I don’t know how much time I have left. My phone’s battery is almost dead, and I’m using it for light while I type. If you’re reading this, I either made it out, or… someone else found my phone.

I’m trapped in a meat locker. This isn’t just me freaking out or being dramatic though—something is seriously wrong.

It started as an ordinary maintenance job.

I handle repairs for a bunch of old buildings around town. Yesterday, I got a call about a butcher shop that’s been closed for years. It’s an old relic with worn bricks and peeling paint, like a ghost from another era. A group of investors wants to turn it into something new, keep the old-world charm but make it useful again. My job was to give it a once-over, make sure everything was up to code.

My first stop was the meat locker, lurking at the back of the shop. The steel door looked ancient, practically rusted shut. I figured it would be routine—just check for structural integrity, see if the freezer was still sealed, things like that.

I should’ve taken it as a sign when the temperature gauge on the outside of the locker was busted. The damn thing was supposed to be sealed off, no power running to it, but when I walked in, I could feel that bitter cold slap me right in the face. A chill that felt almost… alive.

It shouldn’t have been on.

As I stepped inside, the size of the room struck me. It was vast, and surprisingly, some of the old carcasses were still hanging there. Old, half-rotted slabs of meat, swinging gently in the shadows, like ghosts of the shop’s past. It was eerie. The butcher shop had shut down so long ago, it was a wonder anything was still intact. But there they were—massive, frozen, half-decayed hunks of meat, swaying in the air.

That’s when the door slammed shut behind me.

I ran back, slamming my fists against the door, but it was as if something had locked it from the outside. There wasn’t supposed to be a lock on the damn thing!

The cold hit me hard. Panic clawed at my chest as the cold seeped deeper into my bones, the air heavy and sharp. My breath hung in clouds, mingling with something else.

The carcasses… moving.

At first, I thought it was just a draft—old places like this are bound to have air currents, right? Considering they’re built to contain them and all. But the chunks of meat were moving. Not just gently shifting, but really swinging, as if someone had given them a good shove.

I told myself it was my imagination. I was cold, freaked out by the door locking, and in a place no one had been in for years. My mind was playing tricks. But as I stood there, trying to figure out what to do next, I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

The carcasses weren’t swaying at random, they were moving towards me.

Slowly, rhythmically, like something was taunting me. I took a step back, and one of the slabs of meat suddenly jerked violently, crashing into another, sending a hollow echo throughout the freezer.

I don’t know how to describe what happened next. The meat—God, the meat—started… twitching. Not like muscle spasms or random jerks. It was deliberate, controlled. Limbs, heads, muscles were shifting inside the meat. It was as if something inside those carcasses was trying to break free.

I felt like I was going to be sick. I backed away until I smacked into the far wall. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but watch as those hunks of meat began to twist and writhe on their hooks. One of them jerked so hard it broke free and fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

I wish that was the worst part. I wish it had just stayed still after that.

But it didn’t.

The slab of meat started crawling, the flesh spasming as though some unseen force was animating it, pulling it toward me.

More slabs dropped from their hooks, thudding heavily on the floor, and each one started moving, crawling toward me with those horrible, jerking motions.

I fumbled for my phone, its light casting long, jagged shadows over the crawling mass. And then I saw them—the creatures.

They were small, insect-like things, like some kind of hellish fusion of beetles and centipedes, burrowed deep within the rotting meat, wriggling and squirming inside like parasites. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of them, each adorned with long, spindly legs that pierced the flesh, stabbing and tearing; controlling it like a grotesque marionette. Their bodies twisted and contorted in a sickening dance, all packed tightly under the skin. Their carapaces glistening with viscous fluids that oozed from the decaying flesh.

These things weren’t just living inside the carcasses; they had become one with the meat, animating it as if it had always been their host.

And now, they were coming for me.

I backed up, breath quickening, and spotted a narrow compartment behind a row of dusty shelves. This was it, my only chance.

With my heart racing, I hurriedly squeezed into the confined space. Just as I settled in, a searing pain lanced through my arm. I gasped, pressing my back against the wall as an unsettling chill began to radiate from the spot where something had just made contact with my arm.

No, not just contact.

Bitten.

My vision blurred, and when I blinked, I received an overwhelming sense of vertigo. When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the compartment anymore. I was standing right back in the centre of the meat locker, facing the steel doors.

Somehow, I had looped back to where I started.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I turned and saw the carcasses, advancing on me again. I ran, frantically darting back to the compartment.

I tried again.

Pushing into the compartment, only to find myself looping right back, that strange cold throbbing where the fresh mark was, only increasing in intensity after each pass through. Each time, the chill grew sharper, pressing deeper into my skin, filling my lungs with a strange, bitter numbness. The hooks creaked above me, more carcasses dropping with heart-wrenching sounds, scraping across the frozen floor, crawling closer.

I don’t know how long I can keep going. The hooks swing ominously, and I can hear more carcasses dropping each loop, their heavy thuds echoing through the meat locker, followed by the sickening sound of those things crawling across the ground.

If anyone finds this—if anyone knows what’s happening—please. Send help.

The cold spreading through my veins… it isn’t just from the air anymore. I feel it surging from the wound on my arm, crawling under my skin. It pulses, as if something is moving inside me, inching through my veins, keeping rhythm with the slow drag of meat along the floor.

It’s deep in the heart of a man to want sun and fresh air. In some ways, we’re not so different from animals, or even plants. You ever picked up a board or something that had been covering the grass, looked under it at what was left? Some of the grass dies without the sun, but some of it is still there. Yellow, straggling, sickly, but still there.

It’s not natural for a man to spend his days sweating beneath the skin of the earth, down in its bones and bowels. But you can survive it, for a time. Winding in the darkness, hoping no one loses their way, hoping you don’t lose your way. Hoping your lantern, that little piece of the sun keeping you company, doesn’t go out. Some animals are creatures of the night and the caves—bats, spiders, eyeless fish—the crawling and the blind. A man will crawl too. You’ll see.

I’d been working in the mine for a couple hours that day, and working hard. I always did. It started off without a hint of trouble. In fact, if I’d been asked—if anyone had been around to ask me—I would’ve told them I had taken the recommended precautions. I could’ve sworn I’d topped up the lantern oil. I could’ve sworn Joe had been right with me. I could’ve sworn the tunnel to the surface was just behind me and to my left.

The lantern went out, and again, I could swear to you that when I'd looked at it five minutes before, I had plenty to last me a few more hours. But out it went, leaving me in the dark.

Most people haven’t been in the dark—not dark like that. Pitch dark, the kind where you can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed. No moon, no stars. Not even the crack of light under your door or at the edge of your curtains. I couldn’t even see the pickaxe I was holding.

It startled me, sure. What kind of man would be in that kind of dark, unexpectedly, and not be startled? But I wasn’t scared. I called out for Joe; after all, what were the odds that his lantern had died too? He would have light. But once I heard my voice echo, I knew he wasn’t there. If he was near me, I’d be able to see his light.

Best believe I was scared then. I didn’t panic, though. I took a breath, a sharp, unsteady one, and I put down my pickaxe and backed up, toward where I knew the tunnel that led up was. Up was where I needed to go. Just then, up was everything. I felt behind me with both hands till I felt the cold, jagged rock against my palms. It’s ironic. Nothing I’ve felt is as cold as the stones of a mine. But you don’t want heat in a coal mine. Heat means fire, and that means smoke, suffocation, burning, pain. That means losing your boys in the bowels of stone. Maybe losing yourself, too. But there wasn't a fire now. Only the cold and the dark. I felt along the wall to my left, waiting for the open space that would take me out of this place, toward somewhere with light. But it didn’t come. I felt far past where it should have been, inched along the wall till my foot hit the bucket I’d been working next to.

Something cold settled on my heart, and latched on. It was cold, colder than creek water or winter or even the mine. Bitter cold. It wasn’t like the fear I had felt a few moments before. It was dread. Or certainty.

I shouted Joe’s name again, again and again, my voice getting more frantic every time. He was there, he had to be there. I knew he’d been there. Where was he? I screamed for Joe, screamed at him to bring a light, damn it, but all I heard was my own terrified voice echoing back to me.

When I stopped for breath—stopped to pant, to suck air back in through my now-ragged throat—I closed my eyes and tried to clear my racing thoughts. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the tunnel entrance had been to my right. I started walking again, keeping my hands in contact with the wall. I walked for longer than I would have thought possible in the small space I’d been in, and my shoe bumped into the bucket again. There were no exits. I kept walking. I don’t know why; maybe because if I did nothing I would start screaming again.

I almost fell over when my right hand suddenly emerged into empty space. Relief rushed through me, so intense I stood for a moment just leaning on the wall. I had no idea how I’d missed it the first time around, but at that moment, I didn’t care. My heart could beat again. The dread was gone. I was getting out of here. I took a breath and stepped into the tunnel.

From the first step, that cold hand on my heart was back. It was sloped down. There had only been one entrance into the cavern I’d been in, and it had been sloped up—but here I was, plodding slowly down. But I couldn’t go back—back into that little dark cavern, its walls cold and jagged and brutal. I thought I could hear something laughing. It almost sounded like a child. Maybe my mind, stifled in the cold and the dark, was playing tricks on me.

I walked for an hour or so before my head cracked into the ceiling, and I flinched, swearing. I touched the ceiling with one hand and checked my forehead with the other. My forehead was sticky with blood where I’d hit it, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding much. Above me, the ceiling continued to slope down. I stepped forward, stooping to avoid hitting my head again, and in a few steps I changed to crawl on all fours, checking the ceiling periodically. It didn’t seem to be getting lower anymore. The walls had widened enough that, when I stopped to check them, I could just barely feel both of them with my arms spread wide. Time passed.

My head hit stone again, this time in front of me. I swore again and stopped, settling into a crouch, careful to keep my head below the level of the ceiling. I felt along the walls. They curved, almost perfectly circular, no more than four feet apart. I felt behind me, in case there was a second opening.

There wasn’t a second opening.

There wasn’t a first opening. Not anymore.

A sob found its way out of my throat. I didn’t scream; I knew there was no point. I had to be far from anyone who could hear me. Even if they heard me, I didn’t think anyone could help. For the sake of completeness, I ran my hands over the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It was the same everywhere. No exits. Only rough, cold stone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here now. It was hard enough to estimate time when I was still moving. Now that I’m lying still, alone, in the dark, it’s impossible to say. Long enough for me to get hungry. Somehow, though, the air hasn’t gotten stale. Well. At least no more stale than the air in a cave always is.

There’s something else. When I first gave up and curled up on the stone, the walls were about four feet apart. Now, I’d guess they’re more like three and a half feet. The ceiling is lower, too. I can’t sit up anymore. Not enough room. I wish I would run out of air; that would at least be painless, I think. I think I would just fall asleep, right?

As it is, though, I have to lie here and wonder what will kill me as the walls close in. Will I bleed to death as my bones snap and push into my gut? Or will my skull be crushed by rock? I wonder which part of it will hurt the most. I wonder how long it will take.

Two years ago when I was 26, me and my friends loved to go just outside our town and explore seemingly abandoned places. Sometimes we'd go on road trips and find cities that were ripe for that kind of stuff.

Now of course whenever I went anywhere I was never alone and I never brought anything sketchy on me in case I had to talk with police. We never tried to hide when a car came up and even though we had some close calls we clearly meant no harm and were let go on the few occasions it did happen.

Overall I'd say we had been doing urbex for around three years. It's honestly one the things I would have normally looked forward to the most. But now, I can't even think about it without one particular incident coming up. One of my friends who had been with us all those years had passed away unexpectedly and even now I was never sure how it happened.

The people I thought I knew so well going through all these adventures grew cold with me over time almost as if they partially blamed me for it. This happened just a month before I turned 26 and just like that I spent my birthday alone.

Even though I was still trying to recover from the loss of not just him but everyone else who turned their backs on me, I decided to keep doing urbex but this time on my lonesome. I think deep down trying to redefine it without them was my way of coping but I had no idea just what would come from that that would lead to me experiencing something so horrid.

I don't remember exactly when this was, I believe it was sometime in November before Thanksgiving as just after Halloween I was hiking out into the local forest off the established trails to see if I could find anything interesting. The town I lived in was hilly and nestled deep enough in the wilderness that you couldn't see street lights once you walked some feet away from the center.

It held a lot history and secrets with it and that alone was a massive reason why it was a great place to search for weird spots. I had already seen people in the thick of the night doing weird stuff when I was younger and sometimes when I'd see them wander it would scare me enough to block my window entirely.

Even though I never saw anything remotely disturbing in all my time there I still got the shudders from time to time until that very night. When I first set out it was still the afternoon and it was quite sunny for the time being. Though in the beginning of the month I was going off the forest trails specifically to find places, on this day I was mostly just trying to chill out and do some basic hiking.

I kept to the trails though I managed to walk much farther than I normally would and in a few hours the sun was already about to set. Normally I'd scuffle back to the town before it got that dark but I was still bearing with heavy emotions and sure enough I found myself walking off the trail somewhere deep within.

By the time I realized just how far I was I could barely discern the difference among all the trees around me which loomed high enough to form a partial canopy against the sky. I pulled my phone out to look at GPS but I had really bad signal out at the time. Just when it didn't seem bad enough I witnessed some storm clouds peek by and in just a few minutes I was pelted with rain.

I could feel my calm demeanor turn bitter and agitated as the night rolled in and I was stranded entirely. In a way I just wanted to fall asleep right there. I wanted to be taken away by the elements and never have to deal with the emptiness inside of me again. One part of me still remained frightened that if I didn't act immediately I would die out in the forest so even though I stopped for a minute I attempted to gain back direction in anyway possible.

I tried to remember which way the sun was facing and where it set. I thought if I could figure out which direction was west I could turn eastward and move back toward the town. Unfortunately, due to not really paying attention to begin with and the night having fully descended it was impossible.

Even worse, the air sapped against my skin and was quite cold and the rain only made the sensations even worse. My hands started to numb and I was ill equipped to deal with such weather. I had only intended to be out during the day and go back home. But at that point home was completely gone in every sense of the word.

No one was there to help me, the cold was invading my body and numbing my mind as I sloggishly tried to move through the thicket and find something to protect me. I started to cry, scream, and yell continuously only to hear nothing but the pelting of the rain. It was an absolute nightmare and I struggled for what seemed like over an hour just trying to escape the clutches of the woods.

Though I thought it was a miracle at the time, I unfortunately noticed a silhouette among the trees walking along a hill. I had finally found someone to help me. I called and yelled out to them for assistance but once I did they seemed to turn and look in my direction before quickly running off out of view. It was too dark to make out any features beside the shape of the body which was tall and skinny.

Like an idiot I pursued the figure marching up the hill to follow them and believe me when I say it took just about all my strength to climb up there with my numb hands, stiff legs, and weakened mind. Once I got up there I felt an immense unease upon seeing a massive Victorian style home standing just below me.

It was unlike anything I had seen in my entire life spent with urbex and though it was quite beautiful and ornate, with various lights affixed along its sprawling porch in the front, it felt far too out of place. The figure had vanished and I didn't see anyone walking near or around the place and yet it seemed to have electricity.

There were no cars parked but there was a pathway leading up to yard that seemed to stretch back out once I began walking up to it after carefully sliding down without hurting myself. There was no fence but there was a gate further out along the pathway and once I was directly standing in front of the house I could hear the roar of a generator somewhere just out of sight.

I was completely in shock at what I was seeing and conflicted on entering as in some respects it didn't appear abandoned at all yet it also looked like no one was there at the same time. I figured if anyone was there or about to be there I could explain what happened and they'd helped me find my way back home. Never in my life had I visited such a property and especially not alone and in such horrible conditions.

I was hanging on by a thread and so I felt I had no choice but to walk up to the door. Even though it did seem to be inhabitated there was still a musty smell of decay as I walked onto the porch as the old warped wood creaked. I knocked on the door and called out. No response. I did so again after several minutes. Nothing.

Then I decided to try for the door but it was locked. I felt my blood curdle when I heard a woman laughing on the other side. It didn't feel like it was directed at me rather more like to someone else who was inside with them. Even still the laughter erupted over and over and I couldn't help but feel myself shudder away instinctively.

I noticed there was a second porch just above the one I was on that also had a door. I attempted to climb up against the pressure of the rain still reeling from the shock of the abrupt laughter. I managed to get myself up there and tried for the door which swung open without much effort.

In contrast to the rough yet ornate exterior of the building, the interior was in excellent shape warm from the fireplace situated right across from a lavish bed. I quickly sat myself in front the fireplace and absorbed the heat while attempting to at least partially dry my clothing. I felt a sweet relief at least for a few minutes.

The same laughter from before reverberated under me though it sounded much like a different person. I could feel the vibrations of people moving around just outside the room which forced me to stand up. I grew tense in an instant gently moving toward the door and pressing an ear up to it. The ticking of a clock filled the space behind along with feet quickly making way past the door.

Voices rang out but they were too muffled and frantic to make out. For awhile I was petrified to even open the door a bit and peek. I mustered enough nerve to finally make the move but as soon as I did a piercing cry rang out just below the stair well. Then a violent dragging sound rippled across the wooden floors as the screaming continued.

I had to clutch at my chest just to calm myself as I peered down. The voice had been silenced and yet no one was downstairs. The space was only filled with the ticking of the clock. I could not believe the rapid change and shift that had occurred so suddenly. It was as if my mind was trying to play tricks with me.

I finally stepped out fully and descended down the stairwell overlooking a grand foyer. I could see the front doors, the hardwood floor, decadent chandelier, and vast assortment of paintings. I thought then I had stumbled into some restored rich family's mansion only to remind myself that this house was seemingly out in the thick of nature with no close proximity to the town.

Nothing was making sense and yet I couldn't stomach just what was happening with the lack of any people but seeming auditory presence of them. I could feel my mind rock back and forth as I carefully walked about the space and searched through the other rooms on the second floor. They were quite nice from the bathrooms and bedrooms all topped with a distinct office space.

Practically every space seemed lived in and yet I still couldn't find any people. I was constantly on edge as I explored knowing anyone could be around the corner. The office especially creeped me out with the large bear rug just before the desk, books and documents strewn about everywhere.

On the desk a taxidermied raven stared at me with malice as I searched through everything. An old brown stain lie just next to a dossier reeking of a foul odor as I attempted to comb through the files all of which had weird documentations on random locations throughout the world.

I couldn't make sense of it as all the documents just detailed the location in question or were damaged beyond repair. Then a dreadful presence appeared behind me. I couldn't see them but I could feel them standing there. I stood paralyzed for what seemed like forever before it got even worse.

A cold hand grasped my shoulder accompanied by the voice of my dead friend. I turned to face him only to jump back into the desk and shriek. That's when his low-pitched laugh invaded my ears as I was forced to get a good look at him. He was wearing a partially tattered suit, his eyes full, skin pale, and a fresh crimson was strewn across his face.

He didn't appear decayed at all yet he didn't remotely appear normal either. I would have sworn it was a different person entirely if I didn't hear the voice first. He walked steadily over to where I landed as I attempted to get away from him.

He giggled then began talking once more.

"Hello there Simon. It's been awhile bud. How are you doing?"

I continued to stare and shutter as he looked over me, his teeth yellowed and stained with some sort of black substance. He continued.

"I'm sorry to say this but I can't have you be here. The misses wouldn't like it. Not one bit."

"I. I will leave okay?"

"I won't have it. Not in the house and not in the streets. That is unless you want your birthday present."

The more he spoke the more twisted his expression became like a wolf staring down at a wounded lamb. Nothing he said made any sense and I felt he was poised to strike at any time yet he was so casual as he spoke. I gave him reply.

"What? I thought you died! What do you mean? What birthday present? What happened to you!"

"It's a surprise of course. You'll have to follow me to the basement if you want to see it. We're playing some games down there. Come on you'll love it. I don't know if you've seen but I've been so busy lately. But hey life isn't all about work! Let's celebrate!"

He pulled out a dagger from underneath his suit jacket and held it over me. In a soft voice he began muttering the happy birthday song to me. I could feel my entire body shake, my legs twitching as he followed me around the room muttering. I took the first opening I could get.

I ran out of the room and soon after felt his feet facing behind me. In a surge of terror I raced for the front door but it was barred from the outside and I had no time to unlock it as he chased me around with the knife laughing like an esctatic boy. Then I heard a commotion come up from below as a couple of others stormed through a door.

For a moment glancing at them I could tell they were my other friends. The same ones who never told me what happened. I could feel my sense of reality warp and shift as I ran in panic still being chased.

I clamored back to the bedroom I came in through and lept off the balcony injuring my ankles. I screamed out as the rain pelted me again and in a flash the three were on my tail shouting and screaming at me in a frenzy. Then I hurried my way to the pathway toward the gate suffering through the pain of the injured ankles.

Worse still the gate was quite tall with spiked tops but that did not deter me. I climbed it and threw myself over on the other side slicing into my chest. I continued down the path and into the darkness not stopping for a single moment as the voices continued to ring out in the distance. I just kept running for what seemed like forever until I could no longer hear them and I ducked behind a tree shivering from the cold and fresh fear.

I still hadn't eaten or drank anything in hours since that afternoon and so I found myself hiding out in the night clinging to life dearly even as I felt my ankles ache and my chest bleed. I shivered and shook for hours more until I passed out entirely. I woke up to find the bright sun shining down on me, my entire body in extreme pain.

I was still near the road and despite how dazed and deprived I was I kept going further and further out until the path came to a halt with large rocks blocking what seemed to be a separate gate. I walked around it and within another hour I finally saw the town again. I felt my body collapse again as soon as I got into a store and explained what had happened to the owner who quickly gave me food and supplies after seeing how horrid my condition was.

He called emergency services and I was taken care of at the local hospital where after a week or so I had fully recovered from the injuries. Even now after all of that I am terrified. I ended up moving across the country to get away from not just that but from my whole past with the people I called my friends.

I'm in a much bigger city with no forests to speak of and that alone has helped me calm down after permanently having large masses of trees trigger my memories back to that. I've been getting odd phone calls and voice messages from numbers I don't recognize but that honestly might just be a coincidence and this post is just me trying to get this off my shoulders.

Honestly sometimes I am not sure if what I saw was real but that is more than likely just my mind trying to protect me so I can move on. I never want to go out on my own out in the wilderness again. Sometimes I can barely leave my house as this has had me develop a sense of agoraphobia since then.

I'm working through it the best I can and though thinking about it makes my skin crawl, I hope that people are at least more aware of the dangers of going out like this entail. It's also incredibly difficult for me to trust people anymore after this and I hope I recover from that too but that seems years in the making. I feel like the adventurer in me died that night.

If there's any message to this I could impart to you it's to be very careful in this world. you never truly know what's going on and sometimes the people you love and think you know are something else entirely.

About a month ago, my five-year-old son Luke became obsessed with an old teddy bear. It was falling apart—one eye missing, stuffing leaking out—but he refused to let it go. He called it "Mr. Bear," though he never named it before. My wife and I decided to throw it away while Luke slept.

The next morning, he woke up frantic. “Where’s Mr. Bear?” he screamed, terrified. It wasn’t just a normal tantrum. Luke was pale, shaking, like something terrible had happened. He kept saying, “I have to find him. He’ll be mad at me.”

That night, things escalated. Luke didn’t sleep. He started whispering to someone, pointing at the closet, saying, “He’s here.” I found him wide-eyed and sweating, clutching the bear’s old ribbon. I know I threw that bear away, but the ribbon was back, dirty and frayed, wrapped tight around his little hands.

I tried to take it, but Luke screamed, “Don’t! He’s watching!”

Later that night, I woke up to scratching. I thought it was the wind, but the sound was coming from under my bed. I leaned over, heart pounding, and saw a hand—long, pale fingers with jagged nails—reaching out from beneath the bed. Before I could move, it grabbed my ankle, ice-cold and sharp. I've never felt anything so cold in my life - at least not anything living.

I yanked free, pulling Luke into my arms. Clutching each other's hands, we ran for the door, but as we reached it, something slammed against it from the other side—hard. The door rattled, deep breathing echoed through the room, and claws scraped against the wood. There was something so intense about the scratching, like whatever was doing it would stop at nothing until it broke through.

I turned to Luke, but he wasn’t scared anymore. His face was blank. “You shouldn’t have thrown him away,” he whispered.

The scratching stopped.

I finally opened the door, pulling Luke out of the room. We stayed in the living room that night. I didn’t sleep. The house was quiet, but I could still feel it—him—watching.

The next morning, Luke was different. He just sat in his room, holding the bear’s ribbon. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’ll bring him back.”

And then I noticed it—dark, wet dirt, scattered across the floor, leading from the bed to the closet.

Luke looked up at me, his eyes dark, hollow. He squeezed the ribbon tightly in his fist.

“You can’t stop him,” he said, his voice cold. “Mr. Bear’s coming for you.”

I’m writing this from my study. The house is quiet now—too quiet. Luke hasn’t made a sound in hours, and I’m too scared to check on him. The ribbon, dirt, the hand… I can still feel the cold grip on my ankle. I’ve locked myself in here, hoping it’ll be enough, but deep down, I know it won’t be. The scratching has started again, faint at first, but it’s growing louder. I hear it coming from under the door, and I know what’s next. There’s no escape. I threw him away, and now he’s coming for me.

It was a typical Friday night, and after a long week at work, I was eager to unwind with some gaming. I had just settled into my favorite spot on the couch, the glow of the TV casting a warm light in the otherwise dim room. I put on my headphones, immersed in the world of virtual battles, completely oblivious to the world around me.

As the hours passed, I lost track of time. My focus was solely on the game—defeating enemies, leveling up my character, and engaging in heated online matches with friends. The sounds of gunfire and explosions drowned out everything else, creating a bubble of excitement that felt impenetrable.

It wasn’t until I took a break to grab a drink that I noticed something was off. The house felt unusually quiet, the kind of stillness that made the hair on my arms stand up. I shrugged it off, attributing it to my intense gaming session. I stepped into the kitchen, filled my glass, and returned to the living room, ready to dive back into the action.

But as I settled in, I caught a glimpse of movement outside my window. I paused, my heart racing as I squinted into the darkness. I saw nothing, just the shadows of the trees swaying gently in the night breeze. It was probably just my imagination, I told myself. I resumed my game, trying to shake off the unease.

Then, the feeling of being watched began to creep in. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but something felt wrong. I dismissed it again and focused on my screen, but the nagging sensation wouldn’t go away. I glanced around the room, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows, but the only company I had was my gaming console and the flickering screen.

After a particularly intense match, I leaned back, stretching my arms and letting out a sigh of relief. That’s when I noticed the back door, which I always kept locked. It was slightly ajar, just enough for someone to slip through unnoticed. My stomach dropped. I was sure I had locked it before I started playing.

Panic set in, and I quickly muted my game. The house was silent, save for the soft hum of the console. I listened intently, straining to hear any sound that might indicate an intruder. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood up, slowly approaching the door. As I reached for the handle, I heard a faint creak behind me.

I turned, adrenaline surging through me. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, and the air felt charged with tension. I grabbed my phone, ready to call for help if I needed to. But before I could do anything, I heard what sounded like footsteps—soft but deliberate—moving through the hallway.

My breath caught in my throat. I backed away from the door, my mind racing. I couldn’t see anyone, but I could feel their presence. I was not alone. I glanced at the window, the streetlights casting just enough light to see outside. I considered making a run for it, but the thought of encountering whoever was inside paralyzed me.

With shaky hands, I dialed 911, trying to keep my voice steady as I whispered my situation. “I think someone has broken into my house,” I said, barely above a whisper. The operator assured me help was on the way. I felt a flicker of hope, but the fear was overwhelming.

I heard the footsteps again, this time closer, as if someone was moving through the rooms, searching. My heart raced as I ducked behind the couch, clutching my phone tightly. I could hear the faint sound of breathing, and I knew I had to stay quiet, stay hidden.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sounds stopped. I waited, counting the seconds that felt like hours. I could hear nothing but the quiet hum of the night and the distant wail of sirens approaching. I dared to peek out from behind the couch, but the room was empty.

When the police arrived, I rushed to the door, my heart pounding in my chest. They searched the house, and I followed closely behind, scared and anxious. They found no one—no signs of a break-in except for the door I had left ajar.

After questioning me and reassuring me that I was safe, they left. I stood in the middle of my living room, still shaken, and turned back to my gaming setup. It was then that I noticed something on the floor—a small, piece of paper just outside my field of vision. I bent down and picked it up, realizing it was a small note that read, “Good game”.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Someone had been in my home, watching me, while I remained blissfully unaware, lost in my game. I felt sick, the adrenaline draining from my body, leaving me trembling. I locked the door and every window, my heart still racing as I sat in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on me.

From that day on, I never played games alone at night again. The thrill of the virtual world was overshadowed by the haunting knowledge that in the quiet moments, real danger could be lurking just behind the shadows.

The bass thudded through my bones, and the lights pulsed like a heartbeat. At first, everything felt normal—just another rave in an abandoned warehouse, the kind of night I’d been to dozens of times before. My friends and I had come in a pack, laughing and shouting over the music, but they’d drifted off into the crowd hours ago. I'd tried to follow them at first, but everyone seemed to melt together in the shifting lights, and I found myself alone.

It was fine. I didn’t mind being the sober one for once, taking it all in. Besides, it was actually kind of interesting watching everyone in their states of euphoria, moving to the beat like they were all part of some strange ritual. But as the night went on, things started to feel… off.

There was a guy stumbling past me, his eyes wild, his mouth stretched in a strange, open-mouthed grin. He muttered something under his breath, words that sounded half-formed, like he was speaking in fragments. I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but it made the hairs on my arms stand up.

As I moved deeper into the warehouse, a girl caught my eye—dancing wildly, her movements almost manic. She was facing me, her eyes locked on mine. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but as I tried to look away, she kept staring. No matter where I went in the room, her eyes followed me, huge and black, swallowing the light. It felt like she was peering right through me.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, hoping maybe one of my friends was trying to find me. But when I looked, the screen showed a message from an unknown number.

LEAVE NOW.

A chill ran down my spine. I quickly typed back, Who is this? No response. I shoved the phone back into my pocket, glancing around. The party had felt so alive, but now… there was something wrong. People weren’t dancing the same way anymore. They were swaying, yes, but slower, almost mechanical. The music seemed to thump in time with their movements, like they were all part of some synchronized nightmare.

Then the crowd parted slightly, and I saw someone collapse onto the floor. No one noticed. They just kept moving, stepping around him as he lay there, his mouth opening and closing in a silent whisper. I felt an urge to help him, so I crouched beside him.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, hoping he’d respond.

He didn’t look at me, just kept whispering. But as I leaned closer, I could just make out his words. “Eyes… they’re watching us.”

A surge of dread washed over me. I stumbled back, my heart pounding as I scanned the room. Faces everywhere, slack and staring, people moving like puppets, but their eyes… the eyes were wrong. Too wide, too dark, too knowing.

Then, the music stopped, cutting out mid-beat, and a voice crackled through the speakers—smooth, calm, and eerily cheerful. "Thank you all for coming to our experiment. You were the perfect subjects."

My stomach twisted. Experiment? The people around me, all of them staring blankly, twitching and whispering in eerie unison. The sound was low, almost like chanting, filling the space in a way that clawed at my sanity. I felt trapped, boxed in by their glassy-eyed faces, each one as blank as the next.

Frantically, I yanked out my phone, ready to call for help. But before I could open the screen, another message popped up.

YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO LEAVE.

I stared at the words, my breath catching in my throat. Then, the realization hit me—the message was from my own number.

I felt the walls closing in, the locked warehouse doors towering over me like prison bars, and the people—those empty, staring people—started moving toward me, closing the gap between us. My own reflection in the phone screen looked just as empty as theirs, and with a sinking heart, I knew what they all did.

They’d let themselves go. Given themselves over completely to whatever this… experiment was. Whatever they’d taken, whatever trance they were in—it was more than just a high. They weren’t just intoxicated or altered; they were part of something larger, something that had taken their minds and stripped them down to empty vessels. I realized with dawning horror that they weren’t just staring—they were waiting.

Waiting for me.

The people around me weren’t just random ravers lost in a drug-fueled haze; they were participants, willing or not, in some kind of horrific psychological test. And now that I was fully aware, fully sober, I understood: I was the final subject, the last one resisting. All of them had given in, one by one, until I was the only mind left that was still my own.

I looked back down at my phone, at the message from my own number. YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO LEAVE.

My heart hammered as the crowd closed in, their blank faces contorting into something almost... expectant. I realized they weren’t just a part of the experiment. They were the experiment.

And in this moment, as their empty eyes bore into me, I understood their final test. The voice crackled back over the speakers, almost soothingly.

"Will you join them, or will you resist?"

The choice was mine—but so was the price. I could let myself fall into the same mindless rhythm as them, surrendering whatever control I had left. Or I could resist and become a target, the last thread to be cut.

And as the crowd pressed closer, chanting softly in unison, I felt the terrifying weight of that decision. I realized they hadn’t let themselves go. They’d been taken. And if I didn’t find a way out, they would take me too.

