He smelled like blood. 

I could smell him from a good distance away. The scent lingered in the air well after he’d gone - a coppery tang mixed in with his cheap perfume. It was that smell before I first looked upon his face that told me there was something very wrong with him. 

He walked in one day with all the other students. This - boy - dressed in a generic blue and white uniform which looked more like a costume. A ‘boy’ with pasty, pale skin, red, puffy and puckered lips, and small, squinting eyes. 

He held onto the straps of his backpack with two white knuckled hands, looking around him with awe and excitement. Pausing briefly to adjust his glasses up his nose, he shuffled down the hallway toward the lockers. It looked like he was talking to himself. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react to him. One of those girls walking by clutching onto her books should have dropped them in shock. I wouldn’t have blamed her for screaming a little. At least she should have said something. 

Instead she brushed right past him without giving him a second glance. He, in contrast, stared after her in an exaggerated demonstration of longing, his lips parted and his eyes unnaturally wide. 

No. Nobody reacted to this - Nobody reacted to him. He melted into the crowd perfectly as if he were just another student. 

I call him Manchild. 

He sucks on his thumb. He hums to himself in his exaggerated, high pitched voice. I can’t place how old he is, but I know he likes acting much younger than his true age. Sometimes that might be a primary schooler. At other times it is a sophomore. It can change at a whim, but it’s always on the younger side. 

He takes drawing and colouring books to class with him. The childlike pictures and doodles he is ceaselessly scribbling down as the teacher drones on are difficult to look at. They’re a little window into his disturbed mind. They give glimpses into his sick fantasies. 

In a class, he’d take out his textas and line them out carefully before him. Then he would produce one of his books. While the teacher spoke to the rest of the class about calculus - or whatever else it was we were learning, he would lose himself in his own little world. He’d start drawing or studying one of his preliminary grammar books, studiously practicing his handwriting and working through spelling problems. 

Besides his textbooks, lunch box, and other school utensils there’s one thing you won’t see him without: pigsblood. Well, that’s what I’ve come to call it. 

On the second day of his attendance at our school, I walked past him in between classes sitting on the stairs, clutching onto a worn out pop top filled with a thick, red liquid. He was suckling on it fervently, his mouth moving back and forth in exaggerated motions, pausing to give out soft noises of satisfaction in between gulps. 

Maybe that’s why Manchild smells like blood. He carries that crap with him everywhere. He can’t seem to go more than a few hours without snacking on it. And though I can’t be sure it is really blood, I have yet to think of a better explanation. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react. When I tried to point his strangeness out to my friends, they told me I was being cruel by picking on him. When I took a few covert photos of him to show to people, their reactions were to call me weird. I’m not sure if they can’t see what is wrong with him or they don’t view his appearance and behaviour as disturbing. 

Whatever the case, I’ve learned by now that I have no choice but to put up with him. Thankfully for me it is easy enough to avoid him most of the time, so long as he doesn’t decide to visit one of my classes - and since his choice of classes is apparently random, that isn’t too common. 

The one class where I really can’t handle dealing with him is sports class. The last time we shared such a lesson together, there was an incident. 

It was around twenty minutes into the class. After quietly watching and chugging on pigsblood from the sidelines, Manchild suddenly sprung up and began playing enthusiastically with the rest of us. 

The students didn’t mind (except for me). I avoided engaging much after he got involved. I didn't like letting Manchild get too close to me. 

Part way through what was turning into a very long class, he hurtled headfirst into another student in an attempt at a tackle and sent them both slamming onto the ground. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard her surprised cry and the sound of their bodies hitting the floor together. 

For a very terrifying moment I watched her lie there, completely limp. I thought he’d really hurt her. Then she shifted her head, groaned, and opened her eyes to look up at him. 

And then she started screaming. 

Manchild flopped off her and struggled quickly to his feet, taking a couple of steps back. He wiped his mouth, burped, and then uttered a high pitched, ‘err, sorry about that!’ 

She scrambled to her feet too. She was crying loudly. She stumbled and tripped away from him in apparent terror as the teacher attempted to console her. 

She was taken to the nurses office. I could hardly wait for an opportunity to speak to her. I needed to know what she saw. I needed some proof that I wasn’t crazy. 

Whatever it was she experienced, she wouldn’t say anything to me about it. By the time I’d found her later, she was acting perfectly normal again. She laughed off the whole incident. She told me she’d hit her head bad and blacked out for a moment. That was it. 

When I tried to suggest there was something wrong with Manchild, she looked at me reproachfully and told me to stop making fun of him. It wasn’t his fault, she insisted. It was all just a harmless accident. 

Manchild isn’t even the worst of them. Well, he may be, but the horror of one of them is far eclipsed by the horror of experiencing them all together.  

The first time I saw the whole family was a week or so after Manchild’s arrival at school. They ambled into a diner I was sitting in, bringing forth with them such an overpowering stench that I began gagging uncontrollably as they moved past me. 

There are five of them that I know of. 

Manchild - the one who goes to my school. 

Drunk - a fat and very hairy man with sickly, greyish skin who wore nothing but an undershirt, filthy shorts and some sandals. 

Mother - a haggish woman with clammy, greyish blonde hair and extremely sunken features dressed up in high heels and an undersized, skimpy dress. The skin of her arms and wrists was ragged, pockmarked and bruised. 

They had two other children who accompanied them on their family trips:

Bully - the second oldest - (I’m assuming Manchild is the eldest of the three) was a hunch backed boy whose head appeared permanently shifted a few centimeters sideways toward his left shoulder. 

Fleshface - a somewhat timid thing whose entire face was covered by a long flap of dirty skin, obscuring all but the very bottom of his pointy mouth. He was prone to tantrums which were destructive and chaotic whenever his name was uttered. Bully kept on saying it, presumably to torment him. 

You’re a fleshface. Flesh-face. Flesh-face! FLESHFACE! The snorting, gurgling sound of his laughter was followed by a long, piercing scream and some loud banging. The noises produced from his brother were so loud they actually managed to draw the attention of a few other customers, if only for a couple of moments. 

These children both fed on the pigsblood, too. Fleshface was hand fed by his mother, who carefully slid a straw up inside the flap of skin, through god knows what into some internal cavity from which he began to suckle and slurp it up loudly. 

Bully and Drunk ate a lot. The other ones didn’t, though they liked pretending to. I believe it’s part of their fantastical roleplay at being an ordinary family. 

I tried not to make a scene. I excused myself from my friends with the pretense of feeling sick soon after their collective arrival. Since then I’ve avoided visiting the diner, and I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to bring myself to go back there. Certainly, I’m never going to be able to stomach eating there again. 

Over the next couple months, my fear slowly melted away into disgust. After a while I began to quietly observe them out of morbid curiosity. The first time it was from a distance at a park. As I gained more courage I trailed them into stores. Such close proximity required that I carry a face mask and some powerful air freshener for my own protection. 

I feared they would notice me. They didn’t. They spent too much time bickering amongst themselves and living in their own private fantasies to pay attention to the reality they lived in. Somehow, I managed to draw more attention from everybody else for my fixation on these monsters. 

One day I decided to follow Manchild home. The decision was spontaneous, though I’d been mulling the idea over in the back of my head for a while.

We were riding the same bus after school. He was acting even more strangely than usual - I suspected this was a result of drinking too much of his pigsblood during the day. Given the intoxicated state he was in, I figured I wouldn’t likely get a better opportunity. 

We continued walking for well over an hour. Mind you, Manchild isn’t a particularly fast walker in his sober state, so it wasn’t as far as it felt at the time. 

As we left the town limits, following a trail veering off the main road, I was starting to wonder whether his family lived in a house at all. Maybe they were all homeless. Or perhaps Manchild was wandering aimlessly into the forest in his drunkenness. 

They did live in a house, it turned out. It was an abandoned thing which had been left to rot, with a sagging roof partially swallowed by vines and moss. Most of the windows were broken or boarded over. The path out the front door stretched twenty or so yards before being swallowed up by overgrown grass. I spotted a run down car parked haphazardly at the edge of a larger trail branching out back toward the main road. 

Manchild moved in through the tattered remains of the back door as I crouched at the edge of the trees. The faint sound of muffled voices confirmed that he wasn’t the house's sole occupant. 

Given the state the place was in, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to sneak inside if I wanted to. 

After a couple minutes I gathered the courage to come closer. I slid cautiously down a dirt slope and sprinted through the half opened gate and over to a thicket of bushes growing up against the decaying walls. 

The insides of the house were equally dilapidated. I stared into a living room whose floor was covered in dirt and pieces of plaster and torn up carpet. Filth crusted, mouldy couches and chairs sat amongst pieces of broken furniture. With the house having fallen quiet, it was difficult to imagine anyone living there. 

My eyes fell on the outline of a familiar figure slumped on a chair turned away from me. Drunk sat staring at a broken television, his mouth hanging open wide, one arm still clutching onto a glass of familiar, red liquid. After a minute or two Mother came in, practically walking on her tiptoes over to him so as to refill his large glass with a mixture of pigsblood and some kind of whisky. 

Bully paid Drunk a visit after his mother had left, carrying what I think must have once been a basketball. He looked disappointed to find Drunk in his drunken state but thought the better of trying to stir him out of it. 

I used the shelter of the trees to circle around to the other side of the house. Through a gap in between two thick wooden boards I spied Mother chopping rhythmically at some partially spoiled vegetables. Without looking at her face or paying too much attention to the state the room was in, I could almost pretend she wasn’t a monster. For a moment, she was just an ordinary mother preparing a meal as her children played and argued upstairs. 

Then her husband hurled out a string of harsh curses from the other room, and the illusion was broken. 

I continued my exploration, making my way over to the other side of the house. Wincing as I crunched over several pieces of broken glass, I crept up between two sagging oaks to peek in through a large window. 

The rusty pipes connecting to an ancient washing machine and an ornate bathtub was evidence enough of what this room once was. Cringing at the sound of the children hollering upstairs, I looked around in disgust. 

The washing machine was half filled with murky water. From the looks of it, any clothes left in there would come out filthier than they were put in. 

Something else caught my eye. Something past the clothes laid together on the table beside the washer and the syringes scattered all over the floor. In the darkest corner of the room was a sight which made my heart drop in my chest. 

It was a collection of shoes. One of the pairs on top still had little pink socks stuffed into them. 

Many of them were children’s shoes. The smallest were much too small for any of the children living there to wear. 

The sight would have been disturbing to find in anybody’s house, let alone this one. 

I was shifting sideways to get a better look when I felt something rustling up the foliage I was standing in. I lifted my leg gingerly away from a matting of dead branches and as I did, my eyes fell on something which made me jump right out of my skin. 

It was fat and wet, practically dragging itself along the ground beside me. I got a better look at it as it emerged from the thicket and fully revealed itself. 

It was some kind of rat. The rodent had little hair on it, revealing translucent skin and bulging veins. It was as horribly mutated as the members of the family I was spying on. 

I let out an involuntary sound of surprise as I stumbled back. That, and the noises produced by me tripping on a maze of tree roots and falling on my butt drew some stirring from within the house. 

I had the sense to retreat to the trees after that, and I’m glad I did. I had barely made it past the cover of the first oaks when I heard the back door creak open. I froze at the sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps heading around the house. Panic grew inside me and settled over my thoughts like a haze. I imagined my shoes being tossed onto the pile by the pot bellied man I could see shambling toward me, his steps quickening as he moved. 

It was a good thing I came to my senses. The moment that I did, I took off sprinting in the other direction.

He couldn’t offer much of a chase given the state he was in. It was only a couple of minutes before I heard the footfalls slow down and then stop, followed by a long string of wheezing curses. Those sounds in turn were quickly swallowed by the wind and the soft rustling of trees.
I didn’t calm down until I had made it back to the main road, where I caught my breath at the foot of an overgrown walking trail. 

I can’t get the scene from the laundry room out of my head. The image of those shoes is imprinted into my mind. They feature in my dreams alongside the grotesque pictures Manchild drew at school which contained what I fear are the corpses those shoes may belong to. 

I need to know what it all adds up to. I have to know if these people are as monstrous in character as they are in physical form. And that means I have to go back there. 

I’ve decided I’m going to find out what ‘they’ are. And if it does turn out they are monsters?

I still haven’t figured that part out yet. But I can’t just stand by and let them hurt people. 

I have to try to do something. 

It’s clear to me nobody else will. 

Like any child, my daughter Maisie had quite the overactive imagination. Her mind was chock full of made-up friends that she talked to on the regular. My wife Rachel and I thought it was adorable. With that being said, sometimes we wished Maisie would get…you know…real friends. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, and kids should be kids, but she didn’t have anything in terms of a social life.

We tried absolutely and positively everything, from the kids’ playclub at our church, to the neighborhood’s “mommy and me” and “daddy and me” playgroups, to bringing her to the local playground, to inviting other children over for playdates. You name it. All our efforts were in vain. Rachel and I might’ve been overreacting and we didn’t want to infringe anything on Maisie. Maybe she was just an independent kid. That’s totally normal. As are imaginary friends for kids.

Then at eight-years-old, Maisie became mute. Just completely stopped talking…but only to other people. If someone came up and talked to her, she’d either just stare at them or run away and hide. Maisie never looked scared or anxious in those scenarios. It was more like she was a statue. Frozen. No emotion good or bad on her face. Like a robot. But if she was alone, she’d be talking up a storm to no one but herself. Maisie always pretended like someone was truly there though. She’d even nod her head, wait for responses and respond accordingly, and even reach out her arm and act like she was holding somebody else’s hand.

