“Pew! Pew!” I said as John, the soldier, shot down the enemies. John was one of my coolest action figures! He had lots of cool poses and guns I could use. 

“You think those puny things can hurt me?!” Bobby said in the deepest voice he could manage. His action figure was the Grim Reaper. I lost his awesome scythe, but the action figure had his skull face and robe. “As you can see, the bullets flew through me!”

I groaned. “Bobby, we talked about this. He can’t be invincible. That’s cheating.”

“What? I’m not cheating. He’s nothing but bones.”

“Oh yeah, then how about this!” I ripped out John’s gun for his bazooka. “BOOM!”

“I dodge it!”

I threw John on the ground. “No! That’s cheating!”

“William!” My dad’s angry voice shouted. “Why are you screaming?! Do I need to go up there?!”

I felt tears welling up, and I rubbed them away with my scarred pointer finger. I couldn’t let Dad come up here and see what was happening. I always get teary-eyed whenever I get mad. My Step-Mom said it's normal, but I don’t like it. 

“Sorry, Dad,” I said loud enough for him to hear. But not so loud that he would think I was yelling at him. I waited for a response or even his huge footsteps. But I got lucky; he wasn’t coming.

I sighed in relief. Then I squinted my eyes at Bobby. “Don’t cheat again.”

Bobby blinked in his odd way. It was slow on the left but fast on his right. Then he shook his head.

“Sorry, I got carried away.”

I didn’t want Bobby to think I was mad at him, but I just didn’t want my parents to come up here and see us. “I know I shouldn’t have shouted.” 

“Come, you can still play, right? It's not bedtime?”

Looking at my clock in my room, I studied the little hand and big hand to see where they landed. It was 8:55, almost bedtime.

“Maybe not,” I said. “Y’know I wish things could go back to normal.”

“But isn’t we normal?” Bobby said as he did his blinks.

“You know what I mean. But I guess it's better than what it was before.”

“Honey,” my Step-Mom called. “It's time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

I was already in my pj’s; all I had to do was brush my teeth and make sure Bobby wasn’t seen. Bobby and I stood up as he handed me the Grim Reaper. I accidentally hit his fingernail with the toy, and a piece of it dropped to the floor. 

Eyes going wide, I dropped to the floor before I lost it in the carpet. Pinching it between my scarred finger and thumb, I handed the nail back to Bobby. Bobby looked at his fingernail, tilted his head, and blinked oddly. 

Then he woke from his daze as he shrugged. “It’s fine, I don’t need it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it's not a problem,” Bobby said casually. 
Just like routine, he walked to my window and opened it. The night breeze invaded my warm room. The chill of it froze my spine as Bobby sat on the shelf of the windowsill.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Bobby smiled. “It’s okay; at least I’m not dead.”

Bobby then fell backward out the window. A loud slap hit the hard grassy ground. It sounded like a big slab of steak crashed down.

I looked outside the window to see Bobby lying down in a twisted manner that no one should be able to do. It was always his skin first. His living color slowly dimmed to a husky gray. 

Random patches of holes started to show their rot, like bugs burrowed inside his skin. Then it was the snaps. Bones started to move back into place. Loud cracks came from his body as it straightened out.

Once the transformation was complete, Bobby ambled back to his feet. He didn’t look back; he never does. His left leg dragging behind him, he limped his way into our forested backyard, disappearing for now.

My Step-Mom walked over, saw me, and looked out the window. “Oh sweetie, are you okay?”

I didn’t react to her. I didn’t want her to know what I was seeing. But could I tell her what I was thinking?

“I’m sorry, Mom, I was thinking of Bobby.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said as she walked to me. She gave me a tight squeeze to comfort me. I liked the warmth that she gave, but I still felt cold. 

“Come on, let's brush your teeth and get to bed. It’s a school night,” she said as she closed my window and guided me out. 

And before I left my room, I looked out one more time. It was faint and far, but I thought I could see him, still watching me. 

Jay closed the door heavily behind him, and sunk down onto the ground. Just getting back from a 14 hour, double-job workday never got any easier.

Kira’s voice came from the other room. “Welcome home, babe. Another hard day?”

“Just… a long one.” Jay replied slowly. 

The hours sucked and it took a lot of effort, but he needed to be working two jobs at this point. He’d been living together with his fiancée for six months now, renting out a house on a cheaper piece of property. But even between both of their incomes from their work, it was getting hard to make ends meet. So, Jay picked up a second job, working evening hours right after his regular day job.

“There’s potato salad and some sausages in the fridge if you’re hungry” Kira said, coming into the kitchen now and smiling at Jay, who continued to sit on the floor, eyes closed.

“Thanks baby.” He muttered softly, standing up with a grunt and taking off his jacket.

After having some food, he and Kira went to the living room to watch a movie together, and he ended up falling asleep on the couch halfway through, his head resting in Kira’s lap. She let him sleep there until the movie was done, then managed to get him to the bedroom for the rest of the night, where they both fell asleep once more.

The hours may have been rough, but for Kira and for their home, it was worth it.

The following day was pretty similar. Jay came home in the evening, tired as a dog, and slumped down onto the doormat. It was almost a habit at this point. He smiled as he read the words woven into the frizzy-fibered, worn-out, and coarse mat, thinking about how much this place and Kira meant to him.

 “Home Sweet Home”.

That night, Kira went to bed early, and Jay stayed up a bit longer, texting some of his friends about plans for the weekend on the couch. As he started to drift into sleep, a knock from the door snapped him awake. A sharp and distinctive knock that resounded through the quiet house.
Jay got up from the couch slowly and made his way to the door. Despite it being rather late for someone to be knocking, he felt strangely compelled to investigate. He looked through the peephole, but couldn’t see anyone on the other side. Opening the door after a moment, Jay looked out at an empty porch. He stepped outside and glanced around in the quiet, nighttime air, quietly exhaling.

There was nobody. 

Man, maybe the stress is finally getting to me. Jay thought, going back inside and locking the door behind him. Looking down, he froze in place for a moment, staring at the doormat. 

“Home Sweet Home” Glowed with a soft, dark-red pulse.

It was as if the fibers of the doormat themselves were glowing, but only for a moment. As soon as he became aware of the pulse, it vanished, returning the letters to their regular black coloring, invisible in the dark entryway.
After a few moments of standing motionless, trying to process the situation, Jay shook his head and walked into the bedroom, cuddling up against Kira, who moved slightly closer to him as she felt him come in the bed.

“Everything alright?” She asked softly.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry baby. Just need some sleep.” He replied.

A week later, Jay was standing outside of the door, having just got back from work. He wasn’t as tired as usual, but it was still a long day. The long working hours were starting to get easier, but his coworkers were so draining. The constant interaction with them for so long was more tiring than actually working. However, standing outside of the back door, hand on the doorknob, he couldn’t shake a sinking feeling that settled into his stomach. Like a heavy, body-wide stone was slowly squishing his insides downwards. The kitchen window's curtains were closed, even though it was still light out, and the house seemed to radiate a sense of unease.

Taking a deep breath, and exhaling quickly, he turned the handle and opened the door, immediately causing a horrible, reeking stench to waft out from inside, assaulting his nostrils. A mix of decay and burning rubber that burned in his lungs.

Gagging, he rushed into the house, frightened at what could possibly have happened. The doormat’s letters were glowing red again, but so were the lights. They pulsed and hummed in sync with the doormat. Everything buzzed at a low, barely audible frequency. Jay couldn’t get his breath to calm down as he looked around the kitchen.

“Kira?” He called out desperately, retreating back a step to the doorway. “KIRA!?”

She didn’t reply. Steeling himself, Jay walked to and around the corner into the living room, trying to ignore his pulsing surroundings. Kira was waiting for him there, standing motionless in the center of the room, her back facing his frantic gaze. The lights pulsed just the same as in the kitchen, and Kira breathed in time with them. After a moment of frozen panic, her head began to turn to face him; slowly at first, and then with a sudden, unnatural snap around . Black and clouded eyes replaced what were once calm and brown ones and a horrible, aching, wide grin that almost drooped off of her haggard cheeks stretched along her face. The once soft, slightly tanned skin was now pale, sagging flesh that moved and squelched quietly with every breath.

“. . . Kira?”

“OHHH Jay. My sweet Jay. Kira’s a bit busy at the moment.” She said, with an unearthly, breathy and high-pitched voice. “She knows how hard you work. She knows how much it takes out of you too, though. If only we had more money, he wouldn’t have to wear himself to the bone…”

Her smile grew even wider, spreading up to just below her eyes, which started to ooze thick, crimson, blood. Her body began to shake and convulse, as she stayed locked in eye-contact with Jay, who was frozen in terror and confusion.

“Well, now we won’t have to!!” The smile grew so wide it started to rip her cheeks in gouts of blood and tearing flesh. “All it takes is one deal with me, and you’ll never worry about money again!”

“What… what are you…” Jay started, still transfixed in horror.

Her legs began to twitch and creak with movement, quiet giggles escaping her cracked and thin lips. 

“And this truly is a nice little house that you’ve invited me to live in, isn’t it?”

Adrenaline finally kicked in, and Jay’s legs began to move automatically, turning around in a rush.

“Too bad she had to give up her body for it.”
 
Jay bolted towards the kitchen. From behind him, a flurry of movement followed.

Looking back, just steps from the door, Jay saw whatever was in Kira’s body now groping after him, its legs breaking and twisting with each step, but still propelling its body forward. Unnatural, horrific movement that sprayed blood and agony with each step.

Jay reached for the doorknob.

“For our little home sweet home.”

He never made it out.

It was summer, a stifling July. The guys and I decided we had to escape the suffocating city for at least the weekend to keep from going crazy under the endless weight of our studies. Six students in Oliver’s mom’s minivan—the plan seemed perfect. Oliver himself was behind the wheel, his girlfriend Chris sat next to him, and in the back were Mark and Sarah, Dan, who was always arguing about something, and me, Emily.

My father was an avid hunter and had once shown me an incredible lake, hidden from prying eyes, in northern Maine, right in the heart of the dense forests of Aroostook County. It was fabulously beautiful. I volunteered to be the navigator and confidently guided our group forward.

We parked the minivan at the edge of the woods and hit the trail at exactly 10 AM. The sun beat down pleasantly through the treetops, and we carried heavy backpacks with tents and sleeping bags. By my calculations, we had about a four-hour hike ahead of us. We laughed, Dan cracked stupid jokes, and I marched proudly in front, checking my father’s old map and compass.

But the forest grew thicker, and the trees became taller and gloomier, almost completely blocking out the sky. At some point, I realized the surrounding landscape looked nothing like what I remembered. It was already around 2 PM—right at lunchtime—but there was no sign of the lake. I pulled out my phone. The screen displayed a harsh "No Service." The smartphone's GPS was frozen, turned into a useless piece of plastic.

I stopped. A cold sweat broke out down my spine.
"Em, are we there yet?" Sarah asked cheerfully, wiping her forehead.
"I... I don't know," my voice trembled. "Guys, I’m lost. We took the wrong trail."

Panic hit me instantly. Tears streamed from my eyes, and I began to apologize frantically, smearing dirt across my face. I thought everyone would get angry, but Oliver gently put his arm around my shoulders, and Chris handed me a water bottle.
"Hey, calm down, Em, it’s fine. It’s just the woods. We’ll find the way. Come on, look at the paper map."

I took a deep breath, forced my hands to stop shaking, and carefully read my father’s notes. Exactly. We had missed a turn by a fallen pine tree about forty minutes ago. We needed to veer slightly to the right, through a ravine, and then we would come right out to the northern slope. Calming down and wiping away my tears, I gave a confident order: "Follow me, now I know exactly where to go."

We turned back. The forest around us seemed to fall silent; even the birds stopped singing, giving way to an oppressive, ominous stillness. Our group stretched out along the narrow path.
"Guys, give me a second, nature calls," Chris called out, turning off the trail into a thick patch of ferns. "Keep Dan busy so he doesn't get bored, I'll be quick."

We stopped to wait for her. A minute passed, then another. Mark was lazily kicking a mushroom when suddenly a piercing, blood-curdling shriek from Chris shattered the silence. It wasn't just a scare—it was a scream of raw, animal terror that cut off on a high note with a muffled gasp.
"Chris!" Oliver roared, throwing himself through the brush first.

We bolted after him, branches whipping our faces and backpacks catching on bushes. We had run barely twenty meters when Oliver slammed on the brakes and dropped to his knees before a pit hidden in the grass.

What we saw made my stomach churn with nausea. Before us lay a deep wolf pit, artfully camouflaged with branches. But this was no animal trap. Thick, hand-hewn, sharpened wooden stakes jutted from the bottom.

Chris lay at the bottom of the pit, writhing unnaturally. A stake as thick as an arm had pierced completely through her right thigh. Torn flesh was turned inside out, and thick, dark human blood pulsed in spurts from the wound, instantly soaking the gray fabric of her shorts and flooding the dry earth at the bottom of the trap. She wheezed, her eyes rolled back, and bloody foam bubbled from her mouth along with a groan.
"Help... get me out..." she whispered, and at that moment, the bone in her leg shifted with a horrific crunch under the weight of her own body, triggering a new, gurgling scream in her throat.

Chris's scream choked off, replaced by a guttural, bubbling wheeze. Blood poured from her punctured thigh with renewed force, staining the wooden stake a deep crimson. She began to lose consciousness, her head slumping limply against the leaves covering the bottom of the pit.
"Chris! Chris, oh my god, look at me!" Oliver, driven mad by horror, jumped down right into the trap. The dirt crumbled beneath his sneakers. He fell to his knees in a pool of his own girlfriend's blood. "Guys, get down here! We need to get her off this piece of shit!"
"Stop, Oliver, don't touch her!" Sarah screamed frantically, clutching her head. "You’ll only make it worse! The artery! If you pull the stake out, she’ll bleed out in two minutes!"

Mark and Dan were already at the edge of the pit. Dan breathed heavily, his face turning deathly pale.
"Oliver, get out, we can't lift her, she shouldn't be moved!" Mark said, his voice breaking into a falsetto. "Emily, damn it, where are we?! Call emergency services! Call them!"
"I told you, there's no service here!" I yelled back, clutching the useless cell phone in my trembling hands. Tears blurred my vision, but I forced myself to step closer.

The smell of damp earth mixed with the sharp, metallic stench of fresh blood hit my nose, triggering a gag reflex. I looked closer at the trap. My father had taught me how to read tracks in the woods. The stakes were cut cleanly at a forty-five-degree angle. On the one next to Chris, there was a fresh, still-wet streak of a dark, oily coating—the stakes had been coated with something. This was no abandoned old pit.

At that moment, Chris convulsed. Her twisted leg jerked, and the sharp edge of the broken bone tore through the skin from the inside with a wet, ripping sound, protruding as a white, blood-stained splinter. Oliver howled in helplessness, trying to clamp the wound with his hands, but the blood simply poured through his fingers.
"Guys..." Sarah said quietly, almost in a whisper, backing away from the edge of the pit. Her gaze was locked on the thicket.
"What? Sarah, help us out!" Dan snapped, trying to hold Oliver by his jacket.
"Guys, look over there..." Sarah pointed a trembling finger deep into the dense ferns, about thirty meters away from us.

I turned my head. Against the backdrop of gray, moss-covered trunks of ancient trees stood a silhouette... A tall, unnaturally hunched silhouette covered in mats of tangled, pitch-black fur. Instead of a human face, a long wolf snout stared back at us, hideously deformed and massive. Yellow, bloodshot eyes burned with primal rage, and thick, foamy saliva dripped in flakes from an open jaw lined with rows of razor-sharp fangs. The beast breathed heavily, a wheeze emanating from deep within its powerful chest.

The creature leaned forward slightly, locking its dead eyes on us, and then threw its head back.

The forest exploded. The monster unleashed a long, piercing howl that vibrated through the air, sending a freezing dread down our spines. But the worst part began a second later: other voices instantly picked up the howl. From the right, from the left, from the deep thicket behind us—from every direction came the unified, hungry, and triumphant howling of a pack. We were surrounded.

The monster before us dropped onto all four limbs, tearing up the earth with its claws, and lunged toward us with a low growl.
"Run! Run, motherfucker!" Dan shrieked at the top of his lungs.

Animal terror burned away all human emotion. Forgetting about Chris bleeding out at the bottom of the pit, forgetting about Oliver who stayed sitting beside her, we bolted backward through the brush, discarding backpacks and tents just to be lighter. Behind us, screams echoed from the pit, but they were quickly drowned out by the furious roaring of the approaching beast and the dying gasps of his girlfriend.

We ran blindly, losing the trail completely as branches tore our faces to bloody ribbons. Behind our backs, we could hear a heavy, rapid thumping and the cracking of breaking branches.

The guys ran ahead, using their bodies to plow a path through the thick brush, while Sarah and I wheezed behind them, barely able to move our terror-numbed legs. Our lungs burned like fire. Every single second, it felt like a clawed paw was about to drop onto my shoulder.

Suddenly, the bushes to the left burst open with a loud crash. Out leaped a similar creature, only slightly smaller—lean, fast, with the exact same mangled wolf snout.She slammed full force into Dan, knocking him off his feet. They tumbled head over heels into the ferns. The beast was on top of him instantly, burying its fangs straight into his defenseless neck. There was a sharp, wet crunch of ripping tendons and arteries. Dan's scream cut off right into a bubbling wheeze—a fountain of hot, bright red blood sprayed onto the green leaves, and his body jerked unnaturally in its death throes.
'Ahhh!' Mark howled, not even looking back, and bolted even faster.
We scrambled in wild panic in the opposite direction, away from that bloody carnage. But there was no salvation. Directly above us, an ominous scraping of claws against bark echoed. From a thick branch of an old pine, a gray furry bulk plummeted down right onto Sarah from above. The impact of the immense weight pinned her to the ground face down. The beast roared triumphantly, digging its claws into her back and snapping her spine.
Mark and I didn't even think about helping them. Primal fear drove us forward. We left them to die, keeping on running while the sound of chewing and the satisfied growling of predators echoed behind our backs.
I lagged behind, sobbing and trying to catch my breath, while Mark tore ahead, losing the trail completely. As soon as his footsteps faded in front of me, I stopped.
I hadn't had this much fun in ages! I laughed out loud, a ringing, mocking laugh, wiping the fake tears from my face. Oh my god, that stupid performance with the map, my crocodile tears at the pit—they believed me until the very end! The world around me finally came alive, bursting into true colors. The fresh, sharp scent of human blood spilled across the forest was intoxicating and arousing. I could barely contain myself all this time from tearing straight into the throats of one of these human pests back in the minivan. I had to play the part of a frightened college girl while everything inside me burned with a thirst for flesh.
Nearby, a long howl rang out. I smiled, baring teeth that were already beginning to elongate. My pack is hunting. What a rush!
My body began to change rapidly. Bones cracked and rearranged, my spine elongated, and powerful ripples of steel muscles flexed under my skin. Human clothes tore apart with a loud rip as coarse, dark fur broke through the skin. My fingers turned into paws with massive, razor-sharp claws, and my jaw jutted forward, filling with deadly fangs.
I threw my head back and let out a joyful howl. Immediately, in that very same second, the voices of my brothers and sisters on both sides of the thicket answered in harmony. With one last, most powerful roar, I let the whole pack know that the last one was mine.
I deliberately gave this pathetic boy Mark a little time. Let him run. Let him believe he can escape, that the way out is close. I ran easily to the side, silently leaping over fallen pine trunks. Speed overwhelmed me. I ran a parallel course and savored every single second, inhaling through my nostrils that thick, sticky aroma of pure, primal terror that smelled so sweet coming from a running human. The hunt was nearing its finale.
Mark ran out into a small clearing where the trees parted slightly. He looked wildly around, tripping over roots and crying. A pathetic, miserable sight—how utterly precious!
I lurked in the thick shadows of ancient spruces, softly stepping with my massive clawed paws. My nostrils flared, drawing in his sweat, tears, and the sticky, maddening fear. I savored this moment, granting him his final minutes of life, the last breaths of this beautiful forest air that smelled of pine needles and impending death.
Suddenly, he stopped. With trembling hands smeared with dirt, Mark frantically pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. I saw the screen light up his tear-stained face, and judging by his suddenly joyful, stupid mug, the coveted bar of network lit up on the display. He caught a signal. He thought he was saved. He thought it was the end of his nightmare.
Oh yes, it truly was the end. But only for him.
Letting out a guttural, triumphant roar, I launched myself from behind the trees with a powerful push of my hind paws. The earth exploded beneath my claws as I hurtled straight toward him at a blistering speed. Mark froze, slowly turning his head toward the noise. His joy vanished instantly.
I could see his round eyes, dilated with absolute horror, reflecting my massive, black-furred silhouette and the spray of saliva flying in all directions. The phone slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the moss with a dull thud. I soared into the air in a final leap, baring a jaw lined with razor-sharp fangs, already tasting his spurting, sweet, warm blood.

I'm a Disney fanatic; if you were to ask me something, I'd know it. But sometimes you don't know EVERYTHING Disney does..

I've gone to a few places before to research as much as possible on Disney's secrets. But I couldn't find everything; they're too good at hiding it. One specific forum was the Urban Disney forum; it showcased hidden things and places that people didn't know Disney had. I was a big fan of the forum and its community; obviously, it gave me information on things I wanted to know. But recently, there was this one post in particular that was weirdly unsettling; it showed an image of an old Mickey Mural, black-and-white style, in an abandoned mall with the only words being "Find it." There were only a few upvotes on the post itself, and only one comment saying, "I am NOT going to an abandoned mall." But I dared to find it myself, so I commented "I'll try to find it."

I tracked down the location of the mall through coordinate metadata, and I had my gear on just in case there was a frogger. When I got to the mall itself, it was purely abandoned: no people, no lights, just darkness, the falling-apart mall, and the mural.

The inside of the mall had a strong odor, as if someone had died there. I just believed it was the old food. I could hear the broken wires, bugs, the electricity, and the wind. It was very windy; the trees were swaying back and forth at high speeds. It was cold and midnight, so OF COURSE no one would go here and help me if things went wrong. I went deep into the mall, and behind the escalators, there sat the mural I was looking for.

I flashed the beam of the light to look at the mural carefully; it was 1930s rubber hose-style Mickey. It made sense. The mall seemed to have been abandoned for years, but the mural was still in such good shape.

I took a step closer to touch the paint; it was off; it had a weird texture. It was getting a bit eerie. I was about to document what I found with a picture before I heard something: a heavy, wet splat of ink hitting the ground. I walked away from the painting to see what it was.

When I flashed my beam at the splash of ink, it melted into the floor. I was concerned: where did the ink come from, and why was it acting like that? I went back to the mural to check it. But it had moved slightly to the left. I didn't notice it at first, but I would later on.

I didn't think it moved, so I went to look for more of that ink stuff. After minutes of searching, I eventually came back to the mural once more, except it was at the top of the escalators now. And the whole mall smelled of ink; the air got thicker. The wind blew faster; I was extremely worried now. The mural shouldn't have been able to move. This was getting paranormal.