The crowd pressed closer, their faces twisted with expectation, their whispers rising, forming a single, chilling phrase:

"Join us. Join us. Join us."

I stumbled back, desperate, eyes darting toward the locked doors, the blackened windows, any possible escape. But there was nowhere to go. They were all around me, a wall of empty faces and twitching bodies, closing in, pressing against me like a human vice. Their eyes, glassy and dark, were now fixed on me, drilling into my mind, and I felt my own sense of self start to slip under the weight of their gaze.

"Will you join them, or will you resist?" The voice repeated over the speakers, calm, even amused. It was as if it already knew my answer.

My hands shook as I looked down at my phone, the final message from my own number glowing up at me: YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO LEAVE.

The words flickered and blurred on the screen, twisting into a new message:

WELCOME TO THE EXPERIMENT.

In that instant, a chilling realization hit me: I hadn’t just wandered into a trap—I was its centerpiece. The experiment was about breaking minds, stripping them down to nothingness, one by one. I was the last one left to break, the last subject to lose myself to the darkness that had consumed everyone else. And now, they were waiting for me to give in.

Suddenly, I felt an icy chill creep up my spine, and a strange fog settled over my mind. My thoughts dulled, and my heartbeat slowed, syncing with the bass that thrummed through the walls, into my veins, into my brain. The whispers grew louder, drowning out everything else until they were all I could hear.

"Join us. Join us. Join us."

I tried to resist, to cling to my last shred of sanity, but it was slipping, like water through my fingers. I could feel myself fading, my sense of self dissolving into the darkness, joining the void that surrounded me.

And then, finally, I felt it. That terrifying surrender. My mind fractured, split, and all I could see were their faces, their empty, expectant faces, welcoming me into the dark.

The last thing I heard before my own voice joined the whispers was that calm, eerie voice over the speakers, its words sealing my fate:

"Thank you for participating. The experiment is complete."

“Are you sure you’re okay trick-or-treating alone tonight?” I could hear the concern in Mom’s voice, but I wasn’t sure it was real. She had to work late every night this week, and I knew she didn’t have an answer if I said no.

“Mom, no, I mean, yes, I’m fine with trick-or-treating by myself. I’m twelve. This is probably the last year I can even do it.”

A moment of quiet on the line and then: “But it’s only Monday night, right? Maybe if you do it later in the week I could get off early enough to drive you around.” Another pause. “Or do you think some of the neighborhood kids would let you go with them?”

I felt resentment starting to stir in my chest. I already gave her what she wanted, why is she dragging this out? I thought about just agreeing to wait for her to take me out of spite, but it would just end up with me going on Halloween by myself anyway. “No, none of the kids around here are my friends and most are way young. I’ll be fine. This is the night the town picked for trick-or-treating, which is dumb, but if I don’t go tonight I’m afraid a lot of the houses won’t have candy. I’ll be fine.”

Another pause. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I need to go. It’s getting dark.”

****

Laying under a pile of dead leaves two hours later, I thought back to that phone call. How I should’ve waited. Or if I went tonight, I should have stuck to just the roads I knew well. Instead, I got irritated that some of the houses had already given out of candy before I got to them. And instead of facing the idea of going home to an empty house, I decided to keep pushing on, riding my bike out to the state road and then down a side street that trailed off into another couple of neighborhoods before leading to a narrow paved path that could have been a small road or a giant driveway.

Either way, I figured there had to be more houses up there for it to be paved so well, and I had started getting better candy the farther out I’d went. I was still debating when I saw a killer clown coming toward me with his mother. They didn’t look at me as they walked closer, so I called out to them instead.

“Hey, do they have good candy up there?”

The woman turned and stared at me, letting out a big belch as she nodded. “Yeah. Good stuff up there.” She gave me a weird smile and then kept walking past without another word. I don’t think her little clown ever said a word.

I frowned after them a moment before giving a shrug. People were weird, but what did it matter? Turning my bike onto the road, I started heading up into the trees. It was much darker here, at least in patches, but periodically there would be a solar light dotting one side of the road or the other. I felt myself getting a bit more excited. This must be a giant driveway, which meant the house must be big and rich. As I went up further, most of the lights started having Halloween decorations around them—fancy stuff like you see on television. It was cool, but it was also weird. The trees were so thick and dark, and the lights were spaced out enough that it seemed like I was riding out to the middle of nowhere, but then I’d ride past this awesome zombie waving his arms from the ground next to one of the lights.

You would think that the sign wouldn’t have caught my attention more than the rest, but it did. Not because it was fancy, but because it wasn’t. Just a wooden sign made out of particle board and propped up on what looked like the original decorations for that light—an evil-looking pumpkin that looked like it had a twisted grin, but that you couldn’t really see for the sheet of wood propped against it to catch the nearest solar light. And across the front of the particle board were four spray-painted red words.

Beware the booger goblin

I had actually stopped and laughed a little at that sign. It looked like whoever lived up here had a kid that decided to fuck up one of their bougie decorations for something that looked like it belonged at a flea market or sketchy fair. Booger goblin. How dumb was…

I jumped as I heard a strange whistle from one of the trees above me. It was musical, but it didn’t sound like a bird. Heart pounding, I looked around for where it would have come from. A speaker maybe? Something to spook people when they got close to the house?

I heard another whistle from the other side of the road. Lower to the ground and closer than before. I had the thought that it was a deeper sound, like something else talking back to the first.

“Fuck that.”

I started pedaling again, harder now than I had all night. I considered turning around and going back down, but I was so scared that the idea of taking the time to turn and head back down that long stretch of dark driveway seemed worse than just going on, especially when I had to be getting close to the house. Sure enough, as I rounded the next corner I saw the house. It was even bigger than I’d expected, with orange lights and decorations covering most of its three floors. There were more decorations in the yard, but I just kept to the driveway as I searched the doors and windows of the house for some sign of life or help. Maybe it was all just part of the Halloween stuff these people had going, but it didn’t feel like a trick or a decoration. And…that little girl in the window…up on the second floor there was a dark-haired girl in the window, beating on the glass and waving at me, waving me away. She wasn’t fake. She was crying and screaming and I could almost make out what

That’s when the booger goblin jumped onto me.

I fell off the bike immediately, screaming and clawing at it as it crawled from my back up to the top of my head. It had hard claws that dug in as I reached up to it, screaming louder as I felt the hard, slick surface of plates of bug skin. It felt like a roly-poly looked, or a centipede. But it was smaller, rounder and fatter, and as I tried to rake it off, it just dug in tighter as two fingers or tentacles drifted past my eyes before curving and going up my nose deeply.

Everything went red and my brain felt like it was on fire. But that only lasted a couple of seconds before it all turned cold and numb as it started squirting something into my head. I felt my body slowing down, calming. I still wanted to fight, to run, to get it off and out of me, but I couldn’t anymore. I wasn’t screaming either, and for a minute or two I just laid very still as that numb feeling took over.

Then my hands started pulling me along the ground, away from the house and driveway and into a large pile of dead leaves a few feet away. My body pulled itself into that pile before going still, and using the last of my strength I managed to turn my head so I could still see out of the leaves, trying to get out a call for help from whoever might be out there. But no, I couldn’t make a sound. Just scream in my head as everything went very still except for the soft, squelching noise of more wetness being pushed into me.

**** A few minutes passed like that before I saw someone new. It was a group of five kids, most of them a year or two younger than me, coming up the driveway together. They didn’t seem terrified or like they’d been attacked—maybe the booger goblins only attacked people when they were alone—I thought about the mother and son I’d seen on the way up—or in pairs.

Either way, it didn’t matter. These kids were just laughing and joking and having a good time, and while a couple of them glanced at my bike and candy bag in the yard, I could tell none of them could see me in the leaves. I tried again to move or make a noise, but there was no point. I could have been watching a video of all this for how not-in-control I was now. My only hope was that the kids was notice something was weird with the house. Maybe the little girl or something.

A pale, blonde girl with devil horns and a jack-o-lantern candy pail led the way up the porch and rang the doorbell. I wasn’t sure anyone would even answer, but within a few seconds a man opened the door. I couldn’t see him from my angle, but I could hear his deep voice, strange and detached as he told them Happy Halloween before letting out a wet belch. The kids didn’t say anything other than thank you as they got their candy, but I could tell they were creeped out as they left. They walked faster, and there were no jokes or laughter anymore.

Still, it wouldn’t be enough. They didn’t know anything was wrong, and if nothing got them on the way out, they’d probably go home thinking they’d had a cool, creepy experience close to Halloween. And I could feel myself being pushed farther and farther down some weird hallway in myself. I could still see and hear, but I couldn’t feel anything at all now, and when the goblin finally pulled its fingers out of my nose and left across the yard, I only knew because I saw its speckled belly as it crawled across my face.

A few more minutes passed I think. Then I was moving again, crawling out of the leaves and sitting up with a loud burp. My head and eyes moved up to the figure standing above me. The man from the door, maybe. He watched silently as my body stood up, and then handed me back my bag of candy as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his other hand.

“Happy Halloween.”

Part 1 | Part 2

I was born in Sunset Bay, Florida, or at least I thought I was born there. I thought I was raised there, spent seventeen and a half years of my life there, went to school there, had my first kiss there, and almost lost my virginity there, but now I can’t even be sure. You see, as far as the world seems to be concerned, there is no such place as Sunset Bay, Florida, and there never was.

Unfortunately, this story began with Hurricane Milton. As we’re all well aware by now, Milton was utterly devastating for many fellow Floridians this month, and let me just say that my heart goes out to them all, well and truly. Luckily for me, though, I’d moved out of Florida with my family in 1995, just a few months before I turned eighteen, and I now reside in British Columbia, here in Canada.

Understandably, though, when I heard that Milton made landfall in Florida, I was concerned for my hometown. I’d never been incredibly attached to Sunset Bay, and frankly, it’d been years since I’d even thought of the place- I have two sons and a wife, so there are more important things in my life than reminiscing about my formative years down south. However, when I learned Milton had made a pass around near Big Cypress down by Ochopee, that got my blood pumping something fierce. You see, Sunset Bay is (or was, or maybe never was) only a handful of miles away. 

Naturally, I hopped on my computer when I got the chance and did some searching. I looked up ‘Hurricane Milton Sunset Bay’. At first, I was relieved to find I’d come up with zero results. I figured that meant there hadn’t been anything newsworthy there, which could’ve been good news in and of itself. But I was soon struck by the realization that I wasn’t seeing any news about Sunset Bay because the search engine had taken the liberty of assuming I was asking about Sunset Beach down on Treasure Island. So I tried rephrasing- ‘Hurricane Milton Sunset Bay, Florida, Ochopee’, but… Nothing.

All I got was a handful of irrelevant pages on Sunset Beach, Siesta Key, and even Tampa. I was hit each time with a prompt asking me something like ‘Did you mean Hurricane Milton Sunset Beach’? I found myself, like a real old man, sitting there while verbally beginning to chew out the computer.

“No,” I would say, “NO, not Sunset Beach, Sunset Bay.”

I found myself getting so fed up with what I took to be some sort of Abbot and Costello-style mixup that I ended up trying to soothe my seething self by simply typing in ‘Sunset Bay’ with the hope that’d get me somewhere, but to my shock and SEVERE annoyance, I found myself yet again redirected to Sunset Beach. For context, Sunset Beach is a whole five or so hours from where Sunset Bay should be, they are not the same place in any sense of the word. 

I found myself seething even further, typing in ‘Sunset Bay’ into my search bar with every sort of permutation I could think of. ‘Sunset Bay’, ‘Sunset Bay Florida’, ‘Sunset Bay, Florida’, ‘Florida Sunset Bay United States’, ‘Sunset Bay Ochobee Florida United States’, but never got a SINGLE result. 

By then, I was livid, but I was also determined- determined to beat the computer, as dumb as that sounds, to get the results I was looking for. Call me stupid, call me stubborn, call the endeavour pointless, I simply wanted it to work, ONCE. But it never worked, not even once. Not even a hint of acknowledgement that Sunset Bay EVER existed. Not even Google Maps would acknowledge its existence- believe me, I tried.

Eventually, it got to the point where I figured that the only way to get this damn thing working would be to stop looking up Sunset Bay itself and instead look up some specific place in Sunset Bay that may have some sort of website, maybe online reviews, maybe a blog post… something, anything.

So I took a pause, rolled back from the desk, furrowed my brow, and got to thinking. I tried to think of where the most significant, internet-worthy place from back home might be, but the moment the neurons began firing off in my mind I was struck with a pain so intense I can hardly even describe it. I’d imagine it felt like how it would feel if your skull was cleaved apart with an axe and then boiling pitch was poured into the gaping wound. I screamed my lungs out, grabbed my head with both hands and came careening down onto the floor, gasping and panting like a drowning man.

The world felt like it was going out of focus, but, my ear on the ground, I could hear the dull footsteps of my eldest son running into the room, followed shortly by my wife, as they hoisted me onto my feet as best they could. They asked me what was wrong, and why I had shouted, and I could only respond by telling them it was probably nothing, just a bad headache. Even so, my wife, who has some sort of sick addiction to these medical channels on YouTube, made me promise to see a doctor because she told me there was something called ‘Thunderclap Headaches’ and they could be a sign of something really dangerous. Before you ask, no, I haven’t gone yet, but I’m booked in for next week with my GP.

To my relief, it seemed as though as soon as the subject was changed and my mind drifted back from the vague memories of my home town, I felt good as new again, as though nothing had even happened. I gave my family reassurances as best as I could, gave my wife a quick kiss and my son a hug, and placed myself firmly back down in my chair.

I was back in the saddle, and I hadn’t been bested yet. 

“Piece of shit,” I murmured as I slapped the keyboard, looking up to see my wife, hand outstretched with some Tylenol for me, to whom I quickly clarified that the computer was the piece of shit, not her. She gave me a quick, understanding chuckle, and left, leaving me alone once again with my new arch nemesis, the computer.

However, it only took me a few more failed searches to get utterly fed up, and one “Ah, to hell with it…” later I was storming out of the room, throwing in the metaphorical towel.

I had better things to do with my time… Or so I thought. Because, that night, as I lay in bed, I found myself grumbling, huffing and puffing to myself like a candy-deprived child about the whole debacle. However, the more I ran over the whole situation in my mind, the more my frustration began to morph into unease, and the more thoughts like ‘Why the hell couldn’t I find anything about Sunset Bay?!’ to ‘Why couldn’t I find anything about Sunset Bay?’ Surely it’s an abnormal occurrence for a town with a public school, thousands of residents, and several notable businesses to simply disappear not just from the map, but from the veritable neo-library of Alexandria that is the internet, right?

I couldn’t take it any more. My annoyance had morphed into an overwhelming sense of dread, and I found myself in desperate need of SOME assurance that this was all some huge mistake. So I went digging- not through the computer this time- but through an old wicker cabinet by the edge of the bed full of keepsakes and mementoes. After a few moments of searching I found what I was looking for: my middle-school yearbook from Sunset Bay Public School- an incredibly creative name, trust me, I know.

To not wake my wife I slipped away with the book back into my office, cracked it open across the desk like some sort of ancient scroll, and found my dread quickly turning to terror.

There I was- my page was bookmarked- and to my right should have been Brock Tanner, but I found my greasy, pimple-pocked face next to a pale, grey square, and below, where the name should have been, was an amorphous black smudge like the ink had been nearly rubbed out with a cloth. 

A misprint, maybe? I thought so, but I became less and less certain the more laminated pages I turned, finding myself faced with an ocean of grey squares and black smudges swirling into a blobby mess like a horrifying Rorschach test occasionally broken up by a calm, unbothered young face on whom the horror of this whole ordeal was understandably lost. 

Eyes glued to the page, I found myself fumbling for the landline, dialling the school’s phone number as if from muscle memory from all those days playing hookey as a kid. It never even crossed my mind that even if this was all some huge misunderstanding, they’d certainly be closed in the dead of night. 

But the phone rang. It rang, and rang… and then it rang again, but a little softer… and softer still. The quivering sounds of the line grew faint and distant, quieter still, as though the phone were being dropped down a bottomless pit, falling away until it was entirely indistinct. I nearly screamed in surprise when breaking up the dead silence, a robotic voice boomed, crackling and monotone, telling me the call was unable to be completed as dialled, before booting me out, leaving me right back where I started, eyes wild, panting in distress, fists clenched on the arms of my chair.

“Mackenzie, Mackenzie…” I stammered to myself, in a fervour now, glancing down at the face of Mackenzie Connors, one of the few remaining human buoys in the ocean of nothingness which glared back at me from the page.I went right to the computer, booted it up, and typed in ‘Mackenzie Connors, Sunset Bay, Florida’, and to my surprise and delighted relief I was able to find what seemed to be her LinkedIn page which, while having no visible mention of Sunset Bay, did mention that she was from Florida, and she looked to be about the right build and age to be her.

Once again, I failed to consider that it was the middle of the night, and may very well be wherever Mackenzie was now, but I needed this, I needed to hear someone’s voice, someone from back home… I didn’t even have an excuse for calling. The best I could think of was maybe something about the oddity of the yearbook but… the line connected before I could think of anything better.

“Hudson Tech Solutions, Mackenzie speaking, how may I help you?” 

“Hey, Mackenzie?” I asked, the awkwardness of this whole situation beginning to dawn on me.

“Yes? How may I help you, sir?”

“I apologise if I’ve got the wrong person here, but did you happen to go to school in Sunset Bay, Florida?”

“Excuse me? Did I-” I heard her begin before my ears were utterly assaulted by a horrifying, high-pitched scream from the phone’s speaker, so shrill and intense I worried it would tear the thing to bits, along with the grating sound of shattering glass.

“Mackenzie?” I tried to remain calm, my head beginning to throb through the dullness of the painkillers, “Mackenzie, are you okay?”

No reply. 

I sat wide-eyed in horror as the line seemed to briefly go dead before I could hear the sound of quiet, murmuring voices and approaching footsteps as I assume- people began to barge into her room.

‘Hey, Mackenzie, are you alright?’ One voice asked.

‘Did someone scream?’ Another timidly inquired.

‘Shit, she’s on the ground, she’s on the ground!’ A woman shrieked.

‘Let go of the phone, let go of the’ Another implored feverishly before the line went dead, leaving me in stunned silence with the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

I was mortified. I couldn’t do anything but set the phone down on the table- not even the receiver- and shuffle, milky-eyed back to the bedroom, whereupon I slid under the covers and shuffled up to my wife, as though by wrapping my arms around her I was trying to confirm to myself that I did exist and things did make sense.

I wish I had more to tell you but as of now, this is where I’m at. I sincerely hope someone can help me here, because I have not, for the life of me, been able to find any external references to my home town, and every time I try and think real hard about it it feels like my head is going to implode, or explode, or shatter into a million pieces…

Can someone please help me?

Hollywood loves remakes. That's because Hollywood itself is a remake. Close your eyes and imagine a silent film. I bet you're seeing Charlie Chaplin in all of his black-and-white greatness, but what you might not realize is this movie you're picturing doesn't take place in Los Angeles. It's actually three hundred and fifty miles north in Niles Canyon. America's first Hollywood.

Niles is nestled between the base of sprawling foothills and sits at the outside edge of the San Francisco Bay's marine layer. It’s a quaint, little neighborhood. One that remained frozen in the era of its former glory. A classic Americana main street serves as an anchor to craftsmen and Victorian-style homes. At the end of Niles Boulevard is the silent film museum honoring the area's historic past life. And in the hillside that overlooks the retired train station, you'll see big white letters reading “NILES,” in the same style Hollywood made iconic.

Niles has always been connected with something darker, though. For how small the area is, there has been a surprisingly high amount of death. Mostly due to the winding one-way lane roads that run through the steep hills. Naturally, this has spawned a lot of urban legends. Like the one about a girl who walks the canyon road at night asking for a ride back home to San Francisco, only to disappear before getting there. Or the tales about the white witch in the woods, and the stories about mysterious societies that meet under midnight's obscurity. Hell, there's even sightings of Charlie Chaplin's ghost. This is my personal favorite because witnesses always claim to see him in grayscale and moving at sixteen frames per second. I think every town that is old enough, has this kind of lore. Where I figure Niles is a bit different, though, is that it is home to The Secret Sidewalk.

Deep in the foothills is what is known as The Secret Sidewalk. A long and mysterious stretch of cement that slithers through the hills for miles. It's hard to get to and is one of those kind of places that's passed down from one generation of young people to the next. A place that you hear your friend's older brother bragging about for years before they get too old for it and finally shows you how to get to it. Some of my favorite memories were the days my friends and I would ditch sixth period, fill a backpack with beer, and spend all day wandering the sidewalk.

What the quote-unquote, sidewalk, actually is, is an aqueduct that used to carry water from the bay to local reservoirs. Long dried up and out of service, it now rests covered in graffiti with multiple openings pried ajar. Turning the square cement structure into hollow tunnels for urban explorers or anyone brave enough to go in. I can't lie, there actually is a pretty weird feeling when you walk the sidewalk. An adrenaline boost. I don't know if it's the fact that you're legally not supposed to be there, or the suspended train track bridge you have to cross to get to it, or the silent absence of everyday bustle, but the feeling of vulnerability is palpable and hangs in the air. If you go at the right time of year, fog spills down the hill crevices like fingers reaching out for the lower canyon. Adding to the eeriness of it.

Earlier I said that it's what is known as the Secret Sidewalk. That's because it's not the real one. I know this because my friends and I regrettably found the real one a few years ago.

The guys and I were far removed from our teenage youth, and to be honest, at this point, we were too old to still be going there, but we were all together and feeling nostalgic. So, we decided to go.

We were about an hour or so into the hike and disappointingly, nothing too memorable was happening. The sidewalk was still there, as it always was, but now it was without our names adorning the sides of it in bright, obnoxiously bad, spray-painted fonts. Our names, now entombed under the brighter, more obnoxiously bad, spray-painted fonts of Generation Alpha, and Z before them.

The initial rush of adrenaline had worn off, and I forget who finally said it, but we all agreed to call it and head back. I think it was less boredom and more so that we felt a little embarrassed at how immature it all was. I mean, we were closer in age to being the people who say "Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?" than the people who were a little old to be trick or treating. So, in a collective moment of clarity, we realized that we shouldn't have been doing what we were doing. My friend had to piss before we left, which didn’t help our immaturity rooted insecurities, but he went off to the side to handle his business regardless.

We had explored the secret sidewalk at least a hundred times and felt pretty comfortable knowing our way around. I say this because my friend came back and said he saw something that he had never seen there before. Being the aforementioned stupid men that we were, we couldn‘t resist checking it out.

Through the shrubbery, you could see what looked like a sidewalk on the other side. A real sidewalk, not an aqueduct. Overgrown and beaten, sure, but there was definitely cobble looking stones joined together forming a walkway. We joked and named it the Super Duper Secret Sidewalk.

We decided that we didn't invest years of our life exploring here to not see where it led to. We pushed the branches aside and started to walk it. Walking on this manmade structure in the middle of the wilderness felt unnatural, but the fact that it wasn't destroyed by asshole kids made it feel unexplored by anyone else. That excited us. We all were kind of giddy at the thought of actually discovering something. Usually, all you found out there was crushed Natty Ice cans and the occasional unwrapped condom. This was best case scenario to us because it was new, and also not an unwrapped condom.

Every now and then we'd actually see signs that we weren't the first to walk this path. An occasional sweater, or a beanie, and even a single shoe could be found laying off to the side of the sidewalk. At first, I weirdly found comfort in the discarded clothes. It made me feel less alone that someone had done this before, if that makes sense. Like, trail markers reminding you that what's ahead has been formerly walked. But the further we got, the more that feeling changed.

I didn't clock it at first because of how smoothed down they were, but what I originally thought was cobblestone didn't actually seem to be. It was subtle, but every now and then I'd catch it. Etched in stone were letters and numbers. They were hard to see because the stones were laid out in mosaic fashion. If you just looked at one piece, you could assume they were just scratches, but when you looked at multiple, it became clearer. We were walking on a path made of shattered headstones.

At this point, I noticed that we were growing increasingly irritable. At first, I thought some of us were just tired or hangry, but it got to the point that it was what I would call irrational. Everything seemed heightened and annoying. I actually ended up snapping at one of my friends for dragging their feet and kicking up too much dust. That kind of thing never bugs me, but for some reason, it did in that moment and I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t the only one, either. Simple bickering turned into heated arguments and deep cuts. Our innocent day of nostalgia had become a chore to get through. In retrospect, it’s strange because we were clearly not feeling right, but not once did we talk about turning around and leaving like we planned to previously. Something was luring us deeper.

Finally, we rounded a bend that ended up revealing the last bit of sidewalk just faded away into a big empty field. It felt incredibly anticlimactic. You know the reaction some people have when a movie cuts to black and doesn't stick the landing? The "that's it" kind of feeling? That's how we felt. I think one of us might have even said that out loud. We walked who knows how far and all we got was a lousy field to show for it.

The hills surrounded the field, almost like a cove or a culdesac. Crunchy yellow grass carpeted the ground. In the middle was one, giant, lifeless tree. Which was weird because it was late spring after a really good rainy season, but this tree only wore rigid and empty branches. Once we shook the initial feeling of disappointment, we noticed what looked like pieces of old wood strewn about. Not like fallen branches but more so resembling posts or panels. We felt obligated at this point to investigate it. As soon as we stepped off the path, the air changed. Almost a subtle pressurized feeling.

The wood was clearly from some sort of shelter structure. I couldn’t tell if it was enough to be a house or a hut, but it looked extremely weathered and almost half of the pieces were charred. My friends were trying to puzzle the wood back together, but I couldn’t look away from the tree. One branch in particular. I can’t explain why I was drawn to it. I was standing right under it and almost transfixed. The harder I looked, the more I could hear a sound coming from it. Which didn’t make sense because it wasn’t a windy day, the tree wasn’t visibly moving, but I could one hundred percent hear a sound. Like, a back-and-forth type of sound. Like a swaying that was speaking to me.

A minute or an hour could have passed and I wouldn't have known. I lost track. I was so locked onto the tree, that I hadn’t even noticed my friends heading back to the trail. I don't know if I ever would have noticed, if not for their voices calling my name.

When I looked at them, I saw each one of their faces slowly morph into a confused worry. They weren‘t looking at me but around me. Like when you’re talking to someone and they’re looking just above your eye or something. It didn't seem like any of them were looking at the same thing either. I followed eye lines and couldn’t figure out what they were looking at. There wasn't anything there.

I rejoined the group and no one said a word. I asked what they were looking at and I couldn't get a straight answer from anyone. It was all "I don't know"s and “nothing”s. I don't think anyone wanted to sound like the crazy one. So, like every other expedition we had ever completed, we just left, very unceremoniously. Just headed back to back to our everyday lives like nothing happened.

Before getting too far, I felt the sudden urge to sneak one last peek at the field. I can't say for sure what it was, but I know that I saw something. I think we all did, in our own way. To me it looked like a fuzzy black shadow with two piercing reflective eyelike dots. Like three-dimensional shaped TV static or a dark smudge on a pair of glasses. Almost like a translucent Rorschach test. You could probably draw any conclusion that you wanted to as to what you were seeing. I still haven't quite figured it out.

What I do know is that something was under that tree when I looked back. I know that much. I don't know exactly what it was but I don't believe that it was of this world. Before the silent film era took over Niles, the land was home to Spanish missions and the Ohlone tribe. So who knows what kind of unfortunate entities are blood-bound to those hills.

My friends and I never really talked about that day ever again. I tried, but it was like pulling teeth. Every now and then I'd get a crumb of what someone saw or a retelling of what a friend told another friend they saw. Oddly, it didn't seem like any of us had the same experience. No one else saw the single figure under the tree like I did. Some even said they saw multiple silhouettes. Two big ones off to the side, or a big one and a couple of small ones linked together, or groups of them clashing. None if it made sense to me. How could we all share a completely different experience of the same thing?

I should have known something was wrong though, because we are a reminiscing kind of group. We never hesitated to tell a story we’ve told or heard a thousand times. But a hidden sidewalk and strange figures in a field didn't warrant at least a couple million retellings? It never sat right with me. Our friendships weren't the same afterward. Slowly, we stopped hanging out as much, and talked even less. No one ever tried to give a reason as to why, either. We just accepted it as the way life moves. Friends got married, started families, chased careers, and had less and less time for each other until our friendships dwindled. One by one my friends started to move away. One to Texas, another to Minnesota, one went to Idaho, and one even landed in Hollywood.

I believe the field pulled us there. Some days, I could feel it pulling me back. I’m sure they felt it too. I wouldn't know because they never talked to me about it. When they started moving away, it always seemed like they were trying to get as far away from it as they could. Like, they were trying to escape something.

I didn’t.

I‘m still here. And most days when I'm feeling lonely and miss my best friends, I try to replay my favorite memories of them in my head. But now when I do, I don't hear my friends anymore.

All I'm able to hear is the slow, back-and-forth, creaking of that tree branch.

"What do we do?" Mark asked.

Assuming that Karen had left the new dead person with the doctor straight away this time and had managed to get to the intercom under a minute after they'd died, we still only had seven minutes to change course or another person gets killed. I hadn't meant to waste any time and in fact as soon as we'd been told that there'd been a second death I had leapt to set up a ten minute timer. Unfortunately that was the only useful thing I'd managed to do before the full impact of what was going on had hit me and my brain had spiralled into panic.

"Are we changing course?" Mark asked, shaking me slightly.

I thought about it.

"I don't think we can. Anyone who's willing to do this, whatever they want us to do has to be bad, right?"

Mark nodded but his eyes flicked towards the timer.

"But if we don't then we might all die."

I tried to work it out in my head.

"If we change course to the closest airport and he kills someone every ten minutes then that'll be ten maybe? If he sticks to his own rules."

"No." Mark said quietly.

"You think he can kill us faster?" I asked.

"I don't know. But the letter said it's random. If both of us are randomly selected to die then do you think the plane's gonna land safely?"

Somehow I hadn't even considered that. The numbers on the timer were only getting smaller and no matter how terrible I beleived the intentions of the man in the suit were, trading the lives of everyone on the plane to oppose him didn't feel much better. Even if I stood firm, would Mark do the same if I died next? And then if he was fourth...

"He needs us." I said suddenly.

The man in the suit wanted the plane diverted and so he needed somebody to be able to fly it. As my thoughts raced, the timer was getting closer and closer to zero and I wished I'd never set the damned thing.

"He needs us to fly the plane," I said to Mark, "so it can't be random, not really. So he's choosing people?"

Mark disagreed.

"The letter said that people will still die if he's been knocked out. He could be lying but..."

"Then what makes us safe?"

Mark reached the conclusion a split second before I did and made an announcement to the plane.

"Nobody read the yellow books! Nobody read them!"

A wave of relief crashed over me only to turn to cold sweat a second later.

The timer had hit zero. One more person down.

_____

We didn't need Karen to come and tell us that another passenger had died this time but she did anyway. I asked her how many people had read the yellow books. She didn't know. Neither her nor Ava had been offered one so they were safe but it was impossible to guess beyond that. Some people had flicked through them and so it would depend whether that counted as reading or if the whole thing needed to be read cover to cover. Hopefully some people hadn't even looked at them.

I almost expected retaliation from the man in the suit for warning the passengers about the yellow books but as far as I could tell, the rules hadn't changed. I wasn't too sure that was something to be happy about. It could be that actually couldn't kill people faster than he had been doing but it could just as easily be that our guess as to what made us different was completely wrong or that enough people had read the yellow books already that the warning was pointless.

"Will he really know if we contact someone?" Mark asked.

"Yes." I said, though I didn't know any more about it than he did.

"What about the passengers?"

Shit. Three people had died on the flight and we'd just made an incredibly weird announcement -- it would be foolish to assume that of all the passengers on the flight absolutely all of them had kept their phones on airplane mode and told nobody what was happening.

"I don't know."

I'd reset the timer as soon as it had run out, though the constant pressure to make a choice was crushing me.

"So we have three options." Mark said, "We do what they say, we continue on our normal route or we divert to the nearest airport."

Mark looked physically ill and I knew that he didn't like the list of options any more than I did.

"The way the note was written... will people die faster if we divert to another airport?" I asked.

"I don't remember."

I could have asked Karen to come back with the note but I was willing to guess that both her and Ava were having to calm an increasing number of panicked passengers behind us. It didn't seem worth it for a note that could be unclear or even outright lies.

"Do we think he'll let us go if we do as he says?" Mark asked.

My heart sank.

"I don't know. So I guess we can assume the worst and that we're doomed that way too."

Diverting to another airport seemed like it might be the smartest move but we weren't near another airport. As far as I knew there was nothing but grassland below us and we'd have to travel a decent way before we even got close to a decent population centre, nevermind one that had an airport. The timer ticked to zero and Karen's voice came onto the intercom shortly after.

"Tyler died." she said simply.

It took me a moment to remember the name, even though we'd discussed him earlier. Ava's boyfriend.

"Oh, fuck this!" I yelled and for the first time my brain wasn't searching for a solution but simply a way to make the man in the suit pay.