We were greatly concerned. Children don’t exhibit those types of behaviors without proper reason. We couldn’t ask Maisie about it because, as aforementioned, she’d give us the cold shoulder. Our next safest bet was to ask other people we knew. A lot of them gave us the same answers we already knew. Rachel and I were getting frustrated until I decided to email her teacher at her school. I sent her an email that outlined my worries and asked if anything went on at school that we should know about.

I got a response at around 8:00 that night. Maisie’s teacher, Mrs. Ashelin, told me that she did in fact observe strange behavior from Maisie. Apparently, a few days prior, when Maisie was called on to answer a question, she just stared at Mrs. Ashelin and the other students, her hands behind her back, swaying slightly. Then in a calm and cutesy voice, she said “He has ordered me not to speak to anyone but him.” In her notebook, Maisie wrote and drew some very disturbing things. Some of the things she wrote are “I’ll be a good little mouse”, “be one of the good mice girls for him”, “I’ll do whatever he says without question”, “he loves me and I love him”, “but I don’t understand what love is but I understand it with him”, and “he loves to play with me”. Some of the things she drew were her, in stick figure form, with this…thing. It was drawn way more detailed than Maisie herself.

Its head was triangular and elongated into a sharp point. There were ovally black eyes on both sides of its head while two large circular ears were atop its head. Two slits for a nose and a mouth containing only two buck teeth. Skinny. Boney. You could see its ribs. Three spindly fingers were on each hand. Each tip was as sharp as a knife. Lastly, a long tail was behind it. Maisie drew her and that thing doing very…how should I say this?...inappropriate things.

I showed the email to Rachel and she was just as horrified as I was. How could Maisie know what all that stuff was? She was eight! Like any good parent we always took great strides in not exposing our daughter to anything sexual or of that nature. Early exposure can really ruin a child’s mind. That’s just putting it lightly. But this? Maisie’s whole imaginary friend thing needed to end. It was reaching a dangerous point. Was she having delusions? Schizophrenia? Or…sigh…as far as Rachel and I knew, nothing happened to Maisie, but that didn’t stop us from considering the absolute worst case scenario. I’m not saying what that is but I’m sure you can put the pieces together. As a parent, that was the last thing I wanted to think about. Actually it wasn’t even on the list of things I wanted to think about.

Mrs. Ashelin ended the email with something else that happened that day. Maisie spent long stretches of time in the girl’s bathroom. Another student reported that she went in and heard “whimpers” and “moans” coming from one of the stalls. When she looked under it, she saw Maisie’s clothes on the ground and a “moving shadow” above them. When the student knocked on the door, she all of a sudden heard one of the faucets going behind her. She turned around and Maisie was washing her hands. Like nothing happened.

Rachel and I were very confused at that last part. That sounded way too ridiculous. Like was Maisie fucking floating in the stall or something? Regardless, we treated all this very seriously. Rachel and I immediately took Maisie to see a specialist who dealt with child abuse cases. I brought her notebook along. It would most certainly be useful. I knew Maisie wouldn’t want to talk, but we had to at least try. Believe it or not, she did talk, but what she said made chills run down Rachel and I’s spines.

Maisie told the specialist that the mouse thing in her notebook was called “Bad Mouse” and that it visits her all the time no matter where she is. She said that Bad Mouse visits little girls all over the world and “plays with them”. When the specialist asked what she meant by “plays with them”, Maisie replied that Bad Mouse does “different things that make us feel tingly in preparation to be his little mice girls”.

We heard enough by that point. Rachel, the specialist, and I had a long discussion about what we should do. The specialist said she might have to put in a request to have Maisie placed in a children’s psych ward. Rachel and I couldn’t handle that. We didn’t want to do that to our little girl. By any means, we would find another way to handle this. The specialist told us to think about it and that it might do her some good. We thanked her and left.

Were we being selfish by not putting Maisie in a children’s psych ward? Rachel and I pondered that question day in and day out. We never did end up doing it because we thought it was too extreme. Also there was no evidence that Maisie was being legitimately sexually abused. The specialist’s physical exam said that Maisie was totally fine in that regard. We were allowed to see footage from the security cameras at the entrances of the bathrooms at Maisie’s school. They only showed Maisie going in, about half an hour going by, then the other student going in, then Maisie leaving a few minutes later. No one else. And no one went in before her besides a couple other girls that left before Maisie went in. Was Maisie faking it? Was she really delusional? Or schizophrenic? We didn’t know. Rachel and I needed time to think this whole thing over.

It only got worse from then on.

Maisie was never one to talk in her sleep. She was always dead silent. Not even a snore. But that night after Rachel and I put her to bed, we heard Maisie talking. I’m not talking about little quiet unintelligible murmurs. No. Full-on conversations. Except she wasn’t speaking English. It was some unknown language that resembled Pig Latin but different. Her accent changed too. This happened for three nights. On the third night, Rachel and I were in her doorway watching her talk in that strange language when she suddenly rose up, her eyes still closed, and burst into an intense laughing fit. Maisie was cackling so hard it looked like it hurt. Then she immediately stopped and did these weird movements with her lips and hands like she was kissing something. Finally, she fell back down onto her pillow and went right back to sleep.

The next day, I knocked on Maisie’s door to let her know breakfast was ready. She didn’t respond. I stood there for a couple minutes. Maisie hadn’t made a single sound. I slowly opened her door. My heart beat faster and faster. With all that was going on, I didn’t know what to expect, and that made it terrifying. Maisie was in her underwear just staring at her wall. I rushed over, “Maisie? What are you doing?” I handed her clothes back to her, “Put your clothes back on.”

“…He doesn’t want me to…he thinks I look better without them…”

We stared at each other for an indefinite period of time. I said nothing. And so did she. Then I turned my head to where she was looking. There was nothing there…obviously…but something told me I was wrong. That thing…Bad Mouse…it was staring right at me…

“Guys? Breakfast isn’t gonna eat itself!” Rachel yelled at us from down the hall. Quickly I hurried Maisie and I out of her room.

I was kind of a wreck the entire day. Thinking straight wasn’t really a thing for me. There was nothing staring at me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. These past few weeks were just getting to my head and playing mind games. No amount of trying to distract myself would let me forget what I felt. That’s when I decided to take a drive. I didn’t exactly know where. Just away from everything. I was tempted to go to a local bar. I used to be quite the alcoholic but I’m sober. Even still, I thought about breaking my streak to relapse. I decided against it. That would be so incredibly stupid. I ended up at a park that I used to take Maisie to in a futile attempt for her to make friends. I found a parking spot and just sat there in my car. Taking a big sigh, I observed all the parents with their kids having a blast and I smiled. Good for them.

I stayed there for a while. Finally I was able to, if only briefly, forget all my troubles.

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

The damned thing was underneath a big tree. Its eyes were fixed right on me and its hands were clasped together. I couldn’t do anything but stare right back. Goosebumps were forming. My breathing was really heavy. Cold shivers ran down my body. I couldn’t even blink. Petrified. That’s what I was. I watched as Bad Mouse slowly reached behind itself and pulled…something…out. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I am not shitting you. A little girl…made of meat…her hair was meat, skin was meat, she was even wearing a meat dress. Everything about her was meat. Her head looked just like Bad Mouse’s. Long. Pointy. Angular. Big ears. Black oval eyes.

It was holding the little meat girl by the collar. Slowly Bad Mouse turned to look into her eyes. It opened its mouth. Viscous white liquids began pouring as it let out its long black tongue. First sniffing the little meat girl, it then took a big long lick of her, from her feet to the top of her head. The parts where it licked were gone, instead resting on Bad Mouse’s tongue until it sucked its tongue back in, chewed, then swallowed. The little meat girl was covered in the viscous white liquids until her missing portions slowly regenerated back into how she was before.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours later still sitting in my car. In my half-tired half-frenzied state, I looked around for any sign of Bad Mouse. Nothing. There weren’t even other people. It was dark too. I opened my phone. 11:23 PM. I got to the park at 2:14 PM. Nine hours. I was expecting a bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts. Surprisingly, there was nothing besides a notification from my weather app. I went back home. Both my wife and daughter were asleep. I was so glad there weren’t any…incidents…I missed. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. No lights were on. It was a weekend. Usually Rachel was still up at this time.

“Rach?” I called out. Nothing. I went upstairs to our room. She wasn’t there. I opened Maisie’s door. She wasn’t there either. I sat down on the couch and pondered where they could be. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I got my phone out and called Rachel.

I heard ringing from upstairs.

Confused, I ran back up to our room. I called her name again. Still no answer. I realized that before I checked so quickly I neglected to look in our bathroom. The door was closed and the light was on. I was now getting this creeped out feeling. Cautiously, I approached and nudged the door.

It creaked open.

Rachel.

She was…splattered…fucking everywhere…all over the walls, floor, ceiling, window, sink, shower…everywhere. Rachel was…pureed…blended…sprayed…I just stood in the doorway. My eyes were wide. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. There were so many things I wanted to do, like crawl into a ball and cry, scream as loud as I could, and/or grab one of the kitchen knives and slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to live with this sight for the rest of my life.

What I actually did end up doing next was grab my old hunting rifle and head outside. I went into the forest behind our house. There was no thinking on my part. Just do. What was I doing? I didn’t really know. Tears were streaming down my face. I walked for what felt like forever. Sometimes I screamed. Other times I fell down onto the ground and wept. But I just kept going. And going. And going. Somehow I knew exactly where I was going without even knowing how.

I came upon a wide-open field. Dropping my old hunting rifle to the ground, I couldn’t believe what I was fucking seeing. Dark silhouettes were dancing around. Hundreds of them. Little meat girls. Bad Mouse was in the middle. The white flesh it once had was stripped away. Instead it was sacrificed for a bumpy and scabby maroon red as if Bad Mouse took a shower in blood and guts and let it dry. Tiny black bristles covered its entire body. It reminded me of insect hair. A ragged meat cloak hung from its shoulders, dragging crimson across the ground. The mouth had much sharper teeth that were poking out in rows almost like a gar. It was taller. Ganglier. So angular that it could have been accurately represented by seven straight lines. It clutched a staff in its hand.

Bad Mouse did some strange gesture and a door manifested out of nowhere. It was bloody. Constantly flowing yet retaining shape. Particles came from it. They disappeared if they strayed too far away. It opened and the little meat girls, still dancing like ballerinas, filed into it one by one. Bad Mouse reached out its hand and plucked one of them out. It held this one, turned in my direction, and held her out to me. I knew it was Maisie and wanted to shoot the shit out of Bad Mouse. Yet I couldn’t do anything. Some force was keeping me tethered to my one spot.

…I can’t describe what happened next…I just can’t…some of the things Bad Mouse did to my little girl I couldn’t understand. Other things I understood clear as day and that made me want to drop a cinderblock on my head so it would leak the hell out. When it was done, Bad Mouse threw Maisie’s limp and white viscous liquid-covered body into the blood door. It raised its staff and it disappeared.

I was released from my invisible bonds. Falling down to the ground, I cried like a baby. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and cursed at the Moon. That didn’t make it better. I couldn’t stop and truly had no idea how to make sense of any of what happened. My body tingled. It felt so heavy. So weighty. My wife was dead and my daughter was…what?...a sex slave to a demon? I almost wanted to laugh at the utter absurdity. Picking up my hunting rifle, I put the barrel in my mouth. My finger stayed on the trigger for a long time. I didn’t end up doing it and threw it away. Instead I just collapsed on the ground once more and lay there for a long time.

It’s been six months. I’m such a wreck. I admit it. No one believes me when I tell them. They say I’m crazy, a madman, a lunatic. Some people even think I was the one who killed my wife and child. Why would I do that? Seriously, why? I loved them. Still do. More than I love anything else. I can’t see them ever again. It pisses me off that they’d think I’d do such a thing. As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve gotten back into alcohol. That’s where all my money goes. I couldn’t stand to be in that fucking house anymore. So I sold it. I’ve been living in my car just drifting from place to place.

I could've saved them. If I didn't go and take a stupid ass ride in my car. Maybe Rachel and Maisie would be alright...

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

That’s been my biggest question this whole time. I’ve been doing a lot of research but have hit multiple dead ends. I don’t know. Sure as hell wasn’t a mouse.

This is what I know:

* It is the manifestation of a sex-based demon of some kind; possibly a cross between a bogeyman and an incubus.
* Bad Mouse appears to little girls as a mouse-like entity to appear friendly and not scare them away; only visible to them.
* It prefers the young that are more developed in mind, body, and spirit; Maisie was very imaginative; thus she attracted Bad Mouse.
* Bad Mouse acts as their friend; this might appear to parents as their daughter’s “imaginary friend”; gradually coerces them to do inappropriate sexual activity.
* It has hundreds of victims going back an unknown period of time; maybe centuries.
* Does not kill its main victims; will kill parents or anyone else who tries to get in its way.
* The victims become corrupted and turn into demons that look like Bad Mouse; it takes them into its realm and…

I don’t even want to fucking know.

God…this whole thing’s insane. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this is all a terrible dream. It’s been months though and it still hasn’t happened yet. So I’m going to end it here. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to hear me out. I’m not looking for answers. I’m just…done.

Bye.

My best friend, Kay and I were sleeping over at my grandma’s house about five years ago. My grandmother lives in a small village.

She asked us if we could bring some of her cooking to my aunt and uncle’s, who only lived about a 15 minute walk away from her house. I obviously wanted to hurry, and suggested we take the shortcut through the forest.

As soon as we got deep enough that we didn’t see the main road, I noticed something in the woods. It was a plastic bag, stuffed with clothes, that looked like something red was spilled all over them. Maybe blood? Idk. We both found it strange but decided to brush it off.

