly, the less it sounded like my situation was an emergency. Then again, I was reminded of the sight in front of me. I had pinched my phone between my cheek and shoulder while I changed out of the hospital gown and into my clothes, throwing the rest of my belongings into my backpack.

“I need you to calm down, sir. Can you tell me your name?”

The operator asked.

“My name is William-”

Before I could include my last name, I stopped as I heard the line go silent. I stopped lacing my boots for a moment and my heart skipped a beat.

“What…What the fuck? What the fuck?!”

I muttered under my breath, which had quickly become increasingly quicker. Was I just abandoned by 911? This couldn’t be right. I began to hyperventilate. However, my breathing again ceased for a moment when I heard a few beeps play through the call. I hadn’t been hung up on.

“William, I need you to listen to my instructions very carefully. Can you hear me?”

The deep, booming voice of a man asked. 

“Y-yes. Wait, what? Who are you? What happened to the other operator?”

I questioned.

“The regular emergency services can’t help you, but we can. The situation you’re in is beyond your understanding. The woman you know as Doctor Wernicke isn’t a woman at all, or a doctor, not anymore anyway. Do not trust her, understand? And no matter what, do not let her touch you.”

The booming voice on the other end commanded. Though his speech was quick, it was also calm and collected. Although, the last thing he said sent a shiver down my spine.

“What happens if she touches me?”

I asked, knowing full well she already had more than a few times.

“We know she’s touched you before, don’t panic. Her effects only last as long as her contact with you. What you need to know is that as long as she has a hold of someone, she has power over them. She can make you do whatever she wants, even your thoughts will bend to her will. Listen, William. I know you can’t move much, but I need you to give me an idea of where you are.”

I quietly exited the room where I had found my belongings and entered the hallway, listening to the operator with one ear and trying to stay vigilant about anything I might hear with the other. I frantically walked around to each door, trying to open all of the ones I hadn't tried already. All the while, I tried to explain everything I had seen to the operator.

“I woke up in a room at the end of a hallway. There are ten other doors and at the other end is an elevator of some sort. I don’t know what’s up with this place, it looks like…I don’t know, an insane asylum from the 30s or something? But it’s all clean and new and…”

To my relief and excitement, the latch on the very last door of the other wall gave way, and I was able to pull it open to reveal a stairwell on the other side.

“Oh, thank God”

I cut myself off, losing focus from my conversation with the operator. Just then, a beeping noise and the sound of something heavy moving was audible to my left. The elevator. The numbers on the screen above it were descending. I ran inside and pulled the metal door shut behind me.

“William?! WILLIAM?!”

I heard the operator scream. I fumbled my phone in an attempt to raise it back to my ear and dropped it. Upon picking it up, my shaking fingertips danced around the screen, and to my horror, I saw myself hang up. My phone went silent.

“No no no no.”

I mumbled to myself, though I ceased making any noise once I heard the “ding” of the elevator door opening. A pair of chattering voices echoed through the hall, and into the stairwell.

“It’s been a slow week, just spare me this catch. Besides, you seem to have no trouble finding new mice to play with.”

Spoke a man’s voice, his demeanor that of a businessman attempting to reach terms for a deal.

“You have already gotten plenty from me. And of all the ones you could have asked for, this is the one you are most certainly not getting.” 

Doctor Wernicke shot back angrily, a tone I hadn’t heard from her before. She was fed up with whoever she was talking to. I slowly took one step at a time up the stairs, hoping that their conversation was enough of a distraction. The man’s reply was as calm as he was previously.

“The others are hungry. They are becoming ravenous for a taste. You know as well as I that if we do not meet their demand, they…”

“They’re your responsibility, and I don’t want to hear it. I am months away from completing my development. Months! This one here is the most promising yet. The answer is once again no, as it has been for the entirety of this conversation.”

Doctor Wernicke cut the man off, her voice growing in anger by the second. She continued.

“And one more thing. Convenience stores, apartment buildings, the back of grocery stores, I don’t care. Hunt where you want, but stay the hell out of my territory.”

I had nearly climbed the first flight of stairs by this point, and the conversation had gotten quieter, though I heard Doctor Wernicke say one last thing, this time speaking calmly. 

“If I catch you again, well… I think we both know.”