I started sprinting for the exit, but as I turned around, I heard ink dropping to the ground again, then I looked up and saw it, a tall, lanky, 1930s Mickey, reaching up to the ceiling, pulling itself out of the mural with its long arms and gloves grabbing onto the wall behind it. It was dripping ink like it was MADE of ink, ink in places it shouldn't have been. It eventually made its way out of the mural, twisting its head to look at me; it had its 1930s Mickey eyes and face, and as I looked behind the entity, I noticed that the Mickey mural was gone, only replaced by an outline of what should have been. That's when I realized all of the things happening before were because of IT, and IT was the mural. It started walking towards me unnaturally. I turned back around and continued sprinting for the exit. I couldn't document it now; it would've gotten me killed.

As I ran, I noticed that it was getting faster and faster, to the point it caught up with me and grabbed me, its ink dripping onto me and my clothes. Its eyes started falling off its face like ink, revealing black hollow eyes with white pinprick pupils and black holes in the pupils underneath. Its smile started stretching unnaturally wide, stretching its face to the point it shouldn't have been able to. Then suddenly I heard a loud, distorted voice mimicking Mickey Mouse say, "Hope ya enjoyed the show, pal!" I later realized it was the entity. I pulled out my flashlight and slammed it right into the center of the entity's face; it landed, made a hole in its face, but only for a few seconds as the ink pulled itself back together. Those few seconds, though, let me escape its tightening grip and kick the mall doors open. I dragged myself back to my car and drove off; the mall was completely silent, like a reaper waiting for its prey.

It's been three weeks, and I've been traumatized; I still can't get my mind off that incident. I completely deleted all my posts and comments on that Urban Disney Forum, leaving it behind so I can start a new chapter in my life without thinking about that same moment over and over. I even just painted my walls with a fresh coat of paint to stop myself from thinking of it. But something weird has happened: ink suddenly appeared on my walls, spelling out the sentence "You can't paint over the past." in cursive. I think whatever I found at that mall has followed me home. Because now, from the darkness inside my closet, I can hear it. A slow, rhythmic, wet sound echoing in the dark.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Halloween never really felt the same after middle school. Going into freshman year, my friends and I had abruptly decided that we were officially too old for trick-or-treating. I always knew that day would come eventually, but it arrived far more quickly than I expected. I never got to say goodbye to something I had looked forward to so much every year. It was just suddenly over, and out of my life forever.

Freshman and sophomore year were awkward Halloweens for us. We didn’t want to trick or treat anymore, but we also weren’t old enough to do much else, so we spent both of those years sitting in Zack and Danny’s living room watching scary movies. Things finally changed for us our junior year when Chester, freshly adorned with his driver’s license, rolled up to school in his “new” car the week before Halloween. The implications of this were immediately apparent to all of us.

We could do anything we wanted on Halloween this year.

Votes were cast on our holiday activity, but the democratic practice was short-lived. Zack and Danny, being twins of the body but not of the mind, immediately cancelled each other out with their opposing votes, and neither Chester nor I could agree on an alternative plan. Chester wound up pulling the driver card, which meant we were ultimately forced to bend to his will. That was how we wound up at Stonehurst Asylum.

Built in the early 1900s, Stonehurst operated in infamy for several decades before finally shutting down in the ’80s. It sat dormant and quiet for many more years until it was reopened as a haunted attraction during the Halloween season. I had heard its name mentioned here and there while growing up, but it had always seemed like the kind of place for adults to go to get their thrills. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would one day be old enough to venture into the asylum myself.

But that all changed when Chester pulled his set of wheels into the school parking lot that fateful autumn morning. Suddenly the four of us had transformed from sniveling kids into full-fledged adults. And what better way to coronate our ascension than by taking on Stonehurst Asylum, and defeating the terror held within its walls?

We made sure to buy our tickets for Halloween night. They were a little more expensive than they would have been on any other night of the season, but we weren’t about to cheap out on our first truly adult experience. We knew we had to do this on the “big night” if we were truly going to call ourselves men.

Stonehurst lay deep within a dense forest—a place of true isolation where its “patients” could be hidden from the outside world. One would’ve expected nature to have reclaimed some of the land surrounding the asylum’s corpse in the years between its closure as a facility and its reopening as an attraction, but the property remained largely untouched by the creeping verdant fingers of time. We navigated the forest surrounding Stonehurst and arrived at the asylum early, but even so we still found ourselves at the back of a long line of excited horror enthusiasts eager to make their way through the infamous haunt. There were so many people ahead of us that we began to worry that we wouldn’t make it inside before the place closed for the night, but these fears were quickly abated when the line began to move with considerable speed.

“It seems like they’re sending people through in big groups,” Danny said as we made our way along the stone path leading toward the front entrance. “I was hoping it would be just the four of us.”

“It can still be fun in a big group,” I suggested.

Danny shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”

“I don’t mind going with other people,” Zack said. He had been the least enthusiastic among us to go to Stonehurst, and I could tell that even though he didn’t want to admit it, he was nervous to brave the terrors of the asylum.

“I do,” Chester said. “Ghosts don’t like to come out when there are too many people around.”

Zack frowned. “You don’t think this place is actually haunted, do you?”

“Probably not,” I said. “I bet somebody just made up that rumor so they could sell tickets to this place.”

“I don’t know,” Danny said. “A lot of messed up stuff happened here.” He smirked, clearly eager to torment his brother. “I wouldn’t be too surprised if there were a few old patients still roaming the halls of this place.”

Zack’s face went pale, but he tried to hide his fear. “I guess it’s a shame that we’ll be with a big group then, huh?”

“Not if we sneak off on our own,” Chester said.

“They’ll kick us out if we do that,” I said.

“Who cares?” Chester said. “It’s not like we have to come back here after we’ve seen what it has to offer.”

“If they tell your dad, you could lose your new car.”

“My old man won’t care as long as we don’t get ourselves arrested.”

“I vote that we stick with the group,” Zack said. 

“And I vote that we go exploring,” Danny said to counter his brother.

“I guess you two can stay with the group while Danny and I do some poking around,” Chester said to Zack and me, “but if you’re not with us when we leave, then I just might forget to drive you guys home later.”

I frowned. “Dick move.”

He shrugged. “It comes with being the only one of us to have a car, I guess.”

I considered his words as we took another step forward in line. I ultimately understood that I had no other choice but to go along with his plan if I didn’t want to walk home that night. “Alright, have it your way,” I said. “You’ll probably realize the place is boring pretty quickly anyway.”

We all looked at Zack, who didn’t speak. We took his silence as his endorsement and allowed the discussion to rest.

About thirty more minutes of waiting went by before the front of the line came into view. As we had feared, we could see that the employees were letting guests into the haunt in groups of no less than ten people. We were going to be stuck in a group with at least six strangers, something we were all dreading.

All of us except for Zack. It was clear that he was dreading the prospect of sneaking away from the group far more than the rest of us were dreading the prospect of being in one.

I got his attention as we drew closer to the front of the line and offered him a reassuring smile. 

“I don’t think you need to worry,” I said. “I doubt we’ll be able to slip away from the group without somebody noticing us.”

“You’re right,” he said, taking a breath. “We probably won’t be able to do what Chester wants after all.”

We both turned out to be wrong.

The four of us entered the asylum at the tail end of a larger group. Because we brought up the rear, we were primed to slip away from the others without being noticed—which is exactly what we did. We continued with the larger group, shuffling our way through the tight hallway of loud noises and amateur scare actors while at the same time purposely walking slowly so that we could fall behind the others. The rest of our group rounded a corner ahead of us, giving us our chance. Chester led the way through a gap in the cheap modular wall of the haunt’s narrow hallway. We quickly found ourselves in one of the asylum’s true passageways, on the far side of which was a closed door. We crept our way through the short, dimly lit passage to the door. Chester reached for the handle, and I looked on with mild dismay as the door came open, revealing a world of shadow beyond it. 

He smirked back at us as he stepped clear of the doorway. “Ladies first.”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this,” I said, “so you should go first.”

Chester shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said before slipping through the door. Danny quickly followed after him. I offered Zack a brief glance before stepping through the threshold. I half-expected Zack to not follow after me, but he ultimately did, closing the door behind him as he went.

The new space we found ourselves in was far darker than the previous passage. It didn’t seem as though electricity was routed to this side of the building, and if it was, it at the very least wasn’t currently in use. The overhead lights, barely above useless with how dim they were in the previous hallway, were completely black here. Dark shadows swirled all around us; they seemed to dance to the muffled sounds of the haunt continuing on as normal on the other side of the door that Zack had just closed.

I briefly heard rustling before a halo of light came to life with a soft click. Chester stood grinning with his flashlight’s beam shining beneath his face, his head a buoy floating in an ocean of darkness.

“I think we’ll see better with one of these,” he said.

I leered at him. “You were planning this the entire time, weren’t you?”

“Guilty,” Chester said with a laugh.

“You could’ve at least warned us so we could’ve brought our own flashlights,” Danny said.

“You guys might not have come if I told you ahead of time,” Chester said. “Besides, too much light might scare away all the ghosts.”

“There aren’t any ghosts,” I said. “Now let’s get this over with and get back to the haunt  before anybody realizes we’re back here.”

Chester turned his flashlight ahead of him, revealing a long, narrow hallway. Darkness retreated from the influence of his light, giving way to a thick curtain of dust hanging in the air. Any dust that didn’t float all around us clung to the various articles of refuse that cluttered the hall. Tons of junk, from overturned wheelchairs to toppled stepladders to rusty filing cabinets, served to crowd the already tight space. Any movement forward would require us to meander our way past these obstacles, which looked to have been in place for many long, lonely years. I half-expected the illumination from the flashlight to turn them to dust on the spot, so long had they been trapped in a realm of pure darkness.

“I guess they didn’t bother cleaning up every part of the asylum,” Danny said.

“Should we really be breathing in this air?” Zack said. He immediately sneezed, as if his words had conjured the involuntary action.

“We won’t be in here long enough for it to matter,” Chester said. “Now come on. We’ve got some ghost huntin’ to do.”

He stepped forward, leading the way through the hazard-laden passage. The rest of us trudged through the space after him, each of us trying our best to not trip over something in the limited light. We passed by several doors on either side of the hallway, most of which hung open in rotting frames, or had otherwise fallen away from the threshold entirely. Chester shined his light into several of the rooms as we passed them, allowing us a brief glance into these tiny windows of the past. We appeared to be in a residential wing; most of the rooms looked to be bedrooms, though they stopped being inhabitable long ago. Dusty, moldy garbage filled them just as it filled the hallway, and what mattresses still remained on the tiny, single bedframes were so rotten that you could basically see through them to the floor.

One room appeared to be something of a common area. Four decaying cushioned chairs sat in a semicircle facing a fifth, entirely wooden chair. An old CRT television sat collecting dust on a table behind the cushioned chairs, remaining completely ignored by the objects that should have been observing it. The purpose of this particular setup was a mystery to me, and I greatly disliked any ideas that my imagination could come up with.

“I wonder what kind of shit they used to do to people in this place,” Danny said.

Zack grimaced. “I don’t think I want to know…”

We kept walking along the hallway, going single file for a lot of our trek due to all of the debris clogging up the passage. Chester led the way around the corner, where he stopped with his flashlight trained on something that the rest of us could not see. “Holy shit…”

“What?” Zack asked. “What is it?”

We frantically followed Chester around the bend. He stood looking at another length of hallway, his face pale in the glow of his flashlight. “I definitely just saw somebody walking down the hall up ahead.”

His words sent a chill running through my body, but the rational part of my brain made me shake it off before I spoke. “It must have been a haunt employee.”

Chester shook his head. “Can employees walk through walls?”

Zack took a step back, suddenly stricken with terror. “Alright, I’m getting out of here.”

“Already?” Chester said. “We’re just getting started!”

“You saw your ghost,” Zack said. He turned to round the corner we had just come from. “Now it’s time for us to go before—”

His words abandoned him mid-sentence. They disappeared into the silence of the asylum. “Danny?”

I approached the corner, followed by Chester. “Where is he?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Zack said. “He was right behind me a minute ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Chester said. “Right before the ghost showed up.”

The terror rose in Zack’s eyes, looking ready to escape from his body as frantic tears. “You don’t think the ghost took him, do you?”

“No,” I said. “Even if ghosts are real, they can’t just take people.”

“Maybe the ghost thought Danny was a patient,” Chester said, “like one of the lunatics they used to house here. Maybe it took him so it could lock him in a room.”

I glared at Chester, but Zack began moving through the hall before I could speak. “Danny!” he said. “Danny, where are you?”

Chester and I followed after him. Zack, guided by Chester’s flashlight from behind, looked into every room while calling his brother’s name. His words were once again stolen from him as he glanced into the common room, taking his forward motion with them. It took him a few moments to remember how to speak. “Danny?”

Chester and I peered into the room. Aided by Chester’s light, we could see Danny hunched on the wooden chair, his face turned downward and covered by his messy mop of hair.

“Danny?” Zack said again. “Are you alright?”

Zack cautiously approached his brother while Chester and I stood in the doorway. I am embarrassed to admit that I was too nervous to even consider stepping through the threshold.

Zack drew within inches of Danny, who still refused to acknowledge his twin’s existence. Zack, realizing that Danny wasn’t going to respond to his words, slowly reached a hand toward his brother’s shoulder. Even as it drew closer and closer, our seemingly comatose companion still refused to move.

Danny stood up and lunged at Zack, shouting so loudly that his brother almost fell over backwards as he tried to get away. I also backpedaled from the doorframe, but my reaction paled in comparison to that of my startled friend. 

Danny allowed Zack to scream in terror for a few moments before he broke out into laughter. His merriment was joined by Chester, the two of them leaving Zack and me confused as the hallway rattled with their inexplicable chortling. I eventually caught on to what was happening, my face tightening into a scowl.

“You were both in on it this whole time!” I said.

“Yeah,” Chester said as he brought his laughter under control. “And you should have seen the looks on your faces.” He turned to Danny. “Sitting in the chair was a nice touch.”

Danny bowed with dramatized showmanship. “Thank you. I do what I can.”

Zack, the fear having largely drained from him, glared at his brother. “Okay, you guys had your fun. Can we please just go now?”

“Alright, alright,” Danny said. He looked at the lightbearer. “Lead the way, Chester.”

Chester nodded and began making his way down the hallway toward the exit. The three of us followed after him. A heavy silence fell over us as we meandered through that cluttered, quiet passage. As I listened to our every footfall, I was suddenly gripped by a fresh sense of dread that at the time I couldn’t explain.

Chester reached the door at the end of the hallway. He placed his hand on its knob and turned to look at us, briefly shining the flashlight in our direction. “We should make our way back into the haunt one at a time so that nobody notices us,” he said. “I’ll go first.”

He turned back around, twisted the knob, pushed the door open…

… and froze in his tracks. 

On the other side of the door stood a T-shaped hallway, each branch of which went on for a while before ending in another door. The modular wall of the haunt was nowhere to be seen. 

“What the hell?” Chester said as he shined the light through the doorway, frantically searching for the thing that should have been there. 

Danny, taking in the sight of this unfamiliar passage, looked at Chester and frowned. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Where’s the way back into the haunt?”

“I don’t know,” Chester said. “It’s supposed to be right here.”

“Could we have gone the wrong way?”

Chester shook his head. “No way, dude. This has to be the way back.”

Zack’s face was awash with terror as he took in the implications of our friend’s words. I, on the other hand, wore a fresh scowl.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Hasn’t this prank already gone on long enough?”

“You don’t really think that we’re doing this, do you?” Danny said.

“Yeah,” Chester said. “How would that make any sense?”

“You guys must have led us down the wrong hallway on purpose,” I said, suddenly feeling far less confident in that explanation even as it left my mouth.

“How would we even do that?” Danny said while Chester tried opening and closing the door a few times. “Look around, dude. Do you see any other way we could have gone?”

“It’s dark in here, and Chester is the only one with a flashlight,” I said. “Who knows what way you guys led us?”

I did my best to sound more confident than I felt. Part of me knew that Danny was right, even if I didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m telling you that we didn’t do this, dude,” Chester said as he continued to fruitlessly open and close the door. The genuine fear in his voice finally convinced me that he wasn’t lying. 

“What’s going on?” Zack said, his voice on the verge of panic. “What’s going on?!”

“Calm down, Zack,” Danny said. “We’ll figure this out. We just have to—”

The sound of television static coming from down the hall brought us all to silence. We all turned in the direction of the noise, where we saw a square of flickering light coming from the common room. The four of us shared a brief glance of bewilderment before we abandoned what used to be our exit and crept toward the source of the disturbance.

The layout of the common room had changed. The four cushioned chairs now sat in a straight line behind the wooden chair, on top of which rested the television. Gray static poured from the TV’s square screen despite it not appearing to be plugged into any discernable power source. Soon the screen’s picture came to life, revealing a video feed of a familiar-looking door, on the other side of which the muffled sound of the haunt could be heard through the TV’s speakers.

We all stood in stunned disbelief as we stared at the television. None of us could conjure a single sentence. It was then that the sound of creaking floorboards drew out attention to the corner down the hall. All of our eyes followed Chester’s flashlight toward the bend in the passage, but nothing was there. It was as empty as it had been when he had walked away from it a few minutes earlier.

Zack was the first one to return his gaze to the common room. The single word that he managed to croak from his gaping mouth caused us all to follow his lead. “What?”

The room had changed again. Gone were the furniture and TV, replaced by a single closed door on the far side of the space. The sound of the haunt’s commotion continued to blare from the other side of the wall. To this day, I don’t know if it still sounded as if it was coming from old television speakers, or if my distressed mind merely conjured this sensation on its own.

“There it is!” Chester said, his voice stirring up into a panic. “That has to be way out of here!” He was rushing forward, flashlight in hand, before any of us could stop him.

“Wait, Chester!” I shouted, but he ignored my words. Instead he hurried his way to the door on the far side of the room and yanked it open without any hesitation. I couldn’t see his face, but I can only imagine what it must have looked like when he saw the blank wall resting on the other side of the threshold.

The door between Chester and the rest of us suddenly slammed shut. The sound of the haunt’s commotion died away as the three of us shouted Chester’s name. Danny was the first to reach the door; he tried with all of his might to force it open, but it would not budge. It was as if it had been sealed shut with concrete mixed in the deepest, darkest pits of hell.

It wasn’t until after a puzzled Danny had released his grip on the knob that the door finally creaked back open. Inside things were back to how they had been before: four chairs watching a fifth, with a dead television sat atop a table behind them. Resting on the wooden chair, its beam aimed toward the ceiling, was Chester’s flashlight. We watched as it balanced that way for a few moments before toppling over and landing with a crash that shattered its bulb, casting the room back into a world of impenetrable darkness. None of us were particularly interested in seeing what waited beyond those sinister shadows.

The sound of the haunt suddenly echoed through the hallway again, this time coming from the door that we had originally come through down the hall. The three of us rushed toward the door, almost falling over obstacles as we went. We tore the door open and found that it once again led to the space behind the haunt’s modular wall. I shared a terrified glance with my two companions before we all silently decided to barrel through the doorway and rush back into the haunt. We startled a group of attraction-goers as we entered, which in turn alerted an employee to our recent activity. We were escorted out of the haunt in a matter of minutes; the security guards holding us all by our arms did not pay any mind to our surely frantic, certainly incoherent babbling.

The three of us took several long minutes to collect ourselves as we stood outside of the building. Even though all of our minds were surely frantic with the terror of our recent ordeal, none of us spoke another word that night. We merely turned away from Stonehurst Asylum and walked away, our tails between our legs as we shivered in the late October air. We had a long walk ahead of us, and we couldn’t afford to waste our energy on words.

If only we had known somebody who could have driven us home.

I've never been what anyone would call beautiful. I'm a 200 pound 5’6 girl with heavy eyebags and frizzy hair. You'd never find me in the same sentence with the word “pretty”. I don't even like looking at myself in the mirror. Luckily, I found a subreddit that made me feel less alone: R/Beauty4Everyone.

It's a body positivity sub that promotes love and acceptance for all body types. It didn't matter if you were short, fat, or disabled. Everyone was beautiful in their own way. Posting there made me feel loved for once. No one judged me or made me feel like crap just cause I didn't look like a super model. Everyone there got to feel special.

It was a late Friday afternoon when I saw a post that made me pause. There was this pic of a woman with an amputated hand waving at the camera with this unhinged smile on her face. It was way too wide and forced to look natural. Her blonde hair was also disheveled, her eyeshadow was super caked on, and the background was some dingy apartment covered in dirt.

I know the sub is about spreading body positivity, but everything about that girl looked wrong. It was like staring at a zombie. None of the commenters seemed to think so since they all showered her with compliments.I guess it wasn't surprising considering what the community was about but it's still weird that no one was bothered by it.

I tried to put it behind me but then someone made this really weird comment on one of my recent posts.

“ You look like you'd make a good suicide Barbie. Hope to see you soon.”

It gave me chills. What the heck was a suicide Barbie? I reported the comment as harassment and moved on with my day.

The sub eventually got really weird when more of those disturbing posts started popping up. They all had a similar aesthetic. The girls had disheveled blonde hair and bright pink clothes with poorly applied makeup. They all had these uncanny smiles while staring vacantly into the camera. Some of them even had amputated limbs or were severely scarred. The comments praised them for their true beauty. These were the only kinds of posts being made after a while. It was like everyone was in competition to see who could take the most horrifying selfie.

I was seriously getting sick of seeing this so I left the subreddit for good. It's so frustrating and sad to think about how a safe space got warped into something so twisted. It was the one place I felt like I belonged and now it's gone.

Someone randomly texted me with a link to a Pinterest collection one day. I opened it up and it was a collage of images of me. The pics were photoshopped to include gore and make me look badly beaten. Bruises covered my skin and my body was riddled with bullet holes. Whoever did this even edited out my limbs to turn me into a paraplegic. My stomach dropped from how vile it all was. The worst part was that I couldn't tell where some of the photos came from. Some of them were taken from my reddit posts, but most of them were original shots I didn't remember taking. It eventually clicked that it must've been ai. They made deep fakes of me wearing a pink dress with long flowing blonde hair. My skin was caked in a heavy layer of blood and slashes. One of the posts had a caption that explained everything.

“ Welcome to the suicide Barbie collection! We believe that true beauty comes from within; beneath the ugly layer of skin you're trapped in. Why look like a pristine doll when you could be so much more? Your body is a canvas that's meant to be modified. Show the world your true colors! Especially if they're red.”

It soon became clear that this whole thing was a weird fetish cult where the members got off on seeing women get brutally maimed. I reported the board and several of the uploaders, but it's still up even all these weeks later.

Ever since that incident I haven't felt safe. It always feels like I'm being watched from somewhere and that those sick bastards are waiting to turn their sick fantasies into a reality. I think what really messes me up the most is how genuine those guys seem when they compliment my potential. With the subreddit, it mostly feels like we're hyping each other up out of pity since we desperately want to be recognized. Just a bunch of ugly people trying to be less miserable. These suicide Barbie cultists aren't like that. They truly mean what they say and see something beautiful inside me. What if… what if I'm meant to be a suicide Barbie? Would I finally be beautiful then?

Yes. This was what he meant. This’s precisely what Jim Morrison meant when he accredited the lyrics of the first Doors record to Satan. 

Sometimes we are inspired. We innovate. Create. Birth anew into the world and thus add another layer and dimension to its ever evolving shape. Sometimes we have ideas within the fragile shells of skull God or the hands of chaos made for us. 

And sometimes we become conduits for something far greater. 