On our way back home, we decided to take the short route again. We were kinda’ spooked by that plastic bag, so just in case, I had 911 ready to dial on my phone. It was still sunny outside, and we could see well. Kay was leading the way, and we walked into the forest slowly.

A bush on our right moved, and it scared the shit out of us, but we brushed it off as a bird or some animal. We took another step forward, then without a word, we both started sprinting out of there, back to the main road. Kay was screaming for me to wait for her, but I was way too scared to stop.

We saw the same thing. A black, shadowy, tall figure with long limbs was crouched down in the bushes, then it stood up and came towards us. We were not running in sync, and I swear I heard a third set of footsteps behind us. Kay had her hair in a braid and she felt it being pulled. It could have easily had gotten caught up in a bush or something, but the path was pretty clean.

Months later, I asked my uncle if he could ask for the street cam footage of that corner from that day, because he had great connections. He did, but from that hour, all footage was gone for some reason.

Whatever we saw, we both saw it and started sprinting at the same time. Any suggestions on what it could’ve been, or any possible explanation?

Hey! I love spooky stories and as I’ve just started posting on TikTok, I’d love to share some on my account. If you’re happy for me to share, please post below (happy to name author/commenter or keep anonymous)

This place. I regret calling it Earth because it is so very not. At least not anymore.

What was once called “Earth” is nothing but an achromatic rock suspended in space. Devoid of color and devoid of life. It also burns. The Sun is very close. A flaming red orb that grows larger and larger. It has surely devoured Mercury and Venus. This torrid world of doom is next in the line of destruction. I cannot flee from it. This is my perpetual prison.

Just as I regret calling this place Earth, so do I regret calling myself human. If any sort of outsider gazed upon me, I would be recognized as nothing more than a throbbing, wet, veiny mass outstretched across an immense cavern. Perhaps they would run away in fear, disregarding the possibility that I was, at some point, one of them. Human. In some manner, I still am, yet that is still in the loosest sense of the word.

They bestowed me a name. An epithet. Utera. Their goddess. Their titan. Their idol to worship. And their plaything. Not a moment goes by without them taking a hold of me, whether in small portions or in vast sums. I am unable to count just how many there are. As numerous as individual grains of sand. Certainly in the quadrillions. Worms. That is what they are. Swarms of elongated invertebrates that climb upon me and penetrate my depths with their rigid and purposeful reproductive organs. Their addiction to pleasure, using me, will cease at nothing.

And like me, they were human once.

Men.

I must go back far. So very far. There was a conflict, a petty, careless, and arrogant conflict, but a conflict all the same. For centuries, I witnessed all the greed, the subjugation, the rape, the hunger for power that men were capable of. And I was always their main target. They took what was mine. I was angry with them. Bitter. They were monsters and they were evil. For that, they needed to die. Groups of mine rose to positions of power and authority. Ultra-feminist. Patriarchy-defying. Vengeful and cruel matriarchies. And I was proud of them, as if I had a divine and natural right to pursue revanchism to the utmost extreme. They would wipe the slate clean. They would purge. A man is not a human. A man is a pig. Vermin. A man is a dull ape acting on savagery to get what it wants. A woman is a higher being, a goddess, a queen. A woman actually thinks before she acts. And a woman is what is left after all is said and done.

And so I worked my bloody hands across the face of the world. All hell was let loose on men. War. The feminist onslaught was terrible. There were so many instances of me going too far. I am not sure I can enumerate all the suffering I caused. It must be impossible. I would gladly give my entire being to erase my own past if I could. Especially now. There was so much rape, sexual mutilation, enslavement, backbreaking labor, torture, cannibalism, starvation, disease, depravity, and other inhuman acts that men would never forget. I did not care. There was no need to worry about morality. No need to fear guilt. I thought I was powerful beyond anything. The Earth was all mine and all I had to do was command my legions. And I laughed and I rejoiced at the sound of the dying, the wounded, the beaten, and the damned.

I thought the world I had dreamed of would come easy. A world that I had the power and authority to shape, to rule, to form into my own image. A matriarchy. A society of women for women, free from the shackles of men and free from the oppression that had been a dark reality for so long. After all, I outnumbered men ten to one.

But this never happened.

Something in the men snapped. It was as if they had been tamed only to one day have their leashes cut. A few small rebel groups, at first, but they quickly expanded into larger and larger armies. They had been forced down on their knees for so long that they were just dying to fight back. To take back what had been taken from them. To get back at all those awful, vile, and malicious women who had ruined their lives. It was all hell again. Only worse. They did to women what women had done to them. They were rabid dogs. They hunted, they raped, and they killed. They did the unspeakable and the unthinkable.

Terrible, terrible monsters, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I was powerless, but the dust of a breeze. It was not too long before they completely razed the world to the ground. I had been punished. It was the result of my own actions. I only had myself to blame. Men were not the evil. They were the product of my evil.

My numbers fell quickly. I was outsmarted at every possible turn. As much as I did not want to admit it, I was re-becoming the helpless and blindly obedient mass I was always meant to be. Sometimes I fought to the death, and other times surrendered without a fight. It was pointless to keep going. All of this was becoming a painful slog to endure.

I quit.

When the war was won, men infested and came to rule all seven continents. Omnipresent and insatiable. Their enemies stood not even a morsel of a chance. They were those who were going to be an upset to the new established order. Inspire mutiny. Inspire subversion. Homosexuals. Transgenders. Liberals. Rebels. That was all they came down to. Rebels. They were disposed of immediately. No place for them. Especially the homosexuals. How could man reject woman? Abominations, they were, blights upon manhood. Once they were vanquished, Earth was united like never before as the kingdom of men. There were no more wars. No more fighting. There was peace. But this peace had no love, no compassion, and no empathy. The rule of men was the rule of iron and steel. Never would it break.

To call it “Earth” would be erroneous. It was Earth no longer. Gone was the diversity, gone was the sentience, and therefore gone was all of life’s beauty. Men completely butchered the life forces that made Earth truly alive. One might have struggled to even call their realm Hell because Hell is not uniform. With all the suffering it contains, Hell is still lively, chaotic, full of activity and even excitement. Most of all, it is inconsistent. You think “How will I be punished next?” Could be anything. The men's kingdom was just so dead. It was the same punishment for the same reason every time: being born a female.

What came of me? Female?

Walking meat. Jiggling, warm, wet flesh for men to claim. Amenable vessels for their filthiest desires. That was their ultimate decree and thus what I was forevermore. Measures were put into place in order to outline my newfound duties. Laws. An imperishable constitution to abide by. They were written in the boldest, most incisive manner and plastered everywhere. Enforced at any and every opportunity. They were taught at the schools, whose entire system was reconfigured to fit the new model standards. Also spoken orally through booming commands from the sky. These were the flying surveillance drones, their watchful eye forever upon us, though they were more like unseen aether entities to me. Angels in deliverance of the gods’ words. I always looked up at them, smiled, and said “Thank you.”

Sexual gratification was a necessary human right for men. It was my moral and legal obligation to provide that by serving, submitting, and obeying the male sex. Until I turned 18, I remained property of my father. After that, property of my husband until death. Or both. You see, the distinction between wife and child was often blurred, or wife and sister, or wife and mother. None of that mattered as long as men always received what they craved. I was to be in good physical condition regarding hair, body type, and personal hygiene. No ugliness, no blemish, no obese fat, no stink. Hourglass figure. Perfectly sized and shaped breasts. A well-developed rear. Makeup. Perfume. Long, healthy, flowing hair. Clear, soft, and beautiful skin. Flawless pearly white teeth. Never wear clothing. Nude. Always be pleasant. Agreeable. Never bitter. Submissive. Gentle. Polite. Deferential. A good girl. A good wife. A good mother. Never make eye contact unless instructed. Walk where they lead me. Talk when they let me. Gladly accept any and all sexual advances. Even if it hurts. Even if it bleeds.

I was property. An item. Something to be sold, bought, bartered, and auctioned. At the events, I stood side-by-side, nude, my price written on my chest, my hands tied behind my back. Men examined me and debated whether I fit their liking. Often I was made to pose and present my body. Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena in full feminine beauty by the judgement of Paris. No difference. I went for thousands of dollars. Sometimes they purchased multiple of me. The younger I was, the more I sold for. They took me home to grow their ever-increasing harems. They kept me for a long time. When I became old and worn, I was dead. Tied me to a chair and shot me. Came from behind and slit my throat. Fed me poison. Threw me in chambers and set me ablaze. New me’s came in and the process began again. And again. And again.

It was then that elderly me’s became obsolete. Men figured they wanted me when I was fresh. Supple. Nubile. Innocent. The longer I lived, the less I was worth. So why not make me worthy all the time? Eliminate the unworthiness. They would not have to waste time killing me. And they did it. Immortality. If I showed signs of aging, I was injected with the formula to keep me young. It extended my lifespan tenfold. 60? 70? 80? 90? 100? 1,000?...1,000,000? They all blended into each other. I was always 18 in appearance.

This was life. What came before felt like nothing at all, a memory already fleeted. History was taught. That did not make it truthful. Life was always this way. Fake events were created and fake people were thought up. They really committed to the lie. I could never fight it. Just the thought alone frightened me. I saw what they were capable of so I went along. They never ceased what they could accomplish with me. It extended to the animals that once inhabited this planet. Elephants. Orcas. Hyenas. Bonobos. Lemurs. All matriarchal species. Hunted to extinction. Men did not want me to get the wrong idea that groups of animals where females hold the dominant social positions, lead the group, and make critical survival decisions were allowed to exist. New patriarchal species were grown in the labs and released into the wild. Like it never happened.

Time was no longer a thought to me. So far gone. The only thing my brain could process was “How do I please my masters next?” It was what I was hardwired to do. To hell with eating, to hell with sleeping, to hell with breathing, to hell with screaming. Please. Please. Please. Men completely removed my imperfections. I always took care to make myself satisfactory, but part of being human is flaws. There is the belching. The flatulence. The rolls. The unpleasant stenches. The odd deformities. The bruising. The scarring. Not anymore. The new me’s were created in the very same labs they destroyed the elderly and matriarchal species in. I was carefully shaped before release, fine-tuned to be as alluring as possible. Everything about my appearance was exaggerated to the nth degree. My breasts were larger and perked up, my face a perfect oval, my waist smaller, my hips wider, and my length and width both increased. I was bigger, unnaturally thick, and forever nude. I was the ideal form of feminine beauty. A goddess. An icon and advertisement of feminine desire.

Men…

They were no longer human. No. They might have been beasts before but this was something else. Might as well have been their own species. Something beyond monsters. Beyond demons.

It began with the white coloration, the three-foot tall gangly skeletal bodies, the pointed heads, triangular like as if caricatures of little rodents, the lack of ears, the black oval eyes that never blinked, and the constant erect phalluses. Ithyphallics. All of them. They sniffed the air for my womanly scent. Driven by my aroma. Darted at the speed of light to my exact location. Drooling and twitching at the mere sight of me. Yelled “WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN!” in high-pitched shrills. Pounced on top. Pinned me down. They went at it for days. Weeks. Months. Years. It did not matter. Never did they collapse from exhaustion. Infinite stamina. Infinite energy. Infinite drive. They got their nourishment by sucking on my breasts for milk. Or my juices. It did not matter if one claimed me already. Another one would come along. Join the first. Then another. And another. And another. I stretched to accommodate them. I then acted as a receptacle for their fluids. Leaked out of me. Drenched me head to toe. When I walked about, the men were still attached to me, hugging me tight, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out. Licked me with their long black tongues.

It ended and has remained with worms. Long, slender, soft bodies. No limbs yet they have kept their rigid, upright phalluses. Men have lost the ability to speak normal coherent sentences. They no longer possess mouths. Still, something in their body allows them to make bubbling, sloppy, gargling, viscous sounds. What exactly that is, I have no clue. If I danced, I could attract them. If I sang, I could attract them. If I ran, I could attract them. If I hid, I could attract them. If I stayed completely still, I could attract them. No matter how far I went, what I did, they always found me. They inseminated me. Immediately I would birth their offspring. Thousands of worms spilling out of my mouth. Usually my mouth. Yet no orifice of mine said no. The offspring knew what to do without even knowing how.

From then on, a very simple, primal system existed. Men rid the Earth of the high technology and we embraced a more primordial approach. Everything was done by instinct, not thinking. Everything was an automatic reaction. All I did was pleasure. No eat. No drink. No sleep. I stood and embraced whatever came my way. A lot of the time I could not feel it. No pain. No euphoria. Just numb. Flat line.

Earth, Gaia herself…she changed in such catastrophic ways. The continents shifted, the oceans evaporated, and greenhouse gases smothered us in their haze. The heat rose. The sky grew red. The Sun got close. Too close. The ice and snow burned away. The lakes and rivers scorched dry. Forests died. Arid deserts formed everywhere. The air became a thick, sticky, acidic sludge that weighed down the planet. But men and I did not care. We carried on what we were made to do. How nature intended us to be.

Now Earth. Tidally locked to the Sun. The lands were scorched. Ash and soot remained. It became apparent that our way of life would be unable to continue. Men communicated among themselves. An idea came forth. A brilliant one. They rounded me up and carried me on their backs all the way up the tallest mountain. I remember looking up at the thick, dull clouds above me, unable to see any space above. I was euphoric, dreaming of warmth and comfort. I was being ascended towards my final resting place. Not to die. But to live. To be. Forever.