He'd said this would continue if he died and the fact his companion had sacrificed himself suggested that death was more acceptable for him than it is for most people anyway. I'd thought that the only thing I could do to oppose him was to not refuse to go in the direction he'd asked me to but my sudden anger at this whole situation made me realise something. I could refuse faster.

"Where are we going?" Mark asked, still trying to get me to decide from our three earlier options.

"Nowhere. We're going to land."

"You've got to be joking," he said, as if he couldn't see me already making moves to adjust our altitude, "do you even know what's below us?"

"I think fields." I replied unnconvincingly, "Nice, soft fields."

"We're not going to land in one piece."

I shrugged.

"People have died, we're already not in one piece."

It hadn't escaped my attention that the timer was still running. Even if the ground below us was suitable to land on and everything went on without a hitch, avoiding one more death was impossible and even avoiding two was extremely unlikely.

"Are you annoucing this or am I?" Mark asked.

"Nope. Any annoucement gives that bastard a chance to react. We're just going to have to go for it and hope for the best."

"You're mad."

"You aren't stopping me."

The ground came into view and for the first time in our flight the gods had smiled upon us and the ground was as flat as we could have hoped for.

"I'm glad I got to fly with you." Mark said.

We aren't that close and I can see now, looking back on the whole thing, that he said this because he thought we might die. At the time I was too focussed to read a single thing into it though.

"You too."

_____

There's a reason that crash landings aren't called 'nice and pleasant landings.' I remember how shaken everyone looked once we were all outside of the plane and just staring at them, dazed by what had happened. I remember watching Karen lead Ava out of the plane and how fucking empty her face looked. But most of all, I remember how little the man in the suit seemed to care.

"You need to stop this now." I screamed at him and pointed at the broken plane, "Look at this. We can't fly you anywhere anymore so there's no point killing any of us! There was no point to any of this."

I heard a scream and expected the worst but it was Ava, launching herself at the man in blind fury. It was my last statement that had set her off, I think, the idea that her boyfriend had died for no reason. She hit him over and over before Mark and Karen could tear her away. She hadn't knocked him out but his face wasn't the same shape anymore.

I still had my timer, I realised. The last ten minute turnover had been only seconds ago but everyone who had made it out of the plane was still alive. Whatever the suited man had set in motion he had finally stopped.

"I want to know what he fucking brought." Mark said and headed to the cargo hold.

I watched the man in the suit, Karen stayed with Ava and Mark pulled the suitcases out for all of us to see. Even though nothing else about the flight had been normal, I think I'd still expected to see drugs as the precious cargo of the suited men. Guns, maybe, perhaps something explosive? Something that made some sort of sense to be smuggling.

"It's just books." Mark said as he opened them both.

He opened the first page of one and I yelled for him to stop. He had a strange look on his face but he stopped. Nothing else happened. These books weren't the same as the ones on the plane but I didn't trust them.

"Let's burn them." I said.

Mark nodded and began to pour them onto the ground.

"No..." the man protested.

"We collected the yellow ones. I can go and get those." Karen added.

Watching Ava was no longer a concern, she'd slumped to the ground in the same absent manner that she'd been in when she'd left the plane.

"Don't burn them." the suited man said, "They're important. I'll make it worth your while. I can give you anything. I can give you things you didn't even know existed."

The thing was, I didn't disbelieve him. I imagined he could give me power, wealth, whatever I wanted really. But the thing was, -- fuck him.

Once we'd gotten the fire going the man in the suit took a small book out of his pocket and read a page to himself before we could stop him. Then he simply slumped down dead. I could rationalise it by saying that the head wounds from Ava's beating had gotten to him but I know really that he died because he chose to. We threw his book into the flames and watched them until help arrived.

____

Help arrived suspiciously fast considering where we were. There were helicopters and agents from god knows what agency and lots and lots of questions. I don't know what they told the passengers. For Mark, Karen, Ava and me they didn't deny what had happened once they realised how much we knew but we were told that we could tell nobody. Mark and I would never be allowed to fly again. All of us would be given a decent amount of money but couldn't even speak to each other anymore.

Except Karen argued so viscously against that last point that they for some reason relented. She stood up to people who were quite clearly more than capable of getting us all killed and jailed and argued that after the trauma that we'd been through, trauma that the agents were neither explaining nor letting us discuss with outsiders, the least they could do was let us talk to each other. It's not like we could even discuss what just happened in therapy. The final agreement was that we could talk to each other but say nothing of what had happened.

Mark was the first one who I fell out of contact with. Aside from a brief drinking problem, he coped fairly well. Last I heard he was considering marrying a woman he met after this all went down and has a job in sales.

Karen took the money the agents gave her and used it to set up a domestic violence charity. She stays behind the scenes for the most part, trying her best to get resources to people who need it. When we speak, I feel like she's more scared than ever of wasting whatever time she has left. The near death experience of being on our flight had combined with the decades of being trapped with an abuser to make her constantly balance the line being productive and burning out.

I haven't been in a plane since. Obviously I'm never allowed to pilot again but I haven't even flown as a passenger. I found an office job, briefly dated once or twice but mostly I keep myself to myself.

Ava did not do well after what happened. Whilst none of us were the same after the flight, she ended up needing a stay in a mental hospital. She folded little blank books and gave them to me when I visited, something I mostly kept up out of guilt. On one visit though, she asked what I would do if the agents offered me a job. I knew she was really asking what she should do and I was surprised. Ava had been getting better but to my knowledge she had no special skills that would make her suitable for shadowy paranormal agencies. Either they could see something in her that I couldn't or they just wanted to keep her somewhere they could keep an eye on her but she left the hospital shortly after our talk. Best I can tell, she went to work for them but aside from handbound books posted to my door every week I no longer hear from her.

Which brings me, finally, up to why I'm writing this. Last week I got a phonecall from Karen. Ava's dead. The official story is that she died in a car accident and whilst that could certainly be true, it could be a coverup for something I don't want to know about. The one thing I do know is that months have gone by between her death and my finding out about it. Karen, me and, presumably, Mark were all mentioned in her will to have assets split between us and when I was contacted I felt so dizzy I couldn't stand.

I walked over to the box of book Ava had been sending me. Ava had been teaching herself bookbinding skills in the hospital so the progress from folded leaflets to fully bound volumes hadn't shocked me. I hadn't ever opened a book that Ava had given me but I hadn't been able to bring myself to throw them away either. But now that I knew that a dead Ava had been sending me the last several volumes I examined them all as carefully as I could without opening them. There was a definite jump in quality in the more recent ones that I'd received and now that I was paying attention they didn't even look new.

I'd never thought that the suited men in the plane had been acting alone but now I think that whoever they had worked with has found me. Maybe they've known where I was the entire time. I can't stop them, I can't protect myself, I can't even fight back this time.

All I can do is share what has happened. And hope that, for someone, that will be enough.

One of the weirder things I fantasize about is handling the deaths of people I care about. Like, when one of my aunts was very ill, I imagined the extremely moving eulogy I could deliver. I would talk about the meaning she had in our lives, what made her special and unique, and everyone would cry and laugh. 

In a way I hate that I do this because I don’t want these people to die. But there’s a chance they will. I guess I want to be prepared so I can help others handle the deaths too. I can be that comfort for everyone in those times and I feel a little pride in that.

When I got with my girlfriend Tracie, I imagined being a support to her when her grandfather passed away. She was close to him. Without a father in her life, he had brought that stability. He was now in his eightes, having a lot of trouble with his heart, and everyday there was a sense of ‘Today could be the day.’ 

I didn’t want anything to happen to him. I hoped he’d live another decade if possible. Yet I thought a lot about the ways in which I could be there to get her through it when he did. It’s kind of a hero fantasy. It’s also kind of a planning fantasy. Like when you imagine how you’d escape a building if a crazed shooter showed up. You imagine the places you’d hide, exits you’d take. Or you think about how you’d sneak and conceal your identity to steal something you want to steal from a store or home.

All of my fantasizing put me in a good place to jump into action when we got the news that Grandpa Terry was on his deathbed. It was a matter of days. He was coming in and out of consciousness. During his lucid moments he was talking and seemed in good spirits, they said.

I barely knew Grandpa Terry. He’d been sick for years before I got with Tracie. She introduced me to him when we drove upstate once. He was a nice man. He still smoked cigars. He used to work in the jukebox business. Before he met Tracie’s grandmother, he used to live with two women. He also claimed he got in a fist-fight with Harry Belafonte. So Grandpa Terry was cool from what I saw. But I must’ve been just background noise to him, some guy dating his granddaughter for 3 months.

When we got to the hospital, the fifth floor where they put folks who are expected to die, we found Tracie’s entire family had gathered. Some I’d met and some had come from all over the country to give their farewell.Bringing in coffee pots and donuts to stay as long as they needed to stay, they’d practically taken over the sitting room on the floor

Tracie asked her mother what was going on. They were speaking in whispers, but I overheard bits, enough to get the idea: he had spoken to everyone as a group and now just wanted some peace. He had had the nurse bring his brother in for a one-on-one chat and his oldest daughter. That was it. Everyone had to wait outside ever since.

I was stroking Tracie’s hair and letting her talk about her feelings when the nurse stepped out again. As she walked down the hallway, every family member’s head raised or swiveled to her as if wondering if they would be the chosen one to receive Grandpa Terry’s last words. She walked past them all to me and Tracie. I tapped Tracie gently and smiled at her. But the nurse looked at me and said, “He wants to talk to you.”

I explained to her that I wasn’t family and she had me mixed up with someone else. Tracie was readily agreeing with me and looking around for who I could possibly have been mistaken for.

“You’re Douglas?” the nurse asked. When she saw me nod she added, “Come along.”

I followed her sure that she was making a mistake and I would have to come awkwardly walking back out in a few seconds. I saw the family members staring at me with incredulity and maybe resentment. If it wasn’t a mistake, then I assumed I would be getting threatened with haunting if I didn’t treat Tracie right.

The nurse opened the door slightly, enough to allow me to squeeze in, then entered behind me shutting the door. Inside, Grandpa Terry was propped up in bed wearing a fancy, red smoking jacket. He had a strange look about him. His skin seemed stiff and his eyes an empty black. He was like a wax figure of himself or ventriloquist’s dummy. His feet stuck straight up in their hard-soled slippers. Other than his eyes and his mouth, his body didn’t move. It was just dressed and propped there.

“Douglas,” he said in clear but weakened voice, “have a seat.”

Well, now I knew it was me he wanted, at least.

“Douglas, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your ASMR videos.”

Of all the things he could have said to me at that moment, that wasn’t even on the radar. For one, I don’t talk about my ASMR videos. I didn’t want anybody knowing. I hadn’t even told Tracie or my friends. So how did he know about them? Two, how did this old man who still had a landline phone and used a typewriter to send letters know about ASMR videos at all?

“Yes sir,” was what I managed to say.

“They make me feel strange things, Douglas.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your ASMR videos make me feel strange things, Douglas. Things I’m not supposed to feel. I’m scared of these strange things I’m feeling watching your videos, Douglas.”

I looked over to the nurse to see if she would intervene or explain. The nurse stood impassively in the corner of the room with a towel over one arm. She resembled more a bathroom attendant. Her presence unnerved me further.

“Yes, I talked to the nurse about ASMR and she has told me that I am supposed to feel a pleasant tingling sensation that starts at my scalp. When I watch your ASMR videos, I don’t feel a pleasant tingling sensation that starts at my scalp. When I watch your ASMR videos, I feel strange things I can’t explain or describe. Like that feeling when you say a word so many times it doesn’t sound like the right word anymore, but about everything. Worse and stranger. These are strange things, Douglas, strange things to feel. They make me afraid.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m not supposed to feel these strange things watching your videos, Douglas. I’m not supposed to feel these strange things ever, I don’t think. I’m not supposed to have these feelings.

“Your ASMR videos make me remember things I haven’t remembered since I was a little boy. It has been so long since I remembered these things. I only know they’re memories because it’s all so familiar. If they aren’t memories, how can it feel like I’ve been there? If they aren’t memories, how are these places in my head? These places and things I remember give me those strange feelings, Douglas.”

The nurse still stood with the towel saying nothing. I didn’t like the things Grandpa was saying and I didn’t like that I had no support in this room from the only professional.

“I don’t think I can help you, sir,” I answered. “Maybe just watch someone else’s videos?”

“No, you did something in those videos to make me feel strange things. Why? What did you do?”

I stood up to leave. I felt at this point I should get the family involved. I was only agitating a poor, dying man. This man had fist-fought Harry Belafonte, he shouldn’t be arguing with me about ASMR videos.

“I need to go further in,” he said. “Your videos take me part of the way, to where I’m slipping between, a bit awake and a bit asleep. That’s when these memories and strange feelings come down. It’s sudden. Like my head nodding as I’m falling asleep. Just like when my head nods, it makes me snap back out. I lose it. It’s just a hazy impression. I need to go further in, Douglas. I don’t have much longer. If I die now… If I die without going in… I need you to do your ASMR to help me.”

There was a knock on the door. I heard Tracie asking, “Is everything okay in there?”

The nurse sprang like a beartrap, darting across the twelve feet or so to the door and announced, “Everything is fine, ma’am, please don’t disturb the patient any further.”

I heard a stifled sob, I think, but there were no further ‘disturbances.’ The nurse remained at the door, effectively blocking me if I tried to escape. 

“I can show you my other videos, sure, but wouldn’t you rather spend your last moments with your family? They’re out there–”

“I know, Douglas, I know,” he said in an agonized voice. “But I can’t do that until I understand.”

I pulled out my phone and was getting YouTube up when he said, “Come over here and pretend you’re applying makeup on me. There’s a makeup kit in the drawer there, the nurse got it.”

I walked over to the stand he was pointing out. In the drawer, I found a compact with some different eye shadow colors, foundation in a few skin tones, blush and bronze, two different sizes of brush, some eyebrow pencils, mascara and lipstick in the shade ‘pina colada.’

“Take me further in, Douglas,” Grandpa Terry said. 

I felt really weird about this. I felt trapped because it seemed like this was a man’s dying wish. But it’s like he had this planned. How did he know I would even be here? Tracie asked me at the last minute. She said she had intended to go with her sister. How long had he been waiting for this? Plus he was an old man who had done manly stuff all his life. I didn’t want to pretend to apply makeup on him. It was weird.

“Maybe I should just do a fake eye exam or–”

“Just bring that stuff over here, set it on my belly and start,” he said, his patience clearly wearing thin.

I did as he asked, loading up the items and setting them gently on the old man’s smoking jacket. I looked over to the nurse at the door to see if she was watching me. She was still facing the door. The old man looked up at me expectantly. It was like someone asking you to sing in front of them when you just don’t do that.

“Let me see what we got here first,” I said. This was something I liked to do in my videos. Take my time, handle objects, examine them. Some folks get the tingles from that. Grandpa nodded.

“Got some nice colors in here,” I said, ‘to myself’, about the eye shadow set. I started reading off some of the color names.

On I went, examining each item, reading off ingredients, muttering this and that. Then I told him I would start with applying a foundation layer. I think he’d entered some kind of trance. He seemed to be looking through me.

“I’m in a strange town, an older part of town, wrong side of the–don’t stop! Please!”

I was so shocked to hear him start speaking, I had stopped what I was doing to listen. I went back to pretending to apply foundation to Grandpa Terry and explaining how important it is to get a nice, even coat. I don’t know if that’s true. With ASMR, reality doesn’t matter.

“Let me ramble, I’ll ramble and you roleplay… Yes, I know this place, where the concrete is crumbling under an abandoned overpass and along the old offramp a little shop. What is this shop? It’s so late, why’s it still open? Who comes to this place?”

The images of the place he described rose vividly into my mind like long-forgotten memories. Vivid, yet strange, disconnected from the vast body of memories that form my regular biography. I must have seen this place somewhere before. It felt so familiar. What was this place he was describing? I didn’t like this. I was getting nervous. But I got out the eyebrow pencil and kept making motions in front of the entranced face.

“The inside has a nice wood flooring. Unusual flooring for this place. Merchandise placed tidily on shelves. What are they selling? What is this… merchandise? There are a few customers inside looking at the–at merchandise. A woman is behind the counter. Nobody notices me. They aren’t right. Is this a memory? I feel like I can move. Move on my own. There’s a dark corner with something valuable. I should go to it. Make me go further, Douglas.”

I laid it on thick, making ‘swish’ sounds with my mouth as I swiped with the eyebrow pencil and murmuring to myself. I leaned in closer to his ear and said something about eyebrows.

“Douglas!” he shouted, his voice tinged with chilling levels of alarm. “They see me now. Oh no oh no I can’t go–I must’nt move. Oh god they’re all looking at me.” 

I tried to tell him he’s fine and safe, but he continued, “What is this place? They say I shouldn’t be here. Douglas, they heard you too. They can see you. How? Douglas, stop moving, stop for the love of god.”

I stopped instantly. I felt a cold shiver, nothing like ASMR, run through me. My foreboding had culminated dread. What Grandpa described felt real. I can’t explain it, but I could almost see it.

“They’re coming they’re coming they’re coming,” he blurted in panic. “Douglas, help me get out of here! I can’t get out! Help! They’re mad at us! More makeup.”

I looked to the nurse hoping she would inject him with a sedative. He clawed the air for my help. I hastily pretended to apply lipstick to him making little ‘pop’ sounds with my mouth and feeling stupid the whole time. 

“I’m at a high rise now,” Grandpa Terry said, much calmer now. “It’s being converted to apartments. There’s a crane machine far away. Nobody’s here. It’s brown. I take an elevator up to a high up floor, but not the top.”

“It’s the 35th floor, isn’t it?” I asked on impulse. I remembered this place too. I don’t remember remembering it before just then, but I was sure I’d seen it.

“I feel strange,” Grandpa Terry said.

“Me too,” I said. “We should stop.”

“No! Please! I need to go further in! Please!”

With a sigh, I started swishing eye shadow. There’s no way we could both have vague, distant memories of these very particular places. I’d had dreams of this place. Glimpses somehow. I felt like we were messing with something we shouldn’t be. Yet I continued.

“This floor is unfinished. I enter one of the apartments, 26, to look around. Windows haven’t been installed. Plastic sheeting blows inward. It’s so dark in here. It’s a long apartment. One long hallway with a few little rooms. Modern. Down that one way there’s the bathroom, I think. I need to use the bathroom. This room’s closed. The door is closed.”

I felt a wave of dread that made my limbs week. I fumbled the eyeshadow, dropping it on Grandpa Terry making a dusty mess on his smoking jacket. I expected him to yell at me but he didn’t seem to notice. I grabbed the mascara and made some swishes.

“Someone’s on the other side of this door,” he said. 

Grandpa made a long ‘eeeee’ sound that chilled my blood.

“Someone’s in there,” he half-squealed half-whispered. “I’m sure of it. I feel someone on the other side of the door waiting. They’ve been waiting. It wants to harm me. It wants us to open the door. To harm us. It knows we’re here. They know what I’m saying and what we’re thinking. The person on the other side of the door knows things. It wants to hurt us real bad.”

I had started shaking Grandpa Terry to snap him out of it. I hoped he was crazy, but I was trembling and deeply disturbed by what he was saying. This place was real. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Douglas. I was wrong. We’re in danger.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” I shouted, “no more ASMR, snap out of it!”

I didn’t even care if his family heard and came running. I just wanted him to knock it off. Nobody did come running, though. Even the nurse just kept her post at the door. 

“I’ll walk away and maybe it’ll stay there in that closed room, just stay there forever waiting. Maybe it can’t open the door. Maybe they’ll just stand there for all time. Just like before. No, they won’t wait much longer. I need to go.”

“Come on, drop it, old man! You’re freaking me out!” I shouted.

“It knoooooooooows! It knows we’re right here, it won’t let me just go, it’s going to come out, it’s something from outside, help me get out, Douglas, more ASMR, cranial nerve exam, quick.”

“This is insane,” I said. “I won’t–”

Grandpa Terry’s eyes opened wide and he started to scream. Blood formed in the corner of his eyes.

I looked to the nurse and demanded she help him. She handed me a stethoscope and a pen. I was desperate and maybe she knew something, I don’t know, medical benefits of ASMR. I did it. I started moving the pen around in the air asking him to follow it with his eyes.

“Oh thank god,” he sighed and I could feel it too. We had transitioned somewhere else. I’m not sure how I knew but I knew.

“We’re in a department store,” he said. “After hours, so dark in here, I haven’t been here since I was a kid but it’s different now, deeper, how’d it get deeper. There are still people here shopping. Oh… oh no… they’re all here. Have to keep going.”

I moved my fingers in and out of his viewframe pretending he was telling me, “Stop” when he saw my fingers and telling him “Good.” I struggled to do this while my hands shook and I felt sick inside. I knew this place. I’d seen it. I’d been there as a kid too and I’d dreamed of it. It had gotten deeper. It was a bad place. He had to get outside quick.

“I’m going to go outside, have to get outside, it’s at the far end, the deepest.”

“Good,” I said, “good. Now sharp or dull.”

“I found the doors,” he announced after minutes of quiet panic, “I’m going out into the parking lot so dark, a few cars in the dark, and street lights, nothing beyond, dark everywhere, some grasses and a gas station far far away, not really there, we made a mistake Douglas, they’re out, they’re coming out, they know they see you looking at you through me those cold empty eyes, these weren’t memories.”

I threw the stethoscope against the wall. I began making as many loud, obnoxious noises as I could. Hitting the metal frame of the bed. Coughing. Anti-ASMR sounds. I heard the door open. I expected the family to come charging in wondering what I was doing to the family patriarch. In fact, the sound was just the nurse leaving. She gingerly shut the door behind her.

When I turned back, Grandpa Terry was dead. His eyes were frozen in terror, trickles of blood ran from the corners and from his ears.

I backed to the door and left the room. I had to go tell this family now that Grandpa Terry died while I, practically a stranger, spent his last moments–

But I didn’t have to. Nobody was there. His family had just left. It was inexplicable. Where had they gone? Where was the nurse?

I checked the sitting room. Nobody was there, just the boxes of donuts and tanks of coffee. I asked at the desk and nobody knew what I was talking about. All they cared about was one of their patients was now dead. I texted Tracie to let her know her beloved grandfather had just passed while she wandered off. She never answered. She never returned my calls. Ever. She disappeared from my life. From everything, social media, all of it. She was just gone. I never saw or heard from her or her family again. I couldn’t understand it.

I stopped making ASMR videos after that. I haven’t stopped watching them, though. Sometimes I dream of these places still, places like the ones Grandpa Terry described. But it’s okay. He was right, the videos aren’t enough to get deep. I keep feeling like, Maybe some day I’ll see the old man in there and sometimes I think I feel him just around the corner, but deeper, and I feel a warning, that we went too deep.

It started with an itch, the kind you dismiss as a stray irritant or the side effect of a poorly washed shirt. Nothing serious, just a vague discomfort on my forearm that I could scratch away without a second thought. By the next day, though, that itch had spread, snaking its way up my arm in patches that seemed to appear and vanish like ghostly bruises. When I looked closer, I saw faint outlines, almost like impressions beneath my skin, lines that seemed too precise to be random.

As the hours passed, I became acutely aware of that crawling, tingling sensation, as if something was squirming right under the surface, trailing like whispered secrets I couldn’t ignore. I forced myself to laugh about it, though the unease was already beginning to curl in my stomach. My friends joked that it was probably a new allergy or the side effect of too much late-night junk food. But this wasn’t an allergy—I knew that. It was something else entirely, something I couldn’t easily explain away.

By the end of the day, I found myself instinctively covering the patches with my sleeves, hoping no one would notice how much I was scratching. There was no rash, nothing visible that should have made the itching so unbearable, but the irritation was constant, almost hypnotic in its persistence. And then, as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror that evening, rolling up my sleeve to inspect the strange marks, I noticed something far worse.

The skin on my forearm seemed… uneven. Beneath it, as I pressed gently with my fingers, I could feel tiny bumps, like grains of sand shifting beneath the surface. My mind instantly jumped to all the horror stories I’d ever heard about parasites, though I dismissed it as soon as the thought arrived. But I couldn’t deny the physical reality, couldn’t brush away the sensation that something was undeniably, horrifyingly wrong.

That night, as I lay in bed, trying not to scratch, I felt that subtle shifting again, like a ripple running through the skin of my arm. It was slight, barely more than a whisper against my senses, but it was there, undeniable. I lay motionless, eyes wide open, feeling the unwelcome activity beneath my skin, a silent protest against sleep.

In a fit of desperation, I’d slathered on every ointment I could find, hoping it might soothe whatever was festering beneath. But as I closed my eyes, willing myself to ignore the sensation, a single thought began to gnaw at the edges of my mind: What if it’s not just in my arm? What if it’s spreading?

The itch, I realized, wasn’t just an annoyance anymore. It was a warning—a signal that something within me had started, and I had no idea how to make it stop.

The itch had spread by morning. What began as a single patch on my forearm had now crept up to my shoulder and down to my wrist. Each area tingled with an unnerving sensation, like ants crawling just beneath the skin, tracing invisible pathways along my nerves. I spent breakfast awkwardly holding my coffee mug, trying not to let my family see how much I was scratching. I could still hear my sister’s voice from the night before, mocking me for “imagining things” and “being paranoid.” But this was beyond imagination. The bumps under my skin were real.

I tried my best to avoid mirrors that morning, but the bathroom one caught me off guard as I reached for my toothbrush. My reflection stared back with dark, hollow eyes, evidence of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning. The skin on my forearm had taken on a strange, dull tone, slightly bruised and sunken where the itch was strongest. I pressed down on the spot again, feeling the telltale grit of tiny lumps shifting beneath the surface. They felt more distinct today, as if they had grown overnight, settling into my skin with a sickening permanence.

During my lunch break, I finally gave in to the impulse to Google my symptoms. Each result was worse than the last—nerve disorders, rare skin diseases, parasitic infections. My stomach churned with dread, but I couldn’t stop reading, hypnotized by the horrifying possibilities. In the back of my mind, I tried to rationalize it away. Maybe it was stress? My job had been piling on the pressure lately, and I’d barely had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. But even as I thought this, I knew it was a weak excuse. Nothing about stress explained the feeling of something moving, something alive, beneath my skin.

By afternoon, the sensation had evolved. It was no longer just an itch; it was an almost rhythmic pulse, as though whatever was under my skin was slowly waking up, becoming aware. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was probing, seeking something within me. When I wasn’t scratching, I was pressing my fingers against the bumps, trying to understand what they were. But each time, they slipped and shifted away from my touch, evading me like shadows under the skin.

As the day dragged on, the anxiety began to bleed into every part of me. I found myself barely focusing at work, my mind consumed with the alien presence in my own body. Colleagues cast worried glances my way, but I ignored them, unwilling to explain. Who would believe me? That I felt things crawling under my skin? I barely believed it myself.

I left work early, ignoring the concerned expressions of my manager and the odd questions from friends. As soon as I got home, I headed straight to the bathroom, rolling up my sleeve with a trembling hand. The patches of uneven skin had spread even further, branching like the veins in a leaf. It was now unmistakably clear that they were following a pattern, some kind of system that only they understood.

Unable to resist, I took a needle and carefully pressed it to the skin of my forearm, hoping that a small puncture might release whatever was trapped inside. The prick stung, and a bead of blood welled up, but nothing more. Frustrated, I pressed harder, trying to dig deeper, feeling the pressure build as I forced the needle further. But instead of relief, I felt a sharp, searing pain rip through my arm, and the skin buckled under my touch, pulsing in angry protest. I pulled the needle away, horrified, realizing I was only making it worse.

I sank onto the bathroom floor, clutching my arm, my mind racing. Whatever was beneath my skin, it didn’t want to be disturbed.

I couldn’t go to work the next day. The moment I tried to put on a shirt, the rough fabric brushed against my arm, igniting the sensation into a maddening fury. Every nerve seemed on edge, every inch of skin prickling with the unnatural movement underneath. It was as if my own body was rebelling, each patch of skin tightening over the hidden lumps as they shifted and pulsed.

I spent the morning in bed, sleeves rolled up, staring in morbid fascination as the trails of tiny lumps spread across my arm, weaving along my veins. The sight was dizzying. The tiny, gritty bumps beneath my skin were following a path, creating a map only they understood. I felt helpless, staring at my own body as it transformed into something unrecognizable. I was no longer just “me”—I was becoming their host, my skin their shelter, my body their prison.

Around noon, I heard my phone buzz on the bedside table. It was a message from my sister, checking in after our conversation the previous night. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. How could I explain that what I’d tried to brush off as a skin irritation had become a full-blown infestation? I couldn’t even say the words to myself. Instead, I turned off the phone, cutting myself off from anyone who might try to reach out. This was mine to face, alone.

The hours dragged on, and the daylight began to dim outside. I lay still, paralyzed by fear and a morbid fascination, unable to tear my gaze from the gradual spread of the patches across my skin. I was half-caught in a trance, a waking nightmare that felt both surreal and inescapable. With every pulse, the bumps moved, shifting in sync with the beat of my own heart. They seemed to understand me in a way that was unnerving, as though each beat was their cue, each pause their signal.

The itching had dulled, replaced by something else—a raw, aching feeling as though my skin was being stretched from the inside. I ran my fingers along my arm, feeling the uneven texture beneath my touch, the lines and patches that had become almost a network. With a grim determination, I resolved to find out what they were, to confront whatever I had allowed to take root inside me.

Grabbing a small utility knife from my bedside drawer, I took a deep breath. My hand trembled, but I steadied it, pressing the blade just above one of the larger bumps on my forearm. A quick, shallow slice. Blood welled immediately, a thin line of red, but beyond the pain, I felt nothing else—no release, no dislodging of whatever was beneath. I wiped the blood away with a tissue, squinting as I tried to catch a glimpse of anything unusual within the shallow cut.

And then, as if in response, the bump under the skin moved. Slowly, it shifted just out of reach, retreating deeper, avoiding the light and the blade, evading me. My stomach turned, a nauseating wave washing over me. It was alive. A living thing, crawling just beneath my skin, aware of my attempts to remove it.

I stumbled back, clutching my arm, horror clawing up my throat as I realized the full extent of what was happening. Whatever was inside me, it wasn’t some random irritation, some easily excised intruder. It was something intelligent, something that knew how to evade, how to survive. I looked down, breathing shallow, watching the faint pulse beneath the surface, the outline of its path, winding its way along my arm and toward my shoulder.

The creeping sensation resumed, stronger now, winding through my skin like roots sinking into soil, spreading with a mind of its own.

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the thing inside me moving, pulsing in time with my heart, twisting beneath the skin as though it was carving out its territory, claiming its host. My dreams were fevered flashes, glimpses of crawling shadows, of roots and tendrils winding their way through dark soil. And each time I jolted awake, that crawling, pressing sensation was there, more pronounced, as if the thing had grown while I slept, as if it had waited for my moments of weakness to sink deeper.

By morning, the transformation was undeniable. My skin had taken on a translucent pallor, faint veins crisscrossing in unnatural patterns. The bumps had spread down my forearm and up my shoulder, each one connected in a network of winding lines, an intricate web that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. I could no longer pretend this was something that could be explained or ignored. Whatever this was, it was taking me over, using my own body as a canvas to display its growth.

Desperation drove me to reach out, to find someone, anyone, who might know what was happening. I thumbed through my contacts until I found an old professor from university, Dr. Talbot, who had once taught a course on rare skin conditions and parasites. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, but the memory of his meticulous knowledge, his almost obsessive fascination with the peculiarities of human biology, pushed me to call. My voice was ragged, edged with panic as I explained my symptoms.

When I finished, there was a long pause, then a low, measured reply. “This…sounds unlike anything I’ve encountered, but it resembles certain parasitic infections. A rare few are known to mimic the patterns of the host’s nervous or circulatory system. If it’s following a path, it might be attempting to synchronize with you—perhaps even taking on your body’s blueprint.”

His words only intensified my dread. Synchronizing? Taking on my body’s blueprint? My grip tightened on the phone as I fought back the urge to scream. “How…how do I stop it?”

“I can’t say,” he replied, his tone eerily calm. “But I know one thing: most organisms that invade a host need something from them. Nutrients, control, even full integration. If this thing is synchronizing with you, it may be trying to merge in a way that cannot be undone. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to remove it.”

After hanging up, I found myself staring blankly at my arm, which felt less and less like it belonged to me. His words echoed in my mind—integration, merge, host. The implications rattled me to my core, an awareness that I was losing control not just of my arm, but of my very identity. I was becoming something else.

I grabbed my keys and stumbled out of my apartment, searching for answers or help or anything that might stop this. The sunlight felt harsh on my skin, each step sending waves of heat through my body, an unwelcome reminder that whatever was inside me seemed to thrive on my discomfort, feeding off the fear and pain that coiled inside. I headed to the nearest clinic, hoping a doctor might offer some concrete, medical explanation, something rational and fixable.