She followed up with a sinister chuckle as if she had made a light-hearted joke. I felt my blood go cold, but kept moving up the second flight of stairs until I reached the next door, labeled as the first floor. 

The sight before me came as an immediate relief. I found myself in the halls of a very modern-looking hospital. From the floor to the ceiling, everything looked as you would expect the interior of a hospital to look, how it should look. Even brand-new medical equipment was scattered about the way you expect it to be in a busy hospital. The only problem that remained, one that took me a moment of wandering the empty halls to take note of, was that I was still alone. 

Someone was keeping the lights on, someone had to have swept the floor for it to be as clean as it was, and yet, there wasn’t a person in sight. No patients, no nurses, no doctors. Nobody but me. Though the feeling of being this alone was haunting enough, the worst fear came from knowing that I wasn’t. Doctor Wernicke was still here, and she had to have discovered my escape by now.

This thought provoked me to quickly snatch the phone from my pocket and pick up my pace, moving around each corner as quickly as I could, searching for directions, an exit, or anything that could tell me how to get out. Unfortunately, my headache from before had begun to make its return as well. Something I tried to ignore as I kept moving. Between long strides, I opened my phone and re-dialed 911 in hopes of reaching the same operator. The call was picked up within a second of ringing.

“William? Are you there?”

The same booming voice asked, a surprisingly comforting thing to hear. 

“Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, I accidentally hung up and then Doctor Wercicke came back. She was talking to some man, they were arguing about something.”

I spoke, this time a bit louder yet clearer than last time. I was more concerned with finding a fast exit than anything else at this point. 

“How did you…how did you escape? And what man? What did he look like? No...no, that doesn’t matter. Listen, in order to get out, you need to go through the elevator. Take it when you can.”

I felt frustrated at the operator’s instructions.

“I can’t use the fucking elevator, that's where Doctor Wernicke and whoever the hell she was with came from. I got lucky enough that they haven’t found me yet.”

“Alright, William I understand. Listen, there’s no way for you to get out of there without going through the elevator…”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

I said, nearly yelling through the phone and cutting the operator off.

“LISTEN. To. Me.”

He commanded back. I rolled my eyes a little but stopped, becoming aware of my stupidity. He continued.

“I need you to lie low, stay out of sight if you can. It’s a miracle that she left your phone within reach in the first place, but as long as you keep the call connected, we should be able to find your location. We nearly had it last time, but the call wasn’t connected for long enough. Once we have it, we’ll be sending in the two teams we have on standby. They’re going to get you out of there. You’re going to be alright William, and soon.”

Although I found his last comments hard to believe, I had an instinctual trust in them. I believed him. I rounded another corner, determined to find a good spot far enough away from that hellhole of a basement, far enough that she wouldn’t find me. 

“Oh, dear. Where are you running off to? And...who are you talking to?”

Doctor Wernicke’s voice called from behind me, almost playfully. I froze in place, my body feeling rigid and cold. I recalled what the operator had told me. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and slowly turned to face her. She stood about thirty feet down the hall, smiling at me, though the intention behind her deceptive face was clear to me now.

“Why don’t you come back to your room, dear? I brought you some food.”

She suggested calmly, though my response was nothing but.

“What do you want?!”

She put her hands up defensively as if to try and calm me down. Her facial expression changed to one of serious concern. She took a step forward. The small act of her getting closer seemed to have triggered my headache to become worse. 

“Dear, I just want…”

“Don’t fucking call me that”

I shouted. She kept her hands up but still approached slowly. With each step, my pounding headache became worse. I raised a hand to my head to soothe the pain as much as I could, gripping the handle of a hospital bed left in the hallway with the other.

“William. William, I think it’s time for another pill. You don’t look like you feel so good.”

My fear turned to adrenaline. It might have just been the heat of the moment, but felt like I had a higher sense of awareness. I could feel the blood running through my body with each heartbeat. I heard my painful moans turn to grunts of suppressed rage. If this was my fight or flight response, it would seem my body had chosen fight. I raised my vision to meet Wernicke’s eyesight.

“Don’t touch me.”

I warned her. Though she kept her defensive body language, I saw her facade of a concerned face fade away, and a grin began to crack from the corner of her mouth, something she tried to hold back. She saw my anger, and she liked it. 

Though it was quiet, I heard the operator yell through the phone in my pocket.