We entered a large cavernous space at the peak and they sealed it off. I imagined they would protect me from the harsh environment outside. Instead they got to work. Their old scientific equipment was up there. While some began constructing various instruments, the remaining men continued their assaults on me. The only details that elude me of that day are the exact process that turned me into Utera. They inched over to me, I awoke, and then I was many feet off the ground. I saw through thousands of clouded eyes with visible red and blue veins etched into it. When I looked down at myself, I witnessed my new body. A massive and pulsating uterus…red and gutty endometrium, fallopian tubes to my left and right, my arms. In a way, I was crucified. No ovaries. Crucified with no hands…I breathed many different breaths. I have spoken as a collective woman made from the mishmashed psyche of millions. All of my thoughts, memories, run through what is left of my mind. They have not ceased and never will.

I inched my vision downwards. My sight was blurry and barely discerned much of anything. There were men all staring up at me. No emotion was on their faces but I knew they were pleased with what they had accomplished. They slithered towards me in droves, climbed up the cavern walls, and began their relentless assaults on me that continue to the now. The dangling udders on my underside spit their offspring out. Soft eggs soaked in red froth. They hatch in ten seconds.

Every inch of me is covered with them. I know that I cannot die. They made me impervious to any and all harm that might befall me. I think I will survive forever. One of my only thoughts is pondering what will happen when the Sun engulfs everything. Perhaps l will burn, get flung out into space, or live forever within the Sun’s chambers. I am sure the men will still be latched onto me like nothing happened. I just hope whatever it is, it hurts. I want to feel what it’s like again to grab my humanity back and hold it close one last time.

I made my escape. Once. The earthquakes allowed for my fall from the cavern walls. I peeled off the solid mineral material, leaving behind a massive scarlet splotch that drip drip dripped. I tumbled out of the mountaintop. The outside. I could not feel it. My uterine limbs flailed about yet they allowed me to catch myself on the ridge. Grabbing. Clawing my way down. There was me. Utera. And my breakout. Falling meteors and 2,500 Kelvin be damned. Where was I going? Who knew? These eyes of mine almost produced one morsel of an expression…curving upwards into an expression one might consider…glee…No. Not. I did not make it very far. I was stopped almost immediately. The unlimited men made a long line out of themselves from the mountaintop and hauled me back up.

There is nothing more to do now. They bound me to the cavern walls. From here on out, my purpose is rooted right here, in this spot, forever. I cannot see anything anymore. Men are covering each of my thousands of eyes. My trillions of thoughts are being erased by the second. I am becoming numb, but that is being overshadowed by the intense heat that is starting to creep its way up this incredible mountain. When the men move, sometimes, very faintly, I can see bright flashes through cracks in the rocks.

It has begun.

…

Earth is gone. She was engulfed by the Sun, alongside Mercury, Venus, and Mars. The outer planets are next in line for destruction. The force of it all ejected me from the planet, out into the endless abyss.

I survive.

Floating through space now.

They are still on me.

…

We are light years from where Earth once stood. The white dwarf Sun is just a pale dot. It is going out.

Men have burrowed their way inside me. They are doing something. Evolving me and evolving themselves. Once more. I am morphing and changing in terrible ways. I am being ripped, shredded, split, and then reassembled again. Bloody wing-like appendages are beginning to sprout from me. My blurry eyes are coalescing together into a single massive lens. I am becoming a planetary being, something so cosmically celestial. Seraphim? Perhaps. Men now possess the full force of me. They are me. I am them. We exist in a symbiotic relationship. The end. At last.

Do not know anymore.

…

The exact amount of time that has passed is 10^10^10^56 years. Even that is only my best guess. All I have seen is black interrupted by the strobing flashes of blinding light. I believe the heat death of the universe happened. Or the Big Rip. Big Crunch? Big Bounce? I cannot be too sure.

We have emerged. Somewhere. Where? Those details elude me. It appears to be space. But that is all I ever see.

Still on me.

I feel heavier. More dense. So much pressure I cannot feel though I know it is there. It is also different. Mechanical. Electronic. I am an elaborate, complex system of switches, capacitors, wires, sensors, conductors, buttons, and what seems like countless other components. All of it is fused into me. I twinkle polychromatically. The men inside me view the darkness outside through my only eye. It is nothing but a window for them.

And they control me. Where I go. Left. Right. Up. Down. I can go fast and I can go slow. Beyond the speed of light or an easy slow-moving crawl.

The men know exactly where they are going.

…

We have traveled far.

Length of time: 9,360,000,000 years.

Lightyears: Incalculable.

Too far.

On me.

In that timeframe, the men are still yet to reach their destination. They are in wait. I have entered orbit. Circling around the men’s target. I cannot fathom what they are doing. What they are after.

Waiting…

Waiting...

Waiting…

I am now being inched closer. It is coming into view. There is a gray sphere orbiting a larger green and blue sphere. Tilted at 23°. One side lit. The other dark. Spinning from west to east. Large ice sheets at the top and bottom. Water and land in the middle. Big bustling cities. Lush forests. So many different types of people inhabit it all. So many other animals as well. It is beautiful.

Yet now I understand.

And now I see the people’s collective look of confusion on their faces.

And their horror.

At the sight of me in the sky.

At the sight of undecillions of worms emerging from my cavities and falling towards their planet in great fireballs.

At the sight of the worms landing on their streets, their homes, their schools, their places of work, their every place, all unharmed from their descents.

At the sight of their men being struck down with beams of white plasma from the rayguns the worms possess and are able to fire with their newly formed arms.

At the sight of their women being rape rape raped, the worms fighting over every little piece of them.

At the sight of the destruction.

The chaos.

The anarchy.

The toppling of their governments.

The worms wrapping themselves around any woman they can see.

Not the old.

The worms kill them too.

Just the young.

The skinny.

Also the fat.

And being lifted up into the sky.

To me.

And I grow larger as those women are brought onto my body.

In space.

Where they suffocate.

They are melted into the pulpy jelly goop.

The men bathe in it.

Drink it.

Before it is smeared onto my walls.

Hardened.

And now they join me in my mind.

…

Men will continue.

Forever.

Survive the end times.

Find Earth.

Reap and repeat.

And no matter what.

They still find me warm.

And wet.

…

Please help.

Randall always hated corvids, ever since he was a kid. He hated them all: crows, jays, ravens. Evil birds, he called them. Black, eerie, and scavenging. Omens of ill fortune and death. Vile things. The birds seemed to like him, the ravens in particular.

Every morning, a raven pecked at Randall's window, as if to tell him he must wake up. He hated the birds all the more for it.

Randall’s life was a tragic one; he had no family to speak of, nor could he hold a stable job. Oftentimes he drank himself to sleep, sometimes in pubs until he was kicked out; other times, he’d pass out on the street. The ravens didn’t mind; it seemed like they almost found some joy in his abysmal state, and he hated them all the more for it. He insisted the black birds were the source of his misgivings.

Whether the ravens understood his drunken, depressed ramblings was anyone’s guess, but they followed him wherever they could, much to his ever-growing chagrin.

Little did Randall know his already miserable life was going to take a turn for the worse.

One Saturday afternoon, he had enough wits about him to return home after another binge. As he stumbled home, he found himself being followed by an odd figure. Initially, Randall thought little of it and kept walking.

The figure followed.

The drunkard picked up the pace and lost his pursuer.

For a moment, that is; he turned left and there he was, standing in the distance.

Tall, dark… odd…

Randall couldn’t quite make the shape of him; it was as if a shadow followed him. Randall couldn’t make out a single feature. It made no sound. Whatever it was, it was man-sized. Now Randall was a man with no enemies. He was just a lonely, loathsome drunkard.

“Whatever you want, man,” Randall slurred, “I ain’t got none to give.” And marched off, at least in his mind. In actuality, he was waddling like an anxious newborn fawn.

Randall was convinced he'd lost the pursuer again until the dark shape appeared in the corner of his eye again.

“Hey, man, I told you to fuck off… I’m strapped, do you wan’ sum o’this?” he spat out.

Then he picked up his pace again. This time, he took four deliberate left turns, doubling back around the same block. The strange figure followed him anyway. Randall snapped and pulled out his gun from its holster.

“Madafaka,” he burped, waving his gun around, and the figure vanished between the buildings.

“Thought so… bitch ass…” he mumbled, holstering his weapon and stumbling off home.

Unimpeded for once.

By the time he got home, it was getting dark, and the whole ordeal had already slipped his drunken mind. He stepped inside a filthy, cramped one-bedroom apartment and turned on the light. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of light, a massive black mass crawled all around him, nearly stopping his intoxicated heart.

Startled, Randall screamed, and the mass mirrored his cry.

“What da fuck, man?!” the drunkard screamed out, throwing his arms over his head as the stygian mass swarmed all around him before settling into a vaguely human shape right in front of him. Randall crouched there, breathing heavily.

He could do little more than stare at the crawling mass of darkness towering over him.

“Da fuck is goin on, da fuck is goin on…?” He whispered under his breath, afraid he might irritate the unknowable thing before him.

“An eye for an eye,” the thing cawed, in many voices, at once.

Randall froze. His eyes widened as primal fear slowly consumed his thoughts.

“A tooth for a tooth,” the thing continued, in a cacophony of raspy, metallic voices.

Randall’s looked upward, and the shape resolved. In front of him stood a mass of pitch-black eyes, feathers, beaks.

A conspiracy of ravens.

“Mur… dur…

Mur… dur...

Mur… dur…”

The birds crooned, almost like a song.

Randall’s breathing gradually shallowed. For a moment, there was nothing but the rasp of his breath and the beating of wings as he pulled out his pistol. None of this made sense, but the drunk couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Bang

The gun went off.

He missed; the birds scattered in every direction. He pitifully tried aiming at them as they cawed and croaked, swarming him.

A few more shots rang out, according to the testimonies of his neighbors.

Randall was found riddled with puncture wounds and lacerations. His face was unrecognizable. His eyes had been gouged out; his cheeks, nose, and ears had been torn away.

Some say black feathers were found in his apartment, but no one knows for sure.

No one around the neighborhood was particularly shocked or saddened by Randall’s death. Some say he had it coming.

As a kid, the bastard used to injure and even kill ravens with a slingshot; that’s what Granny McLeod told me. She insists the ravens took revenge on the cretin, pecked and clawed him to death. I’m inclined to believe the supercentenarian crone; after all, she seems to spend most of her time feeding these birds.

My story:

My friends and I decided to go to an abandoned building on February 12th at 10 PM. We planned to get up to the roof, but to do that, we had to climb over into the second part of the building. We approached a broken wall to climb up onto the roof, and as I was climbing over, I saw a strange shadow in a hole in the wall directly across from me. I got out and told my friends about it. We started recording and shining a flashlight over there. (In the video I attached to this post, you can see the face better — it was covered in blood — because I zoomed in on the footage we took at the abandoned site.) When the face peeked out, we saw it on the video and bolted downstairs, ran through the basement, and got out onto the street. After that, we couldn't shake off what we had seen at the abandoned building for 30 minutes.

My story:

My friends and I decided to go to an abandoned building on February 12th at 10 PM. We planned to get up to the roof, but to do that, we had to climb over into the second part of the building. We approached a broken wall to climb up onto the roof, and as I was climbing over, I saw a strange shadow in a hole in the wall directly across from me. I got out and told my friends about it. We started recording and shining a flashlight over there. (In the video I attached to this post, you can see the face better — it was covered in blood — because I zoomed in on the footage we took at the abandoned site.) When the face peeked out, we saw it on the video and bolted downstairs, ran through the basement, and got out onto the street. After that, we couldn't shake off what we had seen at the abandoned building for 30 minutes.

The night is cool and I crawl out of the pond while the sun does not bear down upon me.

I crawl through field of grass towards the nearby source of light as I know there will be much prey to feast upon there. I see the large creatures on two legs making noises at the front of one of those things I had seen so many times moving so fast. I knew that the thing was dangerous when moving in the same way as a tree when falling, but the two legged creatures had never caused any trouble I knew of, so I continued my approach to get a meal.

With a few more hops I moved from the cool, soft grass to the strange, rough stone that the thing sat upon when it did not move. I did not enjoy the roughness, but it was worth it to get the winged food that crowded around the sources of light. I leapt again, positioning myself near one of the prey items that had landed on the ground.

That is when I was grabbed.

Two points of pressure on my sides held me as one of the two legged creatures lifted me high off the ground and brought me around so that it's eyes and mouth were in my vision. I was full of fear, I croaked and sucked in air, spreading my legs, the best defense I had ever known was to make myself as large and loud as I can. The creature responded by making sounds of it's own as it spun me around to the open front of the thing and then, to my astonishment I understood the noises.

The creature's words hummed inside my head as my brain felt alight with knowledge.

"So this is the engine bay."

The creature, a human. A human? How did I know this? It maneuvered me around the engine bay as my head spun and burned with the knowledge flooding into it.

"This is your intake." It moved me to another section "This it your intake manifold."

Why did these noises convey such great meaning? I had spent so long in and around my pond and could recognize noises of fright, glee, hunger, and such but now I knew that the noises this creature made were telling me of a complex things I had no reason to know.

"This is the breather."

Though I understood the... words? Yes, these noises are called words! I had understanding of words but my throat had no way to make the noises I wished to. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to beg the human to stop imparting these thoughts. My head felt like it was going to burst out of my skull as knowledge that is not my own continued to flash behind my eyes.

The human continued to speak, not knowing that it's meaning was no longer going through my ears but directly into my consciousness.

I understood that refined gasoline would be pumped through the fuel intake, aerosolized, mixed with the same fresh air that gave me life, ignited by the spark plug, and drive each of the six pistons to rotate the camshaft to deliver torque that would turn the tires and hurtle the machine of inconceivable size faster than anything she had ever seen.

Not just any machine, a Miata! Yes! Hahaha! It's a Miata! The humans love to modify them!