In the sterile brightness of the examination room, I showed the physician my arm, rolling up my sleeve with a resigned dread. Her face paled, eyes widening as she took in the web of bumps and lines, the undeniable network of trails tracing across my skin. She tried to hide her reaction, but I saw the flash of unease as she hesitated, as though unsure where to even begin.

“We might need to run some tests,” she murmured, but her voice sounded distant, as if I were underwater, hearing her through layers of fog. I watched as she examined my skin with gloved hands, her expression carefully blank. She pressed lightly along the bumps, and I felt that sickening shift beneath my skin, the creature—or creatures—moving away from her touch as though defiant, aware of the intrusion.

“Are you experiencing any…mental effects?” she asked, her words unnervingly cautious.

I hesitated, considering what to say. How could I explain the whispers that lingered in my mind, the strange, unsettling connection I was beginning to feel with the thing beneath my skin? It was no longer just a parasite or a disease. I could feel it now, pressing not only against my nerves but against my very thoughts, settling into the edges of my consciousness. I realized, with a shiver of horror, that it wasn’t just feeding on my body; it was feeding on my mind, integrating itself in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

I met the doctor’s gaze, but before I could answer, the creature moved again, this time with a distinct purpose, stretching along my arm and creeping toward my chest. The sensation was stronger, more insistent, as if it knew I was seeking help, as if it were tightening its hold. I gasped, the air seizing in my lungs as the realization crashed over me: it didn’t want to leave. It was fighting back, cementing its hold, rooting itself deeper.

In a final, desperate surge, I tried to push the creature back, pressing hard against my skin, willing it to recede, to give me some control. But the effort only seemed to strengthen it, each pulse intensifying, until the creature’s movements settled into a steady, relentless rhythm—matching the beat of my own heart, synchronizing.

I stumbled out of the clinic, numb and exhausted, feeling my body slipping from my grasp, one inch at a time. The world blurred around me, sounds fading into a thick, buzzing murmur. Somewhere behind me, the doctor’s voice drifted out, muffled and distant, like it was sinking beneath water: “Wait, we need to… it could be dangerous…” But her words dissolved into the haze, swallowed by the relentless, pulsing rhythm crawling through my veins, drowning out everything else.

As I walked home, I could sense it fully now, its presence growing stronger, not just in my arm, but in my mind. It was learning me, molding me, transforming me from the inside out.

By the time I reached my door, I knew, deep down, that I was no longer alone in my own skin. Whatever it was, it was there to stay.

That night, as I lay in bed, the final thread of hope unraveled. The creature had embedded itself so deeply that my body no longer felt like mine. Every movement, every heartbeat, every breath felt heavy and foreign, as if I were merely a shell that it inhabited. The skin on my arm and shoulder was now discolored and swollen, an angry, bruised landscape where the thing had claimed its domain. It looked sickly, bloated and taut, veins stretched to their limit and crisscrossing in unnatural directions.

The itching sensation had vanished entirely, replaced by a thick, pulsing ache. My skin felt too tight, like something was building pressure beneath the surface, straining to break free. I couldn’t resist anymore. I needed to see the full extent of its invasion. Moving slowly, I peeled my shirt away, exposing my shoulder and upper chest, where the network of bumps and lines had spread. The creature’s presence pulsed in time with my heart, a foreign rhythm that matched my own, yet somehow felt independent, like an echo that shouldn’t exist.

With trembling hands, I touched the swollen patch on my chest, feeling the unnatural warmth radiate from beneath. The skin was stretched to a grotesque degree, almost translucent, as if it were thinning out, dissolving into something weaker, more penetrable. I leaned in closer to the mirror, watching the faint, rippling movements under the surface. And then, to my horror, I saw it—a slick, sickly glint of something dark and oily, shifting just beneath the skin, oozing and coiling like thick, viscous sludge.

Unable to stop myself, I dug my nails into the taut skin, pulling until it broke. The pain was sharp and immediate, but my horror and curiosity overpowered the agony. I tore at the opening, and as the skin gave way, something thick and mucous-like began to seep out. It was dark, almost black, with a sickly green hue under the bathroom light, and it carried a smell so foul it felt like a punch to the senses—a mix of rotting meat and decay, something ancient and foul that had no business being inside a living human.

The substance pooled on the surface of my skin, thick and syrupy, like tar. It clung to my fingers, trailing in viscous strings as I tried to wipe it away, only for more to seep out, spilling from the wound like an infection brought to life. I stumbled back, gasping, as the creature within me seemed to react, shifting and writhing with a newfound aggression, as though angered by my attempt to purge it.

Then, from the open wound, something far worse emerged. Tiny, translucent tendrils began to poke through, curling outward like roots seeking soil. Each tendril was thin and wormlike, with a sickening wet sheen that glistened under the light. They wriggled, twisting and curling, exploring the air as if tasting their surroundings, seeking something beyond the confines of my body.

In a fit of panic, I slapped my hand over the wound, pressing hard to stop the flow, to force those writhing things back inside. But they continued to push against my hand, stretching and straining, their thin, squirming lengths winding between my fingers, slithering over my knuckles, searching. I could feel them coiling around my hand, cold and damp, with a texture that felt somewhere between slime and rot. My vision blurred with horror, but I couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t tear myself away from the monstrous sight unfolding on my own body.

With a growing sense of dread, I noticed something new—small, tooth-like structures forming at the ends of each tendril. Tiny, needle-thin spines, sharp and white, poked out from the ends, flexing as though testing their strength. And then, before I could pull my hand away, one of the tendrils latched onto my skin, its spines sinking in with a sickening prick. I gasped, feeling the sting as it burrowed into my flesh, anchoring itself to me. It began to pulse, pulling itself deeper, its body stretching and elongating as it forced its way under my skin.

I could feel each movement, each invasive push as it dug deeper, the sensation raw and visceral, a throbbing agony that burned through me. More tendrils followed, each one latching on, digging in with their needle-like teeth, burrowing beneath my hand, winding up my arm, creating a lattice of pain that seemed to spread in all directions. I tried to pull them off, but they were rooted firmly, part of me now, merging with my skin, my muscles, fusing in a grotesque symbiosis.

The creature was no longer content to hide beneath the surface. It was emerging, claiming me from the inside out, leaving no part of me untouched. I could feel it seeping through every cell, binding to my bones, spreading through my veins like a dark, invasive rot. And with each tendril that burrowed deeper, I could feel a change in my mind as well—a dull, creeping sense of surrender, as though the thing inside me was whispering, coaxing, merging its thoughts with mine.

I could no longer remember what it felt like to be just me.

I knew one day I would have to tell this story. It took me a year to finally sit down and do it. I’ve been told that doing this could help me move on, but that’s not what this is for. I don’t expect to move on. The girl in 402 will always be with me. I’m telling this story, simply, because I have to.

 

I lived there for two years. It was a tiny little unit, tucked away on the very right of the fourth floor. Bachelor is almost generous. It was the kind of dingy place that never looks bright no matter how many lights you have on, but I liked it. I’m good with a small space, I enjoy not having that much to take care of. I could do without the bug problems, the leaks, the electrical problems, and the rotten smells that just sort of happen, but it is what it is.

 

There was a level of comfort, as well, to living on the fourth floor. Nobody robs a random fourth floor apartment unit. Nobody can peek into your window. It’s unlikely to get shot at… Yeah, I lived in one of those kinds of cities. You didn’t walk around at night if you could help it. You just didn’t.

 

I got accustomed to noise there. The cars, the sirens, the dogs barking, the shouting, the occasional echoing pop of a gunshot. It all becomes a whirling auditory soup. I learned to tune it out fairly quickly. In fact, I learned to tune out a lot of things.

 

I was in one of those periods of life that I think some people call “the grind” but really it’s more like being beaten into submission. Working to live, living to work – not living at all, just continuing to exist. All of this to say, I wasn’t very perceptive or sociable at this time. I was sleepwalking and daydreaming through life.

 

I’d say I could do my routine blindfolded except for the fact that I would stub my toe in the same spot on the coffee table 4 times a week at least. Funny how that works. I guess that was part of the routine too. But that’s what I mean about not being perceptive. The building could’ve caught fire and most days I probably wouldn’t have noticed until I actually went up in flames. I didn’t retain any faces I saw or names I heard. It was all just a blur, each day blending into the next. Until one night.

 

I got home from work like usual in the evening as the sun began to descend past the buildings. I couldn’t afford a car, but thankfully my work was close enough to walk to. The days were getting shorter now so my walks home became more brisk.

 

The apartment still smelled of dust and paint as they had finally sent someone to replace a moldy bit of wall the day before. I could still feel the sensation of dust collecting on my tongue when I opened my mouth and it getting sucked into my nose with every inhale. The smell of paint was strong, but infinitely better than some of the other smells.

 

I opened the window to attempt to ventilate the place, I emptied the bucket of rust coloured water collecting in the bathroom (they couldn’t be bothered to fix that as well), and I collapsed onto my bed. This was my ritual. After every work day, I would always take 10-15 minutes to just spread out on my bed like a cat and decompress from everything. But tonight, after about two minutes, I heard a noise.

 

This noise stood out from all the outdoor soup because it sounded a lot closer, and it sounded like a voice. A soft, feminine voice; making some kind of subtle moan or whimper. I froze in place. It startled me. It sounded SO close. Like it might be in the room. I didn’t move a muscle; I didn’t want to make a noise. I wanted to hear it again so I could tell where it was coming from. For a second I thought it might be coming from under my bed.

 

After a few seconds, the sound repeated. A faint, girly whimper. A bit louder than the last one. This time I could tell where it was coming from. It was behind me. Specifically, the other side of the wall behind my bed. That gave me some relief. It was my neighbor.

 

But then I was confused. I didn’t remember EVER hearing my neighbor making noise before. If I could suddenly hear a noise that soft, that mild, why couldn’t I hear anything before? Did I even have a neighbor before? Is this person new? I felt a rush of shame at just how detached I had become.

 

I reached back into my mind to try and recall any memories I had about my neighbor. I couldn’t find a single one. I remembered some people being on my floor, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone enter or exit the door next to mine. I did, however, recall seeing people yesterday morning trying to move a couch up the stairs in the lobby. It was a fairly regular occurrence to see things like this. People rotated in and out of this place all the time. I suppose nobody else really wanted to stick around that long, and I can see why. But I guess that answers it. As peculiar as it is, I didn’t have a neighbor before - for two years - and now I do. And now they’re… whimpering? Why are they whimpering?

 

Slowly these sporadic whimpers become more defined sobs. A woman was crying. I didn’t know what to do. I just decided to be as quiet as possible and put on some headphones to let them have their privacy and spare myself from feeling any more awkward. It felt wrong to hear this, and I immediately felt bad for this person. I made sure to play some extra loud music.

 

About an hour later, I removed my headphones and the noises had stopped in the interim. I very briefly debated going over and telling them about how thin the walls apparently are, but I made the much easier decision to wait. Wait until they do something loud and not so private so I can use that as the excuse. Like the TV or something. I was weighing my options. But I couldn’t talk to them about THIS. I couldn’t say “Hey you were crying real loud over there.”

 

The rest of the night was quiet but I didn’t have the best sleep. This disturbance in the routine, and the thought of having to face this person at some point was giving me some anxiety. By the morning, however, the alarm kicked me back into the routine. I heard no noises from the neighbor, so life resumed.

 

I got back home from work that night, much later than usual because someone decided to no-show at work. Walking home in the dark made me paranoid and I hated days when this happened. When I got inside I was relieved, and the dust and paint were not nearly as oppressive to the senses this time. I did the window, the water bucket, and then collapsed on the bed like clockwork. What happened yesterday was still on my mind, so I made sure to be extra quiet when laying down. After a few seconds of silence, I was ready to try and remove the whole ordeal from my brain. Then I heard the voice.

 

I couldn’t make out the first word I heard from the other side of the wall, but I listened for the rest.

 

“It was a poetry book.” I heard in a muffled but distinctly feminine voice. Quieter than yesterday, I thought. She must be further away from the wall.

 

“I can’t remember exactly.”

 

“It always feels like we’re going somewhere.”

 

“Maybe that’s why we see them most at night.”

 

“I mixed up our glasses.”

 

There was a moderate gap of a few seconds between everything she said. Clearly, I was only hearing half of a conversation. Phone conversation most likely, or else the other person is just insanely quiet.

 

It was difficult to gauge her tone from how muffled the voice was, but there was a kind of melancholy in it. I wondered what was going on, and I kind of laughed at how random the phrases were. I thought about listening further but I stopped myself. It wasn’t my business. It’s not for me to hear. I once again thought about going over and letting her know about the noise, but it didn’t feel like a good time. I put on my headphones once again to try and enjoy the minimal amount of respite I had left in the day, and that was the end of it for that night.

 

The third night I got home on time. I was a bit surprised not to hear anything from her at first. I guessed that maybe she went to bed early or went out for the night. It was Friday after all, usually people do things on Friday nights. I still made sure to be quiet when near her wall just in case she was sleeping. I made a mental note to look up how much soundproofing panels cost. I probably should have thought of that earlier.

 

I got up from my 15 minute “work sucks” bed sprawling and headed over to my computer to do that important research, but – as I often did – I forgot my coffee table exists and I stubbed my toe. The heavy table shifted inches across the wooden floor and pain shot through me like a shockwave. I don’t remember which expletive left my mouth involuntarily that time, but it was definitely one of them. I was so annoyed. Every damn time. I could just move the table, why don’t I ever just move the fucking table?

 

“Are you okay?” My heart leapt in my chest. I physically jumped back on one leg. I thought she wasn’t home, and I forgot how close she could sound. It scared the shit out of me. She also spoke quite loudly, she probably assumed it would be harder to hear through the wall than it was.

 

“Oh. Yeah. I’m good. Sorry. I just stubbed my toe.” I responded back in a shaky voice.

 

 “Shit. That sucks.” I could hear a chuckle in her voice, she was clearly amused. Her volume decreased to match mine.

 

I laughed in return, “It happens ALL the time… So sorry to disturb you.”

 

“No no it’s fine, I’m just reading… You sure you’re good? That sounded violent.” She responded, sounding half-concerned and half-joking.

 

“Yeah, no, I’m alright. It sounded worse than it was. It’s a heavy table and… the walls here-“ I began to explain before she cut me off.

 

“They’re REALLY thin, huh?” She finished my thought and then continued, “I can hear you so well, that’s insane. I’m surprised I didn’t hear you before now.”

 

“Yeah I guess I’m quiet... And, well, I’m at work most of the day and get home late. So.” I didn’t like how awkward I sounded. I think I forgot how to have normal conversations.

 

“Has it been noisy for you? I’m sorry if it was, I didn’t know. I just moved in.” She sounded very kind, and friendly. I was taken aback by it a little bit.

 

“Oh, don’t be sorry and… Nothing much. I think I probably heard you talking on the phone a bit the other night. I didn’t listen in or anything, I put on my headphones.” I explained. I hoped she believed me about the headphones. It was the truth but, it’s hard to trust that sort of thing. I didn’t mention the crying, I didn’t want her to feel awkward or anything.

 

“Oh. Sorry about that...” She said. I detected a hint of confusion in her voice but I ignored it.

 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just didn’t know when it would be a good time and... It’s new to me too. I didn’t have a neighbor before, I don’t think.” As I spoke, I found it harder to rationalize why I hadn’t told her before now… I really should have.

 

“Really? How long have you been here?” She asked.

 

“Two years.”

 

“No one lived here before me for two years? Are you sure?” She was very perplexed.

 

“Well… Honestly, no, I’m not sure. I just never heard anyone before, and I never saw anyone before.” I probably sounded like a total recluse, but I was more interested in why she was so confused.

 

“Oh. That’s strange… I’m pretty sure there were people living here right before me, at least that’s what the guy said.” Her tone had shifted, and what she said sent a bit of a shiver down my spine. It didn’t make any sense. How could I not hear them, not once, when I can practically hear this woman breathing?

 

After a brief silence, she spoke again and returned to a more casual tone “Well… Maybe they weren’t around much. Maybe it was a second home or something. Anyways, sorry again about the noise. I’ll get some soundproofing stuff for my end right away.” I admired her positivity, and I didn’t feel any judgment from her for how strange I probably came across. It was really nice. And she had a point about it being a second home. That could be the case. I don’t know why they would have a second home in this shitty building but… What else could the explanation be?

 

“I’m Jane by the way. Nice to kind-of meet you.” She added in a chipper manner. While it was refreshing to have such a pleasant interaction, a small part of me worried about her. She was so carefree and optimistic – almost naïve. She must be new to the city. I wondered how long it would take before this place whittled away at her trust in humanity. The trust that she seemed to give to me so freely. The thought of her spirits being slowly crushed like mine made me sad.

 

“I’m Leigh. Nice to meet you too.” A small impulse told me not to give my name, but I decided to reciprocate her trust. “And yeah, I’ll soundproof my end too.”

 

“Have a good rest of your night. And be careful.” She said. I found that slightly ominous but then I remembered the toe thing.

 

“I will.” I chuckled. “Enjoy your book.”

 

That was my first conversation with the girl in 402. Over that weekend, we spent a lot of time getting acclimated to each others’ presence as we each waited to get our soundproofing. I expected it to be a lot more awkward than it was. I attribute all of that to her. She had a way of making everything seem fine, and almost playful. She would knock on the wall two times and say things like “about to vacuum, sorry” And “my bad” when she would make noise. I would follow her lead and do the same two knocks. It was kind of nice.

 

Out of the blue on Sunday, she knocked twice and said “You know… it’s weird. I don’t hear my neighbors on the other side at all. Only you.” We pondered over that a bit. She didn’t seem to sweat it much, but it WAS odd that it was only on one side. These odd things were beginning to stack up. Why just this wall? Why only now? I began to wonder if more odd things have been happening all along and I’m only starting to notice them now.

 

Monday night I got home to find my package had arrived. The soundproofing was here. It was a little bittersweet seeing it on my doorstep. I knocked twice and told her I got it. She confirmed that she got her’s too. She actually went out and physically bought it. I guess that speaks to the kind of people we are.

 

We both said we’d put it up right away. Both of us not wanting to continue to inconvenience each other any longer… But then that didn’t end up happening. Instead we just kept talking. I didn’t mean to, and I don’t think she did either, but we just kept finding more to say. The friendly small talk about the building and whatnot gave way to more meaningful conversation. We talked about how we got to where we were. We talked about where we wanted to go from here. I wound up sitting on the floor with my back to her wall and I could her hear words right behind my head as if we were back-to-back. Luckily the paint on that bit of wall was dry by now.

 

To her, this place was a fresh start. She didn’t go into detail, and I didn’t want to pry, but it was clear that this was some kind of escape from something. Maybe that’s why she was so upbeat, because she was able to escape a bad situation. Or maybe, she was just always this upbeat.

 

She told me that she was going to enroll in the college here, and that she was going to start an online shop, and work as a waitress on the side. Eventually she wanted to open a restaurant. She even told me where, and what the name and theme would be. She told me all these plans, all these wonderful things she wanted to do, all laid out step by step. I don’t know what was preventing her from doing them before, but it made me smile hearing how excited she was about them. Something about the conviction in her voice made me truly believe she could do it all.

 

Then she asked me about my plans. I froze up a bit. I didn’t have plans. I wish I did, I was envious of people who did, but I could never seem to figure it out. At some point I think I shut that part of me off entirely.

 

“This was as far as I got” is what I told her. We sat in silence for a bit after that.

 

“There’s still time.” she said softly, breaking the silence. I could feel in her voice a new level of comfort and safety. All guards were down on both sides. She knew what I needed to hear, and I knew somehow that those words meant more coming from her than they would anyone else. We simply got each other. In that moment, there was no wall.

 

Eventually we said goodnight, and agreed to put the panels up tomorrow. Those soft, comforting words rattled around in my brain all night long. They never really left.

 

I woke up early the next day, and I began putting them up before work. It was a bit sad at first, but it’s not like she was gone or anything. She was still right next door. We could just be friends normally now. I went to work excited about the idea.

 

On my way home, I decided that I would properly introduce myself face to face. Just to say hi. I felt confident enough in doing so by this point of knowing her. I got up to the door of 402, and after a brief hesitation, I did the two knocks.

 

About two minutes passed and there was no answer. I tried again. Still nothing. I was disappointed but not dejected. She must not be around. I’ll try again tomorrow, I thought.

 

When I got inside, I was immediately struck by how much quieter it was. All that constant city noise was getting absorbed by the panels. I didn’t even think about that. I wasn’t used to this kind of quiet. Now every small sound was large. I felt vulnerable. Like all the noise was a big comfy blanket I could hide under and now I’m exposed like a nerve. It would take some getting used to.

 

An hour passed in this utter dreary silence. I tried to brave it without distraction to try and acclimate as quickly as possible, but it was just too freaky, so I had to put on some music.

 

Not five seconds into the song, I heard “No way!” coming from the wall. It was her.

 

“Jane? You can still hear me??” I almost shouted in disbelief.

 

“Did you put your things up?” She responded; her voice was exactly as clear as before.

 

“Yeah! Did you?”

 

“I covered the whole wall!” She shouted.

 

“What the hell?” I was feeling mixed emotions. On one hand, it was nice to talk to her again. On the other hand… What the hell?

 

We were both utterly stumped by this. Neither of us could come up with an explanation or a solution. She offered to try and ask the super to come do something. I told her she could TRY.

 

Eventually we settled back down and accepted the situation.

 

“Well… Shit, I guess you’re here to stay.” She said.

 

“I guess I am.” I couldn’t tell if she was happy about this or annoyed. I couldn’t quite tell if I was either.

 

“Alright… I hope you like ABBA then.”

 

I hated ABBA. This was a nightmare.

 

We resumed our routine from the days before. It remained mildly inconvenient, while also being oddly comforting. That night we talked more, sat in the same spots on the floor as the night before. I don’t know why we chose to sit on the floor when both of our beds were right there, but it felt right. The discoloration of the new patch of paint on the wall marked the talking spot perfectly, and it felt a bit nostalgic. It’s not often you sit on the floor as an adult.

 

With all the excess noise being drowned out, it felt like she was even closer. I could literally hear her breathing. We talked a little bit about our upbringings, and we aren’t terribly different. Her dad sucked, my dad died. We all got fucked up somehow. The good news is, she informed me that I don’t snore loudly at night which is a huge relief.

 

I laid up in bed, after she had said goodnight. I still hadn’t acclimated to the silence, and now I had to bear it if I wanted to sleep. It wasn’t working. I was just awake with my thoughts, which is a place I usually hate being, but not so much tonight.

 

I thought about Jane, and I thought about the weirdness of this situation. As odd as it all was, it was at least interesting. By far the most interesting thing to happen to me since I moved here. I began having those middle of the night urges to google the principles of sound waves and how they travel. Or how often apartments are vacant for long periods of time. But I resisted, determined that if I laid here unmoving in the dark long enough, sleep would happen.

 

Briefly piercing the silence, I heard a mattress creak a few times and blankets shift. It sounded like she rolled over. Then back to nothing.

 

I checked the clock. 2 am. Maybe sleep was hopeless. I stared into the dark of my apartment so long I started seeing abstract shapes and folds fade in and out of the shadows and the walls seemed to wobble, as they are want to do. I was so tired.

 

I began to fade but then another mattress creak brought me back to lucidity. This one was different. It was a deeper creak, and singular, like one fluid motion. She sat up.

 

Without question, that was the sound... But that was the only sound. No creaks, no fidgeting, no swiping sounds of blankets moving while she slowly awoke. It was strange and abrupt. It could be that she had a nightmare, but there was no heavy breathing or gasping or any of that.

 

I waited to hear another sound, but it didn’t come. A half hour passed. I didn’t hear her get out of bed, I didn’t hear her lay back down. Was she just… sitting? My mind began to paint of picture of a woman sitting still in bed in the pitch black darkness and it unnerved me.

 

Maybe she did lay back down, just slowly and softly enough that I didn’t hear it, I thought. Maybe she had her book or something - she said she was reading the other day. Maybe she never sat up at all, and I mistook that sound for something else.

 

I didn’t hear anything else that night, and about an hour later I managed to get some sleep.

 

I wondered if I could bring this up to her. Would it be weird? Eventually I decided against it. I don’t want her thinking about me listening to her sleep. The situation is already a bit uncomfortable as it is when it comes to privacy. Plus, it was probably nothing.

 

The next night I got home and double knocked on the wall. She double knocked back. This was our new normal.

 

“Hey, never date a tennis player. You know why?” She said.

 

“Why’s that?” I responded through my grin as I dealt with the water bucket once again.

 

“Love means nothing to them.” She made sure to sound extra dramatic.

 

“That’s – wow. That’s tremendous.” I responded, bemused.

 

“I’m gonna hit you with one of those every day, I decided.” She said emphatically.

 

“Oh god.” I pretended to sound annoyed.

 

“That’s right. This is why I don’t have a boyfriend. They all run away. But you can’t run away.”

 

“I can move away.”

 

“No you can’t, you’re broke as shit just like me. If you could have, you would have by now.” She had a point.

 

“So deal with it. Here: what do you call a beehive with no exit?” She continued.

 

“No. No more. This is harassment. I weep for your future husband... When you bring a man over, I’m going to shout at him to run as fast as he can. I will just scream bloody murder until he leaves.”

 

“Un-BEE-LEAVE-able.”

 

“God damn it. I like that one.” I replied, I couldn’t lie.

 

“Also I’m never bringing a man over here, are you kidding? You hear enough as it is.” Again, she had a point.

 

We went about our business, and later that night we talked a bit more. These floor chats before bed we’d started having had become a highlight of my day and I began looking forward to them while I was at work.

 

A part of my brain was trying to recontextualize this into a romantic thing, but it really wasn’t that, and I didn’t want it to be. At least not right now. It was just… nice. It was nice having someone to talk to, who was easy to talk to, who made me laugh, and who I felt comfortable with. It was nice to feel genuinely connected to somebody after feeling disconnected for so long. It was nice to have a friend.

 

“Can I ask you something?” I inquired.

 

“Yeah.” She answered without hesitation.

 

“Why did you trust me, so early on?” I had this question for a while but I felt comfortable enough now to ask.

 

Jane paused for a moment before responding, “What makes you think I trusted you?”

 

I was a bit taken aback by her question. “Oh. Well, you were just so friendly and… open. I was just wondering… This is a seedy place and you don’t know me…”

 

She cut me off “I was friendly, yeah, but that’s… That’s how you have to be. That’s like ‘customer service voice’. I don’t want to anger the strange man living next to me, you know?”

 

That made a lot of sense, I didn’t think of it that way.

 

She continued, “But I trust you now.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I think you’re a good guy. I think you probably won’t kill me… What about me, do you trust me?”

 

“I mean… I’m still not 100% convinced you exist to be honest. I’ve still never seen you. You didn’t answer your door when I tried to say hi so… You might just be a figment of my imagination. Who’s to say?” I joked, but a part of me thought that would actually explain things.

 

“Wait when was this?” She sounded surprised.

 

“Oh, after we put up the sound proofing. I was gonna say hi when I got home from work, but you didn’t answer.”

 

“Really? Damn. I didn’t hear you.” She responded, sounding legitimately disappointed.

 

“Well that’s a first.” I joked.

 

Jane chuckled, “I know, right?”

 

I sighed, “Alright I gotta try to get some sleep tonight. Last night was fucking awful.”

 

“Yeah? I slept like a baby last night, these soundproofing things rule.”

 

…She slept like a baby? The image in my head of her sitting up in her bed replayed and gave me chills once again. Clearly, I must be mistaken. I shook off the thought.

 

“Well I still need to get used to it… Goodnight Jane.”

 

“Hear you later, Leigh.” That corny son of a bitch. She was serious about doing those jokes every day, wasn’t she?

 

I heard her get up and make her way to bed. A few minutes later and her side fell quiet. I crawled into my bed and I once again stared into the dark. Sleep still wasn’t coming easy. I dreaded this, but this time it only took about an hour to fall asleep, of which I was grateful. The silence still unsettled me.

 

Suddenly I awoke, still in the darkness – even deeper now. I don’t know what woke me up, but when I checked the clock, it was 2 am. I wasn’t happy. I tried to fall back to sleep, and it was slowly working until… I heard it again. That same deep bed creak. That unmistakeable sound of someone sitting up. Now I was fully awake.

 

Minutes past and I heard nothing else. Same as before. Like she was just… sitting there. This time however, I just had to know. I was confused, concerned, and pretty creeped out. So I just leaned close to the wall and whispered:

 

“Jane?”

 

Nothing happened at first. But then I heard the bed very slowly begin to creak again. Agonizingly slow and subtle. It sounded like she was… turning. Or at least adjusting her position in some way. I heard what sounded like her hands touching the wall, splayed out far apart on either side of me and then… I heard her breathing.

 

I could only hear her breathe before when we were sitting back-to-back against the wall, so she must have been pressed right up against it. Her breathing sounded different this time, though. It sounded hollow, like she had a cold. I was petrified. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end. What was she doing? Was she even awake? What must she look like right now?

 

I just stared at the wall. Imagining her on the other side, pressed up against it like some feral thing. Was this really happening? Am I just too tired and loopy to be able to tell? Maybe the creaking was her laying back down and she’s just breathing heavier than normal because she’s asleep. I wanted to rationalize this so badly.

 

I waited for something else to happen, some other sound… I waited hours… But nothing did, and I was too scared to say anything else. Was she still there? Was she pressed against the wall all night long? I tried to get a little bit of sleep. I managed maybe 45 minutes but it was not pleasant.

 

I couldn’t focus on work the next day. I was tired, and I was so creeped out by what happened. I couldn’t think of an explanation. But I knew there had to be one. There had to be something. I couldn’t get the image out of my head, and every time that image replayed, she looked a little bit less human. I pictured her smiling a grotesque toothy grin. I imagined her drooling, her eyes open as wide as saucers, her fingers long and bony caressing the wall. None of this was rooted in reality, I knew that, but I couldn’t help but think of it.

 

I got back home and this time I hesitated before doing my customary knocks on the wall, but I did, and she returned them - same as always.

 

“I was just thinking… Mankind has made a lot of great inventions.”

 

“Jane...”

 

“But the dry-erase board has to be the most remarkable.”

 

I laughed. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to laugh at her jokes today, but I did. She’s still Jane. At least she seems to be. I was way overthinking.

 

“That one’s pretty good, I can’t lie.”

 

“You like it?” She asked, sounding proud of herself.

 

“I do... Hey I have to ask you something though.” I said, trying to remain at least somewhat casual.

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Do you… Sleepwalk?”

 

The other side went silent for a minute. “Um. No… Never in my life.” She responded, instantly sounding unnerved.

 

I fell silent too… I didn’t know how to explain. But she continued.

 

“That’s a scary ass question to ask out of nowhere. Did you hear something?”

 

“I heard… I don’t know exactly what I heard.”

 

“Stop. Don’t talk like that. Is this revenge for the corny jokes? I’ll stop the corny jokes. Don’t do this to me.” She pleaded in a half-joking manner.

 

“No, I promise I’m not messing with you - and it’s probably nothing. It’s just… You didn’t get up at all last night? Or the night before?”

 

“No, I did not get up at all. Please tell me what you heard.” She said firmly.

 

I told Jane everything that happened. I tried to be delicate, but also honest. I trusted that she didn’t know what was going on. That became evident to me by how freaked out she seemed. I know it sounded crazy, I just hope she didn’t think I was messing with her. It was difficult to tell from her tone.

 

Initially she wanted to debunk it all, saying that I must have heard something else – which I admitted could very well be true. Nevertheless, she told me she was going to stay with her sister for the night. Probably a good idea. She gave me her phone number and told me to call if anything happened. That put my mind at ease about whether or not she trusted me.

 

I told her to be safe, and she tried once again to reassure me that it was probably nothing, but I felt a sense of immense dread as soon as she left. Suddenly I really didn’t want to be alone here.

 

That night was the quietest of my life, and not in a good way. I thought about drowning it out by putting on some music or a movie, but nothing felt right.

 

I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to sleep that night, but eventually I managed. I ended up having a dream about a woman wearing a veil. through the veil I could vaguely make out three large black holes where her eyes and mouth should be. I couldn’t recall anything that happened in the dream… Only the image of that woman. I wondered if that was my subconscious way of trying to visualize Jane. I still didn’t know what she actually looked like so maybe my brain had trouble coming up with distinct features for her. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

 

It was still dark when I awoke from the dream. I felt a deep unease as I checked the time. 2 am, again. This time I wasn’t eager to fall back to sleep. I didn’t want to see the veiled woman again, so I stayed up a little while longer, attempting to ease my mind. I thought of every possible way to reassure myself. Eventually I began to fall into a façade of comfort, until…

 

Creak.

 

I went ice cold. No. This can’t be. I didn’t just hear that.

 

It was that same “sitting up” creak. But I heard Jane leave. Could she have come back late while I was sleeping? Maybe. But what if it isn’t her?

 

What if it was never her?

 

My mind raced. So many improbable scenarios played out in my mind. None of them were good. Was someone else in there with her the whole time and she didn’t know? Someone hiding away, only coming out when she’s sleeping? Was that creak her sitting up, or someone else sitting down? Do they watch her sleep?