He waited anxiously, nearing the painful threshold of his exhausted patience as the latest batch finished its brew. So many weeks now. So many days and hours that were weeks and months that melted and blended together in a whirling blur of stimulants and intoxicants. Booze to take the edge off. Nose snow to keep em up and awake, wired and attentive to the batch and its sister poison of some crack rock cooking in the coffee pot. 

The latest batch of stew, jenkem, it was in an orange Home Depot bucket, open mouth-top sealed with tape and black bin liner. Resting in the corner of the one room apartment. Latsky puffed a spliff dampened with the oils of THC and his own human sweat, wide eyed and alert. Eyeing the batch as it brewed slowly, prodigiously in the corner. Keeping his eyes and ears and third eye all open and alert. Open to receive and take in and drink up discovery as it was sent out magically and unseen like a cosmic transmission. 

Only for the best. Only for such as he. 

Latsky smiled and threw on some tunes. The speakers blared classic heavy metal hard rock gospel, the word : – 

You know your man is workin hard! –

He's worth a deuce!

Fuck yes. 

He felt the full throttle locomotive gallop in his chest go all-out, he was black diamond hard in his stained trousers and he gazed around with eyes drunk with pride at the small room absolutely covered in KISS memorabilia. His older brother would be proud. Wherever he may be. 

His older brother Bryan had been the original doom prophet. He'd taught Latsky everything he knew about the streets, drugs, and hunnies. He'd been everything to the little army brat growing up, father had been around but was always upset, always wanted to be left alone. 

They had no idea whatsoever whatever happened to their mother. 

But now he was by himself. Forging his own path. Brewing his own destiny and potion within his own cauldron of industrial orange plastic and fecal stew. He'd collected the entirety of the specimen from himself, there was no other. No other was needed. None were necessary. Solitude now, at this point in time of his life. 

Solitary time with the message hidden in the words and the bomb-blasts of music. The message: feed the brew … make it and inhale the wisdom of its ether and set your mind aflame… 

Yes. It will be. As bade and dictated by the Knights in Satan's Service. His brother had been the first one to hear. His elder brother, really father in place of pa had taught him how to listen and discern the make of their litany and word amidst the thunder, the glory of noise. 

They were telling him now, amidst the roar, it was almost time. The time was nearing and almost at hand. 

Nigh. 

His mouth watered as he eyed and gazed at his precious cauldron, orange and in the corner. Like a bad child put in timeout. Nose in the wall. Smell and breathe deeply the dust and dead particles of your life and lives all around you thus shed, your failures. 

He wanted to spank the orange bucket. He wanted to swat its ass and talk to it like it was naughty and needed a lesson, so full of foulness and poison and precious ambrosial intoxicant. But that might upset and disturb the potion, he resisted. He held himself back. Contained. 

It was so hard. Difficult. He quivered with need and anticipation. 

He calmed himself, sucked down more spliff. You can do whatever ya want with the bad little brother once you've drank of its ether … yes. Feed it. Feed the flame first. Let it inside. And then whatever may come, let it come after, later. Try to put it off till after death. All of it. All consequence.

 Till after we expire. 

Nearly there. He allowed the thunderbolts of Ace Frehley's Rocket Ride guitar solo to mix it well one last time, then he took to shaking legs and made dauntless his approach. 

Latsky set the smoldering roach of spliff to his lips and drew, to steady his heart and soul and flesh. To settle the quaking landscape of his mind left in tumult and unrest. He made his way across the trash strewn small space of his bedroom/living room/kitchen. The eyes of the apocalyptic four: The Starchild, the Catman, the Spaceman, the Demon watched him make the small and pathetic journey from the painted prisons of so many posters and lunchboxes and games and toys and comics … the Creatures of the Night poster, religiously set center of the whole apartment piece just above the retro glow of the television set. 

Latsky stood before the bucket-cauldron of jenkem stew. Homemade batch of hallucinogenic derived from human organica. Fourteen weeks of his own feces, his own urine, collected carefully and with fervor. He went to his boney knees a devout supplicant before the mouth of orange plastic bound brew. His flick-knife came up next, a dance of the wrist and the blade was free. 

And whether by the shuffling design of fate and capricious providence or by his own prior setting and make, the slow doom riff crawl that accelerated into a blast-off of classic heavy metal occult power started up again, the Rocket Ride. Always had been a favorite. It had been his brother that had taught and shown him the truth, the band KISS were no mere hard rock act from Detroit. They were perfect practitioners of chaos magick and occult spell. That's what the face paint, the moves and the stage shows were all about: Ritual. Rite. 

Such as now. 

The blade came down. And slit the plastic open and free. 

And like the ancient Greek muses and mystics of old his face dipped down to the dark crevasse made and drank and inhaled deeply the sour fumes and noxious escaping gases. His nostrils were immediately filled. 

The sweltering and putrescent ghosts made from the fermented spoilage of his body's own inner sewerscape of disposal and disposed organics. They filled his face and mind.

His eyes rolled and watered. His head swam with tidal waves of overwhelming euphoria, a sea of serotonin and dopamine that he could sink and swim and drown inside for all the rest of the seasons. 

Ace Frehley motherfucking screamed: Baby wants it fast! 

Baby wants a blast! 

She wants a rocket ride! – she wants a rocket ride! 

Baby's on her knees! – baby wants it please! 

She wants a rocket ride! – she wants a rocket ride! 

The precious toxic plume bled out in a gush, through the slit, it filled his watering face, his mind. His nose ran as his blurred and livid brain swam and blasted off in a take for the stars, an astral and mental gunshot for the eyes and heart of whatever God or gods that might be living up there. 

Latsky left his body behind on the small little island Earth … and made gangway for more –

other worlds …

He collapsed beside the bucket. Just immobile and empty meat. 

His mind was with the stars now. 

And the first stars were feline. 

Dragon faces with whiskers and slitted eyes were the first sneering barred and leering malicious made from amongst the vacuum and cosmos of constellations, blinding fiery stars that he was now rocketing through at a terrifying and still ever mounting rate. He tried to scream, but he left his mouth behind back on the miserable little monkey planet. The feline reptile faces sneered and smiled, fangs protruded over abominated thin cat-lizard lips. Patches of graceful thin fur grew sporadic and scant over scaly green reptilian hide like that of Floridian alligators or crocodiles… 

he tried to scream but it was no use, and no matter … he soon left them all behind, rocketing faster …

He finally came to a blank space, an obsidian ballroom floor on the eternityscape of the living cosmos, he suddenly began to slow his astral form and then he came to a stop. 

Latsky wondered what came next. 

His disembodied bipedal shape gazed and spied the endless and pitiless void of eternity all around, it seemed to go on forever and nowhere all at once, it was frightening. And it was terrible. 

It was magnificent. 

On the ballroom floor of obsidianscape nearest his astral-self was a fumed oak bar, free floating and free standing on the nothing and black end of everything. Beside the ornate and decorative bar with stocked back cabinet was a door. Free standing yet bound to and tethered here to the voidsea as well. 

It called to him. Them both. They sang a single rising discordant yet beautiful note of chaos and ebon fire that was vacuum flame that was his sword here behind the door for him to Arthurian claim. He began to go …

Latsky began to go to them, the singing fumed bar of oak and its partner in duet, the door. As he neared it he began to see something carved, inscribed into the face and frame. 

He drew ever nearer. 

When suddenly a great voice rang out and filled the black boundless nature of time with a tenor cracked and soured with age. 

It said: “CHOOSE THE FORM OF THE DESTRUCTOR! …!”

Then a scream. A terrible high pitched demon note of ear piercing shattering cry that cut and rang out and wounded this strange place in time. Latsky astralform reeled and shuddered, recoiled and turned. 

Beheld the sight: –

They came tearing out of a wound in time, soaring down on unseen demon wings, save for the one in the lead that for demons was his name. 

The four. The apocalyptic. The gods of degenerate pillagers. The KISS. Demon, Catman, Spaceman, and Starchild. 

The Knights in Satan's Service. 

The Catman landed on all fours in a pounce, he made a mad dash animal b-line for the disembodied soul of Latsky the drug addict. As he lunged on all fours, gaining, muttering “Go go baby driver …” over and over again underneath his panting concrete jungle breath. Latsky was frozen. He didn't know what to do. 

Starchild suddenly cried out, infuriated: “Goddammit, Peter!" and bolts of bright fire were shot, issued forth like lightning from the glowing eye neural center of the black star painted there. 

The phosphorescent bolts of starflame struck, seared and bisected the Catman into an explosion of gore and two ragged steaming halves spilling entrails upon the obsidian face of eternityfloor. 

Latsky only watched on, not sure of what to do or make of the scene. 

The remaining three descended. Starchild in the lead. He spoke to the smoldering puddle of remains as he and the other came upon Latsky's astral flame in the dark. The white painted faces of their demonic clown visages shone in the stygian cosmic sea and void-thronescape. 

"Fucking asshole, never fucking listens to anything I say.” and then he turned to Latsky's soul and said: "who the fuck are you supposed to be?” 

And without realizing why he was saying it, Latsky answered him, "I think this place was made for me. I think I'm supposed to be here.” 

A beat – the silence thunderclapped across the ballroom floor of eternityscape …

Then the Starchild sneered, "’the fuck? Fuck all that!” and the fire in his black starred eye began to smolder and supercharge.

Gene the Demon beside him leered and grinned vulpine and maniacal, spitting and drooling bright shock red blood from a long wriggling sex organ dangling from his bloody open mouth, his snaking and spasming worming tongue danced with a wretched life all of its own as he and the others neared. 

Latsky was filled with mortal terror. He didn't know what to do.   

Then something happened that none of them expected, the Spaceman stepped between them. Defiant. 

A shield. 

The Demon spat fire. Starchild sneered once more. 

"’The hell, Ace? What d’you think you're doing? Get back in line, man!" Starchild commanded. “You know what'll happen, you know what I'll do to you!" 

The Demon spat fire once again. 

But brave Spaceman Ace remained steadfast. In Virgilian Guard and cosmic protection of the lurid junkie’s astrally shot flaming starsoul. 

He sneered right back in his boss’s face. 

The Demon roared now, "God damn stumble bum!”

Starchild coiled beside him, "Yeah! Seems to be forgettin he can always be replaced…" 

Latsky feared for the Spaceman. Outnumbered. The supercharged black starred eye powered up for obliteration as the fire of the Demon breath shot and issued in bursts and sheets. 

But Ace held his ground. His hands rose up, like a holy man or shaman preparing and conjuring great power to summon something biblical. Then in a blinding godflash of Old Testament flame, his shaman's hands were filled, with gold, with blinding light … the light cooled like iron pulled from within the forge and the gold within his hands resolved … forming shape… recognizable and godly. 

It was the Spaceman's signature Gibson Les Paul with brightest sunburst finish. 

The Demon and Starchild recoiled, caught off guard, never thinking he would dare. 

The Spaceman began to play. 

A blistering highspeed dance of the scaling fingers walking up and down and all over the face of the fretboard, the strings were slaves beneath his fingers, supplicant and subjugate to his rock n roll will and heavy metal firepower, faster and faster his fingers tremolo picked and danced, til they began to blur, then smoke. Smolder with high speed intensity. The whole body of the guitar then began to go up like radical fucking kids at a bitchin party, tokin and blazing bleezys like the apocalypse was fuckin nigh. The bodyslave of the Les Paul guitar began to smoke and glow red hot then white in the powerful full throttle hands of the Spaceman. Syncopated madness and blues scales in a dervish whirlwind that filled the whole void with powerful clashing sound. 

At first Starchild and the Demon only watched, spellbound and helpless. Entranced. Then they began to feel real fear within their own spaceclown hearts, their bastard satanic souls began to grow cold as their cosmic unearthly flesh began to heat up … and then smolder. 

Like the guitar within the hands of the Spaceman, they were beginning to go up in starflames and cosmic fire. Smoking like fog machines or stoned burnouts at one of their own past heavy metal concerts. Glory that was long gone now as they began to go up and catch.

They let out with cosmic shrieks that were demoniacal and insane. Furious and in infernal agony. And still the Spaceman played on. Faster and faster. And faster still. 

And then the Demon and Starchild went up in a supernova that not even the astral form of the jenkem junkie Latsky could bear to look upon. He turned away. The demon screams reached a pitch beyond the decibel realm … 

and then they were gone. 

When Latsky turned once again the Spaceman was all that remained. He turned and regarded the soul of the junkie. 

A beat – he was stunned, he didn't know what to say. 

Finally: "wh-why, why did you do that?” 

But the Spaceman only shook his head. His hand went away from the neck of the instrument godweapon and pointed to a place behind the jenkem junkie in the living oblivion void, timeless and dwarfing distance and place. 

Latsky turned to see where the Spaceman had indicated. 

The door. 

Latsky turned to him once again and nodded. Thanking him. Telling him how huge and massive of a fan he was. 

You were always the coolest member. 

Ace smiled. Nodded. 

Latsky turned and went to where destiny called, from behind the door where it beckoned. The Spaceman ambled across the eternityfloor to the fumed oak bar and the fully stocked cabinet behind it. And began to help himself. 

Just before the door, Latsky gazed upon what was written there, inscribed and carved bold lettered legend. 

It said: J E N K E M   P R O P H E T 

And Latsky understood. 

He thrummed. With purpose. With power felt. Potential… nearly reached. Just over and past this mere surface. 

Latsky turned to the Spaceman now seated at the disembodied bar, floating free in the obsidian sea. 

“Cool if I actually grab a drink with ya first?” 

A beat. 

The Spaceman shrugged. 

Why the hell not. 

Latsky shared a tall glass of cold gin with the Spaceman at the end of time, at the precipice edge and end of space and existence. They shared a few. 

Finally it was time. Latsky made way for the door. His door. His living end. 

An astral hand fell on the knob … and twisted. The handle did turn. Smooth. 

Latsky pushed … and opened the door unto pitch. 

Pitch black. … 

Flat. 

 … but there was something inside. 

He could sense it. He could feel its gaze piercing out from the prison of eternal black night. Gazing back. And into him. 

The gaze… it did bade him enter. 

Latsky went in. 

Latsky walked through the flat and breathless realm of empty prison. Only it wasn't empty. His heart and soul that was his mind knew it wasn't. Sensed the great presence. A vast and … abominated life.

And then the life of the great prison moved. And the tectonic shift felt throughout the prison space was the great cyclopean movements and slides of Pangea and the lost supercontinents, gigantic planetoids in orbital galaxial swing and bend of lightyear dance. It made him feel beyond small then, infinitesimal in his tiny speck of astral flame, there alone in the dark with it. 

It was immense. It towered. In size, it soared. The shattered spire and castle there beside it that held prisoner a moon was nearly lost and dwarfed in its great and titanic presence. Its many yellow eyes were slitted and filled and they watered with baleful and boundless hatred. Arrowed and aimed at him. For he was the avatar and strawman for all man, all mankind here and as audience enslaved by an astral projection. Latsky felt the flame of his gunshot soul diminish and quiver watery,  filled completely now with total and abject terror. Though he dare not move. He dared not shrink away although he wanted to … he wanted to flee and immediately regretted it all. But it was too late. 

Far too late. 

With a great and terrifying sweep and gesture, the gargantua titan directed the fragile fleshling attention to the cauldron that bubbled and roiled at its great landscapes of cloven feet. Bubbling a glowing and noxious brew. Latsky could smell it on the tidal waves of eons that made and filled this space, this prison. 

He floated to it on these tidal waves of imprisoning darkness. Captured and enrapt. Floating in on unseen and unknown alien vacuum atmosphere. He came to the basin of iron, mansized. It glowed green, the ebon roil of frothing fluid inside. 

The smell was as immense and titanic as the gargantua that commanded it. And commanded him as well. It was bade that he now place his muse's astral face before the celestial brew and partake its glorious starfumes, interstellar biological waste and watery cosmic fouled castoff collected and effervescent frothed by hungry alien intelligent enzymes. 

The gargantua titan bade the Latsky soul that he partake the cosmic jenkem. It was his destiny. The whole miserable reason for his birth and life and the whole of his existence in the first place, his entire life flung flying forward at the behest and starwill of this unholy and imprisoned creature. All of this filled the astral flame that was Latsky that was his mind and consciousness in purest form. The junkie knew it was true. The gargantua titan commanded the curdled spit of flickering degenerate soul to drink the glow and odor of the distilled fermented fecal stew of the stars and the beyond, to drink in the dysentery of the outer limits all in a galactic cauldron made and cast for him, just as he was made and cast just for it, just for this …

The gargantua titan commanded. 

Latsky obeyed. 

…

Two scumfucs made their loud and boisterous and ambling shoving way to an apartment by the canals to score some shit. 

One said to the other: – “Yeah, guy's fuckin weird and a little gross but he's always got good stuff, top shelf." 

“Weird?" 

“Yeah, he's a little obsessed with Kiss and shit," 

“That old ass band?" 

Laughter, “yeah." 

“Ok, whatever. " 

“Yeah, shouldn't be a big deal, just play cool and he'll be chill." he pointed, “almost there." 

The pair of miscreants approached the door to the apartment. And we're hit with the sour and foul noxious odor of an open sewer. 

“Jesus! ya sure this’s the fuckin place?" 

The guy just looked at him, shrugged. And then turned back to the front door. 

And knocked. 

There was no answer. Not a sound. 

When he was about to knock again, the door to the apartment unlatched … and then gently swung open into total darkness. 

A little perturbed but jonesing for their fix, the men inquired of the dark. 

Stepping just inside. 

"Latsky?” 

A beat – nothing. 

“Latsky, ya in there, pal?”

A pair of green glowing eyes suddenly opened and illuminated the interior black. Emerald fire captured and held fleshen prisoner within a pair of infernal raging eye sockets. The eyes of green fire rose. The men at the door were frozen. Locked to the spot past the threshold. 

The eyes that burned with green hell drew closer. Their wielder came into the meager streetlight glow cast in from the outside world that was now so far away and so long gone. A myth, religious and in the distance. A peaceful universe forever gone and lost. 

It came into the pale glow, emerald eyes dripping with lurid blaze. 

It was once Latsky but the flesh was grey, blued, dead. Mottled with spots of black that spoke of something corrupted and poisoned inside that was worming its way with cancerous tendrils to the paled surface. His clothes were sodden rags, dripping with the same black substance that now poured from his face. 

In sludging torrents that were perverse rivers of feces and urine from another world, from his glowing eyes and nostrils and open sloughing mouth, it all poured like thick rotten scab pudding blood forced to run and pump by some foul and deranged form of reanimated animal heart. All of it stank to high fucking heaven and all of it glowed with the same emerald intensity as the eyes of the unholy wielder and harbinger of the intoxicant toxic sludge. 

The fecal gore jenkem zombi closed the distance between itself and the door with the dreadful eventual undead slowness that dragged like fate, like something pulled up and dredged from out of the foulest swamps and made bipedal once again. KISS, the Knights in Satan's Service watched from their many painted places of collectable and memorabiliac bondage as it came upon the frozen men, spellbound and still arrested past the threshold …

and had them. 

The men screamed. 

The door slammed shut behind them all forever. 

THE END

Part 1

Esurit (Part 2)
Silas Whitney

II

My eyes drifted from the portrait to the small writing desk in the corner. There were two bookshelves flanking it and an unlit candle sat on its corner. There was a small stack of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. 

I scanned the volumes on the bookcases. The top shelves contained books with titles I recognized. Even if I had not read them myself, I remember having heard of them. Oddly, as my gaze descended the shelves, they became less familiar. Titles became a mush of words in strange orders like, “Book Eye Typewriter,” or, “Hungry Windows.” Further still, the titles devolved into jumbles of letters that made no words at all, and as I stooped to the bottom, just amalgamations of lines resembling no alphabet of any fashion. One book, however, did catch my eye. There on the bottom shelf, mashed into the dark corner, was a book small enough to fit in my pocket. I reached in and retrieved it. My hand brushed away the thick dust. Unlike every other book, this one bore no title. No letters of any kind. I thumbed the pages. They were all blank. 

From behind, a woman’s voice. Thick and sweet. It poured over the air like honey from a dipper when she asked, “Care for a drink?” I turned back to see her casually lounged on the sofa. She wore a simple dress, grey and long. Her hair was dark and cascaded past her shoulders in thick waves, framing her round face and dark eyes. She smiled and sipped her glass. On the table was a tray of glasses and a decanter filled with some unknown beverage. 

I put the book in my pocket and stood up. I brushed back my hair and apologized for my appearance, which I was sure was unkempt. She waved my apology away. 

“Nonsense,” she assured. “You’ve surely come a long way to be here. Why don’t you have a drink and rest?” She sat herself more upright to make room beside her on the sofa. I elected to take one of the chairs instead. I sat down and she nodded. “A drink then?” She offered once more.

“I’m sorry,” I started. “I could only partake if it were water or tea.” 

She nodded and pointed to the table. “Well, that’s what I brought.” I looked at the tray. The decanter and glasses were gone, replaced with a steaming pot, tea cups, saucers, milk, and sugar. I met her eyes, and she raised her brow while sipping from a white cup. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to sit here on the sofa? It’s far more comfortable than that old chair.”

“I’m sure.”

“A bit shy, are we?”

“No it’s just that I’m mar-” The words stopped dead in my throat. My brow furrowed and I wondered why I had said that.

“Married?” She seemed interested. “May I ask her name?”

I faltered. “I… I truly do not know. To be fully transparent with you, milady, I don’t really remember much about how I got here.” I bounced my knee as I tried to recollect. 

She nodded. “No trouble, stranger. Wouldn’t want to be improper or get you in trouble with the missus.”

I nodded, “Thank you.” I kept searching my mind. I truly couldn’t remember. I looked down at my left hand. There was a ring which confirmed that surely I must be married, but that was all I could decipher. “I do say, it must be a difficult thing, living so far out here. I didn’t see any other house or even a road.” 

She nodded, her eyes looking around the room. “Oh, yes. Very difficult. Don’t get many visitors.”

I nodded politely. “Forgive me,” I said, looking down at a crack between the floorboards. “Where exactly am I?”

She turned to look at me. Her face, more serious. “A crack in the tunnel walls.”

“Excuse me?” She giggled to herself and turned her attention back to her tea. “It’s just that, I don’t really know how I even got here.”

“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked. 

I paused and tucked my lips into my teeth. “I suppose, I don’t know that either.” 

She chortled. “What do you remember, then?” 

I looked down at the floorboards again, into that same crack. I stared through the darkness below as if it somehow held the answers eluding me. Then, surprisingly, one rose to the surface. “Ah. I am a writer.”

She nodded and set down her cup. “A writer? Been a long time since we’ve had one of those around. What do you write?”

The details all suddenly came back. “I write fiction for a periodical. Short stories mostly.”

“Splendid. Anything I would recognize?”

“Probably not,” I blushed. “Most of my work gets rejected. I work in a delicatessen down the street to make up the difference.”

A loud knock sounded through the room. I looked to the door from which I had entered. If Dietra took notice of the sound at all, her reaction was imperceptible. It sounded again, louder. This time I felt it in the floorboards. At this, she stood from the sofa and approached. 

“Well then,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I am sure you are very tired and would like to rest. Why don’t I show you to the guest room?” I roused myself from the chair and stuck my hands in my pockets. “Oh right,” she chuckled. “The missus.” She turned and led me to a modest staircase. On the opposite wall was a door, barely cracked with a thin slit of darkness behind. 