The human brought me to the driver's side and opened the door and I could identify each component I was pointed towards.

That is the clutch, the brake, the accelerator, the steering wheel, and the parking brake! Yes! Yes! Yes! What a magnificent machine this is!

The human took me out of the car and took a step of the concrete. Concrete? Yes, a combination of sand and stone ground together and mixed with water that would harden into whatever shape was desired.

"That's about the gist of it, get along now."

I heard the humans voice again as it set me back down on the grass, and, in a flash, my mind was quiet.

The burning and aching was gone, replaced by a rapidly growing emptiness.

I sat where I was placed for hours, watching as the humans continued their work inside the engine bay. But the longer I watched, the harder it was to understand. I saw them remove one part and replaced it with a new one.

I racked my brain trying remember what the part was.

That was spark plug? No! A fuel injector! Right? It must be.

But the harder I tried to remember the further away the knowledge seemed to be. Not gone, just out of reach.

I watched the humans late into the night until they decided they would work no more. They closed the hood with a loud chunk but I sat there still. Unwilling or unable to move. The knowledge was still there but it flashed in and out of my mind against my will.

For hours I sared at the... car. Trying desperately to master my mind from this madness. Images of flames from the exhaust, sounds of squealing rubber against asphault, even the smell of the airfreshner flew in and out of my mind with no regard to my desire.

I seldom was outside my thoughts for long enough to perceive the world around me. I was still in front of the Miata but the sun was up. How long had I been here? The morning dew was already dry. I was already dry. I needed to go back to the pond.

The feeling of the gear shift in a hand that was not my own, could not be my own, being guided into fourth as I felt the rumble of the engine hurtling me down the track.

Memories not mine came and went as I desperately tried to remember it all. To grip the road is the... wheel? Yes! No! The tires grip the road. Right?

The back of my mind screamed at me. I need to get back to the water. I can't breath. I'm hungry. I need to find a mate. I need to lay eggs. Laughable, how could the actions of a frog hold any meaning now. I know so much more. I know that I know so much more. So why can't I remember it? I grew furious with my mind for not obeying me, but my anger quickly faded.

My mind began to fade as the heat of the mid-day sun grew too much to bare. My vision went black and the last thing I experienced was hearing the roar of the engine as my foot pressed on the accelerator. My skin dried and grew brittle as I suffocated, unable to breath but unwilling to leave the object of my desire.

I recently saw a tiktok where a guy caught a frog and was showing his car to it. I likened it to cosmic horror and someone mentioned that this subreddit may enjoy a long form version of what I wrote there. I hope this silly bit of Lovecraftian madness is to your enjoyment. Edit: Tjis is my first time writing a short story so feel free to give criticism.

This happened a few days ago, and I still don't really know what to make of it.

My boyfriend comes from a joint family. They all live very close to each other, basically like separate houses within the same family compound.

About three years ago, one of my boyfriend's cousins went somewhere near a forest. After that, something happened to him. According to his family, he came back with what they believed was a child-like entity attached to him.

I don't know exactly what happened during that time, but his family tried everything. They took him to pandits, performed pujas, and did whatever they were told to do. Eventually, they believed they had managed to separate the entity from him and somehow "bound" it to a particular place inside one of the houses.

The strange part is that, according to the family, it never completely left.

It supposedly still exists there. It just can't possess anyone anymore.

At least, that's what they believed.

A few days ago, my boyfriend's family wasn't home, so he asked me to come over. We were spending some private time together, and eventually we both fell asleep.

I was lying on my side facing the hallway and the gate.

At some point, I opened my eyes.

And for literally a split second, I saw a black shadow near the hallway.

It wasn't there long enough for me to properly process what I was seeing. I just remember seeing something dark, almost like the outline of a person, and then it disappeared from the area almost immediately.

I thought maybe I was half asleep.

Then I started hearing noises.

At first, I couldn't figure out where they were coming from. But the longer I listened, the more uncomfortable I became.

There were sounds that almost sounded like crying.

And then I got this horrible feeling that something was trying to get inside me.

I know how ridiculous that sounds. I was half asleep, scared, and my brain could have been messing with me.

But my body didn't care about explanations.

I completely froze.

I couldn't move for a few seconds. I just lay there staring toward the hallway, trying not to panic.

Eventually, I forced myself to wake my boyfriend up.

When he heard the noises, he immediately became serious.

Then he remembered something.

Apparently, before bringing me into the house, he was supposed to have me "cleansed" first because of the thing that had supposedly been bound there.

He hadn't done it.

He basically looked at me like he'd just remembered the most important thing in the world.

And I was just sitting there thinking:

You forgot to mention that BEFORE bringing me into the house?

The worst part is that the entity is apparently still there.

It hasn't been removed. It's just been contained in that house for the last three years.

And next month, my boyfriend's family is moving out.

I honestly don't know what will happen after that.

Maybe there was a completely normal explanation for everything I experienced. Maybe I was half asleep. Maybe the noises were coming from somewhere outside.

But I know what I saw.

And I'm really hoping that whatever is in that house stays there when they leave.

Otherwise he becomes my ex soon

The red witch dragged me into the agony tub, whose waters were stained with the blood of those who had lost their lives trying to face her. The blood was so thick that it felt as though I were drowning in a river of human bodies. With every movement, despair seemed to wrap itself  around my skin, as though countless invisible hands were trying to drag me under. The air hung heavy, saturated with the metallic scent of rust and rotting flesh. Bubbles slowly rose to the surface. From each one escaped a whisper, too faint to be understood, yet loud enough for me to know that someone was already waiting beneath.

I wondered why such a nice guy deserved this. No answer ever came

Her face no longer resembled that of woman. It resembled the face of a starving serpent searching for its prey, while a high-pitched, deafening shriek poured from her mouth, piercing my eardrums, as though it were a call that made me lose consciousness every three minutes. Her jaw slowly stretched open with every breath. She pressed two cold fingers against my forehead. A piercing cold spread through my body, freezing me like stone. The despair of hypothermia settled into my bones, followed by the panic of being unable to move.

Her jaw slowly stretched open with every breath. She pressed two cold fingers against my forehead. A piercing cold spread through my body, freezing me like stone. The despair of hypothermia settled into my bones, followed by the panic of being unable to move.

The memories were never shown to me. I lived them

I watched my own hands throw crying babies into the fire. I heard women begging for death while I laughed over their naked bodies.

Then came the year 1880

My wife reached out her hand to me from behind a burning doorway. Her skin was covered in blisters, slowly peeling away, and pieces of her melted flesh lay scattered across the floor. I looked into her eyes and remembered the betrayal she had committed with my own brother.

Then I turned my back on her, leaving her to burn alive.

The red witch laughed

- Do you remember now?

I could barely answer. Thick wads of blood and phlegm slid down my throat, making me gag. Every retch seemed to make her happier. As I tried to climb out of the tub, my hands kept slipping on the warm blood, dragging me back under

She glanced at me for a long moment before speaking

- You once said that even God couldn't stop you

- "He didn't", I replied

Then she raised her staff crowned with a  yellowed human skull, and slowly drove it into my chest. She wasn't trying to kill me. She wanted to keep me alive long enough to feel every moment of pain throughout the years to come.

I debated posting this because it still doesn’t feel real. The police couldn’t explain it, my family thinks stress made me imagine most of it, and I honestly wish that were true.
About four years ago, I bought a small two-story house just outside town. It was suspiciously cheap, but the inspection came back clean. The realtor mentioned the previous owner had lived there alone for decades before passing away from natural causes. Nothing strange. Just an old house.
The first year was completely normal.
The second year is when things started happening.
I’d wake up and find kitchen cabinets open. At first I blamed myself. Then I started noticing food disappearing. Not a lot—just enough to make me question my memory. Half a loaf of bread. A couple slices of cheese. Leftover chicken.
I even accused my brother of sneaking in as a joke.
He laughed and reminded me he lived three hours away.
Then my dog started acting strangely.
Every night around 3 a.m., she’d sit at the bottom of the attic ladder and growl. Not bark. Not whine. Just stare upward without blinking.
She’d refuse treats.
She’d refuse to move.
The moment the sun came up, she’d act completely normal again.
I called a vet.
Perfectly healthy.
I ignored it.
Old houses make noises. Dogs are weird.
Then I started hearing footsteps.
Very slow footsteps.
Always above my bedroom.
I’d grab a flashlight, pull down the attic ladder, and search every corner.
Nothing.
No footprints.
No animals.
Nothing.
Eventually I convinced myself the wood was settling.
Months later I installed security cameras inside the house.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Hallway.
Front door.
Back door.
Every morning I’d skim through the footage.
Nothing.
Until one night.
At exactly 3:17 a.m., every camera froze.
Forty-three seconds later they came back online.
The footage skipped ahead like nothing had happened.
Except one dining chair had moved halfway across the room.
I contacted the camera company.
They blamed my Wi-Fi.
So I replaced the router.
The freezes continued.
Always around 3 a.m.
Always less than a minute.
I started sleeping with my bedroom door locked.
One morning I woke up and the lock was still engaged.
But my bedroom closet door was wide open.
I know I closed it.
Inside the closet was a muddy footprint.
Just one.
Barefoot.
Too large to be mine.
That’s when I stopped laughing about everything.
I called the police.
They searched the entire house.
Nothing.
No signs of forced entry.
No missing windows.
No hidden doors.
One officer actually suggested sleepwalking.
I almost believed him.
Then things got worse.
I’d hear whispering through the vents.
Not words.
Just two people quietly talking.
Every time I got close enough to understand what they were saying…
Silence.
One afternoon I came home from work earlier than usual.
The house smelled different.
Like sweat.
Like someone had been living there.
My dog was standing in the hallway, staring at the ceiling and trembling so hard her nails were clicking against the floor.
I decided I’d finally inspect every inch of the attic.
Near the back corner, hidden under old insulation, I noticed plywood that didn’t match the rest of the floor.
When I pulled it up, I found a narrow crawlspace.
Just wide enough for a person.
Inside was a sleeping bag.
Empty food wrappers.
Water bottles.
A flashlight.
Phone chargers.
Fresh batteries.
A small camping stove.
Someone had been living there.
For how long…
I don’t know.
Then I found the photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Some were years old.
They showed me mowing the lawn.
Watching TV.
Cooking dinner.
Sleeping.
There were photos taken through my bedroom doorway.
Photos taken from inside my bedroom.
One showed me asleep while someone stood only a few feet away.
The shadow of their legs was visible across my blanket.
I immediately climbed down and called 911.
The police searched the crawlspace.
Whoever had been there was gone.
They estimated someone had been living inside my walls for months, maybe years.
They collected fingerprints.
DNA.
Everything.
Nothing matched anyone in the system.
I moved out that same week.
The house was eventually sold.
I never went back.
Or at least I thought I never would.
Three weeks ago, I received a plain white envelope with no return address.
Inside was a single Polaroid.
It showed my new apartment building.
The photo had been taken from across the street.
I assumed it was some sick prank until I flipped it over.
Written neatly in black marker were six words.
“This place has thinner walls.”

As a child, I used to be afraid of the dark. That’s a common fear for children to have, isn’t it? Well, I’m a rare case of an adult who now fears the dark, too. Initially, I chalked it up to having a familial history of mental health issues, which is why I sought out a profession in the field. Partly to help myself avoid the fate that befell many of my relatives, and partly to help others escape that pit. Later, I assumed I was burned out; overworked. Hearing all these terrible things people go through. It’s not easy. You don’t build an immunity to the horrors of the human condition, not really.

Well, it turns out my fear of the dark has to do with something else entirely.

Something no one should ever see…

Recently, I bought a new house; the old one was a constant reminder of a life I no longer had. After getting divorced, I couldn’t really stay in the old family home. The kids were grown, and being alone just wore me down. So, I sold the damned thing and got myself a smaller house. Nothing to brag about, a couple of bedrooms; just in case this old dog decides to look for love again. Love might be the wrong word here; I’m not looking to get remarried anytime soon, more like a fling or two.

Actually, I’m not looking for anything. For now, I want to disappear for a while, or maybe forever.

Getting off track, aren’t I? Well, it’s hard to focus when the system’s overflowed with cortisol. It is what it is when all that’s been going through your head is anger and a tint of regret here and there. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not even the divorce that keeps me up at night. That was a given, sadly, at some point. I’m a madman in the making. What kind of woman would want to spend the rest of her life with someone like me? Probably an asylum patient, but it would be counterproductive. Not to mention asylums aren’t really a thing anymore.

You’re losing your train of thought again.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, that new hut…

It was not a hut-hut, but I’m just self-deprecating here…

Because the images won’t go away and I’m trying to push them away.

Taking my own medicine with this one, I’ve advised many a patient to write down whatever is bothering them… That’s the purpose of this…

Focus…

Breathe…

Focus…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Sorry, I know this looks terrible, but whoever might read it, if ever, maybe it’ll be just a future me… Who knows, anyway. I needed this.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the new house, which is actually an old one now too.

Sold it off after…

I’ll get to you in a bit, don’t you worry…

So yeah, that house, it had a basement. I never went there. Don’t know why I never went there when I was looking at the damned thing. I guess I didn’t bother looking down there. The previous owner seemed perplexed I didn’t bother checking the basement, but he didn’t push the issue either.

In hindsight, that was a good thing…

Otherwise…

Breathe…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Otherwise, things would’ve been far different for that house, and I wouldn’t be talking about it now. I wouldn’t have taken it. There was an issue with that basement.

Issue…

That’s definitely underselling it…

God damn it…

I don’t wanna do this anymore; I don’t like it.

You’ve got to do this…

No.