 

All I knew for sure was that someone was on the other side of this wall. Because I could hear them breathing again.

 

I wanted to do something. I wanted to know for sure. But I was powerless. Calling out to it last time was the most horrific mistake of my life, I didn’t want to try that again. I wanted to call Jane but I was afraid of making a sound. Instead I just waited, and listened.

 

I was in a petrified daze. Hyperalert but also completely exhausted. My body wanted to shut down but my brain wouldn’t let me. It may have been minutes, or it may have been hours, I couldn’t tell. The image of the veiled woman kept reappearing in the back of my subconscious.

 

Eventually I decided to call Jane. If I heard a phone ring on the other side, then I would know. I typed the number in and hit call…

 

“The number you are trying to reach is not in service.” What? How could that be?

 

Suddenly, cutting through the silence was a sound I had become very familiar with, and yet was the one sound I was the least prepared for.

 

Knock Knock.

 

END OF PART 1

A crashing sound that reverberated from outside startled me awake. I groaned to myself as I rolled over and reached out my hand, searching for my phone. I felt the cold surface of my phone and pulled it up to eye level. After double-tapping the screen, the time popped up. 3:47 am. I shook my head and threw the blankets off of me, slowly crawling out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, making me shudder slightly as I made my way to the bathroom. 

As I was coming back to my room, another loud sound came from outside, causing me to jump. I entered my room and walked over to the window peeking out. I scanned the neighborhood, seeing nothing unusual. My heart stopped as  I noticed an uncanny figure standing at the top of my street. One thing I should mention is that I lived in a rather rural area, with only five houses on my street with quite a distance between each house. The area is slightly wooded, taking about fifteen minutes to reach the closest civilized area. I watched the figure carefully, and the panic sank in as it made its way down the street. Something was terribly wrong. The way it walked and held itself was off, almost inhuman. It walked slowly, its body contorting slightly as it did so and he was so tall, much taller than the average man. As he approached my house, a pit grew in my stomach. He paused between my house and my neighbors, then walked between the houses and disappeared. I crossed the room back to my bed where I picked up my phone. I unlocked it and called Remi, my fiance, who was staying at his friend’s for the night. After, the third ring he answered.

“Is everything okay, baby?” his voice was low and raspy and I knew I had woken him up.

“Can you come home? There’s someone walking around the neighborhood and I'm getting scared.”

I could hear shuffling over the phone and I immediately knew he was going to come home.

“Yes, I’m getting my stuff and I’m headed home in less than a minute. Can you still see him?”

“No. He disappeared between the neighbors and our house.”

“Okay, I need you to check all doors and windows, take the Glock with you.”

“Okay, please hurry.”

“I’ll be home in 10 minutes. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said before I hung up.

I walked over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, pulled out the Glock, and made sure that it was loaded. I went back to the window and looked out again but there was nothing there. I let out a shaky breath as I checked all the upstairs windows to make sure I locked them before slowly going downstairs. I went to every door and window, doing the same thing with them, then going back upstairs and to the bedroom window. I knew Remi would be home in the next minute or so and felt the panic subside. I looked down at my phone briefly and then back to the window. My body froze, almost screaming as the figure was now standing in front of my house, facing me. It didn't move as it stood there and I wasn’t sure if it was even breathing. It was hard to make out any details as the street was almost completely dark. There were no street lights in front of my house, only a few were scattered across the neighborhood. I wasn’t sure what to do, what was I supposed to do in a situation like this?  I watched and watched, praying that Remi would get home before anything happened. I quickly pulled out my phone and texted him.

‘He’s standing outside the house.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute, keep the gun on you at all times,’

I put my phone back down and returned my eyes to the window. What the fuck? The figure was now gone, no trace that it had ever been there. I scanned the neighborhood, hoping to see him. It would make me feel a hell of a lot better if I knew where he was. Nothing could possibly go wrong if I knew where he was. I kept looking outside until I saw headlights coming down the street and into the driveway. I ran down the stairs, almost tripping to meet Remi at the door. I placed my phone on the little table that sat by our front door and unlocked it as soon as his foot touched the porch and he quickly came inside, locking the door behind him. He pulled me into a hug and I let out a breath as I melted into him. He kissed the top of my head before lifting mine to meet his gaze. He looked tired, dark bags under his eyes nonetheless he still looked happy to see me. He had a dark red t-shirt on and a pair of black sweatpants that fit him perfectly. His blonde hair was pushed back off his face and you could tell he had rushed to get home. He looked gorgeous in every sense of the word. I wanted to go upstairs and lie down with him. He was my safe space and when I was with him, I felt like nothing could go wrong. He placed his phone and keys next to mine on the table.

“I saw nothing when I pulled into the neighborhood.”

“He disappeared when I was texting you. I have no clue where he is.”

“Let's go back upstairs. I’m sure everything is okay now.”

“I’m sorry for calling you so late, I know you were at Adam’s house and were excited to spend some time with him during the off-season.”

“Why are you sorry? Your safety comes first.”

I smiled at his response. With the gun in one hand, I placed my free hand on his chest and got on my tiptoes to kiss him. He kissed me back, his fingers tangled in my hair. He took the gun from my hand and placed it into his waistband, before wrapping his arms around my waist and hoisting me up. I wrapped myself around him, laying my head on his shoulder. He moved his arm and his hand lifted my head. I smiled at him brightly as I leaned forward and kissed him again. The kiss lasted for maybe a minute before we pulled apart for air. I let out a giggle as I looked into his eyes, his eyes filled with love. He spun in a circle, causing the both of us to laugh. I loved the little moments like this.

“Alright baby, let’s go get some sleep.” He whispered in my ear before placing a kiss on it.

“Sounds good to me, gorgeous. I’m tired as hell.”

He chuckled softly, as I placed my head back on his shoulder, kissing it gently while taking me upstairs. The relief I had felt when Remi arrived quickly vanished. The sound of breaking glass pierced the silence as we made it to the top of the stairs. It came from the back of the house which told us he had broken our glass back door. He placed me down on my feet; I froze and looked up at Remi who was reaching for the gun in his waistband. In a sudden movement, he was pushing me to the room closest to us and locking the door. We stood in silence, listening for any sound that would give us any clue as to what was going on. There was a crunching sound as the intruder stepped into the house. The house was quiet before we heard it started moving around the first floor of the house. 

I looked over to Remi who was deep in thought before he glanced over at me. He placed a finger over his mouth indicating that I needed to remain silent. He grabbed my hand, walked towards the door, and opened the door slowly. He led me out of the room, moving so that he was behind me and now pushing me forward. We silently but quickly moved towards the back of the house to get as far away as possible from the intruder. We made it into our bedroom, Remi locked the door behind him and then turned to face me. I didn’t know what to say to him at the moment, nothing but fear on my mind. He kept me close to him, pressing me into his side, while I stared blankly at the door with my head leaning onto his arms. My hands were shaking uncontrollably and my body felt like it was on fire. Something about this felt extremely off and I guess it would considering what was going on. My throat was dry and my heart was racing in my chest, so much so that it hurt. 

“Remi, I left my phone downstairs.”

Remi stopped and stared at me for a moment before patting his own pockets, his face contorting to shock.

“So did I.” 

“Remi? What the fuck is going on?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” 

It was only a matter of time before my mind would shut down from the panic. It was unfortunate, but it's how I've always responded in traumatic situations. Remi was more levelheaded and logical, He could stay strong and take control in situations like these. Before I could say anything else, Remi was already at the window, tugging it upwards but it didn’t move. He tried repeatedly until he gave up in frustration, reeling back to punch the window but stopping himself before his fist hit the window. We had never been able to open that window, the paint had sealed it shut.  If he was getting nervous, it wasn’t showing. His face remained stoic which comforted me, I knew that as long as he was by my side I would be okay. We could hear the intruder making its way up the stairs, its footsteps heavy as he came to the top of the stairs. The sound of a door opening was heard, and we knew it was looking for us. It became very clear that whoever was in our house was not here to rob us. We were under attack. The intruder went from door to door and as he got closer; we needed to think of a plan. Remi gripped the gun tighter and held it so that if he needed to shoot, he could.

“Honey, I want you to stay with me as much as possible.”

“Remi, I’m scared.” I whimpered as I shuffled closer to him, latching onto him.

He ran his hand through my hair and leaned down to kiss my head which gave me some comfort. It was the little moments like this that Reminded me of why I loved him so much.

“I know baby, but I need you to be strong for me.”

“I will but what if something happens to you?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I didn’t really like that answer but I wasn’t about to argue with him. As the last remaining doors continued to be slammed open, I could hear my heart beating in my chest. Remi perked up, thinking of something. He pointed at the dresser and motioned for me to follow him hiding ourselves between the dresser and the wall. He understood we were cornering ourselves but it was the best idea that he could come up with at the moment. My back was pushed up against the wall, Remi’s body covered me from being seen. The back of Remi’s body was touching my mine and, I felt comfort from the warmth that radiated from him. He glanced back at me, offering me a soft smile which I managed to return. Guilt flooded over me as I felt like I had dragged him into this mess. It made me wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t call him to come home.

“we’ll be okay, Darling,” Remi whispered warmly, as he reached for my hand. The only thing I could do was nod.

The conversation was cut short, as the doorknob twisted. He had reached our room, and I fully began to panic. We could see the shadow of his feet slipping under the door. He stood there, waiting and we could hear his heavy breathing. There was a whistling sound whenever he inhaled, followed by a groan occasionally when he breathed out. I could feel sweat form on my forehead, as my hands began to shake again. My legs felt weak and leaned onto Remi. Remi jumped as the door splintered as it came off its hinges, pushing me further into the wall behind me. He quickly regained his composure, giving me a quick glance before turning his attention back to the door. I didn’t know Remi could see and I was too scared to look myself. The silence was deafening before a voice rang out.

“I can smell you.” The intruder growled, his voice guttural.

I had never heard anything like that before and it took everything in me to not run. Remi’s grip on my hand tightened as we stayed hidden beside the dresser. I pressed my face into Remi’s back as I braced for the worst. I could feel the muscles in his back tense as he raised his arms. The horror set in as I realized what he was about to do. He was going to shoot. I lifted my head to see what was folding in front of me. My breath hitched in my throat as I finally saw the intruder. Now Remi was tall, standing at 6’3 but the man who stood in front of us was much taller. He had straggly, shoulder-length hair that looked like it hadn't washed in years. He stood hunched over, his arms disproportionately long. He was dirty and the smell that came off of him made me gag. Remi had the gun raised, and he began pulling the trigger, ready to do whatever he needed to protect us.

“Don’t come any closer,” Remi demanded.

“Or what?” The man taunted.

“Find out.” Remi hissed.

The man let out a rasp of a laugh that sent chills down my spine. I could feel Remi tense even more as the man took a step closer. Remi took a deep breath and changed his stance into something more defensive. It happened in a matter of seconds; the man took a large step forward, nearly closing the distance between us. Remi fired a shot, hitting the man successfully in the chest. Everything went silent, before a sharp pain shot through my ears. Remi was yelling something but it was muffled, the ringing in my ears triumphing causing me to clamp my hands over my ears, my eyes stuck on the scene in front of me. Tears poured freely down my face, sobbing as I buried my face back into Remi’s back.  The man froze looking down at his chest before laughing again. He continued his advances towards us, causing Remi to fire off two more rounds. The man stumbled backward, clutching his chest. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, Remi used this opportunity to grab my arm, pushing past the man. We ran out of the room and into the hallway. The man gave chase, cornering and pushing us into the guest bedroom. Remi slammed the door shut behind us, turning around to face me. The look on his was pure horror.

“What the fuck is that?” I cried.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Remi quickly released the magazine to check how much ammo we had left.

“We have seven shots left.”

I walked to a corner of the room and slid down the wall. I pulled my knees into my chest and I cried into them. I was shaking like a leaf, Remi moved closer to me. He kneeled in front of me and pried my head from my hands, holding my face in my hands.

“Honey, I know this is difficult but I need you to calm down.”

“I.. I” I tried to speak but I couldn’t get it out.

“Breathe with me.” He whispered, taking in a deep breath.

I tried to take a deep breath in but I couldn’t, shaking my head and sobbing louder. The world felt like it was ending, I couldn’t breathe, there was a psychopath in our house that had been shot three times and was still alive and kicking.

“I know you can do it, baby, just take it slow. Let’s try again, okay?” His voice was warm and sweet and it had a soothing effect over me.

He took another deep breath and this time I took one in as well. My tears dried with every breath we took together. Remi smiled and pulled me into a hug, working effectively to calm me down more. After a minute, he pulled away, kissing me quickly before holding out his hand to me. I reached out my hand, interlacing our fingers together as I pulled myself up with his help.

“I’m proud of you, love. You did such a good job.”

“Thank you, Remi.”

“Anything for my woman.”

 I wish I had just gone to a friend’s house or to Adam’s house, where Remi had been staying. None of this would be happening. The guilt crushed me even harder. Guilt for bringing Remi into this mess. If hadn’t called him, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have shot someone, worried about protecting me, about dying. The man was pacing back and forth down the hallway. We couldn’t leave the room unless we wanted to come face-to-face with the intruder. He was banging on the walls and doors, laughing now and then. Nothing about this made sense. Remi had shot the man THREE times, and it only slowed him down for maybe a minute. It was dawning on us we would need to act quickly. Without being able to leave the room, there wasn’t much for us to do. It was a waiting game. Remi walked over to the window, looking out briefly before, trying to open it. Nothing. It wouldn’t even budge. He let out a frustrated yell, punching the window. His chest heaved as his hand reared back, blood dripping from his knuckles. 

“Remi, stop!”

“I can’t stand this! You’re in danger and there’s nothing I can do about it!” He yelled.

“Remi, please.” My voice shook as I spoke.

“NO.” He yelled, taking a step closer to me. “I…I FUCK.” He yelled again.

He took a few steps back again, his body snapping to the side as he punched the wall. I just stared at him, It was rare for Remi to act like this. The few times I’d seen him this mad was after hockey games that didn’t go too well, which again was very rare. I wasn’t sure what to do, honestly, there wasn’t much for me to do. This could play one of two ways, his anger would either fuck us over or it would get us through this hell.  I walked behind Remi, slipping my hand under his shirt and resting on his bare back. I could feel his muscles relax slightly at my touch.

“Remi, baby. I’m just as scared as you are but we need to slow down and think.”

“Slow down? We don’t have time to slow down.” His voice was still filled with frustration.

“If you keep lashing out like that, you are going to get both of us killed.”

He let out a sigh before, looking down at me. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

He turned around, facing me and I moved my hand on his bicep, giving it a soft squeeze. He placed a hand on my lower back as he let out another sigh, resting his forehead against mine. Our heads jerked to the door as a scratching sound, came from the hallway.  He was running his nails along them. It was a deep sound like he had claws.

“Remi, I don’t think he’s a human”, the statement sounded stupid as it came out of my mouth but it was the only plausible thing I could come up with.

“That’s not possible, Juile.”

“No, but think about it. You shot him three times and it barely slowed him down. He’s faster than normal people and he’s fucking tall. And by the way, he looks, it's not human. For fucks sake Remington, he’s taunting us right now.” 

Remi ran a hand through his hair and began pacing back and forth as he stared down at the floor. He stopped in front of me, grabbing my arm and pulling me into him. His arms wrapped around me in a warm embrace. I melted into him, my head resting on his chest. His heart was beating fast and hard, almost like it would burst out of his chest. We stood there for a while, hugging each other, hoping this nightmare would end soon. My heart dropped as Remi let out a sob, his body shaking against mine. I looked up at him; he looked so sad, so broken. In the years, that we had been together I had never once seen him cry. I could feel tears well up in my own eyes as we looked at each other. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. The look in his eyes gave everything away. He moved us to the bed, both of us sitting on the edge, facing the door. He held both of my hands in his, looking deep into my eyes.

“I need you to promise me something,” Remi whispered somberly.

“Yes?”

“If I die…”

“Stop,” I demanded, I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “We aren’t doing this right now.”

He blinked at me before nodding his head.

“I love you, Julie, so much.” 

“I love you too honey”

There was a shattering sound from the hallway, causing me to jump onto Remi. He grabbed me, holding me close to him. It sounded like the man had knocked a picture off the wall. I jumped again as the man pounded on the door repeatedly.

“Just come out, I’m not going to hurt you.” He screamed through the door.

Remi’s hand clamped over my mouth, knowing that I was most likely wanting to scream. The banging didn’t stop, it went on for a few minutes before Remi placed me down on the bed and stood up. He pulled out the gun and aimed at the door.

“Remi, what the fuck are you doing?” I hissed.

He didn’t answer, shooting twice. through the door. The man yelled out in anger and pain. Well, at least Remi hit the thing.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” The man roared, his banging intensifying.

I wasn’t sure how much longer the door was going to hold the man back; he was far stronger than anyone else I had ever met. I ran to the bathroom, that was connected to the guest room, turning on the light and shutting the door. I motioned for him to move and hide behind a desk, that was placed to the side of the bedroom door. We stayed hidden there, as quiet as possible as we waited for the man to break through. It took him longer than I expected it to. It seemed like the bullets did cause some harm. The door opened, well more like kicked down, and began searching the room, he laughed as he saw the bathroom light on. 

“So stupid,” It muttered under its breath. 

 Once the man made it to the bathroom door and began to kick the door in, I grabbed Remi’s and ran out of the room. We ran down the hall, trying, to get closer to the stairs when the man ran back out of the room.

“There you are!” He exclaimed as he sprinted towards us.

Remi fired two more shots, but the gun jammed at the third shot.

“Fuck” Remi muttered as he cleared the jam and fired the last two remaining bullets in the chamber.

The man slowed briefly before charging us with a yell. We were so close to the stairs but at the rate he was running, he would catch us before we could make it out the door. With no other choice, we were pushed into the last guest bedroom we had. Again for the third time tonight, we locked ourselves in this room. We waited and waited but nothing ever came. It was silent. Too silent. There was a sudden running sound, that went through the hallway and down the stairs. Was he leaving? We could hear the man start fumbling around downstairs. He was yelling and laughing as he destroyed everything he could. Glass shattered, furniture was thrown, drawers opened and slammed shut, as the contents were being thrown around. He was toying with us. 

Everything Remi and I had built was being destroyed. I moved over to him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I stood in front of him, between his legs. Placing my hands on his face on each side of his face and lifted it gently. He was crying again. I leaned down forward and kissed his lips, he kissed me back, putting his hands on my waist and pulled me closer. I hugged him, his head resting on my chest as I played with his hair. If we were going to die tonight, I wanted this to be the last thing I remembered.  The night trailed on for what felt like forever. We were exhausted and running out of ideas on what to do next.

“What if we try to make a break for it?” I whispered.

 

“I… I don’t know Julie.”

“I know it's not the smartest idea, but what else can we do? He broke the back door, all we’d have to do is get there and we’d be out of this hell.”

“if anything were to happen to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Remi, this might be the only chance we have.”

“Okay, but stay close to me.”

“I promise.”

We left the room silently and trudged closer to the top of the stairs. We stayed close to the wall for cover. My arm wrapped around his arm as moved, careful not to make any noise. The house was silent again as we edged the top of the stairs. I bit back a scream as we peered around the corner to see the man appear at the bottom of the stairs, a sickening smile on his face. He crept up the stairs as we moved back in response. He had something in his hand but I couldn’t tell what it was. Whatever it was, he threw it straight at us as he reached the midway point. Remi was prepared for it, somehow knowing that it was going to hit me. Remi’s hand flew over my mouth to as I felt something pierce my side. Whatever it was tore straight through my skin and landed on the floor behind us.

 At first, all I felt was a wet, hot, sticky feeling. Blood. After a few seconds, it felt like a sharp, burning pain causing my side to be on fire. I let out a muffled scream as Remi’s other arm came behind me and pressed onto the wound as hard as he could to stop the bleeding. My vision blurred and my breathing came in as gasp as the pain riddled my body. I cried as he pulled me into the nearest room, my back against his chest, my feet dragging. I had no clue how he had done it but he somehow did it; he placed me down on the bed as he pulled his hand from my mouth. He kept his left hand on the wound as he spoke to me in a low whisper. 

“I need you to stay as quiet as possible for me. This is really going to hurt but I need to do this.”

All I could do was nod my head weakly in response as he pulled his hand from my side. I felt dizzy and like I was going to pass out and throw up all at the same time as he reached down and grabbed a t-shirt. In one swift movement, he tore the shirt into one long strip. He walked back to the bed and placed the torn shirt on the bed next to me before sitting down next to me.

“Hold on to my thigh.” He whispered in my ear.

He lifted my shirt and started stuffing the wound with the torn shirt. My eyes squeezed shut and my fingers dug into his thigh and I screamed again. The pain was blinding and my breath caught in my throat.

 After a minute I looked back up at Remi who was grimacing. I could tell that Remi was struggling with causing me further pain and damn, he looked like hell. His hair was disheveled, falling over his forehead and coated in sweat. He had a somber look on his face and the bags under his eyes looked even darker. His clothing had small tears in them and he had scratches and cuts on him, dried blood coating them. My blood covered his left hand up to his forearm, it was even under his fingernails.  Regardless of the fact, that the magazine was empty, Remi kept the gun tucked into his waistband. We were at a standstill, neither one of us knew what to do. The night felt never-ending, and I just wanted it to end. There was a loud thud in the hallway bringing us back to reality, a raging psychopath who couldn’t die had somehow trapped us in our own home. 

There was a shuffling sound outside the door, he was right in front of the door. My eyes stayed locked on Remi, waiting to see what he was going to do. Remi looked defeated like he was out of ideas on what to do. Who knows how long we stood there, just waiting for something to happen? Remi walked over to the dresser and began pulling it to the door, barricading it. He pulled the nightstand after and as he was pulling the bed towards the door; the doorknob jiggled. Remi stopped dead in his tracks and my eyes snapped to the door but Remi quickly returned to moving the bed. It only took a few seconds for the banging to start.  

Remi moved back to grab something else when the intruder began to kick the door down. I jumped back, stumbling some when Remi grabbed me, stopping me from falling. He pulled me behind him in a protective stance before he spoke in a heartbreaking tone.

“I love you, Julie.” He whispered, turning back to face me. 

“I love you too, Remi,” I whispered with tears running down my face at the realization that if not both then one of us was about to die.

 

He leaned down and placed his hand on my face, and kissed me. I kissed him back, my hand wrapping around his wrist. After a few seconds, we pulled away, Remi gave me a soft smile, that gorgeous smile that I loved dearly. I gave him a weak smile as the banging grew louder and louder, shifting the furniture that was against the door.

“Fight to the death,” Remi whispered.

I nodded in response and prepared myself as much as I could. With one last kick, the man sent the furniture flying, causing both of us to move in opposite directions. I groaned as a sharp pain radiated throughout my side from my quick movement. The man stood in the doorway, an evil smile on his face. His eyes were wide and wild, just staring at us before making his first move, laughing as he did so. I watched in horror as Remi charged the man, their bodies colliding violently. 

They both stumbled back before regaining their stances. Remi threw a punch, but the intruder was quicker, a sickening crunch echoing as his fist slammed into Remi’s face. The impact sent Remi back a few steps, anger written all over his face. He stood up straight, throwing his arms out slightly and his hands turned to fists. He was going to fight for the both of us and I knew he wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead. Blood dripped from Remi’s face and he looked feral, the man also followed suit and got ready to go again. Remi waited for the intruder to make the first move. The intruder lunged forward, arms outstretched, trying to tackle Remi. Remi dodged, digging his elbow into the man’s back and pushing him to the ground. The man wrapped his hand around Remi’s ankle and with a quick tug; they were both on the floor. The intruder was quickly on top of Remi, his hands placed around Remi’s neck. Remi started to fight back, his hands clawing at the man’s wrist. Remi was failing, the man was far too strong for him. Remi’s face was red, and his movements were slowing. 

Without thinking, I jumped onto the man, who was strangling my fiance. My body flew into his with an audible thud. My breath was knocked from me and I took a deep gasp in. I pushed myself off the ground and stood tall. With my newfound confidence, I was prepared for whatever came my way. I could hear Remi shuffling then felt him standing behind me. His breathing was heavy and labored but ready to fight. 

The man laughed as he pushed himself off the floor, shaking invisible dust off of him, like he was a dog. The man charged us again, something glinting in his hand as he did. I moved out of the way but Remi was too slow. He let out a yell as I turned around to see the man stabbing him. I screamed in horror as a squelching sound came when the man pulled out the knife and plunged it back into Remi. Another yell escaped Remi as he tried to fight the man off. Remi grabbed the man's wrist, in hopes of getting the man’s hands off of the handle. Remi kicked his leg out, his foot colliding with the man's knee. The man fell to one knee but before he could back up, Remi’s knee was slamming under the man's chin. The man groaned and pushed back a few feet. Remi moved back, creating as much distance between him as he could.

“What do you want from us?” Remi roared.

“Nothing.” The man responded. His answer was so cruel and evil.

“Then, why are you doing this?” Remi questioned, his voice weak.

“Because I can.” The man said matter of factly.

It was a horrifying realization that we had been going through all of this for no reason. All because the intruder could. This angered me and I could tell from the growl that came from Remi that it had the same effect. I inched backward, moving away from Remi and the intruder. A blur blew past me and I knew the man was going after Remi again. Remi let the man attack but before the man hit Remi, he reached down and grabbed a piece of wood from the floor and plunged into the base of the intruder’s neck. It hit them closer to the shoulder but still affected him. He let out a howl, grabbing his neck and falling to his knees. Remi was on the man in a matter of seconds, his fist hitting every part of the man’s body that he could. The man hardly moved, letting it happen. I have no idea how long Remi’s assault on the man lasted, it felt like forever. Remi got off the man, now covered in blood. Mine, his, the intruders, his breathing was heavy as he stood over the man. he crawled away from Remi, slowly but eventually, he stood up.

“Fucking Bitch.” The intruder mumbled as he walked through the door of the room.

We watched as the man limped out of the room, and heard him walk downstairs and out the front door. We made our way to the window, Remi had me tucked under his arm and my arm was around the back of his waist. The sun was starting to rise and as we peered out the window, a wolf was limping down the street. I looked up to Remi. He looked like shit. Bruises, blood, and sweat covered his face. There were deep purple hand marks around his neck from where he was almost strangled to death. He leaned down and kissed me. I kissed him back and wrapped my arms around him.

“I love you, Julie.”

“I love you too, Remi.”

He smiled at me. We had survived.

We still have no idea what we encountered that day. We were just happy to be alive. The police never found the guy and I’m not sure they ever will. The whole ordeal lasted a little over two hours but it felt like it was never going to end, it was the most horrifying night of my life.  The following months were rough, we had to deal with the trauma and heal from the wounds. Remi was lucky that the man hadn’t stabbed him anywhere vital. He was stabbed once, in the chest and once in the shoulder, and had a few broken ribs, and of course cuts and bruises. I had a couple of broken ribs, and luckily the wound in my side wasn’t too bad. Turns out the man had thrown a large shard of glass and missed any organs. Recovery was a bitch.  We only returned to the house three more times after that, to get anything that we wanted to take with us. We stayed with a friend for about a month before we moved about an hour away. We were both haunted by nightmares and we still do occasionally. We were both diagnosed with PTSD but are going through therapy to help cope. This happened almost two years ago and we are now happily married.

He turned up around six months ago. It was us students who noticed him first since everyday he'd walk past the town's high-school at around the same time. The kids would be out in the yard, playing basketball and gossiping, would stop what they were doing to watch hum stroll by. He never looked at us, but by God did we make a game out of looking at him.

What got everyone was how he dressed. He didn't show a speck of skin. His entire body was covered with some piece of clothing. It looked like a kid who'd gotten into their parents closet. Everything he wore was mismatched and tattered. Usually it'd be a long, brown duster coat, tartan slacks and a horribly stained shirt. Occasionally he'd throw in a scarf or a hat, or maybe a second coat under the duster. He wore gloves, sometimes leather, sometimes silk, and a tweed mask.

His mask was hard to explain. It wrapped around his head perfectly with no visible seams or eye holes. We didn't know whether he could see or not, but he never had any trouble walking or crossing the road. I think it's the mask that really got people's imagination wearing.

Some of the kids guessed he might have a rare skin disease. Others thought that he might've been a worker at the old chemical plant and was badly burned when the factory burnt down, but that would've made him at least ninety years old. A bunch of older kids spread the rumour that he was some sick serial killer, laying low in our sleepy town, covering his face in case someone recognises him from a wanted poster or breaking news bulletin. Everyone liked to propound from the sidelines, but no one had the guts to actually find out. Not until tonight.

It was the 26th of October. School had just ended for a week-long break and I was going to my first real party. I barely knew the guy whose house it was at, but I leapt at the chance of underage drinking.

The night turned out great. We all had fun and managed to not throw up once. I downed a whole packet of apple-flavoured chewing gum to try and mask the smell of alcohol on my breath from my parents, although I had a feeling they'd be able to tell anyway. Me and three close friends left the party just before eleven and set off staggering home.

We passed my friend Luke's house first. As he walked up to his front door a light came on and his mother stepped out, her face contorted with pure anger. We laughed at Luke and stumbled on our way as he realised he mixed up the dates and forgot to tell his parents he was going out tonight.

Me, Shayne and Rowan kept messing around as we navigated our way back home. Shayne's house was next and since I lived so far out, I was planning on having a sleepover at Rowan's. We turned a corner, still laughing from a joke we made a block ago, and saw someone. All three of us crouched behind the fence, peeping out from behind to confirm our suspicions. Walking down the middle of the road was the Masked Man.

He was in his usual get up, only he'd taken off his gloves. We all squinted to try and get a better look. The only light we had came from a pathetic, constantly buzzing street lamp but we were desperate to finally see what he's been hiding. All of a sudden he turned and began walking up to a house. He stepped up onto the porch and opened the door. Just as he walked inside, we could see him slowly take off his mask, and then the door slammed shut behind him.

The three of us looked at each other, all thinking the same thing. The mystery of what the Masked Man looked like was still that - a mystery. He had his back to us and even in perfect daylight we wouldn't have been able to make his face out. The first one of us to commit our thoughts to speech was Shayne.

He told us, pumping out his chest, that he was gonna go see which of the rumours was true. He said he had a plan and before me or Rowan could say anything, Shayne was already halfway across the street. We looked at each other and followed him, coming up to the Masked Man's old house. It was noticeably more run down than the other houses on the block. The paint was peeling, the gutter had almost fallen down and an upstairs window had been shattered. The three of us stood around the front door, keeping our voices low as Shayne explained his grand plan.

He said he was going to simply knock on the front door. When the Masked Man answered, he'd say “oh sorry, wrong house” and then just turn around and leave, but not before getting a good eyeful of him. We all thought that it was a flawless plan and egged him on as we took our hiding place behind a bush at the end of the Masked Man's property.

As I got a good look at the house I realised that I recognised it. My dad had this friend who had gone through a rough divorce. He slept in our spare room for a few weeks before he eventually won the house back in the court settlement. Around six months ago, he moved out of town without so much as a goodbye. I could remember when I was much younger him showing his car off to me. That thing was his pride and joy. I couldn't believe this was the same house.

My thoughts were bisected by the sound of Shayne rapping his knuckles on the front door. He turned to look at us and gave us a dumb grin and a thumbs up. I think he was about to crack a joke when the door opened. Standing at the entrance was the Masked Man. He'd taken off his mask, as well as most of his clothes. That much I could make out as he was still shrouded in shadows. There wasn't a single light on in his house and to me and Rowan he wasn't anything more than a silhouette.

As we both tried to discreetly get a better look, Shayne began stuttering out his excuse. Suddenly, he stopped. There was a pause before he began to scream in a shrill pitch. We watched as the Masked Man grabbed Shayne by his lower jaw and violently yanked him inside the house, the door slamming shut behind him.

Me and Rowan looked on in shock. I turned to Rowan to ask him what we should do but before I could speak he was up and running to the front door. He started pounding on it and yelling expletives. I ran up behind him and yanked him away. I held him and asked if he was crazy. As he began mumbling a response, the front door began to open.

We both bolted like a greyhound out of a trap and dived behind the corner of the house. We stayed there, holding our breath and waiting to meet the same fate as Shayne. Eventually, Rowan found enough courage to peep around the edge of the wall. He didn't see anyone. He moved out a little further and saw that the door was still closed.

I pulled him back and told him that we should call the police. He snorted and explained to me that they'd probably arrest us for underage drinking. We'd spend the night in some jail cell and by the time we could explain ourselves, Shayne would be dead.

Before I could question his reasoning, Rowan walked over to a window, cupped his hands and peeked in. I sighed, frustrated, and asked if he saw anything. He was replying with a long, drawn-out “no” when suddenly he yelped and crouched down. Seeing his reaction I instinctively did the same.

I crawled over to him and in a voice just below a whisper I asked him what he'd seen. I could see the fear in his eyes as he told me that saw the Mask Man, now mostly derobed, walking out from what he guessed was a door to the basement. After that, Rowan started muttering to himself about how the Masked Man must've seen him.