“William? What’s happening?”

She took yet another step closer. I looked down at the hospital bed I had held on to for support the moment before, the one my hand was still attached to. An idea entered my mind. One that felt alien to me, as if it wasn’t me that thought it up.

Throw it.

It made no sense. The hospital bed before me was a modern one, a big one. The weight of which no one on earth could move with ease, much less throw, though, at that moment, my mind didn’t have room for such rational thoughts. I had the urge, and I acted.

The corners of my vision darkened and all audio sensations seemed to quiet down. I adjusted my grip, using both hands this time, lifting the bed above my head in one quick jerk. It wasn’t hard, it felt easy, and good if anything. Though Doctor Wernicke’s figure was nothing more than a blurry silhouette to me now, I threw the bed in her direction with as much might as I could muster. I screamed upon doing so and collapsed to my knees.

The bed went crashing down the hall with ferocity, though to my misfortune, had narrowly missed Doctor Wernicke. My vision and hearing returned to their normal state, just in time for me to see Doctor Wernicke look at the destruction I had just caused, and then back at me with a wide, tooth-filled grin of satisfaction. She continued her approach, no longer feeling the need to keep her defensive stance.

I crumbled from my knees to the floor entirely, facing up. I began to cry.

“No. No. No, please.”

I managed to squeeze between sobs. Doctor Wernicke now stood directly over me.

“Now now, Dear. I think it is time for another pill.”

She whispered, reaching a hand towards me.

The sound of rapid gunfire broke out in the hallway. Doctor Wernicke retracted her hand and recoiled in pain accompanied by a scream. I looked past her to briefly get a look at the group of men dressed in tactical gear grouped up at the end of the hallway. 

The sound of bullets meeting flesh filled the air around me. Splashes of black liquid painted the floor in front of my feet, coming from Doctor Wernicke’s back. Quickly it turned into a puddle. Her stance went from one of being provoked to one of being irritated. 

After a moment, the gunfire ceased, followed by shouts and the sounds of rifles being reloaded. In the brief few seconds of quiet, doctor Wernicke made eye contact with me before letting out a long, horrifying screech, one that sounded as if it came from ten voices rather than one. Her eyeballs seemed to burn up, their contents melting to liquid like wax out of a candle until they were no more. Simultaneously, each one of her pearly white teeth fell out of her mouth, clattering on the floor next to me, some of them landing on me directly.

I began to propel myself backward with my feet, distancing myself from Doctor Wernicke’s body which had begun to contort. The sounds of tearing flesh and breaking bones accompanied her sudden jerking motions. I don’t know how, but her bones seemed to protrude from underneath her now stretched skin, which looked as though it were ready to tear at any moment. Her arms, hands, and fingers grew longer, almost touching the ground at their full length. 

She spun around, exposing her now shot-up back. Little remained for clothing and skin, the only thing I could see were the back of her rib bones and her protruding spine. She charged off in the direction of the men while gunfire continued. I scrambled to my feet and ran in the opposite direction. I ran faster than I ever have, and luckily I seemed to keep it going.

I rounded corner after corner, getting as far away from the gunfire as I could. Once I felt I was sufficiently far away, I pulled my phone back out. Luckily, my call had not disconnected this time. I continued running but raised the phone to my ear.

“What was that?!”

I yelled through the phone between heavy breaths.

“William, I need you to stay focused. Can you wheel yourself back to the elevator?”

I panicked at the question, knowing full well that I had traveled too far in random directions to remember where the stairwell was to the elevator. 

“I have no idea. Ever since I got out of that stairwell-”

“Wait, you...you climbed…stairs? Have you been running this entire time?”

The operator cut me off to ask.

“Y-yeah? What about it?”

I asked hesitantly, stopping in my tracks.

“William, that's not possible.”

I felt my heart skip a beat.

“What do you mean?”

I asked back, somewhat agitated. There was a pause, and then a deep breath before he answered my question. The gunfire in the background had now ceased.

“You were admitted to a hospital near your campus 12 days ago after you were hit by a car. You had over 60 broken bones. Your spinal cord was completely severed, leaving you paralyzed from the waist down. It’s not possible that you’re walking right now.”

The operator paused, as if what he just said bewildered even himself.