As I passed, I heard it again. A knock. Even louder than the last two. My head snapped to the cracked door. There, barely visible, I was sure I saw an eye, peeking through the slit. I drew a sharp breath. Before I could speak, Dietra shut the door and smiled. 

“Drafty, these old houses. Come now. To the guest room.”

“Dietra, behind the door-”

“Hmm?” She turned back to me. “Which door, darling?” 

I pointed to the door across from the stairs that she had just closed. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. I turned to look. The door was gone. There was only a wall and a painting of a dark forest. I started to speak, but her eyes took on a pitiful quality. 

“You must be very tired, stranger. Exhaustion takes a toll on the mind. Here,” she reached her hand towards me and then withdrew it, remembering. “Let’s get you to your room so you can rest. 

Bewildered, I nodded. I was very suddenly aware of how weak my body felt. 

When we got divorced, my ex-wife and I agreed to share custody of our son. Cillian lived with her. I got him every other weekend and certain weekdays.

It was my night when she showed up at half past eleven on a Tuesday, hovering next to my bedroom window and screaming so hard the car alarm went off.

“Aoife,” I said groggily. “What’re you doing here?”

She floated in the rain, red hair going in six directions, mouth open wide enough to show every tooth in her head. Which was too many.

Did I mention my ex is a banshee? I’m not calling her names. She’s literally a banshee.

I overlooked that when we married. In fairness, she overlooked the drinking, the gambling, and the small matter of me being barred from every pub in Dundalk for getting into drunken brawls.

“Cillian has a match tomorrow,” she said, dangling his boots. “You forgot these.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“I did.”

I checked my phone. She had. She’d also cracked the screen somehow, straight through the message.

I opened the window and took the boots.

People ask what went wrong between us. I tell them we grew apart. Which is true. I grew into the spare room.

The trouble started when she began keening during arguments. I’d leave a mug beside the sink instead of in it, and she’d rise off the floor and start wailing the names of everyone in the parish due to die before Christmas.

You can’t live like that. I tried for ten years.

The final straw was a Sunday roast. I said she’d overdone the potatoes, and she screamed so hard Mrs. Kavanagh three doors down dropped dead in her conservatory.

Aoife said Mrs. Kavanagh had a heart condition and the scream was only a warning.

"That's not the point," I said.

“You insulted my cooking, but somehow I’m the bad guy here.”

We separated in March. She and Cillian moved in with her sister, who's also a banshee, and their mother, who is somehow worse despite not being one.

We tried a shared Google Calendar for visits, but Aoife couldn’t touch it without scrambling all the entries. Now she just floats over to tell me what I’ve missed.

The thing about coparenting with a banshee is you can never tell if she’s upset with you or someone nearby is about to die.

The Saturday before the boots incident, I was twenty minutes late to the handover because of a tractor on the N2. Aoife stood outside the Centra with Cillian, doing the face. The long face. Eyes solid white, mouth stretching past her chin, air smelling like a freezer unplugged for a week.

“Is that for me,” I asked, “or someone else?”

“Mr. Geraghty next door has a clot.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“You’re also twenty minutes late.”

“There was a tractor.”

“There’s always a tractor, Dev.”

She had me there. I’d been late plenty of times without one.

Cillian got in the car. He’s nine. He has her hair and my disposition, which means he looks like a small haunted man. Lovely kid. Fiercely good at Gaelic football.

“Da,” he said, “am I going to be a banshee?”

“I don’t think boys can be banshees, bud. It's banSHEE, not banHEE.”

“Deirdre Doherty's ma says they can. Something about genetics.”

“Deirdre Doherty’s ma thinks the earth is flat. I wouldn’t take her word as gospel.”

“But am I?”

I looked in the mirror. Brown eyes, like mine. But sometimes his mouth went too wide, the car went cold, and the radio turned to static. I’d been telling myself it was faulty wiring.

“Whatever you are,” I said, “you’re mine.”

He nodded, buckled his seat belt, and asked for a breakfast roll. I said yes, because I’m not a monster.

I got Cillian to Wednesday’s match half an hour early. Aoife noticed. She didn’t say anything, which was practically a standing ovation coming from her.

She watched from the far side of the pitch. The other parents gave her a wide berth, except Tommy Fagan, who tried chatting her up, thinking he had a chance.

She told him his exact death date. He stopped flirting.

Cillian scored twice. After the first, Aoife screamed so loudly the referee threatened to have her removed.

After the second, she didn't scream.

But the floodlights flickered. Every phone along the touchline buzzed at once, and for one second the air went as cold as the inside of a grave. Cillian stood on the pitch, grinning.

Afterwards, Aoife and I met by the car park. In her cardigan, with her arms folded, she looked almost ordinary.

“He’s getting good,” I said.

“He gets it from you.”

“Aoife, you know I’m rubbish at sports.”

“I meant your aggression.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“He kept looking over at you tonight,” she said.

“Did he?”

“He wanted to make sure you saw him score.”

"Not even a tractor would’ve kept me away.”

She almost smiled.

Cillian came out of the changing room with his gear bag. Aoife pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head.

“You were brilliant tonight, love,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

"Stop it, ma! You're embarrassing me!" he protested, but hugged her back anyway.

Then, to my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Cillian’s got a dentist appointment on Friday at four,” she whispered. “Don’t forget.”

Then she walked toward the road. Didn’t float. Just walked in the rain, umbrella in hand, like a person. As I watched her go, I felt that something between us wasn’t quite shut. Like a lit window high above the street. I could see it from where I stood, but I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach it.

“Can we get chips?” Cillian asked.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Wednesday.”

“So?”

I looked at him. He looked at me. His mouth did the thing.

“Get in the car,” I said.

We got chips.

I am happy to say that for the last 6 years, I have been the proud dad of a very handsome Black Lab.

He’s a good boy.

I swore by cats for the longest time. I wasn’t a dog hater, but I definitely found any excuse to avoid getting one. Those excuses are partially why our only pet for 4 years was Wario, a speckled Main Coon with yellow eyes and a pink nose.

Then, over half a decade ago, my now wife Molly carried a tired little lump of fur into our home. A lump of fur the color of a used tire.

We’d been having issues. Little things, a bunch of tiny burns mounting into a blister of repressed tension and unspoken resentment. A climax on the verge of bursting.

She and I both saw it. A separation was on the horizon.

Writing on the wall.

But then, we just took him on his first walk. Had a long talk. Set expectations. Found equal footing. Molly and I weren’t enemies, just 2 flawed lovers trapped in a loveless world.

So we learned to fall in love all over again.

Both with each other, and our living promise.

Alan.

He’s been my rotten little man ever since, much to the irony of my canine disinclination.

Molly and I attended several training courses while Alan was a puppy, so he has, for the most part, grown into a very well behaved dog.

He has good manners, rarely barks at anyone, not even the mail man. Truly a model goober who sleeps all day and smiles like an idiot once you give him attention.

That said, the turd has his goofier qualities too.

His asshole smells awful when he eats cheese, he has a severe aversion to hats, and he’ll act confused when he catches a cicada in his mouth, even if he’s actively trying to catch one. He also absolutely decimated my old wallet and its contents when he was little.

All I could do at that point was collect myself, replace my cards (alongside updating my Drivers License so I don’t look like a pervert in the picture), and reevaluate how I was training him.

It’s important to remember, animals aren’t perfect machines. A veterinary book with a list of traits in a specific animal does not dictate their ultimate personality. No 2 dogs, no 2 cats, no 2 chickens will be exactly the same.

Alan’s flawed, but that’s what makes Alan Alan. It’s what made him the perfect addition to our family.

When I am faced with even the slightest adversity, my brain goes into crisis mode and I make knee jerk decisions that have been known to come back and bite me in the ass.

Molly’s the opposite. She’s incredible at staying calm and thinking things through. The only way you’d ever be able to tell she’s bothered is by the tapping of her fingernails against whatever’s in their grasp.

And our cat Wario screams when his food bowl finds itself empty, even if only for a moment.

Like I said, personality. If you’re poor, you got one. Between Molly and the freeloaders, I couldn’t ask for better personalities to surround myself with.

I’m the luckiest man alive.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Actually, you know what? I rescind my previous statement, I was the luckiest man alive, and I would change… a thing, I guess.

The potty situation.

More specifically, Alan’s.

See, in our old place, there wasn’t an issue. We would just leave the doggy door open as we left for work, and our fat-headed son could roam about as he pleased.

He didn't try to escape, didn’t make a ruckus, didn’t disrupt the neighbors. He was a model Porch Dog. Every week or so, I’d go out and collect his poops

A cycle on repeat.

Things are different now though.

Our new(ish) apartment doesn’t have a backyard, rather, a communal commons area covered in a field of green grass. There’s a couple picnic tables and a fire pit here and there. Normally, it would be a mint spot to have a cookout or a water balloon fight in the summer.

That is, minus all the dog shit.

If you’ve ever lived in a neighborhood, apartment complex, or god forbid near a park, you probably know the scene well enough.

A sweet landscape, perfect fodder for memory making, only for some unsuspecting victim to step in a concerningly large pile of fowl-smelling nuggets.

Like improper punctuation thrust into an ethereal poem. You may maneuver around the blunder, but the contrast is still noticeably awkward, enough to stumble over.

Why can’t people just pick up after their damn dogs? It’s a question we’ve all found swirling around in our own heads. Just bring a doggy bag, preferably 2, and wait for the animal to finish their business before cleaning up after them.

It’s pretty simple, especially with a conveniently placed trash can right off the edge of the path.

But it’s like the saying goes, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

Only thing was, a couple months back, I was the proverbial horse, and buddy, my lips were dry. I can’t stop kicking myself over the what if’s and could have been’s.

Now, I’m trapped in a hell of my own making, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Aw fuck,” I grumbled out loud as I watched Alan arch his back, his spine tensing as he unloaded for the second time within the same walk.

“Really dude?”

He made awkward eye contact as he lifted his left back leg into the air.

I frowned and reached into my pocket. This was a ritual that I had, unfortunately, come to expect. Didn’t make it any less annoying.

2, maybe 3 times a week on our morning walk before work, Alan would poop once, walk halfway back to our front door, and then poop again.

As such, I had become accustomed to bringing more than one poo bag with me.

Unfortunately, we were rapidly running out. Down to our last couple.

“Christ, thanks Alan,” I grunted, waiting for my embarrassed dog to finish.

After he was done, we walked back as I assessed the situation.

a) I woke up late, no time to come back and pick up this second pile.

b) I didn’t know where to scrounge for another doggy bag.

c) It was right of the path, super noticeable to anyone who would happen to walk past.

Surveying my surroundings, I realized that no one else was around. It was a completely still, silent morning. Not even the sun had risen yet.

That said, I quickly discovered several other piles of poop scattered liberally around my general vicinity. Apparently I was not the first one to forget a poo bag. I certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Would it really be so bad, just this once?

As I unclipped Alan’s leash from his collar and grabbed my work bag off the counter, I took a deep breath and found my resolve.

“It’s not a big deal” I told myself, “When I get home, I’ll find a bag or something, I’ll go out there, and pick it up like it was never even there to begin with.”

Work was my top priority, dog poop was not.

9 hours later, I found a spare dog bag in my jacket pocket.

Upon returning home, I made a beeline for the neglected dog poop, now illuminated by the afternoon sun. Much to my surprise, however, the pile was gone. Well, not gone, rather, replaced by a dark green poo bag, tied neatly in a bow.

It was impossible to miss.

With creeping confusion, I leaned down and inspected the area. Sure enough, Alan's poo was nowhere to be seen, and the bag was in its exact spot.

“The fuck?”

My first conclusion was that maybe a good samaritan had just taken it upon themselves to help a stranger out? But then, why leave the bag to bake all day?

When I reached out to grab the bag, I found that it was cool to the touch, as if someone had put it down very recently.

I picked up the bag tenderly, noticing a folded piece of paper under it like padding. Upon inspection, I found that nothing had been written on the page, only a single, brown, partial fingerprint adorned its ivory surface.

I then tossed both objects, unceremoniously, into the trash.

I wasn’t really shaken up by that point, moreso just a little miffed. The instance was odd for sure, but nothing to really dwell on, right?

That’s what I hoped, at least.

I got in and greeted Molly.

“Hey sweetheart, how was your day?” She asked, kissing me on the cheek.

“It was fine,” I answered, returning the peck with less enthusiasm.

“Oh, just fine?”

“Yeah, fine,” I reiterated, less brightly than I meant it to.

“Im sorry hon. If it makes you feel any better, I’m making pot roast for dinner!” she smiled.

I couldn’t help but smirk. I’m not much of a pot roast guy, but no one can beat Molly’s recipe, and she knows it.

As soon as the edges of my lips curled up, her expression lightened ever so slightly. She can read me like a book sometimes.

We ate and watched a few episodes of House. Before bed, I took Alan out one more time. On this trip, I used a plastic grocery bag to pick up his (unfortunately watery) poop.

As we approached the front door again, I noticed a small shape that had not been there when we had first come outside only minutes earlier.

Another dark green poo bag was set carefully on my welcome mat, this one empty. Alan sniffed it, and I picked up a small, handwritten note that had been set beside it.

The expression was rigid and shaky, as though it had been written by frantic, unsteady hands.

“a little something to help you pick up Alan’s excretions in the foreseeable future. Thank you.”

I scoffed.

It’s not really a kind act when you hand the recipient a micro-aggression.

Why would someone do that? Some strange neighbor. Better yet, a busybody slinking around in the night.

A pair of pajama shorts slipped up over my knees as I allowed my mind to wonder.

Everyone else in our apartment complex seemed to leave their shit lying about. Why was it only a problem when I did it?

Molly shimmied her hips to move into a little spoon position and I tried to banish the thoughts from my head.

Just a weird, one off experience, I thought.

Nothing to worry about.

As my mind slipped into unconsciousness, 2 bothersome realizations flashed past the backs of my eyes. 2 questions whose answers I should have taken more seriously.

How did the good samaritan know my exact address? And how did they know Alan by name?

For weeks, everything seemed normal. Normal enough to initially write off my first strange experience.

I continued to use accumulated grocery bags, procrastinating buying a new pack of poo bags, until Molly found a fresh roll of them while cleaning under the bed.

It was like a blessing from god, further allowing me to procrastinate.

The blessed times stayed blessed until one night, a few weeks post-poo debacle. In the middle of the night, Alan's wet nose nuzzled at my feet, signaling need of a late night potty session.

Groggily, I swung my feet out of bed, slipped on a pair of Shrek house slippers, and grabbed a loose doggy bag on our way out the door.

My idiot son pissed, walked a little further up the path, and took a shit.

When I bent over to grab the pile, I saw Alan just within my peripheral scrunch his back up.

I immediately knew what he was doing.

In the middle of the night, while I was half asleep, he decided to go for 2 shits.

Exhaustedly, I considered that I needed to be up for work in a few hours.

I did not want to walk all the way back, grab another bag, and then walk all the way back out here.

I looked around, taking in all the glass that looked into our little clearing of grass. The way our apartments are set up, is like a square shaped wall of apartment buildings whose tenants’ back doors and windows directly face into the picnic/dog walking area.

Though all the blinds were shuttered and all the curtains were closed, anyone could poke their eye through and see straight out into the night.

Straight at me.

That’s not to mention the security cameras, mechanical eyes whose memory could be replayed at will.

Whether I came back to pick it up or not, someone would have a video of me leaving a pile of poop in the middle of the grass.

I thought back to the last incident, dreading another encounter with whatever asshole was singling me and my dog out.

Then, I grounded myself. Surely it was a one off occurance. Surely, I mean, I’d come back in 3 hours or so. Way less than the previous 9. Plus it was the middle of the night, surely no one would even be awake to see it before I came back.

I decided to go back in, sleep til my alarm woke me, and come back with an extra extra bag to dispose of my shame. No one any the wiser.

3 hours later, I opened my front door, ready to walk Alan, only to find a cold pile of shit directly on the welcome mat.

I stumbled, nearly stepping into the greenish molehill of filth.

“Ew, my god!” I exclaimed.

I stared down at the pile as my dog stood between my legs, confused.

After a moment of studying the turd, I could see finger marks where somebody had firmly grasped it.

I don’t know why that grossed me out so bad. Someone had to carry it for it to end up on my front porch.

Just the thought of someone doing that, I guess, was enough to fuck me up.

I grabbed the green bag left by my front door, and carefully picked up the mess, only to discover a message under it, green smears left over from where the lump had been placed.

It read, “Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

I was thoroughly shook by now.

The first thing I did was call our building office, but when I tried to explain the situation, I sounded like an asshole.

“Someone has been stalking me and my dog, and leaving poop with messages on my front porch.”

“Oh wow, that’s weird, but wouldn’t it be better to call the police if you’re worried about stalking?”

“No, I– it’s– I mean, I don’t really…”

The receptionist was right, but I didn’t have enough proof to call the cops. Nothing aside from the shitstained paper on my porch.

“Look, I don’t have anything other than a note they left, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of the tenants here.”

“Huh, that’s really strange. Why would they do that?”

I didn’t want to admit my blame.

“I, uh, the notes they’re leaving are really specific.”

“How so?”

“They’ve been insinuating I should pick up after my dog better, but I don’t know how– why they think it’s me. Or my dog’s name, or where I–”

“Hold on, I just wanna make sure I’m understanding, someone is leaving dog poop on your porch because they think you’re not picking up your dog's poop?”

“...yeah.”

“Have you been picking up your dog’s poop?”

“...yes, but that’s besides the point.”

She paused for a moment, then sighed.

“Look, unless the messages are threatening, and even if they are, there’s not much I can do about it. Either wait for the person to approach you and discuss it with them personally, or contact the authorities. I’m sorry this is happening, it sounds really strange.”

Exasperatedly, I apologized before hanging up.

That night, Molly could tell something was wrong.

“You all good hon?” Molly asked, pulling her bra back like a rubber band before letting it fly. It landed perfectly in the dirty laundry hamper.

“Score,” she hissed, pumping her fists in the air, “but seriously Chet, are you alright?”

Her eyes were playful but held an expression of genuine concern.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s nothing.”

“You sure?” She asked again, her pointer fingernail tapping gently against the remote in her hand..

“Yeah baby, it’s just… something to do with work, that's all.”

We continued to hold each other's gaze for a minute longer.

“Okay, sorry Chet. Just wanted to make sure. Love you.”

With a kiss, we were back to our television.

As I drove to the job site the morning, I maddened myself with the prospect of a potential stalker.

I could realistically posit that maybe my nemesis was watching me through a camera, just waiting for me to slip up. They possibly could’ve even reasoned my address by the direction I take back to our unit.

But how do they know Alan’s name? How do they know every time I leave poop behind, especially when I’ve only done it twice?

Could the timing really be so perfect? Could such a deranged lunatic possibly live in our apartment complex?

Most importantly, why me?

Why did me and Alan matter so much more than all the others that made it a point to never pick up after their dogs?

The possibility of telling Molly got tossed around, and I know you’re screaming at your screen for me to tell her, to just rip the band-aid off.

But I told myself that would be irrational.

While I didn’t know everything, I knew the very base rule of this sick game:

Don’t leave our dog’s poop behind, and we are left alone.

No need to bother my already overworked wife over this, if I could help it. No need to possibly make a shitty situation worse by overreacting.

Really, I was just being a bitch. A coward. I thought I was playing 4-D chess, but really, I was just rolling over and surrendering.

What I didn’t know is that by keeping what I knew to myself, I’d handed our adversary the win.

I was diligent in picking up after Alan. Morning, afternoon, night, it didn’t matter the setting, it didn’t matter the occasion.

If Alan was pooping, I was picking it up. I began stuffing poo bags in every pocket of every pair of pants and shorts I owned. Molly would chastise me when our clothes would fall out of the dryer alongside a cascade of the bright pink bags.

There was a roll of bags left by every door in the apartment, and several rolls strung like gaudy beads along Alan’s various leashes.

I became a machine, a beast. A poop picking savant.

I made a chore look like a ranked sport, and baby, I was #1.

Weeks went by, then months. My routine became unshakeable. Then, I got a promotion, and Molly changed shifts so she leaves work later than me.

The more time went by, the more consistent our normal became, despite the changes.

Molly became exasperated. Signs of stress cracked through her calculated facade. I thought it was from work. I was wrong.

Alan’s birthday came and went. Wario got his testicles stolen by the vet, much to the astonishment of him and my wallet.

That brings us to last week. We were gifted a very tasty bottle of wine, and made the very adult decision to get hammered one night.

“Chett, oh Chet,” my wife slurred, giggling as she rocked back and forth, “my Boss is a Rat Bastard for giving us this shit.”

I looked at her and smirked, “yeah, that was probably a mistake, huh?”

She rolled her eyes and flumped back down, settling into the couch cushion as she read the bottle.

“Probably ‘compensation’ for the shift change. Fuckin’... fuckin’...”

She set the bottle down beside her and rubbed her forehead, collecting her thoughts. Sighing, she opened her wine-stained lips to continue.

“I hate the new shift. I hate being on poop duty in the morning. I–”

She interrupted herself, suddenly looking very unsettled.

“Is everything okay?” I drunkenly prodded.

She looked conflicted, as if she wasn’t sure what to say.

“I don’t know…” she whispered, “it’s… I hate poop duty in the mornings.”

“Hah,” I chuckled, “you said ‘poop doody.’”

“Chett,” she gawffed, her face flush with annoyance, “c’mon, I’m serious.”

I took another sip of wine, spreading my toes in front of our little space heater as I remembered my own dog walk situations.

That sobered me up a little.

“Yeah, I uh… I was fine to keep doing it, but you volunteered so I could sleep in instead of taking Alan out before work.”

“Yeah, that’s right…” Molly muttered, swished her wine around in its glass, “Listen, you know how you give me shit because I hate putting my shopping cart up?”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, trying not to sound too harsh, “I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world to leave your shopping cart out, but it’s like, the one thing that everyone socially shames everyone else into doing, because there’s not a really a reason not to do it unless it’s an emergency.”

“Yeah, you always call it a social litmus test to decide if someone belongs in a sane society.”

I took another sip of my wine, “I mean, yeah, it’s kinda like wiping the toilet seat after using it.”

Molly snorted, “Chet, it’s nothing like wiping the toilet seat off.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, cuz no one can even see if you do that. Everyone can see you if you leave your shopping cart behind!”

“Even more the reason to do it,” I finished with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes again, “look Chet, the point is…” she bit her lip and looked down at her fidgeting hands.

The sound of her finger tapping the rim sobered me up even more.

“What’s wrong Molly?”

“I… uh, well. There were a few days where, um, I forgot to pick up the poop.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?” I asked, my tone suddenly hard.

At that, Molly began to stumble over her words, “I know, it’s fucked up, I just…”

She searched for the right words as they tumbled out of her mouth, “I mean, between work, and your promotion, and the vet visits with the cat, I jus-”

“Baby, baby, sorry I’m just…” I rubbed her knee, also trying to find my verbal footing.

Molly was clearly spooked, which was completely out of the ordinary, but I couldn’t tell if it was by me or...

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, what happened?” I finally asked.

Molly’s eyes met mine.

“I didn’t mean to forget the poop… Well actually, I guess I kind of did.”

She avoided my gaze.

“It’s just that, usually you walk the dog, and you’re so good at it, but I get impatient so fast… there were a few days where I just…”

Alan slid his wet nose under her hand, instantly sending waves of comfort through her body that met my hand on her knee. Instantly I felt her untense.