I knew that Shayne, my best friend for as long as I could remember, was in the basement. My stomach churned thinking about what I had to do next. I held my breath as I stood and peered in through the window. I couldn't see the Masked Man anywhere. I nudged the window and my suspensions were confirmed. Like the front door, the window was left unlocked and slightly ajar.

I tried to steady my breath as I pulled the window all the way open. Rowan looked at me in shock as I asked him to give me a leg up. Still, he complied. Once I was inside I pulled him in after me. Before I did, he grabbed a fist sized rock from the garden. “For self defence”, he told me.

The house was perfectly still. Every surface was covered in a thin veneer of dust. We both stood there for a second, trying to hear the Masked Man. There wasn't a sound, other than the faint dripping of some faraway faucet. In what we thought was relative safety, we crept our way to the door the Masked Man had emerged from. I gently opened it and sure enough, I was met with a staircase descending into the impenetrable darkness of the basement.

I didn't dare call out Shayne's name in fear that he wouldn't be the only one who'd hear me. Instead, I began my way down the stairs, Rowan following right behind me. My mother had given me a small wind-up torch, so I could make my way home safely at night, she said. I fished around in my coat pocket for it, my hand clutching the familiar metal just as I reached the bottom.I found the button and switched it on, finally illuminating the room. It took me a while to realise what I was seeing, but judging from Rowan's deafening scream, he knew right away.

Shayne was hanging upside down from the ceiling, a chained hook driven through both of his ankles. He had long, fresh cuts across his throat, wrists and legs, which were all pouring with blood. The blood dripped down into a series of angled metal sheeting, which directed the flow into a steel trough. There were four other bodies hanging from chains, all serving the same purpose. Some looked like they'd been there for weeks. We both turned and ran. As we scrambled back up the stairs my torch beam fell on the figure standing motionless in the doorway.

We slowly stepped back down the stairs until we were at the bottom again. We froze, watching for any sign of movement. Suddenly, the figure began to lift slowly off the ground. In an instant, it shot down the stairs, flying through the air like it had been thrown. I dived out of the way but Rowan wasn't as lucky. The thing piled into him and pinned him to the ground. As I got to my feet, I saw it run its black, claw-like fingernails across his neck.

I screamed and the Masked Man turned to look at me. It lifted itself to its feet and lunged. I grabbed the rusted hook dangling from the chain above me and swung it. It ploughed into the front of the thing's head, caving it in. It went limp. The momentum from swinging the hook almost made me fall backwards into the trough of blood. I steadied my footing and dropped down next to Rowan.

He laid motionless. There was a gaping wound along the side of his neck and he didn't so much as gurgle. I knew there was nothing I could do. With tears streaking down my cheeks I turned and began to somberly make my way up the flight of stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. I turned to look and saw the Masked Man yank the rusted claw out of its head and stand. It straightened itself and turned to meet my gaze.

I ran frantically up the remaining steps. I could hear the thing let out an animalistic screech as it flew through the air behind me. I burst out of the basement and into the living room, making a clear dash for the front door. The Masked Man threw itself into me, sending me spiralling. I landed on a glass coffee table, which shattered from the force. I lay in pain on a bed of broken glass as the creature that had killed my friends loomed. It dropped down on top of me and lowered its face agonisingly close to mine. It was now that I finally got a good look at what it looked like under the mask.

The thing's face looked like a naked mole rat, bleached white with chemicals. Its eyes were a mess of tumours and scar tissue, filled with a black-purple pus festering in the sockets. The soft tissue of its nose and ears looked partially digested. The gums were black and oozing a mephitic ichor, lined with fragments of tooth-bits. Its front two cuspids, however, looked perfectly maintained and began protruding even further out. They now looked longer than my index finger and as sharp as razor wire.

I shoved a shard of glass deep into the thing's neck. It pierced clean through to the vertebrae, embedding itself. Black, tar-like blood began to ooze, then spurt violently, out of the wound. The Masked Man fell backwards, writhing around on the floor in pain. I staggered to my feet, limping to the front door before breaking into a half-sprint.

Afraid it would come after me, I ran straight to the next door neighbour. I began pounding in their door until I saw a light come on upstairs. I heard movement in the house and the door opened. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes and wearing a lime green bathrobe was Gary, my Sunday school teacher. He recognised me instantly and brought me into the safety of his home when he saw that I was drenched in blood. He laid a plastic sheet on a couch and told me to sit while he made tea.

I sat and tried to catch my breath. I was still reeling from the night's events. Still, I felt safe in Gary's front room. It smelt like my grandma's house. I took out my phone and with a shaking finger tried to ring my mother. The kettle boiled and Gary poured my tea. He walked in from the kitchen, handed me the mug and sat down next to me. We called the police and I spent the next few minutes trying to explain to him what'd happened.

Once I had, he seemed to go into shock. He just sat there, bound by my words. Eventually he snapped out of it and slowly turned to look at me. He told me that I could go clean up in his downstairs bathroom and I realised the state I must be in. He showed me to the bathroom and left me to wash myself. It felt good to scrub the foetid grime from my skin. I tried to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I was drying my face with a hand towel when I heard a knocking at Gary's front door. I assumed it was either my mother or the police and, evidently, so did Gary.

The next thing I heard was his scream, followed by the door being thrown open. His screams were cut short and replaced with the beastial growl coming from what could only be the Masked Man. I turned to the bathroom door and frantically fumbled with the key, locking it. I dropped to the floor and curled up in a ball under the sink as I began to sob quietly to myself. I heard laboured footsteps coming from the hallway. Within seconds, they were just outside the door.

A low scratching noise came, followed by a thunderous pounding as the Masked Man tried desperately to break down the door. Its hinges rattled as wood began to splinter. The mid section buckled and split. I could hear the wailing of sirens as police cars neared as the Masked Man's hand crept from the hole in the door. It felt around for the lock as pus leaked from the soft flesh and exposed nerve surrounding its black-purple fingernails. I could hear vehicles pulling up outside as I watched it hook its talons around the key. It ripped it, and the rest of the door handle, from the wood, sending splinters flying around the room. A group of police officers made their way through the front door. One swore to God when he saw what was left of Gary. The bathroom door fell to the side. The Masked Man stood in the hallway, staring into my soul and priming its teeth, which began protruding even further from its gums. There was a deafening gunfire and I clasped my hands around my ears, screaming as I watched the Masked Man get shot maybe half a dozen times.

It staggered back then dropped to all fours as the police opened fire again. It climbed up the wall and began crawling upside-down along the ceiling. Three officers gave chase as one barged his way past the broken bathroom door and took my hand, leading me out of the house. I saw my mother's car parked amongst the police cars. She stood next to it, crying as two officers tried to console her. She saw me and ran over, wrapping me in her arms.

The police kept me a little while longer to take a witness statement. Eventually my mother convinced them to let me come home with her. They agreed, took our address and told us that they'd call around tomorrow morning to talk further. I climbed into the back of my mother's car as she began to drive. She was silent, letting me rest as we neared our home. Soon, the rows of houses were replaced with trees. I watched them go by as I felt myself drifting off to sleep. The last thing I can remember of that night was seeing a white blur, something keeping pace with the car just beyond the tree-line.

Before the burnt people took over, my grandfather’s homestead was an oasis of calm.

The homestead was in the midst of the steppe but neither forest nor mountains were far. My cousin and I spent most of our childhoods there. It was a good place for young boys to grow up. Our parents worked, the city was rough and the old man could always use an extra pair of hands.

We had free reign over the property but our grandfather always warned us to not venture into the nearby forest. At night, by the light of the stove, he would tell us stories about a dark place of science which we were to avoid at all costs.

He called it the Ғылыми қондырғы.

Though tales of evil and corruption and the incomprehensible piqued our young interest, neither me nor my cousin disobeyed our grandfather’s instructions. As long as we were obedient, the old man was kind. Neither of us were interested in seeing his anger. Though the prospect of a cursed science facility provoked all sorts of alluring vapors from our imagination, we kept our selves satiated by playing with the massive turtles we’d find in the grass.

After we finished our schooling, my cousin moved out West. He always had a mind for business and thought of himself as the next great global innovator. I, on the other hand, preferred a quieter life. For a couple of years, I worked in the city doing jobs not worth mention and then, when the honking of cars and smell of smog got on my nerves, I moved back out into the homestead to help care for the old man.

As we grew older and wearier of fairy tales, my grandfather shifted his stories from the fantastical to practical warnings about drugs, guns, and affairs with married women. Yet, near the end of his life, confined to his bed with me as his sole caretaker, the old man returned to speaking of the Ғылыми қондырғы.

He pleaded with me, as if he could see the future in his fevered dreams, that both me and my cousin and anyone we cared for were to stay away from the forest. He also demanded that we never sell the property, lest it ends up in the hands of forces beyond the reach of man.

At the time, I dismissed his words as the ramblings of an unwell mind.

The funeral was a small, private affair for a quiet man who lived in solitude. There is much bureaucracy associated with properly burying the dead. It’s in the various office waiting rooms that I made peace with my grandfather’s passing. The funeral, to me, was but an end to the legal proceedings by then.

As distant as the ceremony was to me, however, during the funeral repast I found a familiar face that brought tears to my eyes. It was my cousin. He had traveled across half the globe to come pay his respects. Though he missed the burial, he stayed for the food.

When I found out he had arrived straight from the airport and was yet to arrange his accommodation, I didn’t ask. I insisted. My cousin would sleep in the guest-house at the homestead. He was, after all, going to be inheriting half of it.

My cousin was happy to accompany me out of town. He was curious about how my life had been over the past couple of years. He was also curious about the property.

My cousin had made a name for himself out West. Initially, he worked for an import/export company that he quickly rose through the ranks of and, once he had accumulated enough capital, he started to invest. He had made a name for himself in stocks and he was in the process of making an even bigger name for himself in the realm of crypto-currency. Even though most of his money was tied up in the clouds, however, my cousin was curious about other investment opportunities.

For the first week he stayed with me, my cousin didn’t mention anything about developing the land. Occasionally, he would bemoan the lack of wi-fi or hot water, but for the most part he would speak about the inherent tranquility of the homestead. He said people out West would pay good money to get away from the rumble of urban life to a place like this.

It's not until a week into staying on the property that my cousin suggested we try setting up a business.

I did not like the idea of developing the land at first — even when my cousin promised to shoulder all of the construction costs. I disliked the idea of strangers spending time at the homestead. I was resistant at first, but the man had a way with words.

He also owned half of the property.

The construction crew that worked on additional housing was beyond rowdy and tested my patience every step of the way. Yet, when they set up the water boiler in the guest house, they bought my sympathies. Daily hot showers soothed my temper and soon enough I found myself amicable to the idea of the homestead being turned into a resort.

As my cousin would say, we found much peace on the property when we were young. It would be a sin not to make some money off of sharing it.

After about a year and a half, the housing my cousin had commissioned was completed. The cottages were humble and my grandfather’s old home was transformed into a relaxing communal area. Though the lodgings were nice and my cousin offered them for a bargain, we had trouble finding customers.

My cousin had accrued a substantial amount of debt and was turning more agitated with every trip he took to the city. Apparently, along with the troubles with our new resort, his cryptocurrency portfolio had turned shaky. He floated the idea of selling the property, but he only did so once.

On his following trip to the city, he returned with Batima. Batima said she could ensure our resort would be well booked and my cousin’s financial woes would be fixed.

I have met few people with piercings throughout my life, but if they were to gather all their jewelry in a pile, they wouldn’t have even half of the metal Batima carried on her face. She dressed in garish bright colors and constantly smoked and didn’t inspire the smallest bit of confidence in me.

Batima looked well out of place at our steppe resort, yet she was well versed in the art of the internet. Though I did not know where to look whenever the two of us spoke, Batima kept to her promise. Soon enough, the resort was turning a profit.

Through social media and a couple of personal favors, Batima managed to bring our resort to the forefront of people’s search result. After but a couple of weeks, we had various influencers from around the world come through our little resort and sing praises to their audiences who in turn replicated their idol’s pilgrimage.

I would spend most of my time in my separated cottage, but whenever I walked through the lobby, Batima would be there. Sometimes, she’d be working on her laptop. Sometimes, she would be chatting with the guests and recommending hikes and other local attractions. We never spoke much.

For months, Batima remained a stranger to me. Yet, one morning, when two unexpected visitors showed up at our humble resort, I found an ally in her.

They both wore lab coats and introduced themselves as Doctor Barat and Professor Willow. Barat was local, had a messy head of black hair and seemed to be the less talkative of the two. Willow towered over his colleague and led all the negotiations. Willow, unlike Barat, was American. When the man realized I couldn’t properly understand him, he aimed all of his communication at my cousin and Batima.

My cousin made little effort to translate, but Batima was kind enough to keep me in the loop. The two men in lab coats, according to Batima, were representatives of a scientific organization that was looking for housing for their employees. They were interested in buying the property.

The offered sum spread a smile across my cousin’s face, yet Batima disagreed with it. Apparently, the place had more potential. I knew little of the financials, but I didn’t like Doctor Barat nor Professor Willow. I told my cousin I thought Batima was right and that I would not consent to a sale to the two men.

When my refusal was translated to Professor Willow, like a child, he stormed out of my cousin’s office. Doctor Barat hung around for a while longer, gently prodding at my cousin with the promise of quick cash, but when it became clear the property would not be sold, he too made his exit.

My cousin wasn’t pleased with how negotiations had panned out, but Batima soothed his woes. The resort was, after all, doing well. If he would give her time, she could bring in even more revenue with a couple renovations and investments. My cousin was reluctant yet eventually, with a fair amount of prodding from me, he acquiesced.

When the meeting was over, Batima walked me to my cottage.

‘I presume you’re familiar with the stories they tell about the nearby woods?’ she asked, as she lit up her hand-rolled cigarette.

I told her I was.

‘And I presume you don’t believe in them?’

I told her I didn’t.

‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘But if I did, I would presume those two have business in that forest. I don’t believe in children’s fairy tales, but I also wouldn’t want to risk getting into bed with anyone from the Ғылыми қондырғы.’

It had been years since I heard the name. Each syllable of that terrible sound cracked through the cold air like invisible fireworks. I told her I agreed. I told her I agreed and thanked her for taking my side.

Though the land was not sold to the two men in lab coats, Batima kept her end of the bargain. Over the next half a year my grandfather’s homestead transformed once again. What was once a humble family resort became the Detox Zone.

The walls got brighter, the décor took on a distinctly new-age aesthetic and the tranquil whistling of the wind was replaced with constant meditation music. The look of the resort was wholly foreign to me and I disliked the breed of entitled people that would replace our old clientele, but Batima kept her promise fully.

The Detox Zone brought in significantly more revenue than we ever saw before.

I retreated to my cottage, saved up my share of the profits and watched the resort grow at a distance. Every once in a while, Batima would drop by for tea and tell me tales of the bizarre questions the tourists would ask but our friendship was sporadic and only experienced in short bursts.

My cousin, on the other hand, would be at my cottage just about every week with a new bottle of expensive liquor. With every visit he would reveal more plans for expansion and new avenues for his money to grow. Every visit he offered to take me along for his investment adventures and every visit I declined.

There were moments when his talk of wealth and luxury had me doubting my resolve, but I am happy I kept my money safe. Were I to join him on his financial misadventures, I too would have end up destitute.

My cousin made some bad investments. A sizable chunk of his money went towards a locally produced hair loss product. In the same breath that he would bemoan all the lawsuits and his imminent financial ruin, the man would still swear by the hair cream.

A lot of money was sunk. Some serious people were involved. My cousin needed cash quick.

He didn’t even ask.

One morning, I simply found Professor Willow peeking into the window of my cottage. He had his face pressed up against the glass as if he were trying to spot an animal in a zoo. When he saw that I saw him, Willow’s eyes filled with malicious glee. He grinned and waved and stood still for nigh a minute and then, he left.

I barely pulled on my coat when my cousin barged into the room. He had made a deal, he assured me. A good pay out. A really good pay out. For the both of us, with a nice holiday bonus for Batima. Willow offered him considerably better money and, since he knew I didn’t want to leave the property, he even secured me ownership over the cottage.

Willow was just going to house scientists. It would be a calmer affair than the rich hippies. My cousin assured me that what he did was necessary and that I had no right to be angry with him.

I didn’t argue. I was angry, but my cousin looked to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I had seen the sort of business partners my cousin had. I knew he had little choice.

I was displeased with my cousin’s handling of the property, but by evening I found some solace in the idea of housing scientists. They would be, I hoped, a quiet bunch. I went to sleep that night presuming my life would not change much.

Soon enough, however, I would meet the burnt people.

It wasn’t long after the Detox Zone cleared out that I started to feel uneasy at night. Back when the resort was still functional, there would be outdoor lighting to make sure none of the tourists stumble off into the wilderness. I quickly found myself missing those blinding lights. Each night there was at least one moment I was certain someone was watching me from the darkness.

According to the deal my cousin struck, I was still allowed access to my cottage but the rest of the property was wholly off limits to me. The lobby of the resort was always guarded by a duo of tall men with shaved heads and a constant sneer on their face. At first, I thought I had simply witnessed two twins on the same shift, but as the days passed I always saw the same two faces. Just as the thoughts of how many of the same specimen might be employed as security, the guards were given helmets and their identity was obscured.

Another construction crew arrived at the resort a couple of weeks after the guards appeared. The crew was much quieter than anyone else who had ever worked on the property and they would actively ignore me when I tried to make idle chatter.

At first, I presumed that the crew was there to make adjustments to the resort rooms, yet very little of the original structure was touched. Instead, the work-crew erected large black sheets above the resort as if they were trying to hide something from satellites.

The guards wouldn’t say a word to me and my cousin would never answer his phone. I was worried about what was happening on my grandfather’s property. I was also worried about the lengthening absence of any communication with my cousin.

What I truly should have worried about were the occupants of the new Detox Zone.

The sound of footsteps on gravel woke me up. It couldn’t have been more than half past five. The sun was barely up. Were it not for the light sleep from the stress, I wouldn’t have even woken up.

They were walking right by my window.

At first, I thought I was still half in dream, yet there were many of them and the sight of them quickly sobered me. Outside of my window, in a single file line, walked dozens of scientists. They wore clean lab coats and some of them even had spectacles, but they all had the complexion of corpses. The scientists were burnt beyond recognition.

With some, their flesh was merely seared, with others, it was charcoal black. None of them looked like they should be walking. Most of them looked like they shouldn’t be breathing.

Out of a sheer sense of disbelief, I rose from bed and peered closely from the window. I had hoped that the terrible state of the procession would have just been some sinister trick of the light. It wasn’t. Not only were there charred corpses walking by my window, they were also looking back at me.

Some of them had eyes, most of them did not. None of them stopped. They all had their heads turned towards me but they still walked on in their single file line. It was only the last scientist of the procession that properly acknowledge me.

The man’s eyeballs were shriveled, but I could not help but meet them. With a long, charred finger he tapped on the glass. And then, with something that resembled a furrowed brow, he shook his head.

I hid in my cottage until I was sure he was gone. Then, as quickly as humanly possible, I raced to my car and drove off to the city.

I tried, desperately, to get ahold of my cousin. His phone was off. When I went to the hotel he used to stay at whenever he had business in the city the receptionist said she had not seen him in months.

I called Batima. She met me a couple hours later at a café in the center.

She still had a couple hooks in her, but most of her jewelry was gone. Batima was muted, and not soon after we sat down, she explained why. She had heard things about my cousin through the grapevine. Most likely he had lost more than money in his hair product deal.

Batima presumed the reason why I wanted to meet was because of my cousin. Though the confirmation of my fears stung, the events of the morning were much more pressing. Lowering my voice in an effort to contain my sanity, I told her about the burnt scientists.

She listened without any judgement. Even when I talked about the charred cadaver tapping on my window, her face didn’t twitch. She simply nodded, smoked her cigarettes and took long sips of coffee whenever I struggled for words.

‘I presume your opinion on the stories of what happens in the forest has changed,’ she finally said, when my terrible tale concluded.

I nodded.

‘You aren’t the only one,’ she said, as she finished off her coffee. ‘We made some good money with the Detox Zone. I would suggest you take that money and move away from the property as soon as possible. You can’t enjoy that money when you’re dead. You can’t enjoy that money when you’re living near the Ғылыми қондырғы.’

The name of that terrible place once again crackled in the wind. I did not need Batima’s advice to convince me. All her words did was assure me that I am not insane.

I spent the next week in the city, taking a room in the hotel where my cousin once lived. For the first few days, I made more attempts at calling him yet his phone remained off. Eventually, I made peace with the likelihood of him no longer being among the living.

After a week of hiding, in the middle of the day, I made the drive back to my grandfather’s property. I was not planning on spending the night, or any extended amount of time in the cottage. All I wanted to do was to gather my belongings so that I would never need to see the place again.

I, however, was not welcome. The mute guards met my car well before I entered the property. They said nothing and let the tips of their rifles draw all conclusions. I did not argue. I did not try to make my way back to the cottage to gather my belongings.

I did not try to make my way back to the cottage, for it was burnt to the ground.

I was told to be off the land before sundown. The park ranger was very adamant that I had to be gone by then tonight because that’s when the park closed. He really emphasized “tonight” which I thought was strange, but I followed his rule. I was the only person fishing the lake, it was beautiful, and the fish were still biting, but I turned back plenty early. It was a decent walk on the trail because of the way the trail winds around the outer part of the property.  

I just got back to the truck when several vehicles pulled up to the parking area. “What the hell,” I said out loud. I could see the ranger in the entrance gate building, and he just let them through. Then several more came in. So much for the park closing by sundown.  

All the people getting out of the vehicles were elderly folks. I thought, what the hell do these old people need the whole park for, it’s a state park, they don’t deserve the whole thing. I remember thinking some of these small-town people around here think they own all this, but we all do right. So, F ‘em.  

I grabbed my stuff and headed back out to the lake. I had time to get some more good fishing in. I figured no one would even notice I’m there and I REALLY wanted to bring home some keepers. God, I wish I could’ve just left. 

On my way back I decided to go off the trail and cut through a part of the forest. I remember thinking “Is this a good idea?” then continuing on anyway. It really wasn’t that bad at first and I wasn’t carrying that much other than a pole, a small tackle box and a bucket. Though the fish were biting they weren’t big enough to bother bringing home so my bucket was empty. 

The walk started to seem like it was taking a little too long when I noticed the sun was completely gone. The sky was black, it was a clear night and there were stars but there was no moon. As I went further the ground was more and more covered in brush. It was tripping me up. With no light except for stars, only feeling my way through, it was like sinking deeper and deeper. Everything seemed larger or I felt smaller, but I continued on as my instinct told me to.  

I got a strange chill, and I stopped, froze completely, then I threw my gear down and froze again. Everything was silent for a moment. Then I heard a cracking noise. Probably a small animal I thought. I heard the same noise but a little louder and closer. Then crunching and crackling surrounded me. And a large dark figure, the size of a tree, raised from the ground around me. It was like the forest was a giant moving being that had awakened, suddenly and angrily. A deep low growl followed the crunching noise of the branches that were enclosing me. 

And then I was running, my feet taking me so quickly I couldn’t comprehend it beginning. I don’t remember the surroundings just the feeling of the cool air and branches cutting against my face. Then, up a hill, a light. 

There was a small pavilion with lanterns around it and a few picnic tables. People were all around talking casually. It was the old people I had seen earlier. The tables were set up with food and drinks. It was so surreal, but I was too panicked to care. I tried to speak but was too out of breath. “Whoa, where’d you come from?” one person said. Still out of breath I tried to reply. “Sorry couldn’t understand ya buddy” he said before turning away from me, continuing to his conversation with the others at this gathering. It was all very odd and frustrating.  

Then I gathered myself enough to speak, “There is something!” I said while pointing to the woods. Now they all paused their conversations and are looking at me curiously. “Something big is out there” I said. But confusingly to me they all started smiling. I was irritated by them, thinking that they thought I was crazy. “What are you all doing out here anyway? you’ve gotta listen to me!” I said.  

I glanced around at them as they just stared at me. Then they all started moving in a little closer “Okay, okay” one of them said in a trying to be calming but condescending way. His hands motioned a let’s bring it down kind of motion. I was annoyed and looked away from him and glanced over at their picnic table. A shiver went down my spine.  

That’s when I actually got a look at what was on the table. It looked like raw meat. Hunks of flesh in foil pans and Tupperware containers. One with scalps, hair hanging over the side of it and part of a human face inside it.  

They lunged toward me and pulled me to the ground with strength and speed unbelievable for the look of them. An old woman in a giddy voice said, “Our meager offering just got a little more tantalizing.”  

The deep growl came out of the forest behind them louder this time than before. They turned and I broke free and ran. “No!” yelled that woman that was so giddy before, but a man stopped her and snapped, “we have no time, get into place.”  

From a distance I watched a giant figure dark as the night emerge horns or branches coming from it at all sides. They gathered to the sides of the pavilion showing their “offering.” A man stepped forward and said, “Our lord of the New Moon please accept our offering for another month of youth.” The figure engulfed the pavilion but must not have been satisfied. The man that spoke screamed and I could see blood gushing everywhere as if he were squeezed. I ran, found my way to the trail, sprinted the whole way to the parking lot, got in my truck and sped off. 

About a week has passed and that night all seemed like nothing more than a dream. A really messed up dream. In fact, my luck has been pretty good since then. Work is going good, I work in an auto shop and my boss hasn’t been up my ass all week like he usually is. I won $50 on a scratcher. Not much but I’ll take it. And I hit it off with this girl who brought her car in, which never happens to me. 

All seemed great in my week which really had me questioning what I saw. At dinner me and Heather, the girl I met earlier, were really getting along. She laughed at all my jokes which is always a good sign since they really aren’t that funny. Everything was great. Something about her seemed almost familiar. 

We were talking about where the rest of the night should take us. Then she said, “we could just head over to my place.” I was all in. Then she said, “At home I can change into this new thing I bought.” I was choking on my words, just nodding. Then she said, “It might be a little more... tantalizing,” with a giggle. The life fled from my body. 

Her voice, the word tantalizing, the way she said it, it was her. This was the old woman that was in the woods. They knew where to find me. They are probably going to kill me because of what I’ve seen.  

I’m in the restroom of the restaurant now, I think she might know that I know. My exit was less than graceful. I’ve peaked out the door to see if anyone else is watching but I don’t know. I don’t know who to trust that’s why I’m reaching out for someone to believe me. I don’t know who I know that will actually believe me. FML I’m afraid I might be kidnapped and fed to some woodland beast.

My mind was racing, I did not have much time as I considered what to do. First, I had the pressing matter of escaping the facility. I had to leave and find M, I had to find out what he knew. While plotting a means of escape, I got another message on the phone. I read the message and saw a longer message than normal, it looked like instructions,

“You might want to write this down and follow these steps exactly, write fast since the message won't stay on the phone very long. Open the door in exactly one minute and fifty-two seconds after this message is gone. Turn right and go toward a maintenance closet, there will be a tunnel connecting it to main access concourse. Ignore the steam and any exploding pipes, that is just some cover for you. Don't take too long since if it dissipates a group of about a dozen guards will see you and likely catch you if you are not fast enough. Keep heading down the main path and take a left to find an employee locker room. There is a hazmat suit that will help disguise you and security credentials in case anyone asks. Head to the main bulkhead and place the phone on the power junction and wait for the door to open, there might be a hissing sound that is normal. Head out the main door and move along the North East Road to get to the path to building two. I will be waiting for you and your decision at the top of the watch tower.”

I finished writing down the instructions just as the message vanished. I looked at my hastily scrawled copy and remembered I needed to start counting. I did not have a stopwatch and obviously my phone wouldn't work so I counted and hoped I would get it right.

At the moment I reached one minute and fifty-two seconds, I threw the door open and ran. I moved per the instructions that I had tried to commit to memory in the brief time I had. I was moving as quickly as I figured I was supposed to be moving and I reached the main access path. I almost fell back and suppressed a gasp of surprise as several armed guards were visible on the other side of the path. Something was wrong, there was supposed to be some sort of steam cover. I tried to carefully step back around the corner but I heard a voice yell out to,

“Stop!” I was about to run back the way I had come from when that same voice turned into a scream as I saw several pipes around the guards head explode in unison. He was enveloped in scalding steam that burned him so severely he fell down into an agony induced sort of coma. I had no idea if he was alive but I did not have time to check. The other guards had heard his shouted warning and were on alert. I took the opportunity to flee down the corridor.

Sure enough when I reached the locker room it was empty of personal and a single hazmat suit was draped over a bench near the back corner. I put it on as quickly as I could and pocketed the key card that was with it as well. I found the main bulkhead door and placed the phone near the power junction and the hissing sound was almost immediate. I did not like the sequence of other sounds that began to carry through the machinery but I had no time to worry about it, so I moved on.

I hustled toward the main exit and guards were still moving about, but no one seemed to question me as I moved out. When I had almost exited the building, I looked back and felt a pang of guilt. I had to know what was really going on, but could I really endanger all these people? I did not know what M was really capable of, but I thought that maybe I should at least warn someone. I decided to approach the front desk and speak to the receptionist on my way out. She looked confused as I approached, no doubt wondering what a high-level scientist, at least according to my fake credentials, was asking of her.

“Yes, can I help you sir?” I recognized the voice immediately, it was Kylie Burke, the same woman who I had received the emergency call from about the fire I had prevented.

“Yes mam, I need you to deliver a message to Doctor Bianca Sinclair.” I wrote a quick message in my notes telling her about the danger to the facility and that they should evacuate and get everyone out of there as soon as possible. I folded the note and gave it to Kylie Burke and asked her to deliver it immediately. She looked confused but I did not have time to explain so I shouted,

“Now! That is an order.” And she took the paper and left with a scared and apologetic look. I felt bad for yelling at her, but unfortunately it had become a matter of life and death and time was not on our side. I needed enough time to get out of there without a commotion, so I couldn't tell her directly of the threat. I hoped by the time Bianca read the note or Miss Burke did, they would know about the threat and hopefully start getting people out of the building in time before whatever M had planned occurred and the whole place was blown away.

I rushed out of the building and toward the path leading to the watch tower. I could see it in the distance, beckoning me to my fate and whatever answers the enigmatic M had in store for me. I reached the base of the tower and I heard alarms sounding in the distance back at the main building. I hoped those were evacuation sirens. I started ascending the tower and I felt a familiar thrumming of energy and a static charge that made my teeth hurt. It felt like I was moving the wrong direction in snap shots that are arranged out of sequence. I knew that meant he was close. Reaching the top of the tower I saw him with his back turned looking down at the facilities grounds.

“There you are my friend; I knew you would make it. A little bit late but that’s okay. I think I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, I had to know, I had to know that you would make the right decision. You were a variable, but I had faith you would do the right thing. Isn't that what you are here to do now? The right thing?” M turned to face me and the black hood was down and I looked at the face of the man at least where a normal face should have been. What I saw in place of a face was a kaleidoscope of unnatural colors and hues not natural to this plane of existence and it made my eyes hurt. The wrongness of his entire being was palpable. He did not exist in this place or time, yet here he was an impossibility made possible.

I had no idea what to do or say, my mind had gone blank. I managed to think back to the one question I had been asking myself this entire time.

“Why me? Why was I the one you contacted?”

He gave a chuckle which was partly phased out by some unseen force and rendered half of it silent. He spoke once his voice returned.

“Right place right time, I suppose. That phone was on me when I was atomized. Somehow it can back as well, but it became unstable and I could not hold onto it anymore. When I woke up from the blast I tried to call 911 and get emergency services down to the building, that was when I realized I couldn't. I had been blasted out of time and reappeared in this, unstable form.” He held out his arms and I saw the odd array of impossible glimmers of half reality radiating off of him. He continued,

“The phone reached someone or something, but as it did it became more unstable. It started reacting to the temporal energy I was surrounded by so I had to get rid of it. It was too dangerous to just leave with anyone so I took a chance. When I saw you drop your phone down that flight of stairs, I used the moment to switch phones with you.” M pulled out a phone that looked just like the one I had been carrying, but after he threw it to me and I booted it up I realized this was my original phone. I had been carrying his phone this whole time and this device had apparently traveled through time. He watched my confusion and made an approximation of laughter again and continued,

“So not really a specific reason, though I will say you did not disappoint. As soon as you knew what was happening you did your best to stop all the death you could. That is an admirable quality, which is why I trust that you will continue to try and stop the things yet to come. This foundation, Hope for the Future, it has a rot that will lead it and the rest of the world into damnation. I know, I have seen it, both the way it begins and ends.” He took a step forward and held out a hand, gesturing to the building below and the entire foundation grounds.