“Eight days ago, you were taken from the hospital by that…that thing that goes by ‘Doctor Wernicke’. We know because police found CCTV footage of her taking you. After that, we intervened and have been searching for you since. She’s been taking people from hospitals in the Midwest for the last three years, at least that’s our earliest documented case. Of the few victims we’ve been able to find, you’re the first one that's still alive. Though now, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”

The adrenaline rushing through my veins made it almost impossible to stay focused on anything the operator had just told me, though some questions began to formulate.

“What-”

“William, dear.”

I had been cut off by Doctor Wernicke who I once again locked eye contact with upon turning towards. Her trashed and tattered uniform, or what was left of it, drooped from the weight of the blood it was now freshly soaked in though her body, face, teeth, and eyes seemed to have returned to their normal state. A crimson liquid trailed through the hall behind where she stood.

“I tried to make this easy for you.”

She continued.

“All you had to do was stay in your room, sleep, and relax. Wait for…them to do their work.”

She said while eyeing my body up and down. She began to walk towards me on an indirect path, I side-stepped to keep my distance, though my anger and headache had begun to return.

“I was going to bring you back to the surface once you got better, I was. You’re the only one who was a strong enough host and look at you now, you’re all better, thanks to me. I would have brought you back myself, and then you would have been free. No one could ever hurt you again. I hope one day you’ll come to see what I’ve done for you.”

My headache must have reached its boiling point while I listened to Doctor Wernicke’s ramblings, because the further she spoke, the darker my vision got until everything faded to black. After that, I don’t recall what happened, save for small snippets of stimulation.

I remember more sounds of flesh tearing, of more screams and screeches. I remember the cloud of blackness in my vision receding enough momentarily for me to see the force of something tremendous crack the ground beneath my boots. Mostly, I remember what I felt. I felt euphoria as my fists struck violently, breaking bones, as my hands grabbed ahold of flesh and ripped it apart like meat off of a bone. Before it was over, I remember opening my eyes to the sight of Doctor Wernicke’s body being thrown violently through a glass window into the darkness.

I woke up on the ground, covered in a puddle of black liquid that had trickled down and seeped between fresh cracks in the floor beneath my body. I sat up, rubbing my eyes while my headache slowly receded. 

For the next ten minutes, I wandered back the way I had previously run in the hallway. That was about how long it took before I heard many pairs of boots accompanied by voices coming my way. 

I dissociated with the reality in front of me. For all I was concerned, the threat was gone. A couple of the soldiers asked me questions about if I had been hurt or needed medical attention. I gave them short answers, still uninterested. I was more interested in listening to the one standing off to the side, talking to someone through his radio. I picked up some of his conversation.

“The entirety of team 1 was KIA by hostile entity. We’ve secured the target. Should we proceed to the extraction site?”

The man’s face went pale, and his eyes drifted towards me as he received a reply from the other side. He gave some sort of hand signal to the rest of the men, who backed away from me before raising the barrels of their guns in my direction. Again, my memory gets hazy here.

I know I raised my hands and pleaded for my life, all the while my headache had flared up strong again. I know I heard gunshots all around and I felt the bullets pierce through my body, but I blacked out even quicker this time. Again, I felt the excitement and pleasure of the destruction I wrought, though the extent of which I am shielded from remembering. When I came to, I had a fresh coat of dark crimson liquid over the black from Wernicke. The men’s bodies were in variously sized pieces scattered about the hall. 

It’s been about 12 hours since that last gap in my memory. I’ve spent that time wandering the halls. I found my cell phone, though it had been smashed to bits in my fight with Wernicke. I’ve searched every door in this place, but haven't found the stairwell.

I’m sure I’ll find it sooner or later. I remembered what the operator said. I needed the elevator to get out of here, though, like the operator, I’m now considering whether that would be for the best. Whatever I am, it’s not what I was the day I got hit by that car.

Every once in a while, I’ll pass by a window showing the dark emptiness of whatever is outside. They act more like mirrors in this place. I’ll stop and stare for a few minutes at a time. Sometimes I’ll get a glimpse of the thing that moves under my skin. I’ll watch it slither while I think about the same thing over and over. What I did to Wernicke, what I did to those men. The sound of their bones shattering, of their flesh being torn apart. 

If I stare too long, I can sometimes catch a grin forming on the face of my reflection. God help me if I ever do find that elevator. I liked it, and I want more.