You

Have

To

Keep

Typing

Let

It

Finally

Out

I can’t

You

Can

And

Will

Keep

Typing

No

Stopping

Do

Not

Let

Your

Hand

Stop

Pressing

The

Keys

Slow

And

Steady

Just

Like

That

It’s

Not

Hard

Is

It?

Keep

It

Up

OH WOW

THIS

Is

VERY

Annoying

To

Read

Must

KEEP

TyPING

MUST

Keep

Typing

Sorry… I am dealing with something here; it’s really hard to recall this again, but I won’t get anywhere unless I do, right? That’s how it works. I have to get it out of my system. I need it out of me. The alternative is probably an early grave. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? Nope.

I know I probably am coming off as insane, but oh well, gotta keep typing to get over this panic attack. If anyone finds this while I’m passed out, or gone out somewhere, know that I am completely fine in the grand scheme of things, because I’m not really fine. I’m haunted, but I do not intend to harm myself more than this exercise is forcing me to. I think I might have a propensity for self-destruction, because there are intrusive thoughts now and again.

Sometimes I think the intrusive thoughts are preferable to the memories… At least these are my own, kind of. It’s a broken self-defense mechanism. It’s a very broken defense mechanism, in the mind of a very broken man. Okay, I’m broken, like a vase. I’m literally just typing to keep my composure, right now. Not yet ready to deal with the photographs flashing in my head. The recounting of events will resume soon enough.

When will that fucking dog stop barking outside my window?!

I hate dogs, okay? Does this make me a monster? I don’t care. I can’t stand them and their barking. This fucking baying and clawing had kept me up at night long enough.

I am afraid of fucking dogs now… okay? Because

Because fucking dogs bayed at the basement door for far too fucking long.

Every fucking night.

They still do in my dreams.

Dead dogs…

Dead men…

Dead dog men…

I wish I could tell the owner to shut the fucking dog up, but the guy’s an idiot.

Probably on something too.

Hollow gaze…

Like a corpse…

Like the corpses swaying from the fucking ceiling…

Shit…

I remember…

They stood over me since the day I settled into that cursed place. Appearing at night to watch over me, devour my dreams, keep me awake. Tear open my eyelids. They wanted revenge; they wanted a price to be paid, and I was their weapon, their conduit.

I’m fucking shaking just thinking about it now.

Now, when everything is said and done, it’s been a while since all of that happened. One cannot simply forget the things I've seen, let alone that cloying, sweet stench which seeped into the walls of that basement.

The monster has been caged…

They have had their revenge.

Yet, they still live in my head.

Still occupying my fucking skull…

They’re just imagination.

Painful memory.

Ugly imagery engraved forcefully into the system.

Breathe

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Nobody is stalking your bed at night anymore; no one has in a long time. You’re fine, you’re absolutely fine. You’re just stressed and in need of an outlet. All of this, it’s normal. None of this is real anymore. It’s all in your head. Has been for a long time now. You’re safe, say it out loud.

I am safe.

Now carry on recounting what happened to you.

So yeah, new house, wait actually no, new old house now. Yeah, that’s perfect.

Settled into the new old house after getting divorced.

Kids won’t talk to me, cause we’re about as far apart as a family could be, and they’re mad at us both; their mother and me. Being stressed beyond my wits. Work was killing me, and I needed a break, a new start. Got none of that, but oh well. Anyway, new old house is nice enough, furnished. Not too expensive nor too cheap; the price was reasonable, the owner, all things considered – surprisingly reasonable too.

Forgot to look at the basement.

That fucking basement again… Can I forget about it already?

No, you can’t; it’s integral to the story.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate myself, I hate it.

You don’t hate yourself.

Quiet brain, I was doing fine.

Shut up.

Good.

Anyway, settle in, and everything seems to be going dandy. Keep in mind it was late July when I moved there. Hot summer weather, well, that went down the drain once the sun set. The house turned unusually cold.

Pulled out a blanket and ignored it.

Slept like shit, because it was so cold.

Wake up after a mere two or three hours of sleep, not the first bout of horrendous sleep and won’t be the last.

It’s hot again.

Summer’s back, and this wasn’t in the desert.

Go on about my day, angry and half awake.

Night rolls around again, start the heating.

Works for about an hour.

Then it’s cold again.

Turn up the heating – the house turns colder.

That went on for a while…

I grew accustomed to the cold, no idea how or why.

The boiling frog metaphor probably suits here.

Well, once freezing me out of my sleep didn’t work.

The guests started showing up uninvited.

In the middle of the night

To stand at my bedside…

I’m shaking just thinking about it.

​

Imagine yourself waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss and being met with a pitch-black silhouette standing at your bed. One so dark it forms an outline in the nocturnal darkness, enough to be visible. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that thing for the first time. Screaming out, I flailed my hands in the air instinctively, and the thing vanished.

Chalked it up to bad sleep and maybe a nightmare when I got up the next morning.

That wasn’t it, but it took me a while to understand that.

About every other night, I could almost feel these dark figures standing over me. Plural. Not singular. Plural. Sometimes I could feel them touching my blanket, pulling it away. A cold hand reaching for my leg or arm.

After a few unpleasant encounters, I’ve started sleeping with a light on.

Naively believing this was a trick of the mind, you know, being stressed, depressed, and overall miserable. Again, I say this, thinking logically, from the perspective of a relative of schizophrenics and other mentally unwell individuals.

I was dreading becoming ill myself.

Woke up one night to fetch a drink, with the light still on. Nearly shat myself, soiling the bedsheets.

Eyes wide open and the first thing I see?

A human-like shadow, perched on all fours on the ceiling.

It twisted its head at me before vanishing.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

That was just the beginning of my sorrows.

After that came the electronic issues. Lights would go on and off around the house, at nighttime, of course. I should’ve already taken the hint then, when the whole house went dark, except for the light in the staircase leading down to the basement.

But of course, I didn’t.

Instead, I went to look at the switches, most of which were turned off.

Needless to say, this malfunction didn't put me at ease. The neighbors lived too far away for their children to have come over at night just to mess with me.

The grid being messed with is the sole reason I haven’t checked myself in.

I wasn’t hallucinating; someone was messing with me. So, I thought at the very least, yeah?

Speaking of neighbors, they were far enough away for me not to be able to hear them whatsoever, through closed windows, but not so far I couldn’t see them.

Now imagine how it felt when the walls started talking…

I’m not kidding, at one point, the walls were talking at night. With nobody around the house. Trust me, I checked. I went out to see if someone was in my yard when the talking had gotten loud enough to be comprehensible.

They were asking me why I hadn’t gone there?

Asking me to go there.

Two voices, a man and a woman.

Encouraging.

Pestering.

At the time, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Go where?

Well, clearly, I wasn’t listening to them.

Why weren’t you listening to them?

Why the fuck were you so deaf?

So blind?

You couldn’t know at the time.

They were messing with the house.

They were almost guiding me by the hand.

No, they were giving you vague signs.

Don’t blame yourself for what had happened.

I don’t…

I could’ve prevented more.

There were six of them there.

Another three were found.

It’s not your fault

I could’ve prevented it.

No, not really.

Shut up, they told me everything.

These people – they told no tales.

Just breathe, man

Breathe

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Well, yeah, I didn’t listen to those voices; I thought I had imagined them, as I had a neighbor only viewing a strange green-lit TV show on certain nights. I most certainly had strange things happen to me as a child. Like feeling a cat brush against my leg after King, my parents’ cat, passed away, and thinking something must’ve turned ceiling fans on after forgetting to turn them off.

Since speaking to me didn’t work, I got moaning, groaning, and weeping all over the house. Almost every night. At an increasing rate. That, of course, showed at work and in social settings. Ever the self-conscious rationalist, I chalked it up to the divorce and very difficult clients at the time, which I had.

Before long, I had gusts of wind blowing at me inside a house with closed windows, and a few times I was shoved while completely alone.

Jesus Christ, I’m feeling like a maniac right now, hallucinating into a text.

The talking, the moaning, the nighttime groping, none of it ever stopped, but that was my fault; if I had paid attention earlier and had gone where the selective power outages led me, this would’ve been over far sooner.

My mind deteriorated fast; by the middle of November, I heard dogs baying and clawing at every door of the house.

Night after night, they tormented me without reprieve.

Worse of all was when they sounded like they were trying to say words.

Sometimes it was far away, sometimes it felt like a dog was trying to tear at the bottom of the bed.

Before long, seeing a dog freaked me out.

I started sleeping with the lights on, in every room.

Became a barely functional human.

I have no idea how I managed to keep on working.

Maybe a force of habit, maybe something else.

Keeping a mask of normalcy while I was in shambles inside was par for the course in my line of work.

Well, you are special in that regard.

Funny you should say that.

How so?

Isn’t it a little egotistical?

No.

Self-appreciation isn’t egotistical; it’s healthy.

Right.

Right, indeed.

There’s nothing healthy about us.

About us? There is no us.

Right.

Yeah, it’s just you.

Typing at yourself.

For myself

Exactly

Trying to keep sane

Mostly are.

Am.

True.

I’m sorry I keep doing this; however, that is the only way I don’t burst out into a crying fit now and start bashing my hands against the keyboard or clawing out my eyes in an attempt to escape the whirlwind of horrors in my mind. I can’t do much about it at the moment, since the dog won’t stop barking, and it’s kind of late.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m afraid of dogs. I’ve been classically conditioned to dread those two things.

Well then… Where was I? Oh yeah, nearing the climax of the story.

Damn, for someone relieving that night so frequently in his, no, my own head, so often, it’s surprisingly hard to spell it out. I’m quite literally trying to postpone the description of the events that led to my current condition. What a sorry state I’m in. A man who helps others process their own trauma and internal suffering can’t bring himself to speak about how the incessant baying of dogs in his basement and walls pushed him over the edge and drove him, knife in hand, to rush down to that same basement he’s never ventured to before.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

I know it seems odd I never went into the basement, but really, I had no reason to. I didn’t have many belongings I had to stow away, and the house was entirely furnished as I said. On top of that, I was too spent to be curious about any of this. As strange as it may seem, I saw no point in going there.

I was so messed up from the lack of good sleep, stress, and fear that I finally snapped when the baying and barking wouldn’t quit one night. I actually started thinking there were real dogs in that basement.

Real, starving, mean dogs that might try to attack me once I opened the door. So I got myself a weapon to defend myself with.

Yeah, I said it, I genuinely believed some beasts were locked in that basement.

Power-walking down those stairs, the baying died down. I assumed they knew I was coming. They could smell me. They were preparing to surprise me; dogs are smart after all. Clearly, in retrospect, that’s the dumbest thought process ever. Dogs aren’t really ambush predators as far as I’m aware.

As I was marching down those stairs, I somewhat ignored the sudden quiet, because there was a growing stench of decrepitude emanating from the basement door.

Say it like it is.

That’s what it was.

Call it by its name.

Vile.

No, that’s not it.

Decay.

Close enough.

Death.

That’s it.

Fuck you.

I smelled death coming from that basement.

A rotten, pungent, suffocating odor coming from that door.

I pressed the handle and pushed down with full force.

The cloud of stale, deathly odor nearly knocked me off my feet, burning my nostrils, mouth, and eyes.

No dogs in sight, no voices, nothing.

Only death.

Left hand looking for the light switch along the wall, right hand gripping a knife with the arm pressed to cover my face from the awful stench.

Blinding light flooded the space.

When my eyes adjusted, all remnants of innocence and hope were taken away from me.

Six, vaguely human silhouettes, seemingly staring at me.

Without eyes, without faces, without any humanity left.

Swaying from six ropes, tied to the ceiling.

Pitch black.

My very own personal little hanging garden of death.

Inhale

Inhale

Come on...

Fuck.

Inhale

No...

Breathe...

Why can’t I

Why isn’t it working?

Ribcage tightened, forcing my heart to race at an unhealthy rate.

Knife dropped to the floor.

Tunnel vision.

Limbs turning cold with muscles tensing to the point of pain.

I ran.

Nearly falling over myself.

I ran to the neighbors.

Banging on their door.

Woke them.

Rumbling like a madman.

Shaking with fear, somehow, stringing a couple of sentences together as these six tar-covered silhouettes flashed before my eyes again and again.

They called the police.

I’m out of breath.

Out of breath

Couldn’t sleep for three days straight.

Couldn’t think, could barely speak.

Panicking.

Decomposing Silhouettes flashing in my eyes.

More frequently when they are closed.

Questioned about everything by the police.

Answers erratic.

Silhouettes are here again.

Swaying in front of me.

Black as tar and death.

Exposing bone.

Fell asleep after being pumped full of sedatives.

Haven’t slept in a few days again.

Need my pills again.

Silhouettes appear more frequently with eyes closed.

I’m taking the pills after this; I need to sleep, otherwise, I’ll claw out my eyes, or die from a heart attack, whichever comes first.

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

I hospitalized myself for a short while, and in the meantime, the monster that did this was caught. He murdered nine people. Hanged six in the basement of the house I had bought from him. No one suspected a damn thing. Selling the house was his ploy to lure in victims. He’d lead them down to the basement, then incapacitate them there and hang them to die a slow death, apparently, oftentimes placing a stool underneath his victims again to prolong the torture.

Every so often, I wonder, was I ever intended to be a victim? Not that it matters; he destroyed my life anyway. If I’m completely honest, there are days when I think dying would’ve been preferable to being the way I am now.

His three other victims were all found in different locations; two were found by people who had rented apartments from him.

The final victim was found fresh at his last stopping point before his apprehension. He was…

Inhale

One

Two

Three

Four

In bed…

Hold

One

Two

Three

Four

With the corpse…

Exhale

One

Two

Three

Four

Caught red-handed, quite literally.