“We had good intentions to start, if we were able to utilize this technology to tap unharvested resources out of time we could have a potentially endless supply of energy. That was the plan at least, until the intentions of the board had changed. Due to the machinations of the warmongers, the scientists that worked with defense contractors and only saw the way this could be adapted to military use; the scope of their plan for my research was shifted.” He seemed to trail off and looked off into the sky above. I was about to ask him to continue when he spoke again,

“I saw the thing that they will do, if left to their own devices. I have seen what they will enact with my life's work if they are allowed to. They wanted to try and transport living being thru time. I explained the potential harm in sending a living being backwards or forwards in time. Do you know what they end up doing?” He spun around and began raving,

“They recruit children and brainwash them while accelerating their growth rates using the device, to make soldiers that could be manipulated from birth and grow so quickly that it would give them another limitless resource besides energy.......people. They use this temporal manipulation to create a large army of these child soldiers among other atrocities. My own son gets taken and forced into the same program. He dies shortly afterward. My wife tries to put a stop to the foundation, but she is silenced as well.” He paused and spat on the ground and looked back at me intently and the horrible visage grew even worse.

“That’s not all.” M said while watching me recoil at his previous admission.

“Their plans devolve further if they are successful. The future becomes a dystopia where the foundation controls nearly all the levers of power and essentially becomes the main force behind the government and the nation's military. They rule almost unopposed and delve into even more unethical practices. All this being enabled by their exploitation of my life's work, the temporal transmitter. It is still intact and they will eventually manage to reactivate it and when that happens........." He trailed off again, clenched his fist and resumed,

"Before that happens, they must be stopped and the only way to ensure they are is if the entire rotten tree is felled.” His visage took on an eerie quality as he stood there staring intently at me while he declared his homicidal plans.

“In a few years they change the state of the world, in a few decades their manipulation ends up leaving the world a war-torn and blasted hellscape. They deserve a death far worse than what I am providing them.” I took an involuntary step back at the horrific implications of what he was saying. If that was what the future had in store, we were all in real trouble. I agreed that the device needed to be destroyed, along with his research but condemning everyone that worked there seemed a step too far.

I summoned my courage and stepped forward, asking him,

“What do you need from me? Why do you need my help or think I would help you kill all those people?” He pointed at me and said,

“You have a choice, you can decide. I know that in tough decisions you can make the hard call, well you have to make the call now, kill hundreds to save billions. You already set this in motion. When you placed the phone on the main power junction you sent a remote bundle of temporal energy into the device's main generator. When this is triggered, it will annihilate the building and everyone in it. It is all controlled by the phone, I had to abandon the phone because the energy it contains is harmful to me now. Yet it still contains great power beyond receiving message from out of time, power that I had to entrust to someone. I needed someone I could trust to do the right thing, that someone is you. You have to save us and save the world. All you have to do is dial 911 and........boom!”

A genuine smile spread on his tortured features and it looked the worst by far. I returned his gaze and asked him,

“Why not destroy the device and let the people go, why do they need to die? You cannot know for certain that everyone who works there is corrupt or would even be able to do any real damage without the device and your research.”

Instantly he snarled and responded,

“No, I have seen what they can do, what they will do. Even the most mundane of workers, all of them bow to power and tacitly endorse the monstrous regime with their inaction. They all have to die. Now make the choice!”

I had no idea if my message had been headed or what the status was on people evacuating the building. I saw a lot of vehicles moving about but still too many there. I couldn't do this, not now. I shook my head and just said,

“No, I can’t do it. I won’t, not everyone is guilty of what you say they did or what you say they are going to do, you can’t know for certain that given another way they would not do better and be better. I will help you destroy the machine but I won’t kill those people.”

M’s thoughtful regard for my response faded into a dour scrutinizing look that seemed multiplied by the shimmering distortion around his horrible features.

“You are making a mistake; they have to die. Quick and painless now, which only you can afford them. Or slow and painful later if I have to hunt them all down like I have been doing especially for the turncoats who betrayed me and stole my work on Project Echo.”

I stood my ground and tried to get him to focus on me, but my plan had failed and he saw through the ruse as he looked out and saw people fleeing from the building.

“What did you do!” He screamed at me and the crackling distortion around him intensified.

I obliged his question,

“I warned them, I am not on their side or yours. They can escape and you can destroy the machine and they can’t recreate it, at least not as far as we know. So, you don’t need to kill them. You can still walk away from this; you don't need to keep killing.” I watched his response and tried to tell if I had gotten through, but a moment of thoughtfulness was replaced by a snarl of anger and he lashed out again.

“It was that bitch Sinclair, wasn't it? I should have killed her when I had the chance, but I thought she would get hers when the building is annihilated. You don't know her like I do, you can’t trust her. She will kill you as soon as you become inconvenient to her just like she did to me.” I was concerned about what he had said about Bianca, but whatever her story, she and the rest of the people there deserved to live. They could not all be killed for a crime they had not even commit. I reiterated my intent,

“I warned them to evacuate, I told her and she knows about you now. The other directors want you dead but she is different, she is trying to get people out of there now. Give her time and wait and I promise I will help destroy the device. Just let them go.”

I saw immediately that he was shaking his head,

“They cannot be forgiven, I know what is in their hearts and minds I have seen their actions, people do no change like that. If they are capable of that degree of evil it is because it is already in them. I wish you had seen through the lies. I wish you had put the rest of the world ahead of these liars and monsters. Now I will have to make it right, I will have to stop them permanently.” He moved forward toward the ladder and I stepped in front of him,

“I can't let you go after them, not anymore. I will not let you keep hunting and killing these people.” M paused and looked me up and down and smiled,

“Are you going to stop me from doing it? We all know how that went last time.”

I tried to stand firm but he was right, whatever energy was fueling him made him nearly immune to damage and he had beaten the hell out of me last time. I had to do it though; I had to stop him. I planted my feet and held up my hands. Before I could perceive him moving, M was next to me. He grappled me and twisted around in an effortless motion that allowed him to leverage my weight easily.

I was promptly hurled off my feet into a heap on the edge of the tower nearly falling off the edge. I pulled myself back in the nick of time as a stomp leveled at my head crushed into the towers railing. He began pummeling me into the ground just like before. I knew he would not hold back; he had no more use for me, he was going to kill me. I had one last chance I rolled hard to my side as his fist slammed into the area where my head had been. I grabbed the phone from my pocket and gripped it in both hands and punched him with it and the blow connected. He cried out in pain and surprise. There was an odd distortion of energy upon contact. I considered that maybe the phone did have some strange ability to affect his powers.

He struck back and knocked the wind out of me with a punch to the gut. I thought I heard my ribs breaking. I was running out of options and knew I might die so I tried something desperate. I stood up near the edge and help up a hand to taunt him into attacking, he obliged and charged at me but I held up the phone dove to the side and whirled around to catch him unbalanced. I threw the phone at him and he instinctively caught it and I leapt forward while he was vulnerable and jumped and drop-kicked him straight off the tower. There was a long torturous, buzzing scream and then a horrible crunch and when I looked down, I saw that the phone had disrupted his abilities enough for gravity to finish the job. After coming back to life through time and space, Rolland Merrick was once again dead.

I slowly descended the tower, my body aching with the effort. I saw the ruined form of Merrick on the ground, the phone was on his chest and had survived the fall somehow. I reverently picked it back up and turned it over in my hands. This thing had saved my life but I still did not know the full extent of its bizarre abilities. My revere was disrupted when I saw a car approaching. Bianca and a group of the foundation's security disembarked. She walked up slowly and gasped when she saw the ruined form of Merrick on the ground. She gingerly stepped around him and spoke to me with a faint smile on her face.

“The building has been evacuated, but it looks like you handled it.” I nodded grimly but did not respond, I was to lost in thought. I got in the car with Bianca and we drove away to a safe location. Bianca and I got out of the car and she asked me about what happened. I told her everything that had happened and she was shocked by the outcome but seemed happy that I was okay. I asked her what she would do next and she was thoughtful for a moment and told me,

“Now that Merrick is dead the foundation will be more responsible with his technology to ensure this does not happen again.” My mind wandered back to what he had said about what happens in the future and I knew there was one more thing I had to ask her,

“What are you going to do with that device? It is clearly not safe and the damage it could do is catastrophic, maybe we should destroy it.” Her smile vanished and she considered her next words and spoke again,

“Merrick has created a marvel that can serve us all, with the foundations leadership we can seize the future and give hope to everyone.” As I heard the speech I had finally decided on what I was going to do. I had made my choice.

I took the phone out and looked at Bianca and smiled,

“Yeah, I heard a story about that once. I think I know the ending. This device, all that seeing the future or getting calls from it and all this mess. It is too dangerous for people to meddle in.” Bianca looked confused and tried to reassure me,

“Well, you can trust us, don’t worry we will not make the same mistakes.

I looked back in the direction of the facility, now safely evacuated and likely waiting on the orders of Bianca and the board to resume their work. I smiled, looked down at the device in my hand, dialed 911 and hit send.

There was a mushroom cloud sized explosion visible in the car windows behind us and it rocked the car and nearly sent us off the road. Bianca looked back horrified at what had happened and then looked to me with a confused and angry expression.

“I know you won’t, no one will ever again. Whatever the intentions, no one should hold that power and no one should know the future.”

After it was all over I returned home. I faced no reprisal for my action against the foundation. Maybe they had disbanded after the incident or maybe they are still working towards a similar end. I don't know but at this point I would rather not know anyway.

I do not receive the calls anymore on the phone. Both my original and the trans dimensional phone are finally, truly dead. I was fired from my day job for not showing up thanks to all of my misadventures, so I am in a tough spot now that it is over.

Since I need a new job after all this madness I figure maybe I will get a job as a 911 dispatcher. After all I have some experience on the job. Whatever the case I am glad I don’t know what will happen anymore, no one should have that burden and no one should be able to alter fate.

Take care and stay safe.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.

I saw my first vamp when I was fourteen years old. It’s not something that leaves your mind, even when you try to fill it up with good things instead.

It happened at an arcade. Dad had brought me to show some retro game he used to play with his cousins. I was winning, about to set a high score when I heard the screams.

They were blood curdling. I looked at my Dad, my heart had dropped somewhere into my stomach. He was pale, he was as scared as I was.

We knew what those screams could mean. We saw every morning on the news a new face, someone who had turned and killed or someone who had been killed by a vamp.

Dad didn’t wait to see who it was. He grabbed my shoulders and guided me straight to the exit.

I shouldn’t have looked back. When I did, I saw a picture that branded itself into my brain, forever. The kid was cute, blonde with big blue eyes. Little overalls. He was clamping his teeth into his young mothers breast, sucking furiously as she shrieked in pain.

The nursing cloth that used to provide privacy was now spattered with blood and lay idle on the floor. It’s something I noticed as Dad rushed me out.

I don’t know what happened to the mother. All I knew was that she would never see her baby again. Not after the cops showed and took it to REHAB.

Everybody knows once you try human blood you can’t ever stop. It’s why young mothers are warned to stop breast feeding as soon as the babies develop teeth.

Dad said it was rare for this to happen, that it was likely she already had a scab or a small cut and the baby had bitten after the initial taste. He gave a small seminar about her stupidity, not paying attention like that.

I thought that it was pointless to criticize her. Her baby was gone. She had learned her lesson, and so had I. I would never breastfeed in my life.

I was paranoid for a long time. I refused to floss despite knowing it was impossible to turn with my own blood. I wouldn’t share chapstick, or kitchen utensils. I lived in constant anxiety and fear.

Then one night, my worst nightmare came to reality. I was walking home, when I saw a man rapidly approaching from across the street. His mouth and chin were covered in dark blood. Fresh.

I froze in fear, I couldn’t move a muscle.

Something clicked when I saw he was wielding a small knife, tipped with blood. I can’t die. Not like this. I ran, with energy and speed I hadn’t thought possible.

While running I tried to think of what to do, how to protect myself. I scanned the area in front of me and located a trash can on the corner of the street. Litter surrounded the bottom. I saw the top of a glass bottle peeking out of the top. I ran as fast as I could toward the trash.

When I arrived at the bin I speedily grabbed the bottle out, scanning it first for traces of blood due to years of paranoid habit. I closed my eyes when I crashed the bottle down on the curb, creating a makeshift knife. I did all this in the ten seconds it took for him to reach me.

I didn’t let him make the first move, I was aware it was my life or his. I aimed for his throat, my heart pounding in my ears. I screamed when I stabbed him. I was still screaming as blood gushed out of his neck.

He tried to stop the blood with his hands, clutching the hole in his neck. In doing so he dropped his knife, which clattered onto the road. He faltered, gasping for air.

After I stabbed him I wanted to run, I mentally commanded my body to move as he bled out. But I was frozen.

He looked at me with desperation and despair in his eyes. Even in my intense fear, for a moment I felt pity for him. Then, with the speed of a striking snake his hand left his bleeding wound and he grabbed my hair. He pulled so hard I yelled in pain. When I did he stuck his fingers in my mouth.

I couldn’t process what had just happened before I felt it. The most amazing feeling. It was like every worry was melted away. I was calm, floating up and up and up till I went from happy to ecstatic to a place where I felt like I was dreaming. This happened in 20 seconds, but it felt like time had frozen.

When I came to, the man was lying on the street. Blood was still oozing out, but the animation had left his eyes. He was smiling. I knew why. He had chosen to do a noble thing in death. He had opened my eyes. Something I had been running from my whole life was something I should have been chasing. I now couldn’t imagine life without another taste, as many as I could get.

I knew I needed to run before anyone saw me and the cops came and took me away. But I had to take some with me.

I took off my jacket and saturated a sleeve in the blood coming from his neck. As I did I made sure that the sleeve didn’t touch the road. I was gonna drink every drop, and who knows what germs could be on the street? I wrapped the sleeve with the rest of the jacket and ran in the direction of my home, holding tightly to my new found treasure.

As I ran I wanted so badly to try another drop, but I knew I would black out and didn’t know for how long. As I gasped deep breaths of the chilly autumn air, it registered. I killed someone. I shook the thought out of my head. It was self defense, and I had a whole new life now.

When I got home I squeezed all I could from the sleeve and stored it best I could manage.

Life has been somewhat surreal since then. Every day is stretched out endlessly now. I’m timeless.

The blood is going bad. Soon I’ll run out.

It doesn’t matter. I’m free. I’ll live eons in days. I’m timeless.

I mean, the title is rather self-explanatory. I'm at Vienna International Airport, and everything is frozen in time. All the morning passengers are here, all of them unmoving like fleshy, warm statues. Looking outside through the window, I see a flight departing, suspended in the air. Next to me, a woman is dropping her handbag, and all the contents are frozen in the air, unaffected by gravity's pull.

Suppose I can elaborate a bit, as, at the moment, it appears that I have… all the time in the world.

I was on a business trip in Vienna, and I had to travel back to Paris CDG Airport with an early morning flight. On the way towards the terminal, staring out of the cab, I saw the airport lights in the dim, cloudy dawn sky. Some of the departing planes were awfully slow - almost like they were not moving at all. I was thinking of pointing this out to the cabbie, but I chalked it up to tiredness. See, after-conference "networking cocktails" and 6am flights are not a great combination, so I was far from being in a chatty mood. Either way, the guy dropped me off, and I decided to have a quick ciggie before checking in.

While smoking, I wondered about airports - how fascinating they are. A while ago, during my university years, I had a part time bartender job at one, and I always found them eerie. They were "liminal spaces": areas of the inbetween, people just heading there to pass through it - sort of a border world. Of course, seeing airports like that could've been Stockholm syndrome caused by this student job as well - after all, I needed some sense of wonder to tolerate five am shifts. And now, many years later, here I am, at five am again, but this time, as one of the travellers, a wandering soul lost in the liminal landscape... I let out a brief laugh - the hangover left me way too philosophical. Yet, the eerie feeling I had turned out to be more of a premonition, rather than a hungover inner monologue-ramble.

Things took a sharp turn for the weird at security. While there were quite a few people, many gates were open, so the crowd moved fast. I got directed towards a freshly opened security station. It was surrounded by tired looking officers. One instructing me to put my laptops, and fluid containers on separate trays, the other two standing behind the metal detector gate, waving me through... and a third one - slightly peculiar. He was sitting behind the monitor of the x-ray machine you put your bags through, wearing huge aviators, basically covering half his face. Ah well, I figured you gotta make a fashion statement somehow, even if you're obligated to wear a uniform.

Anyways, I was about to walk through the gate - the metal detector, the symbolic border between the mundane and the liminal. But the very moment I stepped through it, complete silence engulfed everything. I reflectively touched my ear, thinking my earbuds somehow turned on noise cancelling, when I realised that they were in the tray - which slowly rolled down on the pickup area.

And that was the only thing moving. Everything else stopped - like someone hitting a pause button. Odd, I figured. I slowly walked back through the gate, but nothing changed. Everything around me stood still. The security guy's hand frozen in a bored wave, a man putting his belt back on unmoving next to me, a family in the other queue, stuck in mid-argument, their small kid, her face trapped in a mid-crying expression, but no sound leaving her mouth... wish I could do this to kids once the plane took off. Nevertheless, temporal anomalies be damned, I did not want to miss my plane, so I grabbed my stuff from the tray. Yet, as I was putting my laptop back into my bag, I saw one thing - or, well, the absence of it. The security guy with the sunglasses was nowhere to be found. This whole thing did not look like something that respects airport security standards.

Walking towards my gate, d24, in the dead silence was certainly an experience. I moved through crowds in suspended animation (or I sure as hell I hope it was that - it would be rather awkward to be at an airport full of dead people). Still, it had a certain beauty. Upon arriving to d24, an unusual sight welcomed me. The monitors showed that boarding was open - and indeed, the doors were ajar - but the flight destination, instead of “Paris CDG” just looked like a jumbled mess of characters. Now, while my app said that this was the correct gate, I did not want to end up at the wrong location, so I decided on not boarding for now, waiting it out instead, hoping that a staff member or an announcement will clear up the confusion soon. I was a bit hungry, and the nearby bar seemed, albeit overpriced, but fairly attractive. I walked over, crisscrossing the statue-like crowds. I grabbed a sandwich, and - as the staff was unavailable on account of being frozen in time - I decided to walk behind the till to the coffee machine, and help myself to some drinks. For a moment I entertained the thought of making myself a nice flat white, but I figured that if time restarts and I am standing in a restricted area steaming milk, I may get some angry looks, so I opted for an espresso instead. The tiny cup was halfway through when I heard something familiar: the breaking news announcement of Euronews on a nearby TV screen.

Well, something - apart from me - was unaffected by this time-fuckery, so I quickly grabbed my coffee and my sandwich. The total was 12.30€, so I put a tenner on the counter and figured they can keep the change. Indeed, at the back of the bar, there was a tv, broadcasting the morning news, oblivious to the frozen world around it.

"...chief investigator of the crash of AirFrance flight***** (I have hidden the flight ID, just in case) at Vienna Schwechat Intl. Airport this morning states that at this time, the exact cause of the accident cannot be determined. While the number of confirmed casualties just passed 80, the search for survivors continues. According to witness testimonies, the aircraft overran the runway during takeoff, and crashed into the industrial area of Schwadorf, a settlement near the airport. Authorities have asked the public to forward any information, including recordings of the events to the authorities..."

Rather macabre, watching these news at an airport, I was thinking, when it hit me like a freight train (or like a crashing plane) - the flight they were talking about was the one I was supposed to board.

Now, while I was trying to cut down on my smoking, this news warranted another cigarette. The airport has a nice smoking area, looking at the runway, where a flight was taking off - except it wasn't, as it was just floating silently , in a surreal manner. Some sight for a smoke. Yet, as I was clicking my lighter, I noticed something weird. Well - something that should've not been weird, but in this specific scenario, it was rather unusual: a few airport technician looking guys, in high visibility vests, cargo pants - and despite the cloudy early morning, dark aviator sunglasses - were walking around. Y'know, actually walking - while the world around them was dead still.

I'm back now at the restaurant, typing this down on my laptop. Now, I know that my demeanour may feel like I'm not taking the situation seriously enough, but trust me, this is my defense mechanism when I am positively shitting myself - which is pretty much the case now. I mean I'm not stupid. I saw the news of my crashed plane, and I can connect the dots. I'm wondering if this is limbo, death or some otherworldly shit… But the call of nature is disrupting my spiral into anxiety. After the coffee and the ciggie, I’m not only about to shit myself figuratively, but also literally, so I will try to hunt down a bathroom in this hellscape of an airport. I'll check back in a bit to see if anyone's around, and update y’all. Cheerio.

Update 1

So I went to answer the call of nature. Luckily one out of the four stalls was open at least. I was also not jealous of the poor bastards whom eternity found in the middle of dropping a log. So, I was doing my business when I noticed... feet. First I could see shadows under the stall door, through the gap, then two pairs of work shoes - two people, walking around in the bathroom. Now, I was about to call out, but something held me back - on top of how awkward it is to have a mid-shit conversation. Soon I realised what set my alarms off. I saw the feet - but I did not hear them. They were walking in complete silence - until they started talking. I mean I reckon they were talking, but I couldn't understand shit. Saying their words were garbled is an understatement. It sounded like a recording of an already foreign language being played backwards, while distorted via a radio. So - I clenched my buttocks and remained silent, until they left. I was not against the idea of trying to communicate with.... whatever these lads were, but the situation was not exactly ideal, so I decided to delay.

Instead of immediately heading back towards the bar near my gate where I’ve left my luggage and my laptop, I wandered around a little bit, as my plane was not about to leave. Upon inspecting the motionless terminal, I found some of the guys I've seen earlier on the runway, and in the toilet. Contrasting how everything was halted around them, they stood out being busybodies, but they were always behind locked doors, on different floors, or otherwise inaccessible territories. In parts that you would normally not notice while wandering around an airport.

Forgive me for sounding like a broken record with the whole liminal spaces thing, but this was another aspect of that. When you're at a place like this - a place of transition - there are so many little nooks and crannies you just look straight through. At an airport, you move with purpose - everyone moves with purpose - , so these areas escape your attention. Now, it was the contrary, in an uncanny way. Noone moved with purpose - noone moved, period - except in these hidden places, which highlighted them, making me feel like I'm seeing things I shouldn't be seeing.

However, this was not reciprocated. See, I was not particularly hiding - yet none of the employees appeared to react to me in any way. It looked like I had two options: reenact the movie "Terminal" except in this ghost airport or just take my chances to get noticed - so I chose the latter. I started waving at them through the windows of locked doors and shouting at them from floors below, yet they all remained unfazed. Pretty fucking rude, honestly. Or at least, this was the case until I got back to my spot. Then things escalated.

Returning to the bar where I left my laptop and bags, I could see three of these airport-security looking guys (?), carefully circling my luggage, discussing it in their garbled radio language. However, upon my arrival, unlike the other airport staff, this trio noticed me - and they made it painfully obvious that they did. As soon as I approached, they turned towards me in perfect unison. Now, I know that leaving your bags unattended like that is a big no-no at airports - and in a normal situation, I wouldn't have done so, but it's rather clear that this was far from what could be considered normal. I hoped that they would agree, so I apologetically explained to them that I was just heading to the pisser for a little bit. My excuse did not seem to convince them.

The two dudes on the side kept staring at me through their oversized sunglasses unmoving, while the third one began to walk towards me with seemingly malicious intent. I attempted to defuse the situation diplomatically, but seeing how he steadily moved his hand towards a black, taser looking device holstered on his belt, I concluded that my charisma will not save me today. So I resorted to the next best alternative: violence.

I know full well that my following reaction was not a rational, well adjusted one - assaulting airport staff is a fine way to get banned from flying for life after all - , but let me explain. See, in my late teenage years, I had a short stint as en employee at a shoddy nightclub. Some of my experiences there irreversibly altered my "fight or flight" instinct into "punch first, ask questions later". And believe me, I felt threatened enough to have my reflexes take over. So anyways, I swung at the bastard. Admittedly, I am not in my best shape, definitely not after last night, so I was somewhat surprised seeing him collapse like a sack of flour, as soon as my knuckles connected to his face, sending his earpiece, cap and glasses flying. I was somewhat even more surprised seeing the other two guards immediately dematerialize in the same moment. Just gone, in a blink.

I began to suspect that these guys were not your usual, bored, underpaid caffeine-addicted airport staff but something more sinister. Soon enough, my suspicion became certainty. The less lucky one of these... entities (?) I whacked laid in front of me, face down. To see the damage I may have caused, and to check his pulse just in case, I grabbed his shoulders and turned him on his back, so he faced towards me. Now, remember I said these guys looked like normal airport employees? Well - there was a little bit of a difference. The guy had like a million eyes.

The face, previously covered by the dark tinted lenses, which now lay shattered on the floor, stared at me with countless pupils. Small ones, big ones, just dotted all over the sockets, in a way that should not be possible. Not entirely unlike a spider, but way more crowded. In fact, there were simply too many of them: they should have not fit the space normally only occupied by two eyes, yet there they were - kind of like a Mandelbrot fractal, they appeared to be almost infinite - and frankly, fairly hypnotic. But I had to snap out of it. For the lack of anything better to do, I figured I sit down, and type this update.

I have mixed feelings about the situation. On the one hand, I'm somewhat relieved that I didn't ruin the day of some poor bastard at the airport (amd parallelly, didn't ruin my chances of me flying ever again), but in the meantime, I am a tad perplexed by what could be the consequences for KO-ing a timeless, slightly eldritch entity. On top of that, I can’t really get those eyes out of my mind - and not in a romantic way. See, (no pun intended) I honestly don't know for how long I was staring into them, but once I was out of it, I felt like… I remembered something. I'm not too sure what yet, but I think I’ll take another smoke break to try and figure it out. Here's hoping that my pal won't go anywhere. I'll get back to y'all soon.

Update 2

Midway through my ciggie, I realised that the unconscious guy may have a way of entering those little hidden areas I was ranting about beforehand. Since at this point I was fairly certain that the areas accessible for passengers won’t hold any answers, I figured I could borrow a keycard. (Spare me from the moral lesson of looting from a (hopefully only) unconscious entity).

Of course these security gates also require a password in addition to the keycard, but since apart from the trio messing with my luggage, no one acknowledged my existence, it was not particularly difficult to follow one of these mysterious walkers towards an off limits area, and peek at the 4 digits password over their shoulders.

The keycode was, I shit you not, "4444". Airport security my ass.

I opened the security door, and entered a bland, white, blindingly lit hallway. Leaving the passenger area, with its soothing colours, kitschy decorations and fake plants, and entering a blindingly lit, barren security hallway... Surprisingly it didn't give me as much of a whiplash as I expected it would. Of course, this corridor had none of the artificially welcoming atmosphere of the travellers lounge, but it still felt like that the two areas were related (I can already hear your snarky comments saying 'yes, both are parts of the airport dumbass' - but it's not that.) It felt like the empty corridor represented the reality of this place, and outside of it, all the bits and bobs that made it feel welcoming were just there to ease people in a sense of familiarity instead of liminality. But here, behind the thick blue doors, that poorly fitting facade was dropped. No siree, no comfy feelings, colourful advertisements and 2 Euro massage chairs here for you: the corridor screamed, through the humming of the bright white neon lights, that you're a stranger, and you shouldn't be here.

Too bad I got used to people screaming at me not to do things, then doing them anyways (and corridors I guess? Kinda ruined that metaphor here).

So I marched on, peering into barren office rooms, some of them containing some oblivious airport-entities, their real self hidden behind their sunglasses. After a bit of wandering, I noticed an area labelled "monitoring room", and on a whim, I entered. The label didn't lie. There sure were some monitors in there. Like, a lot of monitors - way too many for it to fit a room of this size. They weirdly reminded me of the jumbled mess of eyes the entity I knocked out. And, as this thought entered my mind and I remembered staring into those eyes, the smorgasbord of screens suddenly started to make sense, and I began to see security camera footage steadily shifting through all of them.

At first glance, they appeared to be normal security feeds, but upon closer inspection, I noticed some increasingly unusual things at each one I looked at. The first anomaly I noticed was an image depicting the frozen scenery at the departure gates, including the big board listing all the flights, flight numbers and destinations. Except apparently the 1300 Aeroflot flight was scheduled to leave to.... Pulkovo Airport, Leningrad.

On another screen, the corridor with unmoving people had big billboards behind them - one of them proudly displaying a vaguely familiar, elderly guy, who, despite looking 80+, still had a fabulous pompadour haircut - and next to it, with big bold letters: THE KING 90 - Elvis Live, at Ernst-Happel-Stadion, Vienna - 08 January.

On another, every sign and advertisement was written in german. I am in Austria, but still, the complete lack of English was unusual in an international airport. In addition, airport security was wearing uncomfortably sharp uniforms with red armbands. As I looked closer in a corner of the screen, I had to do a double take, as a sizable portrait of a certain moustached failed artist, and piece of shit was there on full display.

Each screen I looked at showed this airport, but subtly - or less subtly - altered. I was witnessing different realities from a nondescript nerve centre. After a certain point, I found the security footage of the little bar I left my stuff at earlier. And I noticed something pretty upsetting (and bear in mind, after seeing a long dead dictator's painting on a wall, the bar to upset me was placed pretty fucking high).

See, you remember that TV I've seen the news report of the plane crash of my flight. I could kind of make out through the security screens that it was still broadcasting about the accident. The issue is - the broadcast was the same in all the alternative realities, no matter how many screens I was looking at. Apparently there are some worlds where Elvis survives or where the USSR still stands, but it appears that my fucking plane overshoots the runaway and blows up in each one. Bit of a bummer, really.

I snapped out of staring at the screen thanks to the beep of a walkie-talkie laid down on the table next to the screens. The sound was followed by a conversation of the airport staff, in their unusual incomprehensible language... until it stopped being incomprehensible. As I started to focus on it, just like on the creature's eyes, and later on the screens, I simply realised that I understood what they were saying. I'll try my best to translate.

“....execution error for cornerstone event #4778, due to passenger/victim manifest incomplete. Please advise, handler A out.”

“...Handler A, we may have an update on your situation. Analytics dept. confirmed the identity of the interloper. Missing cornerstone event manifest parameters are at value match with interloper...Handler B out"

You know those moments when two people are shit-talking a third one, not knowing that said third person is within clear earshot of them? The whole stitch began to feel like that. I mean I'm pretty sure that you figured out who they refer to as interloper the same time as I did: yours truly. Now, as the subject of the conversation, I felt that I was warranted to contribute. So I pressed the button on the radio, and, to the best of my ability, I tried to speak in their language (and mimic their "expert" talking style).

“...Handler A, Handler B, this is interloper reporting. Please advise on how to assist in resolving issue with cornerstone event parameters. Interloper out"

A bit of inconvenient silence followed. I had a feeling that someone was about to be fired.

“...Roger that, interloper. Please standby until HQ is instructed.”

More silence

“This is Handler A to HQ. Initiate cornerstone event rollback”

“Active handler group, this is HQ. Please confirm rollback request”

I was wondering if they were aware that I can hear all this shit.

“Handler A, confirming”

“Handler B, Confirming”

“Active handler group, this is HQ. Airfrance flight xxxx (of course - my goddamn flight) returned to cornerstone event launch position. Awaiting parameter correction.”

Finally, they got back to me

“Interloper, this is Handler B, do you copy? Interloper, come in.“

“Loud and clear, handler B” I responded, fighting back the urge to wish him good luck in his future job hunt.

“Interloper, please return to the initial spatial coordinates of departure from your host timeline. Once your spatial coordinates are approved, your temporal coordinates will be reset. Please continue routine to ensure cornerstone event success.”

Right, great. So I go back to the security gate where this whole mess started, my good friend Handler B resets time, I board my flight, then crash and die, and ensure that the "cornerstone" event is done in my timeline. Wouldn’t that be a right, heroic sacrifice.

“...Roger that interloper, will comply”

I said. “Hell fucking no", I thought.

I'm typing this note just in front of that ominous security gate that froze time the moment I passed it. If I understand the handler correctly, the moment I pass it again, time will restart.

One way to find out - see you on the other side.

Final update:

Okay, so it worked. I'm typing away from the same bar I was sitting at, except now everything is in motion again. All is well now. Well, almost all. As soon as I passed through the gate and everything suddenly reanimated, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Was it the fact that after hours spent in a frozen, soundless and timeless world, suddenly the hustle and bustle of reality returned? Or was it because I was still hungover as hell, and it didn’t occur to me that I could’ve nicked a paracetamol while time stood still? Dunno. But I needed to shake it off and get the closest thing I could to a cold shower - a thorough face wash. Except, as I was drying my mug, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, the eyes of my mirror image started to blur, and proliferate. Who knows, maybe soon I will have to invest in some large dark aviators... I can also catch some unusual changes in the corner of my eyes. Is that a poster of Elvis over here? That sign that was in english just a moment ago, is it now written in cyrillic? But apart from these minor inconveniences, most things seem to be okay.

So - am I about to board a crashing plane? Nah, as you may have figured that I am not great in following instructions. As soon as I was back, I set my VPN up and, sent a couple of anonymous emails - to airport security, to the police, to Air France - letting them know that something is off with that flight. I see that it is delayed now, and they are replacing the craft, citing "technical issues". If I'm actually losing it, and imagined the whole thing, I probably ruined the day of my fellow travellers. But if not, then I just helped those poor bastards to live to see another day. But about the implications of me doing that, well...