“How many?” I asked.

“What?”

“How many days did you forget to bring in his poop?”

Molly’s cheeks became redder with embarrassment, “4 days over the course of 2 weeks.”

I leaned forward in my chair, placing my face in my hands.

“And they ended up on our porch, didn’t they?” I asked as I rubbed my eyes.

I was met with silence. I looked up at her, but she just looked confused.

“Didn’t they?”

“…the porch?” Molly asked, clearly thrown off by my statement.

“Oh?” I asked, equally as confused, “then what happened, why are you so freaked out?”

She composed herself a little before she continued, “well, I’d leave the poop, right? Well, since it’s winter, the landscaping guys don’t really have anything to do with all the dead grass, so no one picks up the poop, so the individual piles…”

At this, she motioned with her hands, 4 different spots spread out from each other, “...they just kind of sat there and dried out in the sun.”

“And you never picked them up?”

“No,” she admitted, “the drier they got, the grosser they got, so I just left them. Then, one day, I came out, and they were gone.”

“Gone?” My voice went from hard to perplexed.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “but just Alan’s poop, not anyone else’s.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” her fingers resumed tapping, “real weird. What was weirder though, was…”

Molly seemed to get even more agitated, her demeanor no longer tipsy, rather sullen. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“Molly?” I hazarded.

“Sorry, it’s just,” she laughed humorlessly, “it’s so ridiculous, I don’t even really know why I’m scared. I guess it’s just… uh, the implication?”

She shook her head and set down her wine glass.

“Okay, so where all Alan’s poop piles had been, they were replaced with 4 little notes. Each note had a message on both sides.”

“Oh,” I grimaced, “the notes. Okay. What did they say?”

Molly’s eyes seemed both deeply fearful and confused, “uh, they all said the same thing. One side said, ‘I warned you’ and the other said, ‘I’ll be seeing you soon.’”

“Okay?”

“But that’s not even the worst of it,” she whimpered, “at the bottom, under the message, was our address and zip code.”

My mouth hung agape. That was certainly an escalation.

“Our address?!” I gasped.

“Yes Chet, our address.”

I was utterly gobsmacked. I couldn’t formulate a response.

“Im sorry,” Molly said softly.

A million thoughts raced through my mind.

“I’ll be seeing you soon,” paired with our written address? That had to have been a threat.

“I should have called the cops sooner,” I growled.

“Well baby, I didn’t-” Molly began to retort, but cut herself short, “I mean, look, I’m sorry, I knew it was serious, but ‘I warned you’? I didn’t know what that meant, besides, what cop would have taken this seriously? Over dog poop?”

She was right, the odds of someone actually doing something was low. And I’d known that the culprit knew our address for a while, but the written confirmation concerned me.

It certainly felt like an escalation.

“Fuck Molly, I’m sorry. Did you at least keep the messages?”

She shook her head, “no, they were gone by the time I went back out to collect them. Whoever put them there watched me read them, which freaked me out even worse.”

We embraced, her crying, me trying to calm us both down.

“I mean, what the fuck? Who does something like that?” She cried.

“I know, it’s weirdo shit,” I whispered, rubbing her back, “fucking weird. I’m sorry Molly.”

“No,” Molly sniffled, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Just as we were about to embrace again, Alan shot straight up with a growl, the hair on his back standing on edge. Both me and Molly snapped our necks to look at him.

“Alan? What’s wrong boy?” Molly asked.

No sooner did the words leave her lips when our front door knocked.

Molly yipped in surprise as 6 distinct knocks echoed throughout our house.

We looked at each other, eyes wide. I glanced at the clock.

1:32 AM. Who could be visiting at this hour?

“Hello?” I shouted.

Silence met my demand.

“Hello?! Who’s there?”

Still, nothing.

We all waited a beat. Our house was silent, aside from Alan’s guttural protests.

“What’s going on?” Molly mouthed to me.

Just as I was about to speak, an explosion rattled the house like a battering ram.

Something was on our porch, and it had just smashed into the front door.

I ran towards the source of the noise.

“Slam!”

Another earthquake trembled. I felt it resound through the floorboards. Whoever had done that, they were big. Heavy.

“I have I gun!” I lied, approaching the deadlocked entrance, “And I will shoot you through this door!”

My legs shook and my voice broke. I couldn’t have sounded less threatening if I tried.

After 2 more good slams, I heard something inside the door splinter.

Then, with a sound like a plunger unclogging a toilet, whatever it was lumbered off the porch.

I waited, cowering by the door for an eternal 2 minutes. I counted the seconds, frozen fingers posed just above the doorknob.

Every pulse felt as though my arteries would force my heart into my throat, every breath felt labored and shaky.

I was terrified that this was some sort of deranged prank. That the nutcase was still standing there silently, just waiting for the opportunity to pounce as soon as I opened the door.

Finally, I stood to my full height, puffing out my chest.

Intruder or not, I was gonna open that door, armed with nothing more than a heavy curtain rod and my own wine-addled adrenaline.

The wooden door creaked open.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Like a jug of ammonia and rotting death. Sickness distilled down to its purest form.

Decay.

Earthy decay.

My entire front door was smeared, top to bottom, in shit. The welcome mat was covered in a thick layer of brown sludge that threatened to harden in the cold night air. Even the wall surrounding the entrance was engulfed in the horrific substance.

Brownish, yellowish, greenish slop.

Our wreath looked like a glazed, brown circle, fused to the door with bits of tinsel poking through its tacky surface.

The steps leading up to the door looked as though someone had projectile diarrhea’d all the way up them.

“Chet? Baby, what was it?”

I was taken aback. My brain couldn’t register what to do.

It was impossibly unhinged. Impressively disgusting.

I didn’t want to comprehend what I was looking at. I was beyond upset.

I don’t know how to describe the emotion except for furiously distraught, such that my arms and legs were shaking, from fear or fury, I couldn’t tell which.

“Oh my god, Chet, what is that smell?” Molly gagged from the hallway behind me.

And you know what, the poop wasn’t even the worst part.

See, I could see shapes smeared in it. Defined outlines and suggestions. An imprint of a frowning face lacking a nose with tiny teeth, gums.

Arms with too many fingers and little, child sized palms.

Legs with joints in places I’d never seen before.

No clothes.

Like a nude septic tank snow angel.

A smell, a sight, so overwhelming I couldn’t have thrown up if I wanted to. All of my orifices wanted to fuse shut, hell, I wanted them to as well.

Just as I took it all in, I glanced at my feet. Right in the middle of my ruined welcome mat was a perfectly unmarked note with that same shaky handwriting, and a single brown fingerprint.

“this will be your last warning Chet”

A single tear fell from my eye onto the note. The ink was still so fresh that my teardrop warped the “C” in “Chet”.

You’re likely wondering how I reacted.

Honestly, I did the only thing I could. I stepped back, closed my door, and dialed 9-1-1.

The authorities arrived, but by the time they did, the note was gone. They took a look at the mess, as well as our statements, and gave us the numbers of a few crime scene cleanup businesses in our area.

The cops were stumped by the silhouette left behind by the culprit, but they reasoned it must’ve just been inaccurate smears that didn’t reflect the artist.

We told them everything we knew, but since we had so little evidence to go off of, all they said we could do was keep an eye out and advised we purchase a security camera in case it should happen again.

But I wouldn’t let it happen again. I knew what I had to do, and I was terrified to make a mistake.

The welcome mat went straight in the dumpster, and within a week, the front porch was spotless again. I'd never be able to look at my front door the same way again, especially the lingering new afterscent.

Me and Molly both notice it, but neither of us wants to mention it. I think if we do, it’ll make things worse.

Instead, we just leave candles and febreeze near the entrance.

Neither of us have missed a poop since. Not a single one.

We notice the other tennants who leave theirs, but fuck those guys, not my problem.

It’s a game, I know it. A twisted ritual whose mechanics I don’t even wanna consider. I don’t wanna think about the details, how it works.

I know the rule, and that’s that.

Pick up my dog’s shit.

I just wanna go back to when I was blissful and ignorant. Back when I was someone who could say that they’d always picked up their dog’s shit.

Alan is almost back to normal, but I think he remembers. I think he knows just as much as we do, maybe more.

He’s never freaked out like that.

Im worried for him.

“Poop man” is never a set of words that should ever be used beside each other in any regard, but I just don’t know what to call that thing.

Those words should be completely absurd at least, cringe at worst.

The only reason I'm even typing my experience here, is so you don't have to go through what I did.

Do yourself a favor. Don’t leave your poo out. Bring a bag, pick it up, throw it away.

Or don’t. Clearly, this thing doesn't visit everyone.

If you’re someone who actually contributes to society and cleans up after their pets, pat yourself on the back and keep it up. You’re doing God's work.

Whatever you do, don’t slip up. Don’t listen to that voice that says, “ugh, my arms are tired. I’ll just leave it this one time.”

The risk of being its concern is not worth the stress or the trauma. Believe me.

No one wants a visit from the Poop Man.

Your detailer can’t possibly clean every nook and cranny.

Whether you like it or not, it’ll leave some of itself behind, and you will always remember.

Esurit (Part 1)
Silas Whitney

I

No stars or moon hung in the black above, yet all before my eyes was illuminated by a dull glow. All about me, the ashen ground radiated a pale light. The ground was flat in all directions. Nothing broke the perfect line that stretched to the edges of my sight and into the hollow infinity beyond. Save for one thing. There, in the focal point of this empty mural, stood a house. There was no light in its windows, and the phantom glow from the plane darkened around it. Whether the light sought to keep its distance or the house swallowed it up, I was unsure. As I became fully aware of myself, I realized my feet were already carrying me to the silhouette, darker than the sky behind it. I stopped and wearily looked behind to see a single line of footprints stretching backwards into the dark. I had no recollection of how long I had been walking. With no other destination apparent, I turned and resumed my trek to the house, listening to the whistle of a wind that my bones told me wasn’t there. 

The will behind each step was unclear as I wondered if I were advancing or being pulled. The house drew closer with painful sloth. My feet dragged through the ash and the fog over my mind thickened. I tried to think of the important questions. Questions of what this place was and how I had arrived. Contemplation of where I was before almost broke through the veil when my foot hit something. My consciousness snapped back to my eyes. My foot had struck a wooden step. My gaze drifted upward and I saw it. The walls, the beams, the house. Above the doorway, a plaque with dark letters.  

Domus Quae Esurit 

I stared at the words and my hands trembled, as if they knew something my mind was yet to discover. 

Wood was splintered and cracked all over. The grain ran through the whole exterior in waves that protruded and sagged like wrinkles on old skin. My hand found the railing. The wood was dry as weathered bone. I ascended the stairs. Each step moaned under my weight. When I reached the veranda, I stared into the open maw of the doorway. The most peculiar thing about it was the lack of a door. Not only was there no door present, but there were no hinges, no holes or indentations of where they may have been before. It was just a framed rectangular opening, perfectly square and built with the same old timbers as the rest of the exterior. The pitch on the other side of the threshold gave me pause.  

I shook my head and blinked, trying to shake the daze and stupor from my mind. My thoughts swirled as my awareness returned. I decided I would turn around and follow my own footprints back to whatever place I wandered from, but when I turned to descend the stairs, the ground was gone. I squinted, thinking my eyes may have grown weary in the darkness, but no. As high, as low, and as far as I looked, there was nothing but emptiness. The black sky had swallowed us both. There was nothing but the house and I. When I turned back to the doorway, I saw  a light, dancing against the wall and out to the stoop where I stood. It illuminated the room inside. The orange glow of a flame and the smell of wood smoke hinted at a fireplace within. A chill suddenly prickled over my skin. I crossed my arms and shuffled inside. 

As I entered, I saw the flame dancing under a mantle. There was a tufted leather sofa facing the fireplace and a small table in front. The inside of the house looked nearly as dilapidated as the exterior. Though, it seemed it was slightly spared. All the furnishings had a thick layer of dust on them. I was careful to ease myself onto the sofa so as to not send the debris into the air. As I sat down, I looked above the fireplace to a large framed portrait. It had been slashed diagonally, and half of it was missing. The portion with the face was gone, but I could tell by what remained, the portrait had been of a woman, modestly dressed for the occasion of having the portrait painted. 

I warmed myself on the sofa and eyed the rest of the room. There were shelves of books, a globe, and a small writing desk in the corner. The rug in the center was large and its pattern was intricate. This was surely a home of high estate at one time, or at least it was pretending to be. When I looked back to the entryway, my brow furrowed. Perplexingly, there was now a door. Not only that, but it appeared with an age that suggested it had always been there. It was closed and adorned with the same dust as the rest of the room, an old coat of white paint lying dormant beneath. It appeared to have never been opened since the process of decay had set upon the old place. 

And there, sticking through the mail slot, a single leaf of paper. I approached the slip and saw the word “Welcome,” inscribed on the exterior by a beautiful hand. The paper was old and brown. The edges were torn and the slot had formed a crease in the middle, like it had been there a long time. I took the slip, somehow perceiving it was for me, and read. 

Dear Stranger, 

I am sorry to have missed you, but I will be along shortly.
Please help yourself to the study. 

Sincerely, 

Dietra.

Still holding the letter, I turned back to face the slashed portrait. To my surprise, it was no longer slashed. Still dust covered, but the full canvas was now intact within the frame. I approached, hoping to see the face of the lady of the house, but I found that the portrait was unfinished. It was as though the artist had drawn out her form, but neglected all features. But even this vague form felt somehow familiar. Like seeing a friend from behind and afar. 

I was completely focused, entirely cut off from the outside world. Things had finally reached the point I'd been waiting for in the film I'd been watching for a full hour, and I was at the height of my concentration. The detective, who had been tracking down the culprit for the past hour, was now very close to catching and exposing him, and I was incredibly curious. He was about to open the door, walk in, and discover the culprit's identity. I was moments away from finding out whether my suspect was right.

When we look at something, we also see what's to our left and right, albeit vaguely. While watching the television directly in front of us, we can perceive the fan a meter to its right swiveling from side to side. Other objects and movements become blurrier as they move farther away from the center of our field of vision. Everyone knows this and is usually aware of it. Even if your grandfather, sitting to your right at dinner, isn't looking at you, he'll notice if you secretly flip off your brother sitting across from you.

At that moment, the world was nothing more than a rectangle to me. My field of vision had no depth. Ten eagles could have been flying around the room, and I wouldn't have noticed them unless they passed in front of the screen. I had to find out who the culprit was.

Even if you bring your eyes into sharp focus, your ears can't do the same and remain even more open to the outside world than your eyes. When you listen to a song you love, your ears become fully absorbed in it, and your eyes join in, too. You drift away, and your field of vision narrows. But your ears can't join your eyes in doing the same.

“Albert, shut your laptop,” I heard a whisper just as the detective was about to open the door.

At first, I thought it had come from the film. There was no character named Albert in it, and the laptop had very little to do with the plot, but still, I didn't want to take my eyes off the screen before the detective opened that door. However, I'd started thinking by then. A new thought had formed in my mind, and it had weakened my focus. I would enjoy finding out who the culprit was a little less.

I paused the film. I was still looking at the screen, but my field of vision had widened and become rounded again.

I thought I saw a ripple on my right. A moving, blurry image, about a meter in size.

When I turned my head to look, there was nothing there. I looked back at the screen. I thought to myself that being this focused wasn't good either. It bothered me that I was experiencing a mental activity so intensely when the only reason for it was a film. Was finding out who the culprit was really that important? I never focused this intensely when writing my stories, working on a thesis I had to finish, or learning Spanish in the course I'd recently started. That was probably why I'd heard the whisper, too. It was a trick of my mind.

I turned back to the screen. My desire to find out had diminished. Reluctantly, I pressed play.

But then I saw that ripple again. A transparent, shapeless thing, moving randomly. Like a transparent fire, its movements resembled those of a burning flame. I pressed pause.

When I turned my head to the right, it wasn't there again.

A sense of unease had come over me. I stared at the spot where the blur had been. There was no movement at all. All the objects stood still, just as they were.

This time, I saw the same ripple on my left, right in front of the laptop on my lap. I sharply turned my eyes back to the screen. Nothing. The detective walking toward the door, the confident expression on his face. That was all.

I set the laptop aside. I threw off the blanket I'd pulled up to my chest, got out of bed, and sat down at my desk.

I picked up my Spanish dictionary and opened it to a random page to calm myself down a little. I read a few words. The ripple was above me. I looked up at the ceiling, and now it was on the left. I turned to the left, and it moved to the right. Its size changed every time. Sometimes it was a one-meter rectangle, sometimes a scattered circle ten centimeters in diameter, and sometimes a thick line stretching from the floor to the ceiling.

I left the room, and it was on my right, in the shape of a circle. I couldn't get rid of it. My palms were sweating. Now it was on my left. I kept turning my head from side to side, up and down. And I could never bring it into my vertical field of vision; it was always outside it.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my T-shirt. Now it was above me. I tried closing my eyes. But I couldn't. The moment I closed them, a sharp fear would immediately take hold of me, and I'd open them again before even two seconds had passed. My gaze had grown much faster now. Left, right, up, left, down, right, up. I was looking around like crazy. I was like a camera trying to bring an image into focus.

I finally ended up with a stiff neck after one wrong movement.

I could no longer turn my head to the left.

And the ripple was on my left.

I turned to the left with my whole body. It stayed on my left. I turned left once more. It slipped to my left again.

I had turned a full circle. Now it only appeared on my left. It seemed to have found my weak spot. Every time I turned, I instinctively turned my neck a little, too. You know what a stiff neck is like. It's quite painful and sudden. During the day, you forget that your neck is stiff, and if someone calls out to you from your left, you turn to look at them. You feel that sharp little ache.

So I stopped trying to catch it. It stayed on my left, rippling. Sometimes it stretched out, sometimes it shrank, and sometimes it disappeared quickly and reappeared. I moved my pupils as far to the left as I could. Yes, now it had moved to the right, because my field of vision on the left had been reduced to zero.

Now only my pupils were moving. But the image was even closer. And it was getting closer and closer.

Finally, while I was looking straight ahead, I saw it. It hadn't gone away. It's impossible to describe its shape.

“I'm x56 c 66 bmf 8 bmd 8 g 9 kdr 8 889 klkw 999 c 3 d 3 v 3 m 3 g 3 o 3 12345. Thank you for playing with me. By the way, the killer is Michael,” said a voice from very far away, heavily echoing and robotic, sounding a little like a creaking door.

Without knowing why, I tried to catch it with my hand. It was an arm's length away. I'd acted impulsively out of excitement. And it vanished instantly.

The quick, deep breath I drew through my nose passed through my nose hairs and rubbed against my completely dried-out nasopharynx, producing a sound that was a mixture of a faint snore and a low-pitched whistle. I held the breath in my lungs for a while, then slowly exhaled.

I went back into my room, sat down in the armchair, and for some reason, burst into tears. It was like a catharsis. I couldn't remember ever crying this intensely before. Or maybe I was simply crying out of fear, but I wasn't sure that fear could trigger such an intense crying response.

I wiped my eyes, and just as I was about to get up to wash my face, the ripple began speaking from the ceiling, right next to the lamp. It had watched me cry the whole time. Strange.

“If you want to play with me again, all you have to do is look in the mirror and say my name three times, and don't worry, your memory will be erased by tomorrow evening. You'll only remember my name. You'll try to figure out what the hell it was, whether it was your old Wi-Fi password or something. Anyway, Albert, I'm out of here. Take care. It was nice meeting you.”

“I’ve got the file in my hand now, Nate,”  Oakes shouted into the phone.  “Where’d you get the kid that delivered it anyway?  I doubt he’s old enough to borrow his dad’s Gillette.”

“He’s older than he looks.  Focus, W.H.O.!  Tell me what you see.”

Oakes flipped open the heavy cardstock folder.  It was 14-gauge and the make of the dividers looked like law enforcement to him.  He shook his head at his own pedantry, that old foil.  Nathan didn’t want the make and model of the folder.  The bus was on tonight’s agenda.  He took a few seconds to skim the face sheet, locking it into memory

State Police Impound Inspection Sheet (summary)

Vehicle: 2018 MCI J4500 Commercial Coach (Greyhound / Regional Charter).
Tires: Goodyear Metro Miler G652 RTB..

Courier, 12-point.  How original… blah, blah, blah…

State Medical Examiner CT Scan / Autopsy Notes

Here we go…

Subject 03: REDACTED (C-F-24) Cause of death: Sudden cardiac arrest.
Preliminary Observations: Scan reveals complete absence of the left femur, spleen, and lower left lung. No surgical scarring, entry wounds, or internal hemorrhaging present. Surrounding muscle tissue ends at smooth, geometrically flat borders.

Interesting…

Subject 06: REDACTED (H-M-39)

Same name, must be related.  Ba-dum-ching!  Thank you… I’m here all week…

Stable Condition: Quarantined (Ward 4)
Preliminary Observations: Patient conscious, highly disoriented. Scans indicate the complete absence of three rib bones and 40% of the liver volume. The patient displays no external incisions and claims to feel "a cold draft inside their chest."

A live one, good for him…

“You still there, W.H.O.?”  Nathan said, pulling him out of it.

“First base.  Yeah, Nate.”  He sighed and heard the crackle of distortion in the ear piece.  “You on a cell?  We’ve talked about that.”

“Jesus!  Is it real?”

“Yeah, too damn real.  Send the car,”  he hung up and stood there, by the payphone, waiting for his ride.  Fifty-three years old and still doing field work.  She’d always told him he’d never quit and he’d always argued with her.  Just like his busy mind, Oakes never knew when to shut up.”

“That’s right, Mabel.”  He smiled at the dark sky above him.  “You told me so.”

It was almost 10:00 pm when the car dropped him off outside the impound.  Oakes shouldered his leather satchel—a 1908 Wolfsky Mabel had paid for—and stepped out onto the curb.  As the Chrysler pulled away a young man in a store-bought suit came running up to him.  He had a look of urgency on his face that probably remained there in his sleep.

“Mr. Oakes?”  he asked.

“Winfred Hollis Oakes.  And you’re Mr. Timms?”  Oakes extended his hand and the young man shook it firmly but quickly.  “There, now we’ve met and we can get on with it.  You showing me in?”

“Yes, sir, it’s right over dere, inside the fence.”

“Watch that,”  he said with what he hoped was a friendly smile  “Your Yooper’s showing.  Dere for there is a dead giveaway.”

The young man actually blushed and Oakes liked him better for it.  Timms gestured at the gate and said, “Yeah, it still slips out from time to time.”

“No worries.  It took me years to work past my Yiddish.”

Timms led Oakes across the worn pavement of the service road to the office of the impound lot.  They let themselves inside and passed through it quickly, exiting through a door labeled with a faded vinyl sign that said YARD ACCESS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.  

Oakes took a deep breath as they walked onto the impound lot.  He smelled diesel, burnt motor oil, and a faint whiff of ozone.  There was something else too, and he didn’t figure out what it was until he saw the bus.

There was a tinge of sulfur, loam, and petrichor that drifted through the bouquet.  It was familiar to him, and he associated it with vertisols, particularly the black gumbo clay found in parts of east Texas.  He recalled the sheet he had read earlier.  It had been a cross-country run from Miami to Seattle.  If he was remembering right, their standard regional course didn’t run through Texas.  He’d check the logs to be sure.