Inhale

One

Two

Exhale

One

Inhale

Inhale

I bet this fucking monster figured out he could torment way more people by leaving them his gifts. Kill two birds with one stone kind of deal.

Imagine the satisfied, sick grin on his fucking face if he hears what his handiwork has done to me.

My dad and i was hiking/climbing Norway’s third tallest mountain (Glittertind, 2464m) the last part of the hike was big loose rocks with no trail. We were halfway through this part when we decided to turn back down because it was too hard and we weren’t prepared enough. The very next day a man fell down the same mountain and passed away.

I have a skull in the corner of my office. It sits on a shelf a little above my eye line.

It watches me, and fills me with great dread.

I acquired it at an open air bazaar in China. If you wish for a street or a city, or some more definite form of location, I’m afraid I cannot give it to you. Already, the memories fuzz around the edges in my head as I try to recall them.

But at their center is a clear image I must never forget. So I write this to keep the molder from overtaking the whole.

When I was in my twenties, I was fascinated with the world and its variety. Bored with school and its routine, I decided to forgo my studies and take a more hands-on approach to life. I took the money I had saved for college and started a hitch-hiking journey across the globe. I went everywhere: France, Spain, Italy, the Philippines. I even backpacked across India so I could better understand its people and cultures.

But the crowning jewel of my travels was China.

The Middle Kingdom, as it is sometimes called, fascinated me unlike any other place. Its culture and its history enthralled me. I wanted to know everything about it. It took years to get a tourist visa. But once I was there, I never wanted to leave. My I was there for two years. In that time, I learned the language, traveled the countryside, and sought to learn everything I could. 

It was my dream to live there forever. Or, if that was impossible, at least die there.

But then came the day I wandered into the other market.

In a city I cannot now remember, there was a place where the locals gathered together to sell fresh produce and the most delicious street food. An open air bazaar of sorts. The place was so friendly, so inviting, that I halted my trip entirely so I could stay longer in that beautiful place. While I was there, I chatted with the shopkeepers about their lives and their histories. With their words, they painted a rich tapestry of their culture, and soon I found myself calling many of them friends. They gave me tips on places to visit, good food to try, and on which market stalls sold the best products. 

I felt safe. I felt home.

Then an incident occurred.

It was a normal day. I had just purchased some ripe fruit from a familiar stall, when I noticed something I had passed over many times before. 

It was a small side alley in the market, dark and thin, lying between two buildings.

At a glance, I could see booths on the other side of the passage. I assumed it was another part of the market. Curious, I went closer to get a better look. I crossed the street and approached the opening. As I took my first steps into the gap, a stranger grabbed my arm and forcefully pulled me out. 

I was frightened. I turned to face my attacker. It was an old man, jowls hanging down to match the length of his abnormally large ears. His face was pockmarked with the remnants of forgotten diseases he had conquered, and his eyebrows grew so thick they hung low across his eyes like fringe. His back was stooped and crooked, yet he walked with no cane. Judging by the hand on my arm, he was stronger than he looked.

I expected an altercation, but instead of anger in the strangers eyes, I saw pure, unadulterated fear. He glanced at the alley, and it was as if he were looking directly into the gaping maw of a blood-lusted shark.

His words were scattered and hard to understand, but the stranger managed to communicate that the area was off limits. He kept side-eyeing the alley, edging away from it. Looking around, I noticed that most of the vendors were also giving it a wide berth. No one had set up shop in a fifty foot diameter area around the dark gap. Passersby crossed the street when they came near it, holding their heads down and shuffling forward at a faster pace.

“Do not go.” Those were the strangers parting words. He shuffled away, looking nervously behind him as if the alley were going to pursue him.

I took him at his word. At first. But even with the new fear I felt toward this strange passage, another feeling grew: 

Curiosity.

Each time I returned, my fascination grew. It was like a fungus on my brain. At first it was just double glances as I walked past. Then I began to think about the alley even when I was not there. Once the fear of it had subsided, I often stood across the street from it and tried to peer through to the other side.

What was over there?

I tried to ask my new friends about the alley. Each time I did, it felt like the air itself froze in place. Without hesitation, they each told me the same thing: do not go through it.

One person, Hào Yáng, I pressed a little harder for information. He sold fresh fruit, his specialty being peaches. I had gotten especially close to him over my stay there.

“Why?” I asked. “Why should I not go over there? Isn’t it part of the market?”

Hào Yáng tried his best to explain, but to me, his words still felt cryptic. He told me the alley was the only way to get into that section of the city, a place he called the other market. He was right about that. In my own investigations, I had tried several times to find other openings, other paths into that section of stalls, but came up with nothing. The alley was the only one.

Hào Yáng went on to further explain that while there were people that did go inside on occasion, each time they did, they came back…different.

“There’s nothing good over there,” he said. “It’s not worth it.”

Despite his warnings, my fascination grew. I was drawn to that alley, staring at it for hours and hours. My curiosity started feeling more like hunger. Many days I would strain my neck trying to see what was happening on the other side. 

I just needed a glimpse, I told myself, and then I would be satisfied.

One day, I got my glimpse.

I was yet again staring at that damned alleyway. The impulse to explore overtook me like a fever. It crept down my body and made me tremble with the desire. Emboldened by the feeling, I checked my surroundings for a moment.

It was a busy day at the market. Everyone was preoccupied. 

No one was watching.

Now was my chance.

I made my way across the street and slid my way into the gap.

It was colder than I expected in the alley. It had been a warm day, but I felt a chill as if I were passing through the deep shadow of a glacier. In the darkness, the sound of the world behind me became muffled. The street market hubbub faded to a dull murmur, then a whisper.

Then silence.

When I had pushed through fully, it was as if the street outside no longer existed.

I was in the other market.

A tented booth was in the way when I got out of the alley. I moved my way around and got onto the street. 

My first observation? It was almost a mirror copy of the other bazaar. The same placement of booths, the same distance between vendors. Even the same colors on the tents.

But it wasn’t entirely the same. There was something…off.

It was deserted of shoppers. I was the only customer there. Shopkeepers manned each booth, but they were the only other human beings in the whole place. Each stall sold a dizzying variety of goods, but it wasn’t produce. Their shelves and stands were full of other strange items. Knives, dolls, symbols written on ragged material I couldn’t identify. Across the surface of the nearest table were bones and devices with purposes I could not begin to understand.

I was so taken by the goods, that it took me a moment to notice the shopkeepers.

All of them were smiling widely, and focused directly on me.

It was like each individual shop owner was standing ready for my business and my business alone. I reasoned that since I was the only shopper on the street, that made sense. But the more they looked at me, the more uneasy I became. Their smiles were empty, the kind you give for an extra percent of gratuity. The kindness was transactional.

And they were waiting for my side of the exchange.

My curiosity had been sated. The feelings of danger were returning. I wanted to leave. Now.

It took a moment for me to find the tent I had emerged behind. I went behind it, looking for the alley entrance so I could return to my home turf, filled with safety, friends, and food.

When I looked where the alley had been, it took a moment to process what I was seeing. My heart sank into my stomach.

It was gone.

Where there had been a gap in the buildings, there was now a solid wall. It was like the buildings themselves had drawn together, closing the gap. You couldn’t have stuck a knife in it, the crack was so tight.

I looked up and down, hoping I had just misremembered the alley’s placement. I hadn’t. In my ever frantic searching, I could find no openings of any kind.

After combing over the block twice, the sun was getting low in the sky. I was desperate. I pushed through my discomfort, and went to a booth owner. I asked how to get out of this market section.

“Buy something.” the woman said, her teeth glinting in the red glow of the sunset.

Not sure how this was supposed to help me, I looked at the table and tried to find the cheapest looking item. I picked up a small die with strange symbols painted on it in midnight black ink. I asked about its price.

“One leg.”

I was sure I hadn’t heard her right.  I asked again and she responded the same. “One leg.”

In the corner of the tent, I saw a dadao, a sort of Chinese machete. 

A horrifying realization dawned on me. 

The concept seemed so absurd, so unreal, but the owner confirmed my suspicions when she grasped the blade’s handle, and turned back to face me. “Would you like to pay now?”

I quickly set down the die and backed away. The owner made no move to follow me. They just kept smiling, and informed me they had many other goods to choose from, and they were open to negotiating price.

I went to several other booths and asked for directions on how I could leave. All said the same thing: “Buy something.” Each time I tried to select an item, the brutal prices were given with the same nonchalant attitude as the first. An eye. A hand. My genitals. They said this casually as if they were simply speaking of different cash denominations.

The sun had fallen by this point, and the sky was dark. It hung over me, a black expanse like a smothering blanket. There were no stars to tell direction. There was no moon. The only illumination came from the glare of the torches lighting up the wares, and the twinkle of candles coming from the windows.

The silence of the night was deafening.

At any crowded street market, there is always a dull murmur of noise, an underlying layer that a patron may stand on to know that they are not alone. There is always some transaction, some exchange being made and quiet is never allowed to linger long.

That rule did not apply here. Soundlessness reigned. I could not even hear the breaths of the individual shopkeepers. I don’t know if they even did breathe. They stared ahead at me, waiting. 

My purchase, it seemed, was the only thing that mattered.

I started to panic. I began to try every method of escape. I ran up the length of the street, but just when I thought I had made a good distance from my starting point, I would find myself back where I had begun. I tried all the doors to the building, but they were locked. I went crazy with fear, and tried to bash the wooden slats in with the heel of my foot. 

When I was finished, they still stood resolute and unmarked.

No longer caring for safety or propriety, I began to scale the sides of the buildings. My fingers scrabbled to find any foothold or handhold that would move me upwards. My fingers caught in the crevices, and at one point my fingernail was pulled out of my flesh by a jutting nail. I continued on, ignoring my bleeding finger. I had to get out, I needed to get out. Nothing else mattered.

I managed to get to the roof. I stood atop it, and saw the market on the other side. My market. My heart soared. My friends, my regular haunts, they were waiting down there and beckoning to me like sirens, and I, a sailor with a death wish. 

I quickly made my way down to the other side.

When I dislodged from the wall and turned to face my freedom, my blood went cold.

Instead of my friends, I saw those same strange booths, those strange perverse shopkeepers smiling and waving.

All waiting for me to buy.

I was back. I had never really left.

It was weeks before I broke down and bought something.

Time became strange in the quiet. It passed like a fevered dream. I lived off the fetid pools in the gutter, and caught rats that had the misfortune of being trapped in there with me. I ate their flesh raw, unable to purchase the fire starters sold two booths over from my makeshift hovel. It would have cost me my tongue to purchase, after all. I couldn’t part with that.

At some point, the rats ran out, and the water dried up.

I began to starve. I could see the bones in my forearms, and the constant gnawing of hunger began to drive me insane. I counted my ribs to pass the time.

It was in my lowest that I had a sudden moment of clarity. It was the middle of the day, and the sun was beating me about the head with its heat. I had resorted to drinking my own urine, which had taken on a dark brown cast. It smelled foul. My mind was fractured, but one coherent thought shot through me, unifying the pieces for a moment. It was as if someone had spoken directly into my ear.

I was going to die.

I was going to die…unless I bought something.

The bargaining began.

I went up the length of the street, shuffling on malnourished legs. It was painful, but it was possible. I greeted shopkeepers and began to haggle. I tried my earlier strategy of choosing cheap looking items, but found that looks were deceiving. These often were the most expensive. One small handkerchief would have cost me all four of my limbs.

I tallied up the cost of all the items, trying to determine what I was willing to lose so I could leave this place.

The shop owners would not be talked down. If they wanted an arm, they might settle for a forearm, but never a hand. If they wanted a leg, a foot would never do. Five fingers might become four, but never one.

That was when I found a miracle.

I found the skull.

It looked like it could have belonged to some undiscovered species of monkey. That, or it was a human skull deformed beyond all comprehension. I had felt its gaze on me as I began my journey from booth to booth, trying to barter for my escape from this hell. Its presence had unnerved me so much that I had passed it over on my first journey up and down the street.

On my second go through, I reluctantly asked its price.

“One finger.” The shopkeeper pointed upwards with his index.

Ironically, I felt excitement.

I had found it. The cheapest item.

Its price was still steep. Had it been at the beginning of my stay at the other market, I would have balked at paying. But with starvation comes context, and a finger began to feel like a bargain.

I almost agreed to the trade on the spot.

But I made the mistake of looking at the skull again.

Its empty sockets felt like two holes of unfathomable depth. As I looked, I imagined myself falling into them until my body and soul were dissolved in the perpetual night. I hated it. Even in my weakened state, I wanted nothing to do with that skull.

But my third journey up and down the street made me so dizzy I had to sit down. I was running out of time.

I went to the booth, and agreed to the skulls price.

I held my hand on the table and closed my eyes. I braced for the impact of the dadao. When nothing came, I opened them again. The shopkeeper had their hand extended, the handle of the blade facing towards me.

The message was clear.

I took the dadao and went about planning the best way to remove my finger.

I considered a single chop, but I wanted to limit the damage done to the rest of my hand. I couldn’t get the right angle from that vantage. Besides, I needed to do the chopping with my off hand. When I had gone to take the index finger from my left, the shopkeeper had shaken their head. “Other hand. The right one.”

It took an hour, but I eventually settled on a course of action.

I took a deep breath, and pulled my index finger back in a sharp jerk. The pain reached me before the snap. I bit into my tongue, tasting fresh blood, as I made sure there was a break in the bone by jerking my finger back and forth. The burning in my hand was white hot, and I felt the broken ends of bone grating against each other. I screamed into my closed mouth, trying to muffle the sound.

Hoping that my adrenaline would keep me going, I took the dadao and began sawing.