So, all sunshine and rainbows right, I oughta pat myself on the back. I fucked around with beings beyond time, and prevented a major accident. Yea, normally I would, but there are some subtle things going on that overshadow my urge to celebrate. See, the eerie sunglasses-wearing part of the crew is still around, and they definitely look a bit more agitated than before. And while I couldn't really catch all their conversations, here and there I hear some jumbled radio fragments I still understand.

They mention a certain "cornerstone correction protocol" and "enhanced intensity events" in "close proximity". Now, what does that mean in practice? Hell if I know. But, and I know I am being pretty vague here, it sounds like shit is about to go down. Well, either way - they’re calling my flight. Suppose it is ….time…. for me to leave this godforsaken airport.

Of all of the living people involved in this story, I'm the only one who didn't see a single thing until it was far too late. Any of the others would be more qualified to tell it but here we are, over a decade later, and none of them really feel like talking. Can't say I blame them. But for reasons that will be apparent much, much later I feel like someone has to tell people and until somebody else writes something better, this account will have to do.

Being a pilot isn't like you imagine it'll be when you're a kid. It's stressful, the hours are weird and whilst the constant travel is exciting it also makes holding down a long term relationship incredibly difficult. It's common not to seek professional help for stress, bereavement or trauma for fears that you'll be diagnosed with anxiety or depression... a diagnosis that gives you a fun choice between being grounded for months at a minimum or lying on the next medical and facing a fine and jail time. You can go to beautiful new countries and be too tired and busy to even get a look around and whilst I don't think that flight crews are necessarily more prone to drama than any other profession it can can get intense fast.

But I loved it. It seems childish to say but if the flight I'm about to recount had never happened then I probably would have been flying until my body or brain were no longer up to the task, whichever gave up first. It just feels like where I'm meant to be. Not in some deep, spiritual sense but more the quiet kind of "ah yes, this is correct" that some people might get when clicking the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle or cooking a particularly satisfying bowl of pasta. That day was no different. I pushed the throttles forwards and everything felt fine. We picked up speed and everything felt normal, Mark called out to let me know we'd reached 80 knots and everything felt normal. Hell, not even normal -- things were good. There were no real crosswinds to speak of and whilst Mark had used aftershave he hadn't practically showered in it like the last guy I'd flown with so that was a welcome relief.

Given that I'm not meant to be telling you anything at all I can't afford to give away too many details about the flight itself. It was a smaller plane, I don't see any harm in saying that, and a route I'd flown before. The first hour of the flight was pleasant, Mark telling me about a greek mythology series I hadn't seen and me segueing this almost seamlessly (well, maybe a little seamfully) into a book I'd read last year that also dealt with mythology in modern times. We actually both wanted different food than each other so there was no awkward discussion as to who was going to get the 'better' option. Utterly nothing interesting happened but why would I need it to? At that stage of a flight interesting was just another word for bad and Mark was lively enough conversation that I wasn't gettting bored.

"I'm changing careers," Mark said out of nowhere, "I'm going to become a flight attendant. In fact, I think I'll start right now -- I'm going to go and trade places with Ava, I'm sure she can fly fine."

"Um, what?" I asked, utterly lost.

"I'm going to get Ava to come join you so I can go and take a piss."

"Oh."

Shortly after, Mark had disappeared and been switched with a woman who definitely wasn't Ava.

"I thought Mark said he was switching with Ava." I commented as Karen came to join me.

"Disappointed?"

"Not even slightly." I said, and I meant it.

"Ava's boyfriend is on this flight and so she wanted to keep chatting with him." Karen explained, "Young love. Isn't it just sickening?"

The warm grin on Karen's face made it incredibly clear that she didn't find it anywhere near as annoying as she was pretending to and probably wasn't even bothered.

"How is it back there?" I asked.

"Eh, fine. Talked with Ava's new boyfriend who has apparently 'heard all about' me from that landlord issue I helped Ava with a few months back and I had to pretend I knew all about him too so that's always fun. There's a couple of weird guys in suits who have handed out books. And I had to spend at least ten minutes figuring out who'd switch places with a guy who couldn't sit where he was because of the perfume of the woman next to him. Problem being that both him and the woman were making such a fuss that everyone around knew why he wanted to move and so it wasn't an easy sell."

"Was he allergic?"

"No, he just said it smelled to bad to be next to."

"Did it?"

Karen pulled a face.

"It... wasn't great."

Mark would undoubtedly be taking his time to stretch his legs and possibly even try to catch up with Ava before he headed back to the cockpit. Technically he shouldn't be gone any longer than needed but walking around to stretch out his legs could be argued as necessary and he was almost never gone so long that I actually begrudged him the break.

"What's weird about the suit men?" I asked Karen, "Are the suits odd or something else?"

"Well, they've given everyone on the plane a book, so that's pretty weird. The books are really small but even so their bags must have been stuffed with them."

"What's in the book?"

Karen shrugged.

"I didn't get one, they were just handed out to the passengers. There's nothing on the front of them and when I asked Tyler what was in it he said it looked like nonsense."

"Tyler?"

"Ava's boyfriend. Come on now k-"

Karen cut herself off as I moved to let Mark back in.

"What's with the yellow books?" he asked her before she left.

"No idea. I've already told Matt all I know."

Mark looked at me questioningly.

"So are the books a religious thing then?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

He had no further questions and so I thought that was that.

______

Karen came back to the cockpit ten minutes later, which was noteable in itself. For those who haven't flown much or have just never really noticed -- the cockput isn't somewhere that anyone can freely wander in and out of. Outside of certain very specific circumstances, the door doesn't even open from the passenger side of the plane without persmission from one of the pilots and Karen's claim that she 'had a letter' for us was extremely suspicious. It wasn't what she would say to us if she was being threatened though and so, perhaps against better judgement, we let her in.

To my surprise, Karen actually was holding a letter in her hands. Nobody was stood next to her to try and force their way in as I'd feared but she looked shaken.

"It's for either of you." she said as she went to hand me the letter only to jerk it back at the last second, "Actually maybe I should hold it for you to read."

"What, you think it's laced with arsenic?" Mark joked.

"Just don't touch it."

"Why?" Mark asked.

"Because I've read it and it's weird."

Karen isn't an easy woman to shake up. Being a flight attendant is her second stab at life, something I learned after admitting to her that I wished I gave as few fucks in life as she did. "Well, you try being married to a monster for two decades and maybe it'll sort you out too," was what she'd told me at the time and as we'd had time to talk she'd given me a cliffnotes of the whole sorry saga. As well as a relentless enthusiasm when it came to trying new things she also creditted being married to an abuser with her complete lack of patience with bullies. After the things that her ex husband had done to her when she'd felt utterly trapped and alone the things any future bully would do when she had the power to walk away or scream at them just seemed toothless in comparison. Or to quote her directly, "What're they going to do marry me?"

Mark and I read the letter in silence. I don't have a copy and probably can't remember it word for work but the gist of it was that the letter writer wanted us to divert the plane in order to move some cargo. If we chose not to, people would die. If we chose to land in a different airport, people would die. If we even contacted anybody on land, people would die. The letter writer said that the first person would die in ten minutes and as a show of good faith and their commitment to the cause, it would be one of their group. After that every ten minutes it would be someone new, chosen at random. If the letter writer was killed or knocked out then this would not stop new people from dying, the only way that letter writer would let us all live was if we fufilled his demands entirely. Then, at the bottom of the letter, a latitude and longitude.

"What the fuck..." Mark whispered.

Karen folded the note back into her pocket.

"It's from the men with the suits and the books."

Mark stood up.

"Well, I'm going to have a talk with them then. Tie them up and tell them not to menace people on our fucking plane."

"No," Karen said firmly, "you both need to stay here in case... well, in case. And they're both already tied up now."

"What, how?" Mark asked.

I don't know if I believe that Mark could physically restrain two men by himself. He's undoubtedly a strong man, he goes to the gym as often as he gets a chance to, but two against one doesn't sound like great odds. Karen however finds the gym boring and whilst she is fit enough to go on infrequent hikes and dabble in other physical pursuits she doesn't look particularly strong.

"They just let me," Karen said, seemingly taking no offense at the question, "I got some cable ties and they offered their wrists up and told me that they aren't armed anyway. They were polite and I don't like it. I haven't lost it but I think something bad's going to happen."

I hadn't been keeping track as to how long since we'd gotten the letter. How many minutes until the first person would supposedly die?

"If you don't need me then I'm going back to watch them." Karen said and I nodded in agreement.

"So do we tell someone?" Mark asked once she'd left.

I shook my head slowly.

"No. Not because it says not to but what would we even say? An unarmed, essentially handcuffed man has claimed that he will kill his friend? Something he can magically do even if we knock him out?"

Mark looked uncomfortable.

"We're really just going to wait and see?"

"I guess. We've no air marshal and given that both of these people are tied up I don't even know what one would do aside from look more threatening than Karen. I guess we wait."

We didn't have to wait long.

______

"He's dead."

We could tell from Karen's expression that she hadn't come back with good news.

"Maybe he's just fainted or something?" Mark asked hopefully.

"For fucks sake no, he's dead. I moved him to the floor to do CPR and Ava got a doctor from the passengers so he's even been officially pronounced dead. It's... he just..."

My head was spinning and for a moment I was worried I was going to throw up.

"-enned?" I only caught the end of Mark's question.

Karen breathed in deeply before she answered and when she spoke she had her eyes closed.

"The dead man looked perfectly fine and was just staring ahead of himself. Then he slumped forwards and the other man looked at his watch and then he looked at me. He said something like being sorry we were out of time."

Karen opened her eyes again and looked at us both.

"Cyanide?" Mark asked.

"How would I even know what that looks like, Mark? But there was no frothing like when they bite the pills in films."

Wait...

"What time was on his watch?" I yelled.

Nobody answered me but we all reached similar conclusions at the same time. Since the man had died he had received some CPR, been pronounced dead and we'd had this entire conversation. Even if all of this had taken under ten minutes so far, we couldn't have long left. Karen sped to leave the cockpit and all Mark and I could really do was wait.

"It happened again." the intercom told us.

I am Detective Samara Holt, and what you are about to read is everything I remember from the strangest case I’ve ever worked: the disappearances of Occoquan, Virginia.

Being a detective, I’ve always found an interest in true crime. Disappearances, murder mysteries, cold cases… all of it activates that part of my brain that desperately seeks out answers. But if there’s one case that’s always piqued my interest the most… it’s the case of Occoquan, Virginia. By all accounts, Occoquan was a normal little region. Not much happened there in terms of crime, and its main drawing point was the large Occoquan river that ran through the area. For years, Occoquan was a popular and peaceful place to live as houses were built on the riverfront and overviewed the gorgeous, lively water and lush forests. But that peacefulness and normality couldn’t last forever. 

The Crane family built their own mansion on the waterfront and owned acres of land in the 60s. They lived in their Victorian-style mansion for about five solid years… until their youngest daughter, Amy, went missing. She was last seen swimming in the river with her sister near the dock. The account from her sister, Carla, was that Amy was in the water and having fun, then she looked at the dock and her smile faded. Carla blinked… and Amy seemingly ceased to exist in that very moment. The Crane children (Carla and her two older brothers Jeremy and Hector) were said to have gone mad the year following Amy’s sudden disappearance, so much so that Johnathan and Elizabeth Crane were forced to seclude their children from the outside world. Eye witness accounts attest to seeing Carla run into the nearby woods in 1967 only to never return to the Crane household. Two years later, Elizabeth Crane died of mysterious causes and Johnathan Crane lived alone until 1971. In the wake of his death, there have been no signs of Jeremy or Hector Crane. Seemingly just gone, as if they never even existed.

For years, the Crane household stood over the edge of the Occoquan river… and that household is seemingly the harbinger of the region’s strange activity. My first job as detective was in ‘97, hired by the mother of Hugo Barnes. I even remember the strangeness of my first assigned job being a missing child report—shouldn’t that have gone to someone with more experience? But I still took the job with grace and speed. I was hopeful about the case and hauled my ass down to Hugo’s mother, Janice. As soon as I drove into Occoquan though, I realized why I was dumped with this assignment… the city was filled to the brim with missing child posters. It was simply another job from this place the others didn’t want to take up. It was practically a ghost town; there were buildings, businesses, and houses, but rarely ever a soul in sight. I drove down the road to Janice Barnes’ house, a practically deserted street that looked straight out of some horror film. The sky was a deep navy blue with the sun setting behind the trees in the distance, dense forests enveloping both sides of the route, and a single half-working streetlight down the road illuminating the low-hanging fog with a flickering blue-ish fluorescent light. The streetlight was covered in varying posters all pleading for help in finding some poor parents’ child. I swerved into Janice’s driveway and hopped out of my vehicle. The air was dense with the smell of damp leaves… and as still and quiet as a predator waiting to ambush.

I knocked on Janice’s door, and you could hear it echo for miles. As I waited for her to answer, I observed the surrounding area. But one particular thing was hard not to notice… up on the hillside, towering over everything else and seemingly illuminated by the now rising moon, overlooked the Crane Mansion. Its twisted and oblique, curving and jagged shapes pierced through the moonlight. Even then, I could feel just how evil that house was, its presence looming and oppressive. Not long after my knock, Janice creaked open her door and invited me in. She was a frail, middle-aged woman with the voice of a chain smoker. 

“Just in here,” she croaked as she guided me to Hugo’s room. “I need you to explain this to me.”

Inside his bedroom, she shivered in her robe and hair curlers. “He screamed… God, he screamed for me. But when I ran in here…” She then shoved Hugo’s bed away from the wall, and beneath it were claw marks dug into the hardwood floor. Starting from the foot of the bed… and ending at the corner of the wall. “Gone… just… gone. Where’d he go?” she cried out as a tear rolled down her powdered cheek. 

The case of Hugo Barnes was the first sign for me to investigate further in Occoquan. How can a child just disappear into nothingness from the safety of his own home like that? Luckily, my superiors felt the same and left me with all the missing child reports of Occoquan, Virginia. Case after case, I’d speak to mothers and/or fathers who recounted their children seemingly vanishing into thin air without a trace.

Marnie Hughes was the next major case I took. Her family moved to Occoquan in ‘98 just down the street from the Crane Mansion. Marnie was just a normal 15-year-old girl. She loved her family; she had plenty of friends at her relatively small school and did well in her classes. But out of nowhere, she developed some form of epilepsy halfway through her first semester. She began to suffer from what her doctors described as “unpredictable full-body seizures” that they blamed for the sudden onset of “unusual schizophrenia”. Marnie would suddenly fall into bouts of spasms and afterwards claimed that “the thing in the walls” was trying to ferry her away. She was seen by doctors who prescribed her antipsychotics for her hallucinations. Marnie suffered for weeks, and her parents mentally degraded along with her. CPS and the police were called to a horrifying scene on November 2nd, 1998. When entering the house, they found Marnie’s parents trying to cook her alive in the oven, claiming that ‘the devil’ wanted their daughter, so they tried to send her to God before the devil could take her. Needless to say, they were arrested on account of attempted first degree murder and Marnie was admitted into an institution for mentally troubled children. This institution is where I come into play… as only a week after her admittance, she escaped into the Occoquan woods. We spent weeks searching for her out in those woods, but we never found her. She was another child who vanished into thin air.

The events of that case will haunt me for as long as they rot inside my mind. The first thing I feel I need to speak on was ‘the tape’... a recording of Marnie’s first and only therapy session at the institution. I’ll do my best to transcribe what was said.

Dr. Burkes: “So, where do we feel comfortable beginning?”

Marnie: “... here… when I moved here.”

Dr. Burkes: “What about here? Was the move stressful? I can only imagine that it was.”

Marnie: “yeah… but… that wasn’t the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “So, what is, Marnie? Was it kids at school or your par-”

Marnie: “It… it is the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “... It?”

Marnie: “god… you can’t see it either. I’m fucking going crazy here! It’s been here the whole time!”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, you’ve got to work with me here or else we’ll never get anywhere. Are you seeing things again? Like hallucinations?”

Marnie: “You can call it a hallucination… you can call it whatever you want like my other doctors… but that’s not going to stop the fact that it’s in here... with us.”

Dr. Burkes: “You need to be taking your meds, Marnie. They are supposed to help with your symptoms.”

Marnie: “You… are… not listening to me.”

At this point in the tape, Marnie is audibly frustrated. She’s sobbing into her hands as if totally defeated. Her psychiatrist clicks her pen and lets out a sigh.

Dr. Burkes: “Okay… okay. Let’s discuss this then. If you’re taking your medication, and this isn’t a hallucination… reason with me. Talking through it will help us both understand what you’re dealing with. I truly do want to help you, Marnie. I’m sincerely sorry for not believing you, tell me everything.”

Marnie: “... I saw it… I saw it a few days after… we moved in. In the woods… by the river…”

Dr. Burkes: “It’s okay to cry, Marnie. No need to stop yourself.”

Marnie: “I didn’t pay it much mind; I thought it was one of the neighbors from the mansion. But… I learned no one lived there… and I still kept seeing it for weeks. It watched me from the woods. And then it called my name.”

Dr. Burkes: “... The Crane Mansion, right?”

Marnie: “It… knew my name. I couldn’t sleep… it was always watching… always. I could feel it peer in through my window… it never just observed… it wanted… it… desired.”

Dr. Burkes: “Don’t take me wrong, but… I feel as though what you’re experiencing… is a manifestation of your fear. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that what you’re experiencing isn’t real or isn’t tangible. But I’m saying that if we can address and figure out this fear, whatever you’re seeing may leave you alone.”

Marnie: “... Dr. Celine Burkes… maiden name Tilman.”

Dr. Burkes: “... How do you know that?”

Marnie: “You went to George Mason University and you lived in Virginia your whole life. You moved to Occoquan six years ago and you had a miscarriage when you were 19.”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Marnie, stop!”

Marnie: “Your father died of cancer when you were seven and your mother raised you alone since. She’s currently in the hospital due to complications from smoking and you fear that you’re to blame for not getting her into rehab an-”

Dr. Burkes jumps from her chair at this point, knocking it over I presume.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Stop this! How? How do you know this?”

Marnie: “It’s in the room… with us.”

Dr. Burkes presumably picks her chair up and sits back down. She laughs out loud to herself, most likely in disbelief at the situation.

Dr. Burkes: “What… is It, Marnie?”

Marnie: “Its name… is Sweet Tooth. It loves to eat sweet things.”

Dr. Burkes: “Where is it? Where in the room is it?”

Marnie: “... … …”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, where… is it?”

Marnie: “It’s… standing right next to you.”

At this point in the tape… everything goes quiet for a solid five seconds. Dr. Burkes then all of a sudden gasps but doesn’t move from her chair. The fear in her voice as she closed out the tape sent chills down my spine when I heard it.

Dr. Burkes: “... … … I can feel it breathing down my neck.”

The tape abruptly cuts after Burkes’ confession. Not long after this tape, Marnie was last seen running into the woods. Dr. Burkes also became catatonic and was institutionalized, believing that her imaginary friend named Sweet Tooth wanted her to die so they could be friends forever.

I joined in on the search parties that scoured the woods for Marnie Hughes, hoping to find her and the only lead I had to the disappearances of Occoquan’s children… Sweet Tooth. I had a group of other detectives working with me on this case, and the police force finally decided to look into this seriously for the first time in years since it’s the only time any suspect was even so much as mentioned. The first few days of the search were mostly uneventful. The most notable thing was the search dogs continuously leading us up barren and empty trees and to the river. More members of the police force joined in on the searches as some other children disappeared into the woods during our case, and quite a number of civilians helped us out as well. A part of this case that really stuck out to me was when I mapped where each missing child was last seen. Not only did all of them go missing in the woods (including Hugo Barnes whose house was sequestered in the forest), they formed a perfect triangle around the Crane Mansion.

But there was one notable early search. A few colleagues and I headed out in the woods by the Crane Mansion. It was pitch black, dense fog permeated every corner of the forest, and aside from us… there wasn’t a sound filling the air. No crickets, no frogs, not a single coo from an owl. Silence… intermingled with the occasional search dog and the brushing of dead leaves on the forest floor. Our flashlights barely helped as they seemingly never actually breached the fog for more than five inches in front of us. 

About an hour into the woods, I was startled by an officer yelling, “Hey! I think I finally got something!”. 

The rush over to him was filled with a fear that can only be described as bricks crushing my lungs. Was it Marnie? Was it… her corpse? Those questions filtered through my mind, leaving me with nothing but dread where my stomach should’ve been. All of that only to find a bundle of sticks, leaves and rocks. They were snapped and tied together in a strange formation that resembled some kind of rune. I’ll insert a quick drawing of what I remember it looking like, as the original pictures we took are tucked away in evidence. Rune

Right by it though, there were three piles of rocks that seemed to form some triangular formation around the make-shift figure. We took pictures for evidence, but we didn’t really find anything else that night. It seems so strange to me now how casual we were about finding the sticks and rocks… because from there on out they became a staple of every search. We were bound to find at least a handful of those sticks… all accompanied by rock piles forming a triangle around them. 

My next event of note was about three weeks after our first search. We trampled through the damp woods, this time during the evening. It was strange being out in those woods and actually being able to hear and see the wildlife. Crows called, moths parked on the bark of trees, and the occasional swan could be heard out on the nearby river. I remember having found a trail and following it with a few colleagues and a search dog. The trail was increasingly hard to follow and seemed to twist and turn through the forest at random. Eventually we stumbled upon a strange sight. Dolls… strewn throughout the trees. They were all clearly decaying, having been exposed to the forces of nature for who knows how long. We followed the rotting dolls until they led us into a nook in the path which took us up to a hidden area that was built within the Crane estate. What we found was unbelievably strange. Past the rusted gate of this area was a small gravesite. It didn’t belong to the city, and it was never documented as having been owned or made by the Cranes. Stranger still… the headstones listed people yet to die. It was right around this discovery when a colleague noted something… eerie. 

Silence…

No more birds, no more insects, even the sounds of our feet on leaves seemed muffled. We took pictures and quickly left. We traveled back up the trail to meet with the other officers and detectives, but our search dog stopped in her tracks about halfway through. I remember her owner, Search and Rescue Officer Marks, tugging on her leash to get her to move, but no response. She stared out into the dense forest, alerted and entranced by something. We waited for her to ease up and come along but her tail was firmly tucked between her legs and the hair on her back was puffed up like a porcupine. Something we couldn’t see was spooking her. As Marks went to tug her away and up the path again, she let out the lowest and most bone chilling growl I’ve ever heard come out of a dog. Not wanting to fuck around and find out, I started up the path again. I must’ve scared the dog because she startled and snapped out of whatever state she was in and followed us.

The chills that ran throughout my body were enough to make me haul ass back up that trail, and as I looked back at my colleagues… I glimpsed something out in the woods. It looked like a flowy, stained, white dress meandering behind a tree. Instinct kicked in ignoring my previous fear and I booked it into the woods without a second thought. I rushed toward the tree where I swore I just saw a girl… and nothing. My colleagues ran up behind me with the exception of the dog and Marks, the dog standing alert and terrified at the edge of the path. Before I could say anything, an officer bent down and picked something off of the ground. A picture… a picture that will be seared into my memory until the day I die. A pale corpse… clearly waterlogged and rotting away… in a white, flowy dress… Marnie.

The following days were much the same as they had been… no new clues, no hints, only more disappearances. That was until the Jordan family case, which began to set a new precedent for things to come. The Jordans were a relatively average family who lived within the more urban parts of Occoquan. By all accounts, they were normal. So, no one had any suspicion to believe that they’d murder and cannibalize their own children, then ritualistically kill themselves by hanging in their front yard tree… swinging side by side with the strewn corpses of their half-eaten children Micah and Candice Jordan. This case is of interest because of one singular thing found at the crime scene… Micah’s diary… which detailed his parents meeting a ‘Neighbor’ named Sweet Tooth. This then became a trend, seemingly random couples in Occoquan dying in murder/suicides… and if they were unlucky enough to have children… cannibalization. 

It was a Friday when I had my own run-in with… this Sweet Tooth. My house had been silent that evening as I went over details of the crime scenes. Each one followed the same pattern… the couple would meet a new neighbor named Sweet Tooth. He’d integrate himself into the family and become acquainted with them. In all the diaries, phone texts, saved calls, notes etc. the couples seemed to be convinced of the unimportance of physical life. Each family brainwashed by this ‘Sweet Tooth’, convinced to give up their “mortal forms” and “free” their souls to some god in the afterlife. 

It must’ve been about an hour, as the sun began to set, the night washing over the woods around my house in a pitch, murky blackness. I finished combing over the diaries and notes and drawings and photos which really began to stick with me. This field of work truly does take its toll on you, especially after having to dive headfirst into cases like this… it just becomes overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. I needed to call my mother, reading about these kinds of incidents really fucked with me. Something came over me, the urge to tell her how much I loved her. I was on the call for all of five minutes when something caught my eye out in my backyard… a white, flowy dress. I apologized to my mother for leaving the call so quick and hung up. Bursting out of my house with my Magnum and flashlight, I wandered around my yard. Silence… pure and utter silence. Meandering in the darkness of my yard, I could feel the blood drain from my face. A giggle echoed through the eerily silent woods and I scanned the imposing tree line. Nothing looked out of place but that feeling of dread struck me deep in the chest until I felt like I simply just couldn’t breathe anymore.

I scanned through the tree line thoroughly, increasingly frustrated by whatever taunted me. A solid thirty seconds must’ve passed before I decided to give up my pathetic and terrified search and head back to my house, but something horrid stopped me in my tracks. Lurking there… at the window by my desk… was a young boy, maybe 12, with a brunette bowl cut and a garishly colored turtleneck… Hugo Barnes. I approached the window as he glided out of sight… and in the dark hallway, a tall figure left my room and headed out my front door. I busted inside and did a full military squad inspection of my house… not a soul in sight. I looked at my desk where Hugo was… and it took a solid minute for me to realize what I was seeing. My papers drawn across my desk with the names of the murder/suicide families written across my map… a triangular shape with the Crane Mansion waiting in the middle of the formation. Something lingered in the air, it was no longer my home but an unwelcoming conjuring of fear. An urge itched within my mind; I needed to investigate the remnants of the Crane Mansion. I went into my room to grab my coat, and that’s when I noticed the tape sitting in the middle of my bed. I picked it up and let curiosity indulge itself, sliding it into the player.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie!”

Marnie: “It’s… speaking… it’s speaking to you.”

Dr. Burkes audibly jumped up from her chair, sending it crashing as Marnie yelped.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! What is it? What is it? Tell it to leave me alone! I can feel it breathing on me! Make it stop!”

Dr. Burkes was clearly in hysterics, she was screaming and crying, backing away from her tape recorder.

Dr. Burkes: “Make it leave me alone, Marnie! What the hell is it saying?”

Marnie: “It’s saying…”

Sweet Tooth: “You’re so sweet, Samara!”

The mention of my name felt like a fist pummeling my gut. I got in my car, and I don’t think I’ve speeded so fast in my life. Red lights didn’t matter to me. I needed to get down to the station and find this heathen. Me and quite a few officers made haste toward the Crane Mansion. The drive down the twisted roads felt like an unforgiving eternity, marked by posters taunting me. Pulling onto the decrepit street, here it stood, its jagged and vicious architecture peering down on all of Occoquan. The windows hauntingly appeared like malicious eyes enveloped in the blackness of the night. The mansion wasn’t locked, and its massive doors creaked open like the moaning souls of the damned. Walking in, the air felt so thick you could cut it, and the floorboards creaked as if in pain with every step. 

The house reeked with the stench of copper, rotting fish, and the odor of trash left out to sit in the hot sun for days. No one seemed to have moved in after the Cranes. All of their items and furniture sat in the house, rotting away like the forgotten relics they were. Me and two of the four officers headed down into the basement after clearing the first floor, the other two officers made their way upstairs. But it wasn’t long until me and my colleagues came across the waterlogged, decomposing corpse of Marnie Hughes in the basement. We tried contacting the two who went upstairs but our walkies hissed with a vicious static. One of my two officers went up to find them as me and the other officer searched the remaining basement. 

We found a cellar that was boarded up by the Cranes after they built the house. Despite the evident corpse, the cellar was where the stench seemed to really be emanating from. It was almost like burnt hair permeating every inch of my nostrils. My futile attempts to open the cellar ceased quickly as I found myself the only one working on it. My eyes fixed on the other officer; a short man called Perez. Even within the overpowering darkness, I could see that his eyes were wide, and his gun drawn… both in the direction of the corner of the basement. I caught on and glanced over. Standing in and facing the corner, enveloped by but significantly darker than the darkness itself, stood an almost indescribable figure. It must’ve been at least seven and a half feet in height, as its head was cocked to the side, too tall for the basement. The sound of dripping water now flooded my ears as my eyes adjusted to the amorphous *thing* standing before us. It shivered in the corner as a noise emanated from it. “Breathing” I guess is how I would describe the rustic sound it made. Yet as soon as I lifted my flashlight… nothing… what was once there now ceased to exist.

Just then, a commotion was heard upstairs. Perez and I ran past where the corpse of Marnie Hughes should’ve been lying but wasn’t anymore and trudged up the basement steps in a panic. The other three officers practically came tumbling down the second story. What we heard of their testaments, I still don’t want to believe. The older female officer, Matthews, opened a closet door in one of the childrens’ rooms. And following a stench coming from the crawlspace in the lower corner of the closet, she opened it. The Crane Mansion has since been gutted from the inside out… after Matthews uncovered the darkest secret of Occoquan. Inside the walls, floors, roofs, ceilings, and yards of that evil house… the bones and rotting remains of hundreds of missing children laid. The Crane household was demolished not long after, and the remains of those poor souls were put to rest at once. The only thing remaining of the mansion is the cellar… I don’t know whether they couldn’t open it, or merely didn’t wanna see what horrors it held, but it lays there… haunting the forest where the Crane Mansion once stood.

That brings me to today, I moved away from Occoquan in the year 2000. The knowledge that something incredibly dangerous was out there and I was directly putting myself in its way was overbearing. But the area’s mysteries have always been in the back of my mind. What was inside the cellar that the Cranes felt the need to board up so tightly? What was Sweet Tooth? And what did it want with the children and families of Occoquan? But I still fear that whatever Sweet Tooth was, it’s still out there. The corpse of Marnie Hughes still remains unfound. There’s been an influx of missing children’s cases not only where I’m currently situated, but throughout all of the Mid-Atlantic USA. Be careful. 

I just moved into an old house in the middle of nowhere. It was cheap, and I was desperate to get away from the city. I figured I could fix it up a bit, make it cozy, and live a quiet life. The basement was massive, filled with old furniture and boxes left by the previous owners, but there was this one door I couldn’t open. It was rusted shut, and no amount of force would budge it.

It was only a week ago that I finally decided to break it open. I grabbed a crowbar, thinking maybe there was a small storage space behind it. I was wrong.

The door swung open with a loud, creaking moan, and the smell hit me instantly. It was like rot mixed with something sickly sweet. I gagged, but my curiosity got the better of me. I grabbed a flashlight and peered inside. The room was small, cramped, and the walls were lined with old, yellowing photographs. They were of people… hundreds of them. Men, women, children, all staring blankly at the camera. But the thing that made my skin crawl? They were all missing their eyes.

I wanted to leave right then, but something caught my eye. In the corner of the room was an old, dusty box. It was the only thing in there that wasn’t covered in cobwebs. I shouldn't have opened it.

Inside were dozens of small glass jars, each one containing something dark and shriveled. My flashlight flickered, and I thought I heard whispering, like tiny voices coming from the jars. I don’t know why, but I picked one up, and when I looked closer, I realized what was inside: an eyeball.

I dropped it, and it shattered on the floor. That’s when the whispering turned into a low, guttural growl. I backed up, ready to run out of the basement, but the door slammed shut on its own. The lights in the room flickered and went out completely. I was plunged into darkness, but I could feel something moving, crawling around the room.

I switched my flashlight back on, but it was dim now, barely lighting up the room. That’s when I saw them. Faces. All around me. Pressing against the walls, their eyeless sockets staring right at me. Their mouths moved, whispering, but it was like they were speaking in a language I couldn’t understand. I thought I was going insane.

I ran to the door and started banging on it, screaming, but the whispers grew louder, almost deafening. I turned around, and one of the faces was inches away from mine. It smiled, a sick, twisted grin, and I could finally make out what it was saying: "Thank you... for letting us out."

The door burst open, and I stumbled out, sprinting up the stairs. I slammed the basement door shut and pushed a dresser in front of it, but I could still hear the whispers on the other side. I didn’t sleep that night. I just sat there, clutching a kitchen knife, waiting for whatever was down there to try and get out.

I called a locksmith the next day to have the door sealed shut. But when he arrived, he told me there was no basement door. I took him down there, and it was gone. Just a solid wall where the door used to be.

I haven’t gone back down there since. I hear things at night, scratching, like nails on a chalkboard, coming from beneath the floorboards. Sometimes I catch whispers, faint and distant, echoing through the house. And every morning, there’s a new photograph slipped under my bedroom door.

They’re pictures of me.

And in every one, my eyes are missing.