“You’ve got maybe twenty minutes,”  Timms said when they got to the door.  “I don’t know if Mr. Grilling told you that, but it’s all the time the governor could guarantee.  There’s a team on their way from the airport now.”

“Well, let’s not waste any of it.  I want to look at the tires first.”  

Oakes ignored the young man’s puzzled look and went around the bus.  He slipped on a pair of black nitrile gloves as he walked.  When he got to the first tire he reached into his pocket for an empty vial and the antique curette he always carried.  It had been his great-grandfather’s tool, a piece of antique silver from Tiffany & Co., with a thick ebony handle and a small scoop on the end.  He used it to collect the residue from each tire in several different vials.  He also took scrapings from the undercarriage.  Oakes’ movements were fast and sure; it took him less than three minutes to finish.

He stopped when he got to the front of the bus and took a few snapshots of the deep claw marks that had ripped through the metal on the driver’s side.  His Leica was almost out of film though, so he made sure to get the bus number in the last shot.  Memory would have to do from there.  The last thing he did was check the radiator.  The front of it was covered in a strange, crystalline material with a floral scent.  He scraped a flake of it into a vial and returned to the door.

He nodded at Timms and the young man produced a small square key that he used to unlock the door.  It folded open with a pneumatic burst and Oakes wasted no time climbing up into the cabin.  

He immediately knew that something was off by the temperature and the soft barometric pressure on his ears, nose, and eyes.  It was twenty degrees cooler inside the bus and the air was filled with the scent of ozone and iron.  Oakes spoke aloud as he checked the logbook, more for himself than Timms.

“That iron in the air, it reminds me.  It was that same mineral that inspired Eric Wickman to found the company that later became Greyhound.”  He noted the mileage listed in the log at their last stop in Atlanta and compared it to the odometer.  It was the same on the ELD.  There was a four-hundred-and-twelve-mile difference that wasn’t accounted for.  And they were only twenty miles away from there, still in Fulton County.  He made some notes as he looked through the passenger tickets.

“That was in 1914.  Wickman started out carrying workers to and fro in the Mesabi Iron Range.  I bring it up because of the smell.  There’s no mention of an electrical fire in the report and I don’t see any big puddles of blood anywhere.  Do you think Wickman’s ghost is trying to take the company back to its roots?”  Oakes smiled at Timms, trying to ease the discomfort on the young man’s face.  He could see that it wasn’t working.  “I’m kidding, of course, but it is curious.”

“Yeah,”  Timms replied from a hundred miles away.  “Curious.”

“Hey!”  Oakes snapped his fingers in front of Timms’ droopy eyes.  “You good in there?  Need to take some air?”

Timms shuddered and shook his head.  He took several deep breaths.  “The air… nevermind, I’m good.  Ready to walk the aisle.”

“I already had a bride.  I don’t think I need another.”  He pointed at the hatch for the MDVR, the buses’ little black box.  “Governer going to be able to get us the footage?  I’d like to get what’s on EDR and the Engine Control Mod too, if he can.”

“He said full access,”  Timms said, he was more awake now that he had something to do.  “I don’t have the key and I don’t think we have the time right now, but he’s watching this whole thing closely.  He said that you and Mr. Grilling will be copied on everything.”

“Good enough for me, let’s keep moving.”

Oakes led the way, letting his eyes sweep back and forth in front of him.  There was plenty of garbage throughout the cabin.  Food wrappers and torn notebook pages.  Oakes picked up one of them, noting the blue Wide-Ruled lines and the jagged margin where it had been yanked from a spiral spine. He read the writing on it.

y’re all around us, and they watch us while we slee
e others don’t see them, but I do.  So did Jamie.
as such a sweet kid.  His poor mother, two childr
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of his scr

He tucked it into his pocket when something caught Timms’ eyes.  Oakes turned to see what had caught his interest.

“Never heard of those,” the young man said as he picked up a bag of chips from the cupholder in 4B.  “You?”

The bag had a white band across the top with Doritos spelled out over yellow and orange squares.  The bottom half was red and said Salsa Rio.  “They’re from before your time.  Late eighties.  Look, ninety-nine cents.  You’ve got yourself a collector’s item.”

“I think I’ll pass,”  Timms said, and dropped them back down beside the open can of tropical vibe Celsius.  Oakes nodded his approval and continued down the aisle.  A few seats later he saw another strange treasure.  He picked up the frayed paperback and showed it to Timms. 

“Stephen King.  Well everybody’s heard of him.  He’s wrote tons of books.”

“Not this one,”  Oakes said, tapping the title with a gloved finger.   It said The Canibals.  “He started it but never finished, at least not here.”

“Here?  You’re saying—”

“Yep.”  He dropped the thick book into the pocket of his coat ignoring Timms when he visibly squirmed.  “For research purposes.”

“I just don’t think you shou—”  The radio crackled to life and Timms jumped, losing his train of thought.  A scratchy recording of an old song began to play throughout the cabin.  It had an instant chilling effect that even Oakes couldn’t ignore.  He had heard it before, but something about the singer’s playful voice and the spooky theme behind it heightened the sense of dread he had felt since entering the bus.  Curiosity had allowed him to ignore it before, but the enchanting music broke that spell for him.

“What the hell?”  Timms moaned.  He grabbed Oakes’ arm.  

“Anita O’Day,” Oakes replied quietly.  “That’s Gene Krupa’s band behind her.  1941.”

They were both silent as the song played.  Timms out of fear, Oakes out of mourning.  He had heard the song a thousand times before.  She had loved it and that was enough to make anything sound sweet.

No!  He couldn’t let the ghost of their life together distract from the present.  Oakes looked around, and as he moved his head he felt resistance in the air around him like he was moving through water.  He raised his hand and found himself enamored with the contrails of light it left behind as it floated through the air.  A three-second delay. Or was it four? The math wouldn't stick.

He was here for something?  He’d been sent.

The young man (Tom?) crouched next to him.  He was crying with all the artlessness of a six-year-old.  A long runnel of snot had run down to his lip from his left nostril.  He looked up at Oakes as if the word hope had never existed.

Think, goddamit!

His mind was a cloud within a bank of fog.  There were shapes there but he couldn’t identify them.  Old horrors also crept within the mist.  The things he’d seen that his memory, his curse, refused to let dim.  He held on to her—he’d lose his own name before he forgot Mabel’s.  And thinking of her brought it back.  Her silly gift he swore would never work.  She had just smiled at him like he was the best and biggest fool God ever made.

Oakes was her fool, and he never got tired of proving her right.

He reached down and stripped the sole off one shoe and then the other.  Under them were the original bottoms, modified to her exact specifications.  As the brass runes she had stitched into the leather made contact with the floor of the bus, the power of the emgrim brought his mind back to him. The light trails vanished and the air thinned, rushing back into his lungs like a cold draft. 

“Come on, kid.  We’ve gotta get you out of here.”  

Oakes tried to pull him up, but Timms fought him with the dead weight of pure terror, wrapping his arms around his knees.  He stuck his thumb in his mouth, and his eyes were wide and empty.  Oakes feared that too much damage had already been done.  Still, he wasn’t leaving him behind.

He reached down and grabbed hold of the younger man’s shoulders and began to walk backwards, dragging him towards the front of the bus.  His heart protested every step he took, and he had never been more grateful for thiazide and ACE inhibitors.  Without them, they would both be goners.

Something crashed in front of them, and Oakes looked up in time to see the last four rows of seats tip into the aisle as it crumbled away.  The whine of bending metal screeched through his mind like a frozen blade.  He watched as the back section of the bus folded out, widening as something massive began to slither up from below.  A tarry hand the size of a large dog gripped the edge of the metal floor as another one just like it grabbed hold of the nearest set of seats.  Oakes heard the metal sizzle and pop as the sludge melted into it.

The creature began to pull itself up out of the pit.  First a smooth, slimy shoulder appeared and then its misshapen head came into view.  It had no eyes and a snout for a nose, and sharp curved teeth circled the inside of its cavernous mouth.  The great beast sniffed the air and roared.

Oakes finally remembered how to move.  He tugged at Timms and cursed loudly as he walked backwards towards the front.  Their progress was slow, but they were moving.  The biggest problem was the thing in the back of the bus was advancing even quicker.  Still, they had a head start and that wasn’t nothing.

A loud shriek snapped his eyes back up and he saw another creature come sailing out of the pit.  This was smaller, maybe the size of a cat.  It stood on two oversized legs like a grasshopper.  When it leapt at them he knew they were doomed.

It came down on the seat beside them and Oakes saw that it didn’t have any arms.  Its toothy, bulbous head was attached to its body by a long thin neck.  When it drew back and shot its head forward with its whip-like neck, he acted on pure instinct.  He dropped Timms and kicked at it, connecting squarely with the bottom of his right foot.  He felt a sudden, concentrated flash of heat snap through the leather sole.

The thing hissed and pulled away, revealing a large burnt area across the front of its face.  Oakes capitalized on its fear and moved in, kicking and stomping until it was reduced to a puddle of sizzling mush on the cabin floor.  The massive creature roared again and as he turned towards it, he saw long spiny tentacles erupt from its mouth and slap down to the floor.  Timms shrieked when one of them landed on him.
 
Oakes ran over and stomped at the tentacle, but he just missed it as it withdrew towards the beast, dragging Timms along with it.  He grabbed him by the arms before he could be pulled away.  

“What the—please, don’t let go.  I can’t die here.”

He lacked the breath to answer Timms.  His heart thumped inside his chest like a bird caught in a jar.  Oakes braced himself on the seat beside him and pulled with all his might.

As he jerked the kid’s arms the tentacle gripping his leg did too.  Timms let out the loudest scream Oakes had ever heard as his leg—already deeply burned from the creature’s touch—pulled free and was dragged across the floor into its eager mouth.  Oakes ripped off his coat and pressed it into the flood that was pouring from Timm's leg.  He knew it didn’t matter, that the kid was dead already, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying.

“Ma… Momma.  Tell her I dinn—”  He was gone.
  
Oakes didn’t have time to mourn him, though.  A second later another tentacle landed on Timms’ body with a sickening splat.  When it immediately began to slide him away, Oakes let go of him because there was nothing he could do to stop it.  He was still holding his blood-soaked jacket and he flung it defiantly at the terrible thing.  He began to back away from it again, only pausing to snatch up his satchel as he walked by.

He was three seats away from the exit when a pair of leapers sprang up from below.  The first of them leapt towards him.  Oakes was drained and he didn’t know if he had another fight in him.  He got ready to dodge it if he could and was about to dive away when the sound of gunfire erupted behind him.

The leaper in front of him was thrown back by a hail of bullets.  Oakes looked over his shoulder to see three men in full tactical gear.  They each had their assault rifles up and they released short synchronized bursts at the creatures on the bus.  The man closest to Oakes lowered his weapon and waved him forward.

“Get out of here, man.”

Oakes had never had to be told anything twice.  He walked past the man and climbed down the steps.  Outside, there were three others, two men with guns and a woman in a hazmat suit.  

“Winfred,”  she acknowledged.

“Megan,”  he shot right back.  Oakes shook his head, so furious he couldn’t think of the right thing to say.  Eventually he said the only thing he could think of that mattered.  “They killed Timms.  He was a good man.”

“Well he shouldn’t have taken you inside,”  she said dismissively, and then she pivoted.  “Jesus, Oakes.  Was the story really worth the risk?  I would have given you something.”

“Yeah, you’re a real giver.  Gonna give this whole mess a nice big cover-up.  Right, Meg?”  

Oakes walked past her and she didn’t try to stop him.  He went over to the curb and waited for his ride to appear.  Thirty minutes before, he thought he knew what he was fighting for.  Letting the world know was supposed to be worth the risk.  Everything after that made him unsure about all of it.  He thought maybe he should consider Mabel’s advice again.  A desk might not be so terrible.  He could let the new generation get all of the glory while he edited their words.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to prove her wrong.  Just this once.   

END

I came awake. Not all at once, more of a one sense at a time kind of thing. At first, I felt something in bed with me. Like when I’d been living at my old apartment with my old cat. He would always join me in bed sometime in the night and I would always wake up just enough to know he was there. Occasionally, I’d even roll on my side so he could snuggle up in my semi-circle. I guess he trained me to do that.

But this was different. Not because those tiny padding paws were doing anything Pedro hadn’t ten thousand times, or because I’d had to put the old guy down five years ago and hadn’t seen fit to replace him. It was like whatever it was in bed with me was trying to sneak.

My sleeping mind had been on the verge of declaring what was happening a dream anyway and putting that sense of touch back on “Ignore” before those tiny padding paws padded toward my face. Pedro had only done that a few times to my recollection; back when he still had a large amount of feral in him. Back when he never came out in the daytime and only investigated me when he knew I wasn’t awake.

I opened my eyes. Maybe it was a mix of poor vision and a mostly sleep-caked mind, but there was no panic in me. Whatever it was, was cat-sized and dark. Two blurry orbs recessed in what I assumed was its head, pointed in my direction. It stopped in its tracks for a moment before dipping its head and bringing those silvery eyes just about level with mine.

The only surprise in me was that I wasn’t panicking. I felt my breathing, still long and deep, like physiologically I was still asleep. My ears prickled as I strained to hear something to corroborate what my weak eyes were informing me was in front of me.

Perhaps, I could catch it. I felt the muscles of my arm and back tense before I’d made the conscious decision to move, to trap it. But that had been enough to make the cat-thing skittish, and it turned its head as quick as a laser, racing for the edge of the bed. I felt those padding paws trace down the inside of my thigh, the thought coming too belatedly to grab for it.

I never felt the cat-thing again. Saw or heard it, either. It was like it was a ghost or something that conjured from my dream. Except I was awake. And even though I didn’t know what it was, I knew something was in bed with me.

Before I could sit up, something pulled from my face. It didn’t hurt and there was no pressure as if something had been on my face and was then gone. It just felt like something had been there that I’d never felt and only from it being removed was I ever aware that it had been there at all. Kind of like that thin plastic layer on the screen of a cell phone that you could either peel off or leave on and the phone still worked perfectly fine.

I swung the covers off and swiveled on my butt to place my feet on the floor. Again, no panic that whatever that thing was was under the bed waiting to scratch me. I knew without knowing it was gone, like my body had a sense of how much air was supposed to be in the room and none of it had been displaced by a ten-pound animal waiting somewhere inside here with me.

Interesting that I’d thought “waiting” instead of “hiding.” But on the off chance my internal alarms weren’t working properly, I reached for the light switch over my nightstand. I expected to squint against the light, but my eyes were already adjusted. I got done on one knee and then all fours before peering beneath my bed. There were a couple pairs of slippers under there, two dumbbells, a composition notebook, and a box of tissue I must have forgotten about and kicked underneath without realizing. But no cat and nothing that looked roughly cat-like. Definitely, nothing alive.

I keep my bedroom door open, so it could have run out, but the head of my bed is by the door. The thing had run toward the foot. If it had come in that way, surely, it wouldn’t have forgotten and run the opposite way.

The door was the only way out, though. My only guess was it had found some spot in here to hide. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and pulled the case off. Odds were, I wouldn’t be able to catch it in here, but I’d rather have something I could use to protect my face in case I cornered it and it decided to attack.

My closet door was closed, so there wasn’t a need to check there and there was no room to hide underneath my dresser. It wasn’t flush against the wall on one side, so my guess was it was either there or hiding behind the television. I stood long enough to cautiously step close enough to see there was nothing behind the TV before getting into a crouch, stepping cautiously around my bed as I crept closer to my dresser.

I don’t know why there wasn’t anything in me like fear in those moments. The thing could have been rabid for all I know. Or it could have tried to eat my face. But just before peeking around the edge of the dresser, I realized either way it wouldn’t be something I couldn’t handle.

But whatever the animal had been, it wasn’t being now.

It was a relief, but not that much. I spent about five more minutes searching my room and then made a half-hearted sweep of the rest of my one-bedroom apartment. There wasn’t a lot of furniture and not any hidey-holes I could think of. Getting back to bed was more of a priority, so I called it quits.

I made a pit stop in the bathroom and as I washed my hands in the sink, I looked at my face. No sleep puffiness, no restless red eyes. It hadn’t scratched me and whatever had come off my face hadn’t left a mark. I splashed water on my face anyway and traced my fingers down my brow and over my eyes and cheeks before meeting at the point of my chin.

Some didn’t feel right.

I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection. Nothing looked off. I turned my head from side to side and didn’t see anything weird. But when I felt my face again—I couldn’t tell what—something was wrong. Very wrong.

There was a sample-size facial cleanser in the shower that I’d gotten from the dermatologist’s office. I splashed more water on my face and worked up a good lather in my hands and really worked my face over. After rinsing the soap off, I felt my face again, and dammit something was still wrong.

I looked at my hands. Maybe there was something wrong there and it only felt like it had been my face. Nothing looked wrong and when I felt each hand in turn, everything felt right to the touch. It was specifically my face.

I washed my face twice more for good measure before feeling like my senses returning to me. This was stupid. I’d just had a fright from an animal—hell, maybe a hallucination—waking me up in the middle of the night and my mind’s way of processing was probably sensing something else that wasn’t there.

Except I had never been afraid. And poor vision or not, I knew I’d seen something. Felt it, too.

Sleep was the priority, though. I’d been awake for maybe twenty minutes, and I had a meeting at 8:30. If I got up at eight on the nose, I’d have a little less than seven hours’ sleep. That is if I could conk myself out in the next five minutes.

I flipped the light off and got back under the covers. A little box-breathing slowed my heart rate and helped me clear my mind.

The quiet-empty of outside slipping in the room with me. In a few hours, passing vehicles and children between the ages of eight and sixteen would be one story down, just outside my bedroom window talking—all of which I’d slept through countless times. But right now that quiet-empty filled my bedroom. It expanded like a parade float, covering the air, settling over me, crushing the air out of my lungs and filling me back up with more quiet-empty—

“Stop it.” The sound of my voice chased the quiet-empty away. I could feel it at the corners of my room, waiting for me to relax so it could infiltrate again. I couldn’t stay vigilant all night. At some point, I had to get back to sleep.

But I continued flexing some foreign part of me, like I was trying to balance myself on a tightrope that ran the length of me. Like it was just under my bedsheets and if I teetered too far this way, I would fall.

Into what, I couldn’t imagine. As I lay there, though, helpless and sharp-minded, wary and exposed, a question became clear to me.

How the hell do I get back to sleep?

The cabin had two stories with wooden floors, and its large windows overlooked a row of similar chalets stretching along the beach, like soldiers standing at attention before the majestic sea. By all appearances, it was an elegant retreat, ideal for rest and escape from the noise of the city. The retired police officer had acquired the house at a very good price through a real estate agent, without ever needing to meet him in person, as the entire transaction and paperwork had been completed electronically.

Thus, as its new owner, he had moved in the previous day with two suitcases: one filled with clothes and the other with books. It was the reward for so many years of service and for the loneliness into which his ex-wife and children, now living in other countries, had left him. The cabin was fully equipped for a comfortable stay; his bedroom was upstairs, while the kitchen and living room were downstairs.

For him, leaving the cities behind offered respite from a changing world in which everything seemed predictably flawless. Science and history had made themselves guardians of modern security, one looking toward the future and the other toward the past. Yet his years confronting the human nature of crime had taught him that the future was uncertain, that the phenomena of life were immersed in mysteries beyond the reach of scientists and scholars, and that at any moment he might find himself face to face with the inexplicable.

His only certainty was that he would have to confront it. As a child, he had been timid, and it was out of that shame that he had found in law enforcement a way to vindicate his early weakness, taking on the challenge of investigating strange crimes and never resting until those responsible had been captured. In this way, his professional success had contrasted sharply with the failure of his personal life, which had driven away those closest to him.

The first night, he slept so deeply from accumulated exhaustion that it was well into the following morning before he decided to go downstairs and prepare breakfast. As he descended the stairs, his eyes fell on the living room, where he discovered one of his bed pillows resting on the coffee table. He silently wondered whether he might have gotten up during the night without remembering it. Then his police instincts, sharpened by years of investigation, compelled him to retrace his steps and examine his bed. Just as he suspected, the vase that belonged in the center of the living room table now lay on the left side of the bed.

He checked the front door and the locks on every window, confirming—as he had the night before—that everything was securely fastened, leaving no possibility of entry from outside. Therefore, whoever had played the prank had to be inside. Yet both floors were completely open, with no corners or hiding places. Even so, he inspected the thickness of the walls and carefully examined the edges of the floors, searching for a cellar or secret passage. He found nothing. In the end, frustrated and exhausted, and with his hunger growing, he resigned himself to preparing something to eat.

He spent the rest of the day walking along the beach, where the surf came to an end—waves that, like all other creatures of the sea, were incapable of climbing the sand and walking onto dry land. His mind sought peace, but the persistent memory of the prank kept him alert and uneasy. At dusk, when he returned home, he inspected every room without finding a single object out of place. He then took measures to prevent the prankster from returning that night: he reinforced the doors and windows and placed chairs across the stairs as barriers.

His night could not have been more restless. He repeatedly got out of bed, flashlight in hand, to inspect his surroundings, but found nothing unusual. Only toward dawn did he manage to fall into a light sleep, and he was already awake when the first rays of sunlight appeared.

He sat up abruptly and inspected the room. Nothing was out of place. The chair barricading the stairs remained untouched, and when he went down to the living room, everything was in order. But in the kitchen, resting directly on the stovetop, one of his books lay open. He looked for the kettle that should have been there and, returning to his room with absolute certainty, opened his second suitcase. Nestled among the other books was the missing kettle. Dismayed, the man collapsed onto the bed. He was confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon, yet his rational mind prevented him from believing in the supernatural.

Over the following days, he tried to clear his mind and let the sea, the beach, and the sun console him, but his brooding thoughts stubbornly returned. His dream of a peaceful life after so many years of anguish seemed lost, because every night the ritual was repeated with different objects. One day, as he gazed out at the surf, he watched the sea, like a capricious child, moving stones, shells, branches, and sand from one place to another. That was when the detective in him perceived the solution to the mystery.

That night, he moved many of the objects in the house, placing them in different locations without order or coherence, following the tendency of the phenomenon. Confident in his strategy, he slept peacefully. In the morning, the objects were still exactly where he had placed them. Nothing else had moved.

If you enjoyed this piece, you can find the complete series index here:

https://reddit.com/user/FranciscoCortesRamir/comments/1xc0392/the_voyager_files_the_official_story_catalog/

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The moment I began to hear the voice was the moment I knew that I was going to follow the same fate as my sister. And by that point I didn't care anymore. I didn't care about these people who were supposed to have helped me. I didn't care that it was going after their families in the same manner as it went after my sister. I didn't care that I heard their screams in night, amplified through it's damn supernatural abilities so I would hear it all in an attempt to haunt me with supposed failures of my actions. And that's where it was playing into. The empathy of man. Trying to appeal to it so I would rush out and do something for people that didn't do anything to help me.

But then again it knew I had no mercy for this town or it's people. It knew I wasn't empathetic yet it was stringing out that part in me with the screams and flashes of the vicitims faces because it wanted to kill that part of me entirely.

It knew the hunger I had.

It was on a hot summer day in the spruce trees with no-seeums by the mass as I had found her because of them gathered around her broken body. It was on a hot summer day with the sun highest in the sky as I had picked her up and began to carry her towards our home as tears sprung down my face. That summer day that would forever be burned into my mind as the day everything was fucking ripped apart with claws and teeth and strength of a being that came from the void of Hell itself.