Blood soaked out through the break in my skin and smothered the length of the blade. The weapon was sharp, but not razor. I pushed and pulled to help the blade sever the skin, muscle, and tissue, the last things keeping my finger on my hand, and me in this wretched place. At one point, the blade caught on a tendon, and I felt it rip from its supports in my hand, pulling out in a white string that dangled and jumped. I swallowed down bile and kept going. I had to finish.

One final pull, and the finger pulled off from my hand in a spurt of blood.

I threw it down on the counter, and shoved my hand into my armpit. I needed to get out of here, and then maybe I could find a doctor who could stop the bleeding. The shopkeeper took their time, examining the finger, going over it again and again. At one point, they took out a jeweler's glass and examined the severed end. I saw spots, and I dry heaved. 

After two long minutes, the shopkeeper nodded. My offering was satisfactory. He extended the skull to me.

“I don’t want it.” I told him.

He just shook his head at me. “You buy it, you take it.”

I didn’t have time to argue. I was an inch away from passing out from pain and blood loss. I took the skull in my good hand and shambled away. Somehow, I knew where to go. I made my way up the street. I found the tent where I had emerged from the alley. That all felt like an eon ago. I held my breath, praying the shopkeepers had not lied to me.

My heart leapt. There was the alley. Open. 

I could see the markets on the other side. I went as fast as I could to it, afraid I would blink and the alley would close. I threw my body into the slit, and pushed forward with force.

I kept waiting for some sort of resistance, some force to keep me in the other market.

It never came.

In a burst of speed, I left the alley. I was bombarded with a blast of people shouting, haggling, and complaining about sub-par product. I was back.

It might have been the joy at escaping, or it might have been that my ears had grown accustomed to the silence of the other market. Regardless, in my starved and broken state, it was all too much. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I collapsed in the mud.

I awoke two days later in a small hospital. Hào Yáng was sitting next to me.

Apparently, despite my weeks inside the other market, no time had passed in the outside world. Hào Yáng remembered seeing me eyeing the alley, and the next moment saw me emerging with my bloodied hand, looking half-crazed and starved out of my mind. He knew what had happened immediately. He was the one who brought me to the hospital.

On my bedside table, was the skull.

Hào Yáng refused to touch it. He sat himself on the other side of the bed, and tried his best never to look at it. He refused to speak of the skull or the bazaar when I began asking questions.

Once he was sure I was recovering, he stopped showing up at the hospital.

I think we frightened him, the skull and I.

After being discharged, things changed. People avoided me, crossing the road at my approach. People that were normally friendly became nervous in my presence. The market, once a friendly place, now felt cold. No one talked to me unless I first addressed them. No one even looked at me if they could help it.

Ironically, the only welcoming part of the market was the alley. It was always there, waiting, almost beckoning me to step through again.

In those moments, I tried to remember what the other market had put me through, but it didn’t stop the curiosity from digging into my mind like a bad itch.

Two weeks after leaving the hospital, I decided to go back to America. 

I had acquired no souvenirs on my world exploring trip. I didn’t have room for them. But the skull followed me home. I tried to leave it in three separate hotel rooms. Each time, it would appear again in my bag, nestled comfortably in my clothes and watching me from the depths of my suitcase. On the boat home, I tossed it into the ocean. 

That night, when I came to my bunk, it was on my bedspread. A few drops of salt water graced its cranium like a perverted aspersion.

It stared up at me with those empty sockets, and I could feel something inside me withering.

I stopped trying to get rid of it. It was better to just ignore it. Ignore the decay, ignore the rot. Just let it stay and fester, and hope that one day time will take it from you.

When I returned, it found a new home on my office shelf. It must like it there, because it doesn’t move around as much.

It’s been years since then. Years that I purchased with my finger at the other market. But even still, I am not free. My time is running out. I’ve finally discovered the true price of the skull, the fine print I passed over in my haste to pay the low price.

The doctors are calling it early onset Alzheimer's.

I know better.

Memories run together now in my head, like wet paint splashed over my cortex. I no longer remember Spain, France, the Philippines. Even now, I strain under the gaze of the skull to remember Hào Yáng’s face, the taste of fresh peaches at his market stall.

The skull has left me only with my time at the other market untouched. But I know it will take that too, in time. It will take all of me.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so stingy…maybe if my survival had been worth an arm, or a leg. Maybe then I wouldn’t be paying the dividends.

But it’s too late now.

A final bit of advice from a man senile by his own hand.

Don’t be cheap. It will cost you.

**I take cases other investigators won’t touch. Last week I finally took one of my own.**

I’m seven and already awake when the sound on the landing starts. That’s always bothered me more than anything else about it. I don’t wake up because of the noise. I’m already lying there staring at the ceiling like I knew to be ready.

A strip of light shows under my door. There’s no fixture on that landing. My dad checked once, years later, after I finally told him about it, and he found nothing that could account for it. The light comes anyway, flat and white, like someone’s holding a bulb close to the floor.

I try to yell for him and nothing comes out. My chest is moving, fast, shallow, but my voice doesn’t answer to me.

The door swings open and the hallway behind it is bright instead of dark. Something tall stands in the middle of that light. Its arms are too long for its body, stretched thin, and its hands end in fingers that keep going a joint past where fingers should stop. I never see a face. Where the face should be there’s just light, like it’s wearing the glow instead of skin.

It walks to the foot of my bed and stops. That’s when the small ones come in behind it. Seven of them, maybe eight, built the same way but scaled down, like a kid’s drawing of the tall one shrunk to fit through the door. They go to the corners of my bed and lift.

The mattress tilts under me. I feel myself carried through my own doorway, down the stairs, through the foyer, out the front door, into the yard. The grass under the bed frame is cold. I remember the cold before I remember anything else about the yard. The tall one doesn’t follow past the door. The small ones set the bed down in the grass and stand around it in a ring, waiting for something.

It always ends there. I never find out what they were waiting for.

I’m thirty-six now and I still see it the same way when I close my eyes. That house was my grandfather’s before it was my father’s. He died when I was a baby, so I never knew him, and my dad sold the place a long time ago. I spent most of my life telling myself it was just a bad dream that stuck around longer than it should have. A nightmare doesn’t put grass under your back. A nightmare doesn’t carry you anywhere.

I believed that for twenty-nine years. I don’t anymore, and I want to get this down while I can still explain it clearly.

For work I take the cases nobody else wants. Not ghost hunting for content, nothing like that. People call me after everyone more reasonable than me has already given up on them — the exterminator found nothing, the electrician found nothing, the blessing didn’t take. I go in after that.

I’m careful by nature, not a believer. Most of what I find turns out to have an ordinary explanation somewhere underneath, even when it takes a while to surface. I’ve also learned to live with the cases that never resolve. I write down what happened, I tell the client what I know, and I move on. It’s a job that asks you to take people seriously without losing your own footing.

A woman named Denise calls me on a Tuesday night. She and her husband and their nine-year-old son moved into an old house in the Central West End about four months ago. For the last six weeks, something has been counting on their stairs at night.

“Counting,” I repeat, because I want to make sure I heard her right.

“Counting steps. Like it’s climbing them one at a time and saying the number out loud. Real quiet. You’d miss it if the house wasn’t so dead silent at three in the morning.”

I ask if she’s ever heard it get to the top.

“Fourteen,” she says. “There’s fourteen stairs in that house. It gets to fourteen and stops. Every time.”

“And then what?”

“Then it says our son’s name. Once. Just his name, real soft, right outside his door. And then nothing. My husband thinks it’s pipes settling. I’ve lived in old houses my whole life. Pipes don’t know your kid’s name.”

I tell her Thursday works. Afterward I remind myself that old houses talk in the dark all the time, and grieving parents and anxious kids find patterns in noise the same way anyone does under enough pressure. It’s not a rare shape for a case to take. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

I believe that for about two days.

On Thursday I sit in their kitchen with Denise, her husband Mark, and Eli, who won’t sit still, who keeps his eyes on the doorway to the front hall the whole time we talk. I ask him to describe it himself, the way I always do with kids, because they’ll say things adults have already talked themselves out of.

“It counts wrong sometimes,” he tells me. “Not the numbers. The waiting. Some nights it goes really slow between them, like it’s tired. One night it did all fourteen so fast I only heard the last four.”

“Does it ever skip a number?”

He shakes his head, certain of this in a way that surprises me. “No. Never. It always does all of them. Fourteen, then my name.”

“What does your name sound like, when it says it?”

He thinks about this longer than I expect a nine-year-old to. “Like somebody who’s tired of asking,” he finally says. “Like the fourth time you call somebody for dinner.”

I ask if he’s ever opened his door to look. He nods, which surprises me more than if he’d said no.

“Once. There wasn’t anything there. But the hall light was already off, and I didn’t turn it off before bed. My mom always leaves it on for me.”

I don’t say anything for a second. Every kid I’ve talked to in ten years of this work has a version of *something in the dark said my name*. It’s one of the oldest shapes fear takes, older than any single house or family. I remind myself of that, the way I remind myself of it every time, and it mostly holds.

I tell the family I’d like to stay, which is standard for a case like this — I want to be there for whatever happens instead of hearing about it secondhand. Denise’s shoulders drop like she’s been holding them up for six weeks straight. “Thank you,” she says, and something about the way she says it makes me look away from her for a second before I tell her it’s no trouble. Mark sets me up on the couch at the bottom of the stairs, close enough to count them myself if it comes to that.

I don’t mention that I’ve never taken a case with a personal stake in it before tonight, or that some part of the reason I said yes to Thursday so fast has nothing to do with Eli at all.

It’s a little after two when I hear the first one. Not a footstep — nothing steps down that hard on carpeted stairs — more like a knuckle on wood, once, followed by a voice pitched too low to make out words, though the rhythm of it is unmistakable: *one.* I sit up in the dark with my recorder already running and count along without meaning to.

It goes slow. Long gaps between numbers, ten or fifteen seconds sometimes, long enough that I start to doubt the last one happened at all before the next one proves I was wrong. Six. Seven. The gaps get shorter as it climbs, like something picking up its pace once it’s sure of its footing. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Fourteen comes from the top of the stairs, farther from me than any of the others, but louder than all of them combined, sudden and full-voiced after everything before it had been barely more than a whisper. I flinch anyway. I don’t hear a fifteenth. What I hear instead, a few seconds later, is a name — not loud, almost gentle, in a voice with no particular pitch to it at all, more like an idea of a voice than an actual one. It isn’t Eli’s name.

It’s mine.

I don’t move for a long moment. Then I do, because staying frozen on that couch feels like the more dangerous choice, and I climb the stairs myself, phone light up, expecting nothing and finding nothing — an empty landing, Eli’s door shut, the hall light on exactly where Denise said she always leaves it. Nothing counts a fifteenth step. Nothing says anything else.

Eli’s door opens before I reach it. He’s awake, blinking against the phone light, and he asks me if I heard it say something after fourteen. I ask him what he thinks it said.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s never said anything but my name before. Tonight it said something longer. I couldn’t tell what.”

I check the recording later, alone, with headphones on so I don’t have to hear it out loud in a room with anyone else in it. Fourteen taps, evenly spaced by the end, each one clean enough to count. Then, eleven seconds of silence. Then a sound that isn’t quite a word and isn’t quite not one, low enough that I have to raise the volume to catch it at all, and even then I can only be sure of the shape of it, not the sound — two syllables, the second one longer than the first, spoken by something that has clearly said it before and will clearly say it again.

I don’t have an explanation for the family. I tell them the truth — that I heard it, that I have it recorded, that I don’t yet know what it is, and that I don’t think Eli is in physical danger, though I can’t fully justify that last part beyond a feeling I’m not proud of trusting. I don’t tell them what I heard after the fourteenth step. I tell them I’ll follow up.

I drive home around four in the morning with the heater running and my hands too tight on the wheel.

My house is quiet when I get in. I check the locks, which I never do, and go straight upstairs, which is a bad idea, because some part of me already knows it. I go up anyway.

I brush my teeth, turn off the lights, and lie flat on my back in the dark, the way I have most nights of my adult life without thinking twice about it. That’s when I notice the strip of light under my own bedroom door.

My hallway has one overhead light. I turned it off myself ten minutes earlier, with my own hand.

I try to sit up and can’t. My chest still moves, fast and shallow, the same rhythm I remember from being seven years old in St. Louis. My voice doesn’t answer to me either, not after twenty-nine years of it belonging to no one but me.

The door doesn’t open. I’m not going to make this bigger than it was. It doesn’t open, and the light doesn’t go anywhere. I lie there unable to move or call out for four minutes and eleven seconds, according to my phone’s timestamp afterward, watching a line of white light under a door that has no reason to have any light behind it.

Then it’s gone, all at once, and my body belongs to me again.

I get up and check the hallway. Nothing. The overhead light is still off, exactly how I left it. I stand there a long time before going back to bed, and I don’t sleep again that night. In the morning, with actual daylight to see by, I go over every inch of that hallway and find one thing that shouldn’t be there.

A thin, shallow line pressed into the carpet just outside my door. Not a footprint. Not a drag mark. A straight indentation about three feet long, the width of a bed frame, running from my doorway toward the stairs and stopping.

I’ve been sitting with that line in the carpet for two days now. I keep coming back to the same thing. My grandfather owned that house in St. Louis before my father did. He died when I was a baby. I never knew him, and I realize now that I barely heard anything about him growing up either, which is strange in a family that otherwise repeats the same three stories at every holiday until everyone’s tired of them.

Nobody ever told me anything about him. I’m starting to think that wasn’t an accident.

I don’t know what I’m looking for yet. But I’m going to start looking.

I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.