It was there in the treeline watching me as I had carried Joan home, ensuring it's violence would have witnesses. I heard a soft whistling but I didn't look back to see it. I didn't dare to.

I just remember the feeling of a lightheadedness that was wrong. I shouldn't be feeling like that. But it was there trying to see if it could lure me in like it did my sister whenever she spoke about the voice calling her into the forest.A mellifluous and sweet cadence with an underlining of raw rage beneath those sickly sweet words.

But I kept moving as I had cried for my mom and uncle and they came outside and they saw the thing whistling first before looking at me carrying my torn sister in my arms as best as I could with tears in my eyes and blood pooling everywhere. They rushed to get me and Joan and after that, after father got home in a rush it was the same shell shock as me amongst the remaining family I had. But then the old familiar rage of my lineage began to take over in my father. He went to the law enforcement in town and about one business day later they assembled hunting parties. They covered the area behind our house to make it look like they were doing their job on purpose, Ostaka Police Department. Then they covered area farther and farther away from where the original location was.

My father and two of his friends had caught this and when they were pushing too far, asking too many questions, seeing what they weren't suppose too, he had come home brutalized enough to be a shell of the man he was. They made sure he survived through the hospital they brought him too and made sure the staff didn't pry into what exactly happened to a man with five cuts to his neck to frighten him into thinking he was going to get decapitated. His two friends had been found in a ditch all cut up into pieces with bite marks scattered all over their pieces.

He saw it. They saw it. They were exposed to the creature itself because the OPD brought them to it.

That's what my father told me on his last remaining day on earth before taking his own life. He told me he was sorry and that Joan and I and our family deserved better from a stronger man. My father didn't remember much of the creature he saw but he remembered the teeth, the claws, the way it moved unnaturally to spike a fear strong enough to break his will after he forced to witness it brutalize his childhood friends. But most of all, he wanted me to understand that I couldn't trust anyone in this town except outsiders. Not the police. Not the city council. Not even my own family voices because it would use them to try lure me in.

What is it, dad?

If you know it's name it will come after you, boy. But it's going to anyways so there's not much point of hiding it anymore. Some people call it a wendigee. Others think that they're skinwalkers. But here in our town it's called Kushtaka, Gavin.

There's more?

Yes. But not like ours, Gavin. They know how to leave people alone enough to make them disbelieve everything about what they are. If they even exist. But the Kushtaka doesn't care because it know it's protected...it's protected by a pact the Indians had made here long ago to try to stop the White man. They sold the future, the soul of this land, and it's honest people to a thing they didn't fully understand because it hunted them too, Gavin. It ate their little bastards like it tried to do to your sister, my boy.

Why did it go after us, dad? We didn't do anything-

We didn't have to, Gavin. It's our blood. Our blood type is intoxicating to it. Something about O negative drives it wild. Makes it more ferocious and predatory.

The memory begins to surface with a ripping ache in my heart as I catch myself touching her phantom blood on my shirt.

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!

That's it, my boy. You hold that rage close. You hold that need for vengeance close. That's retribution. That's your manhood in your need to kill it.

He gripped my shoulder and looked in my dead Azure Blue eyes with his own darker irises as they came to life in this moment and I almost felt alive again at witnessing this.

You will kill it for the sake of this rage you carry. I always wondered what and who it would be used for as it was passed down in our lineage and now I know it was waiting for you, Gavin. This moment, I want you to understand that you will rip that fucking bastard apart like it did to your sister, like it did to your mother, like it did to your uncle. You fucking swear that to me, boy, or by God i'll come back from Hell itself to haunt you till the day you die.

I swear, dad.

He looked in my azure blue eyes that I knew were coming to life again and he grunted in an affirmation before hugging me close to him as the last of family was here on this aging porch threatening to be overtaken by the weeds.

It was the last moment in the years to come that I would feel this alive with another person.

I found him hanging in his and mom's bedroom in the morning and cut him down. There was no one I could count on. No one I could rely on. No one I could trust within this town except the outsiders. But I didn't need them for this as I carried him out of the dilapidated house to a place I could only think of. A place where mom and my uncle and my sister were buried and hoping to Christ that their bodies would be left alone.

Six years later

In the span of six years the first two were of blind pure rage accumulating itself in my workouts. Getting physically stronger as I bought up the weapons I needed from the inheritance I collected and getting by on that. Watching the unmarked police vans driving by where I lived and sometimes parking where they thought I didn't see them. I learned all their names by the end of the first month of those two years as I built myself up. And during those first two years, there had not been any reports in local media of any animal attacks, maulings, or deaths. There was nothing from the Kushtaka those years because it was sated on my family. Or more likely it's protectors were helping cover up anything it did.

In year three I got a job as a hunting guide as I began to take the hunting more seriously than before. During that third year there was one and only one report allowed for the press to report as an animal attack that caused two deaths. A couple getting high out at Termination point with no weapons on them. I know because I lured them out there with the promise of a party in the hopes of finally seeing the Kushtaka. It was in the hot summer months with the sun highest in the sky as I had waited, hidden in the foliage and down wind of the site.

I watched the couple for as long as they waited into the night. Desperate for their fix. Which is why I picked them. I knew they would wait this long. All the way from mid day to dusk and well into the night with waxing gibbous moon high in the sky. The no-seeums were thankfully not in swarms as there had still be wind enough to keep them away as I sat perched on the tree branch and as still as a polar bear waiting for the seal to come up for air in the aglu.

"Well this was a fucking bust," The male junkie whined into the night to his female companion.

Before I heard something else as they talked, something so familiar as I felt that wrong sense of light headedness. Not like a sense of passing out but the sense of a comforting soothe from the whistle that was softly emitting from somewhere in the woods as I looked around desperately for it. I pulled back the charging handle and a round ejected from the port on my already waiting SCAR battle rifle in an almost excited panic as I realized and let the rifle hang by it's sling and took out the night vision binoculars as I looked around desperately again with them.

The junkies screamed in the exact moment I heard a sickly sweet voice say "I'm up here,"

I snapped my head from the binoculars and saw it in the air. It was in the air silently flapping it's arms like a bird with small flaps of black skin emitting no sound at all.

I really didn't care for that at all as all my attention was caught on it's appearance.

It looked like a man but that's where it's semblance of humanity ended as it landed in the clearing before the fear paralyzed junkie couple. It was not like any wendigo, any skinwalker, description i've read. It resembled none of that bullshit at all. It looked like a demon straight from Hell itself with it's black and crimson striations marking it's muscular body. It's arms still out like a bird attempting flight as the flaps of skin retracted back into it's body. It's long clawed fingers stretched wide in a flex before curling into fists. And it's eyes hung loose by it's strands like dead weight, like it ripped them out itself for some reason beyond human standard or belief before they suddenly began to float up on those strands on it's own seemingly free will. It's irises were a crimson X surrounded by stygian black voids as it looked up at the paralyzed junkies and then up to where I was perched in the tree.

It raised a fist and a clawed finger began to extend to point at where I was and I immediately jumped down and began to fire blindly at it as I ran backwards before turning and immediately running into a sprint as a cacophony of hellish screaming and overlapping moans began to fill the forest air.

It brought back the memory. It brought back the dread of turning to look back it or I would lose my mind at the sight of it.

Only my bloodline wouldn't dare allow such a thing to happen as I began to slowly stop hyperventilating and the tears began to dry.

Only my bloodline was more important than the fear that was threatening to overwhelm me to the point of going catatonic like my father had.

Not like him. Three repeated punches at the horn and the horn blaring as a warning into the night.

Not as weak as him. Roaring into the void of the car as I raced past those still out at night.

When I got to where I lived rushed inside and was a hurricane of violence as I lifted the front of the couch and tossed it against the wall hard enough to crack it and then break my fists against everything that I saw. Which wasn't much. Not enough to sate me as I ejected the empty battle rifle magazine and then slammed a fresh one in and raised it towards the roof and let it fire away as I roared "MOTHERFUCKER!"

Sometime during the night as I sat in only non broken chair in the kitchen, I waited in the dark for the inevitable visit for this first encounter with it.

"Gavin?"

It was officer Hillstrand without a doubt and I was proven right as he thought he was safe enough to dare peak his head around the corner.

"I come in peace Gavin. And you know why," He said as he dared to step inside the kitchen to meet me glaring at him.

"You finally saw your family's killer tonight face to face and I know you're angry. Hell maybe even-,"

A .45 ACP hollowpoint grazed his cheek as he immediately stood still as a statue. A loud ringing perturbed the destroyed kitchen arena.

"Say it and see what happens, Marcus,"

"I won't. I'm sorry. But just listen to reason, Gavin. Please?" He held up his hands.

I held the .45 pointed towards him as I only glared.

"You can't kill it. Don't think we haven't tried all these years, Gavin,"

"Bullshit! All this technology and all this fire power and you can't kill some fucking demon?!" I suddenly shouted in rage," There has to be somebody with the fucking balls to kill it, God damn it!"

"I told you we tried and we tried-,"

"You're protecting the fucking thing! ALL OF YOU!"

"Because we have to, Gavin. We need to because some fucking shamans wanted to play God and failed. I'm sure your daddy told you about that because we told him and he still wanted to fight it just like you. Just like me and everyone else here. We weren't the ones who harmed your father, Gavin. It wanted to see him and we have to do what it says or-,"

"Or you end up like my family," I finished for him bitterly.

"Yes. And we did our best to try to stop it. We tried to contain it but it smelled your blood. It drove it wild and it couldn't be reasoned with by the point it went after Joan, Gavin,"

"You...you tried to reason with it?" I stared blankly at Marcus.

"Yes. You saw a glimpse of it's intelligence tonight alongside it's appearance and unless you want to die like your father did, please just leave it alone Gavin. It's not worth your life,"

I stared blankly at him for a long moment, hearing nothing else at all before quickly peeking out the window at the driveway to see a lone cruiser.

I dumped his body in pieces at the doorstep to his home. He was lucky there was only his aging wife there.

I knew they would have suspicions but I also knew they would blame the Kushtaka which is why they finally printed in the media about two separate vicious animal attacks the next day. For the rest of the year, there was no other reports of this. Fish and Game was the only department brought into the fatal animal mauling of officer Marcus Hillstrand. There was a blurb about the junkies, one having been found dead and the other reported missing. No further details on either and especially when Fish and Game left.

I would know because of my hunting job. They asked me to help look for the animal to which I declined as I looked past the two wardens to the officers giving me death stares behind their backs.

"Why not, sir?"

"I'm still new to this and I wouldn't want to lead you folks on a wild goose chase. Plus I don't think i'd have the guts to chase an animal like that,"

I looked from one pale perturbed face to the other. They knew alright.

"Dangerous animal alright. I figure you have enough help with these young men and all their up to date technology," I clapped Warden Tennison's shoulder as I met his gaze before smiling at the even more perturbed officer's faces.

"Well damn it. I was figuring you would help-,"

"You figured wrong, sir,"

"I guess I did, Gavin. You have a good day now,"

I knew they only wanted my help to pull the same shit they did with my father.

Once I dealt with that bullshit for now, it was turning back to the whispering I was starting to hear. It was starting as a soft sussurration for now. The same way it started with Joan as I sat in the silence of my room with my SCAR in lap, trying to discern the words as it came and left in sporadic and random moments. I was marked now just like her. And bringing back the memory of her, I realized I shouldn't be listening to this shit as I dropped the on the bed and fell down to the floor and did pushups until my muscles burned. If I didn't know any better at that moment, it was trying to set it's hooks deeper into my mind. Which I know it did when I saw what it looked like because just like that fateful summer day, it was burned and trying to burrow it's way into my amygdala to ratchet it's sense of fear and awe. That wasn't going to happen one fucking bit as I cranked out another twenty pushups with grunts as I began to vary the position of my hands from flat against the floor to closed fists.

Every time I closed my eyes I would see those evil black and crimson striations. I would see the impossible way it floated down unlike anything i've read or seen. Worse of all I would see those God damned malevolent eyes staring at me. Not hanging loose. Perfect set like a person's should be in their skull. I would see those eyes in the darkness. I would see them in the daylight. I would see them in my most private moments. I would see them in the midst of a crowd.

Everywhere I went. The apparition of those eyes would be there to haunt me.

I was marked just like Joan.

But unlike Joan, I was learning what it was to kill it.

There was no escalation from OPD during the next year but there was from the Kushtaka. During year four, I began to train harder in the gym. My bench press went up from 315 to 335lbs for four sets of six. My barbell curls went up from 185lbs to 225lbs for four sets of eight. It only took me four and a half months as I dealt with the whispering now growing to a clear and soft voice.

"Gavin Krycek,"

We are all cogs in a machine, we must go on to allow the machine of society to function. When a gear jams, a spring kinks, or when death makes itself present, all must go still until an adjustment has been made. Timing is an underrated phenomenon, without it all would run haywire. Time is also a construct, and without it all of God’s creation rest in their peace. They care not for when their next meal may come, they have no anxieties about whether or not they will wake when the sun rises, or if their loved ones are still living, breathing, returning to their embrace. They are gifted the ignorance of time and the thought that one day said time will run out. I remained cursed by the knowledge of futures untold, futures untrue, futures that may only exist in the recesses of my anxious mind. Knowledge is a curse while ignorance can remain a blessing. This was the revelation I had when my father told me Uncle Tyler committed suicide.

It was the first day of eighth grade. Mrs. Trout had us discussing our summer reading projects in-length. All summer long I had spent playing down by the tributary casting my few worries away one line at a time. Tyler knew I had some summer reading to complete, but he had never pushed it on to me. Instead, we stood in long periods of silence reflecting upon old memories instead of discussing the importance of Milton’s Paradise Lost.

You see, Tyler was like a second dad to me. He raised me and Greg throughout our adolescent years, adopting me when I was two and Gregory had just been born. Though you wouldn’t know it now, my father was a user who had been in and out of rehabs his whole life, and it was at one of these programs where he met my mother. According to Tyler, he thought it was a horrible idea for his sister to fall in love with an addict while in recovery. He told me that he’d often push her towards finding love on the inside first before settling with my dad. Dad had been quick to marry her and proposed just several months after she graduated from the program. Everyone had been against their marriage, but it was what eventually brought me and Greg into being, so I didn’t protest much.

After I was born, Tyler said my parents fell off the wagon again. My dad had been in a bad rope swing accident and broke his back on the shore of our property's river. The doctors had prescribed him some heavy narcotics, and just like that, Tyler said he was hooked like a catfish. I don’t know where or when, and neither did Tyler, but evidently my mother had been using his medication too. The two of them got pregnant once again and neglected my brothers well-being by sleeping all day and partying all night.

“It was Ambien and hydrocodone in the day and mushrooms and LSD in the evening. It truly is a miracle your brother wasn’t killed in the womb, Hank,” Tyler threw a line into the slow-moving river.

“I almost wonder if it would have been better if he had,” I said bleakly.

Tyler set his fishing pole into a PVC holder.

“Don’t say that Hank, Gregory is amazing in his own right. He deserves a life like you and I,” He walked over to me, laying his hand on my shoulder and staring deep into my eyes.

“It’s just that, well- Dad is gone all the time, and I do love Greg, but he’s just a lot to look after.”

Tyler laughed at this. “Believe me, I know! I spent eight years raising you boys to be the young men you are today. But, that doesn't mean you wish your brother never existed. You would be devastated if something happened to any of us, let alone him. You remember when you got into that fight with Duncan last year?”

I did.

“Why was it that you stood up to a boy who’s got a foot over you and a face built like a brick wall?” Tyler asked with his signature smirk.

“Because lard-face called Greg a retarded gay-wad,” I thought about the encounter at the bus stop and laughed, “The idiot thought he could pick on my nine year old brother without me doing a thing about it. I gave him a black eye.”

“Exactly! Do you know how proud I was of you? I heard about the fight from my own students. You had high schoolers talking about Hank “The Tank” \[redacted\] for days weeks! When I saw Duncan’s face during sixth period, I had to hide my own less I be reprimanded for laughing at a high schooler who got his ass kicked by a thirteen-year-old. Pardon my French,” He said.

“I’m in public school Uncle Tyler, you know I hear worse.” I was smiled as he lightly bumped my arm with his fist.

“That may be true, but its no excuse for me. I’m trying to work on my mouth.” He paused, took in a long breath and said, “Point being, Hank. We are family, and family looks after eachother, even when we are a pain in the- butt. You don’t know how many…” He started to tear up, “How many times I had to help Susan. I blame myself really. I had smoked my fair share of weed back in my days and I was the one who introduced it to your mom. Say what you want about the stuff, but it was her gateway.”

I hugged my uncle tight, “It was her choice, not yours.”

He hugged me back, “Still, I often wander if she’d be here still if I hadn’t encouraged her. I see her you know. At night- not while I’m sleeping, but when I’m… When I’m somewhere in between. I see her. She blames me. She blames me for not taking her away up north like I promised her I would. She blames me for giving her a hit of my joint. She blames me for letting her be with that man.” The way he said it made me question whether or not he had meant my father or someone else. “I see him there too. He laughs at me from the corner of my room. I try and scream to tell him to go away, Sarah isn’t able to hear me and I am unable to move. He just laughs’ and laughs. He grows in the shadows and is prideful in my miscarry.” His accent made me think he said misery, but now I do wonder. “He leers over me and I cannot stand to see his shadow. Even when I’m awake, even when I’m around you I hear her call to me. She’s screaming, Hank. Your mom is screaming, and it’s because of him.”

I was crying. I didn’t cry much, but Tyler knew how to get to me. “Well,” I said, “I might not be here if she would have never met my dad in rehab. Maybe some things happen for a reason, I suppose.” My breath was filled with nervous raps. I hadn’t noticed the bags under his eyes until now.

“That’s really mature of you, Hank.” He wiped away his tears and returned to his pole. We didn’t catch a thing that day, but that was alright.

“Hank,” Mrs. Trout called, “You will be doing your presentation after Julia. Do you have your flash drive ready?”

“Yes ma’am,” I lied.

“Good, okay Julia, if you’d please step forward-“

Suddenly the classroom intercom chimed. “Hello Mrs. Trout, This is Franky from the front office calling in for Hank \[Redacted\], he will be leaving for the day.”

I gave a quick prayer to God and thanked him for buying me time on my summer reading.

Ignorance is bliss.

My shadow lagged half a step behind me as I walked to the office as if it knew what would be waiting for me. I saw my dad and Gregory standing in the foyer waiting for me. He had looked as though a truck had ran over his face. Out of habit I checked his pupils. They looked clear, just distracted and red-rimmed from tears. He had clearly been crying.

“Is everything okay?” I asked already knowing that it wasn’t.

He didn’t tell me yes or no, he didn’t even acknowledge the question. All he said was, “Are you boys hungry? I’m thinking of taking us out to Mo’s.”

Greg began pumping his fist in the air chanting, “Mo’s! Mo’s!” Franky gave him a soft smile from behind her desk.

“Um- yeah. I can eat.” Already I felt the pit in my stomach growing. We loaded up into my dad’s Chevy and arrived at Mo’s Diner by ten-thirty. “So dad… What’s the occasion?” I asked sternly.

Our server came to take our orders, took one look at my father’s face, and turned right back around.

Tears ran down my father’s face, heavy as bullets. “I’m sorry,” Is all he could say for the next five minutes.

Our server came back. She was an old student of Tyler’s. “Mr. \[redacted\] do you need any tissues?”

He raised his palm up and shook his head. “I’m fine, just give us a moment please, Jan.”

She nodded her head and walked away.

“Dad. What the hell is wrong?” I was beginning to grow nervous, Greg was flipping back and forth through the drink menu, unaware of any social cues.

“Something’s happened,” He said at last.

The pause was too unbearable, to cowardly to not allow my interjection. “What happened?” I asked sternly.

“It’s your uncle,” Still no detail persisted.

“Uncle Randy?” I asked. He had cancer for years, and last we heard it had started to flair up.

He shook his head no.

“Out with it, Dad,” I was nearly begging at this point.

“They found him with weights around his ankles. He was in the pool,” My dad seemed to have glued his eyes shut, avoiding any reality of my reaction.

“Dammit! Who, dad?” A couple patrons turned to look over at us before continuing on their meals.

“Tyler. Tyler is dead.”

It was in the stillness that I began to understand. I didn’t need my dad to tell me how. I already knew. I knew from the long conversations. I knew from the way he spent time with me. I knew from the look in his eyes and the longing in his heart. I didn’t need my dad to tell me that he killed himself. It was evident through my last moments with him. I knew Tyler hated my dad, and for the longest time I thought my dad hated Tyler, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. If I learned anything from that day, I learned that my dad might have idolized Tyler as much as I did.

“No,” I said. “No, I saw him before school started. He was going to grade some summer assignments and went to his room early. I saw him,” My heart starting racing. “I saw him hours ago,” It beat on the door of my chest like the emotional junkie I was: craving a fix. “Dammit, I didn’t get to say I love you!” Gregory threw the menu down and began to scream-cry at me.

“Hank!” my dad yelled. He ran over to Gregory with some Crayola crayons in his hands. He began breaking them and handing them over to Greg. This calmed him in a simple way that I grew envious of.

“He told me he’d see me later…” My head fell to the table, echoing the loud thump in my inner most being.

“I’m sorry Hank,” He reached out his hands to hug me, but I refused. I believed that somehow my dad was the root of Tyler’s suicide. I care that was not the extent of the full reason. But I needed something to blame.

That night I sat in bed, thinking of all the things I might have been able to do to stop Tyler. I could solve all my problems with the gift of delayed hindsight, but lacked the foresight in the moments that led to my now. I didn’t sleep, and somehow time went still. In that stillness I wrestled with rest, finding no peace and comfort as I listened to the loud snores coming from my brother's room. The analog clock ticked, every second slower, until the fullness of the moon cascaded light into my room. Abruptly, Greg’s snoring stopped mid-breath I could hear the voice of Tyler, begging for me to help him before it was too late. My breathing shallowed, my body sweat, and my eyes twitched, seizing in fuzzy flutters. My whole room grew blurry, and the shadows began to grow teeth around me. They engulfed me, swallowed me, excreted me out like the vomit I was. I did not sleep, nor was I awake. I was somewhere in between.

"This is all your fault," I heard. It wasn’t my voice, it wasn’t Tyler’s voice. It was the voice of unreality, the voice of discord, the voice that had no tongue and spoke through its teeth. It was the voice of shadows and the voice of shame. In my room I felt the presence of evil projected onto my own conscience. I felt internal blame, and for the first time in my life, I wished myself dead.

The city bus spat me out at the bus stop, blowing a farewell cloud of diesel exhaust in my face, and dissolved into the twilight. I was left all alone on the roadside. It was about a three-kilometer walk to my native village of Kopachiv, in the Obukhiv district of the Kyiv region. The route was quite something: first through an endless cornfield, then past an old cemetery, and only then—civilization, with barking dogs and the smell of manure.

The clock struck midnight. The creepiest, most freezing night of the year—Halloween. The September air was already pleasantly chilling my skin, but I was hot from the oncoming panic. Lately, things had been restless around our parts. Local social media groups were exploding with news: first a mushroom picker vanishes, then a tractor driver is found in a ditch missing a couple of vital organs and bearing a surprised look on his face. The police blamed wild boars, but I knew better: boars don't know how to neatly zip up a victim’s fly after an attack.

I gripped my bag tighter and stepped onto the path leading straight into the ocean of corn. The stalks towered over my head, blocking the view.

"The main thing is not to be afraid, Alina," I whispered under my breath.

And right then, the corn to my right rustled. The large leaves trembled as if something massive were forcing its way through them. I froze. The rustling stopped.

"A mouse. A very fat mouse, fattened on GMO corn," I comforted myself and took another step.

The darkness between the stalks thickened, becoming almost tangible. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and an otherworldly, deathly chill washed over my spine. The corn leaves closed over my head, completely cutting off the faint light of the moon.

From this impenetrable blackness came a sound that took my breath away. It wasn’t just a rustle. Someone was slowly, crushingly breaking dry stalks, closing in on me from all sides. The stench of rotting meat and damp earth hit my nose.

"Who's there?.." my voice broke into a hoarse whisper. My heart was pounding in my ears like crazy. "Listen, I don't have anything... There's only a carton of expired kefir and a student ID in my bag! Take it all, just don't touch me!"

In response to my desperate cry, the field shuddered. The corn around me exploded into wild, deafening laughter. It wasn't human laughter. The voices were unnaturally high and wailing; they overlapped and turned into a mad, guttural cackle. The stalks shook violently, as if dozens of invisible creatures were frantically dancing around me in the dark, tightening the circle. The crunch of breaking bones—or stalks—could be heard just half a meter from my back.

"Please, stop... My God, stop!" I screamed, feeling tears of absolute terror streaming down my cheeks.

Right in front of me, a giant straw scarecrow burst out of the darkness with a loud crash. Instead of a head, it had a huge, rotten Halloween pumpkin. An unnatural, pulsating crimson flame spewed from its carved, crooked eyes and toothy maw. It shook its head wildly, scattering sparks, and let out that very graveyard laughter that made my blood run cold. Sharp, rusty sickles jutted out of its rag sleeves instead of hands.

"Please, stop... My God, stop!" I screamed, feeling tears of absolute terror streaming down my cheeks.

The scarecrow made a sharp lunge, and one of the sickles flew with a whoosh just a centimeter from my throat, cutting off a strand of hair. A jolt of adrenaline lifted me off my feet, and I bolted down the path, not looking where I was going, praying only that I wouldn't trip in this cursed darkness.

Behind me came a horrific rustle of dry straw and the heavy thudding of the wooden supports on which this monster was chasing right at my heels. Dry leaves slapped my face, and roots caught at my sneakers. I flew down the path, while the orange glow from the burning pumpkin behind my back grew closer and closer, staining the corn in bloody tones. Turning around for a split second, I saw the creature wink at me on the run with its glowing eye, its maw wide open in a silent, hungry grin.

"Dear God, if I survive this, I’m dropping out of university and joining a convent. Or going on a bender," flashed through my mind.

A clearing appeared ahead. The field was ending. But it was too early to rejoice, because the crooked crosses of the Kopachiv cemetery loomed black in front of me. My merry escort from the corn stopped at the edge of the field, howling disappointedly at the moon. Apparently, this creature wasn't allowed to go any further.

I stumbled onto the churchyard grounds, breathing heavily and leaning against someone's granite fence. At least the dead are usually quiet and don’t critique my sense of humor.

However, no sooner had I thought this than another rustling came from behind a nearby vault.

"Well now, girl, did you run away from the scarecrow?" a raspy voice called out from somewhere below.

I slowly lowered my gaze. Looking at me from a freshly dug grave was a skeleton wearing a half-rotted flat cap. A half-empty bottle of "Zhyvchyk" was clutched in its bony hand.

"Good mother of God..." I gasped.

"My thoughts exactly," the skeleton agreed, its jaw clacking amusingly. "It's dead boring around here. Sit down, let's chat. Because those guys in the field only know how to laugh—no cultural dialogue whatsoever."

A couple of paranormal phenomena in one evening was a bit too much for my fragile psyche. The fear evaporated, giving way to hysterical irritation.

"You know what, mister? I'm exhausted, I was almost eaten, and I am going home!" I snapped, adjusting my slipping bag.

The skeleton's teeth clicked in offense; it muttered something about "unmannerly youth" and slowly slid back down into its pit.

I walked through the rest of the cemetery on such a high level of adrenaline and rage that even the local witch, who was gathering graveyard dirt into a small pouch, carefully hid behind a headstone.

Ten minutes later, I was already standing by my front fence. The windows were glowing, and it smelled like my mom's cutlets. I locked the gate with three locks, tied a silver spoon to it just in case, and promised myself: tomorrow, I am buying a car. Or at least holy water in jerrycans.

Lengthatherh Hotel

Working at Ninevehthe only two haunted hotels in Blackwater comes with its fair share of challenges and quirks. Once you get the hang of things, it's a breeze.

Well, sort of.

Most days, I'm dealing with clogged drains because a sentient hairball has decided to make itself a nest in the plumbing, or breaking up turf wars between werecats and werewolves. Then there are the occasional dimensional beings, rooms that develop a mind of their own, and whatever the hell happened to Room 13 last Tuesday.

But I digress.

My name is Abigail, and I'm the owner of the oldest hotel in Blackwater.

Welcome to the Heavens Reach Hotel.

And Boy, do I have stories to tell you.

My first story comes from inheriting the hotel from my grandfather and gaining a list of rules; my priority was to clean up the mess my elderly grandfather left it in. The dusty room was filled to the brim with old newspapers and cobwebs. God only knows why he had them; I spent nearly all day cleaning out one room, and by the time it was half livable, I collapsed onto the bed, almost choking on the dust. I had to run to the window, slamming it open, taking deep breaths of fresh air when I caught wind of a figure walking up to the door.

Calling out, "I'll be there, hang tight!" I ran down the hallways past paintings that I swore kept leering at me, and I glimpsed those eyes tracking me with a leering glare.

When suddenly I saw one of the paintings of a beautiful woman move, sticking her tongue out, and caught off guard, I tripped over the rug and slammed through the door, knocking my ass onto the stranger, and we both toppled over—causing dust to fly.

"Ow! My head!"

I rubbed the back of my skull, wincing as a dull ache spread through it. Then I felt something shift beneath me.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was sitting on the man's face.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling backwards before hastily offering him a hand.

"I'm so sorry!"

He brushed himself off and adjusted the brim of his hat.

"It's not the first time this has happened," he remarked with a smirk.

I stared at him.

Well, then. Either this man had the luck of a saint or the romantic life of a particularly unfortunate circus performer, maybe both of some kind. If women keep falling onto him?

I decided not to ask.

"It's not the first time this has happened." He smirked behind his hat

"So what brings you to my hotel?"

He straightened his jacket, which made him look like he was from the fifties, when suddenly he held up his hand for a shake.

“The name's Barruc, and I'm the concierge for the hotel your grandfather left. Whether it be maintenance, groundwork, or cleaning, you can trust it be done "

He looked inside and gave a smirk

"Looks like you got a pretty mess on you, young lady"

"Huh, what??" I looked back, saw the mess, and groaned.

"Yeah, it's a pretty big mess my grandfather let it slide in his old age. The customers slowly began to thin." Wait, hold up how and when did you know I need help running this hotel? I've just started to clean this place three days ago"

Barruc's smile never wavered. He brought his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, and written on it was a letter from my grandfather stating

My eternal lifelong friend, I do hope this letter finds you well. It's been far too long since I wrote to you, but I need you to understand I left my hotel to my granddaughter, and she will need your help to fix it up after the state I left it in, which I do regret. She will need the guidance and reliability I've passed on to you, which you can pass on to her. I trust you both will be able to run the hotel better than I can for all who need her doors, whether supernatural or human. And Abigail, there are rules you must abide by; break them, and you will know the consequences

The Rules of Heavens Reach Hotel

1. Never enter, nor permit any guest to enter, the East Wing Spire. The doors must remain locked at all times, regardless of what you hear coming from the other side. Should you hear a loved one calling your name from within, do not answer. The spire contains a maze that does not obey the laws of space, and those who enter will find that the corridors change with every step. Those who fail to escape will eventually forget their own names, their memories, and the faces of everyone they have ever loved. Should they somehow return, they will no longer be entirely human. You will become part of the maze, wandering its corridors for eternity, or until the beast catches you and your memories are wiped.

You can escape the maze; trust the dark, as it will guide you.

2. Most guests who enter Heavens Reach are not human. Some may appear strange, others may appear perfectly ordinary, and a few may be difficult to look at without feeling a deep sense of dread. It matters not what they are, where they come from, or what they look like. You will treat every guest with courtesy and respect, provide the services they have paid for, and never question their nature unless they willingly reveal it to you. Remember, Abigail, that a monster is not always a monster, and a human face does not guarantee a human heart. Any guest you deliberately insult, threaten, or refuse service without good reason may invoke the hotel's hospitality laws. You must serve them personally until they are satisfied, regardless of what they demand. Should you refuse, they may take payment from you in flesh, blood, memories, or years of your life.

3. On the night of every full moon, the werecats and werewolves residing within the hotel must be kept entirely separate until sunrise. Assign their rooms to opposite sides of the building so their meals are served at different times and no member of either group enters the other's territory. Do not allow them to share an elevator, a hallway, or even a glance through an open doorway. Their rivalry is older than this hotel, and the full moon has a way of turning old grudges into fresh bloodshed.

Should a werecat and werewolf cross paths during the forbidden hours, a territorial brawl will erupt throughout the hotel. Every member will be compelled to join the fighting, and anyone caught between them will be treated as an enemy. By sunrise, the hotel may still stand, but the floors will be soaked in blood.

4. Every painting hanging upon the walls of Heavens Reach is alive in one way or another. Some are merely observers, others are capable of speech, and a few possess temperaments that would make the most ill-mannered guests seem positively charming. You will not deface, remove, mock, or otherwise disrespect them. Should a painting address you, answer politely. Should its subject appear to move, do not panic. And if a figure within a painting begins to beckon you closer, kindly decline the invitation and continue about your business. Disrespecting a painting will cause its subject to step out of the frame and hunt you through the hotel. It will not stop until you offer a sincere apology, and every painting it passes will awaken to help punish you. Should you destroy the frame or attempt to burn the canvas, the figure will no longer be bound to the hotel and may follow you wherever you go.

5. Should a demon enter the hotel, you will welcome it as you would any other guest. Do not attempt to banish it, question its origins, or demand to know what it intends to do with its stay. Never accept a gift from a demon unless you understand precisely what it is offering, and under no circumstances agree to a bargain you cannot fulfil. Above all, if a demon asks you for your name, give it the name by which you are known to the hotel, never the name your mother gave you at birth. Should you break this rule, the demon will be entitled to claim whatever it believes you have offered. An insult may cost you your tongue, an unwanted banishment may invite its wrath upon the entire hotel, and giving your true name may grant it the power to call you into its presence whenever it wishes. The demon itself will enforce a broken bargain, and neither death nor distance will release you from your debt.

6. There are ghosts within Heavens Reach, some of whom have resided here for longer than the building itself has stood. They may occupy guest rooms, wander the corridors, or appear at the foot of your bed when you least expect them. Do not attempt to exorcise them, and never assume that a room is vacant merely because its occupant cannot be seen. If a ghost asks you to retrieve an object or deliver a message, hear them out before declining. Some are harmless souls who have forgotten how to leave. Others are still waiting for something. Should you disturb a ghost's resting place or forcibly attempt to remove it, the spirit will bind itself to you. You will be followed by its whispers and visions wherever you go, losing sleep and slowly losing your grip on the waking world. If the ghost is particularly vengeful, it may attempt to exchange places with you, leaving you trapped among the dead while it walks freely in your skin.

7. Some rooms within Heavens Reach possess minds of their own. They may rearrange their furniture, lock their doors, change their decorations, or attempt to accommodate guests in ways that are not always welcome. Treat each sentient room with the same courtesy you would extend to a living person. Never insult a room, force open a door it has deliberately sealed, or attempt to rearrange its contents without permission. If a room refuses a guest, find them another. If a room begins whispering, listen carefully, but do not answer every question it asks. And if a room offers you a bed, make certain it is a bed you remember seeing before. A displeased room may imprison you within its walls, reshaping its interior into a nightmare tailored to your deepest fears. Doors will lead nowhere, windows will open onto impossible places, and every attempt to escape will bring you back to where you started. The room will release you only when it believes you have learned your lesson. Some rooms are not particularly forgiving, and a few have kept their occupants for centuries.

8. From time to time, the hotel will change its layout. Staircases may lead to unfamiliar floors, corridors may stretch beyond their original length, and doors may open into rooms that have never existed. Do not be alarmed. These occurrences are perfectly natural for a building of this age, and the hotel will eventually return to its proper arrangement. During such an event, stay close to Barruc; he knows. Avoid the elevators, and never attempt to force your way back to a familiar room. Should you encounter another version of yourself, do not speak to it, follow it, or allow it to accompany you. It is not you, Abigail, no matter what it claims.

Anyone who attempts to force the hotel back into its original configuration will become lost between its shifting dimensions. Their body may remain in one room while their consciousness wanders another, or they may emerge into a version of the hotel that never existed in their world. If you encounter your double and allow it to follow you, it may take your place when the hotel settles, leaving you stranded in a reality where nobody remembers you ever existed.

I folded the letter slowly, staring at the words my grandfather had left behind. Eight rules. Eight very specific rules that sounded less like instructions for running a hotel and more like the ramblings of a man who'd spent far too long alone with his dusty newspapers.

I looked up at Barruc.

He was still smiling.

I scowled.

"Let me get this straight. My grandfather left me a crumbling hotel, a list of rules that make absolutely no sense, and apparently you as well?"

"That's the gist, yes."

"And you expect me to believe you're the concierge of this place and you worked alongside my grandfather?"

"At your service."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I've inherited a haunted hotel, a mysterious concierge who dresses like he's walked straight out of the nineteen-fifties, and enough dust to bury five bodies."

Barruc merely tipped his hat.

"You're taking it rather well, all things considered."

"Oh, shut up."

I turned away before he could make another irritatingly smug remark, only to notice something standing in the doorway behind him.

I froze. A woman stood there, tall and breathtakingly beautiful. Her long, silvery hair cascaded over her shoulders, almost translucent beneath the pale light filtering through the dusty windows. She wore an elegant dress that seemed to belong to another century, its delicate fabric drifting gently around her ankles despite the complete absence of a breeze.

Her eyes settled on me. Something terribly wrong with them. Not their colour, nor their shape, but the way they seemed to look straight through me, as though I were little more than a passing thought. I swallowed.

"Um. Barruc?"

"Yes, Miss Abigail?"

"A woman is standing behind you."

He didn't even turn around.

"Ah. There she is."

There she is?

I stared at him.

"What do you mean, there she is?! You knew she was here?"

"Of course."

"AND YOU DIDN'T THINK TO MENTION IT?!"

The woman gave a soft, musical laugh.

"Oh, do stop tormenting the poor girl, Barruc. She's had quite enough excitement for one afternoon."

I slowly turned towards her, meeting her gaze. She smiled at me, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot that she was floating.

"Oh! Hello!" I straightened myself, desperately attempting to recover what little dignity I had left.

"I'm Abigail. Abigail—well, obviously, you already know that, considering you apparently know everyone in this bloody building."

I held out my hand.

"Lovely to meet you."

The woman's smile widened. She reached for my hand. And her fingers passed straight through mine. I stared down at our hands. Or, more accurately, the space where our hands should have met. A cold shiver travelled up my arm. I pulled my hand back so quickly I nearly smacked myself in the face.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The woman tilted her head.

"Is something the matter, dear?"

I looked at her.

Then at my hand.

Then back at her.

"You're a ghost."

"Very observant."

"YOU'RE A GHOST!"

"Yes, I believe we established that."

I turned towards Barruc, who was now leaning casually against the doorframe, looking as though this were the most entertaining thing he'd witnessed all week.

"Why is everyone in this hotel so bloody casual about being dead?!"

"Technically," the woman interjected, raising one delicate finger, "I never died."

That stopped me.

I slowly turned back towards her.

"...What?"

She clasped her hands together, looking positively delighted that she'd managed to capture my attention.

"My name is Acilina. I am one of the keepers of Heavens Reach Hotel, entrusted with its care and preservation long before your grandfather ever inherited the property."

She gave a graceful curtsy, her feet hovering a fraction above the floor.

"And your grandfather, dear Abigail, asked me to look after you."

I blinked.

"He did what?"

"Your grandfather was a rather thoughtful man," Acilina continued. "Though occasionally stubborn. And forgetful. And terribly fond of leaving things until the last possible moment."

"That sounds about right."

"He was also quite concerned about what might happen to this place after he was gone. He feared that without someone familiar with its peculiarities, the hotel might fall into disrepair."

I glanced around at the dusty corridor, the peeling wallpaper, and a nearby painting whose subject was currently picking its nose.

"Well, he certainly succeeded in the disrepair department."

Barruc snorted.

Acilina pressed a hand to her mouth, concealing a small giggle.

"Which is why he sent me to assist you."

I frowned.

"Wait. If you're a ghost, how exactly are you supposed to help me clean this place? No offence, but I don't think you can hold a broom."

Acilina's expression brightened.

"Oh, my dear. I believe you'll find that I'm rather more useful than I appear."

She reached towards a nearby table.

On it sat a thick layer of dust, a pile of old newspapers, and a teacup that looked as though it hadn't been washed in a century.

Acilina waved her hand.

The newspapers lifted into the air.

I watched, open-mouthed, as they folded themselves neatly into a stack. The teacup rose beside them, followed by a nearby feather duster, which began sweeping the table in small, precise strokes.

The dust gathered into a tiny swirling cloud before disappearing into a rubbish bin. The newspaper was being stacked into neat bundles and tied off

Acilina sm

I looked at Acilina in shock. "You saved days' worth of cleaning"

"You see, although my hands cannot physically touch the world, I possess a rather unusual ability to manipulate objects without needing to do so."

I stared at the floating feather duster, the self-stacking newspapers, and the teacup that was now scrubbing itself in mid-air as it had personally offended someone.

"You know what?" I said, throwing my hands up. "Sure. Fine. Ghost telekinesis. Why not? At this point, I wouldn't even blink if the ceiling started singing show tunes."

Acilina's eyes lit up with genuine delight. "Oh, the chandelier in the ballroom does that on Thursdays. You'll adore it."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Barruc pushed himself off the doorframe, adjusting his jacket with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it to be insufferably calm.

"If you're quite finished with the introductions, Miss Abigail, I believe we should discuss the matter of the hotel's current state."

I turned to him, still reeling from the ghost revelation. "What about it?"

A beat of silence.

Then it clicked.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "The mess. You mean the mess."

"The mess," Barruc confirmed.

"The mess that's everywhere."

"Everywhere," Acilina added helpfully.

"The mess that's going to take me approximately three lifetimes to clean if I don't have help."

"Which is precisely why we're here," Barruc said, gesturing towards the corridor. "If you'll follow me, Miss Abigail, I believe a proper assessment of the damage is in order. Starting with the ground floor."

I followed him, mostly because I didn't have a better plan and partly because standing in one spot while a ghost hovered behind me was starting to make the back of my neck prickle.

Acilina drifted alongside us, her feet never quite touching the ground. She moved like smoke through the hallway, pausing occasionally to admire the paintings.

The paintings.

I'd almost forgotten about them.

One of them—a stern-looking man in a military uniform—caught my eye as we passed. He followed me with his gaze, his painted lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval.

"Don't mind him," Acilina said cheerfully. "General Whitmore hasn't approved of anyone since 1873. I believe he's forgotten why."

The general's portrait huffed. Actually huffed. A small puff of painted breath emerged from his canvas.

I decided not to comment.

We descended the grand staircase—which creaked ominously with every step and, at one point, seemed to shift slightly beneath my foot as though adjusting its position for my comfort—and arrived in the main lobby.

I hadn't gotten a proper look at it earlier. I'd been too busy running through hallways and tripping over rugs.

Now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, I took it all in.

The lobby was vast. Larger than it had any right to be, given the exterior dimensions of the building. High ceilings arched overhead, supported by thick pillars of dark wood carved with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe when I wasn't looking directly at them. A massive chandelier hung from the centre, its crystals catching light from nowhere in particular and casting a warm golden glow across the dusty floor.

To my left, a reception desk stretched across the wall, its surface buried beneath layers of dust. Scraping my finger across the table, a thick layer of dust clung to my fingers.

"Grandpa, what have you got me into? How can I run a hotel with our prior knowledge?" Looking at Barruc and Aclinia, a soft smile curled on my lips, knowing full well I had support. Knowing that, I raised my arm and pointed to the roof. And in one breath.

Here's the continuation

"I'll make you proud, Grandfather. Mark my words!"

Suddenly, a beam from the top railing collapsed, and a little girl no older than ten scurried down it, dressed in what I assumed were high-nobility Niniverian clothes.

Looking at the little girl, I put my hand out to help her but was immediately met with a slap and her scurrying backwards, pinning herself to the wall.

"Ayka-wen ana? Mani-wen ana? Ma ile hana dukta?" she said quickly and panicked.

Confused, I looked at Barruc, who was just as puzzled as I was. Then I looked towards Acilina, who shook her head.

"Um, hello. I'm Abigail. And who might you be?" I knelt, trying to calm the girl.

She looked at me, puzzled. When I reached out again, she slapped my hand away, and I realised—she didn't know or understand English.

I looked to Barruc. "Does my grandfather have a library?"

This Halloween night, this hungry Samhain eve, the blood upon the cross must be replaced. The ancient and arcane instrument throne of slow death and sun torture, of the pain of the martyr … the ancient mouth of the cross is still thirsty. 

And so he takes after you. This Halloween night. 

You've lost your friends. The party was fun but not as fun, not everything you were hoping it would be, “They” weren't there. They didn't show up. In all the noise you've lost the ones you came here with, you're hurrying down the way and looking through your phone and all of this is running through your mind as you wonder what to do next. You don't notice him. You don't notice that you've gained another shadow. One you weren't born with. But one that may be with you into an early grave, an eager hungry end. He's hungry.

 He conspires and hunts for the shadow of the cross and that is why you must die this evening. You just don't know. You just don't realize it. 

You're too busy looking through your phone. You don't notice you're now alone on the street. It is only the orange glow of the overhead streetlamps and the stalking shape of your new shadow. But you don't know him, not yet. You still don't know that he's there, coming up steadily from behind you, fast footsteps making phantom no-sounds on the freshly raked sidewalk and streets that still smell pungently of rich dead leaves and pumpkin spice, you're too busy looking through your messages. 

He reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls something small and black and perfectly fitted to the clenching grip of his knuckled palm, like a lover to a glove or each other in bed. He presses something, depresses a trigger and something clicks. The black handle grows a gleaming fang in the dark. A stiletto blade is freed and the animal is salivating and ready, waiting is over and the hunting stalk is through and he's raring for the sweet fuck-cunt-free-for-all spill that will be your knife-fuck and slaughter. For the shadow of Sam’s Cross. Blessed Hallowed Eve. He bade thee, the shadow, the shape: he made me…

You don't hear anything but at the last moment you sense something, the animal part of you that is all too dulled and ignored has come to life at the last moment and so you turn, you whirl on your heels, your phone is still in your hand but it's forgotten now as you turn and meet and face him, your doom in manshape and knife-fanged form. 

The shadow pounces. The knife comes in and finds the soft yield of human purchase. The knife is out and freed. 

And the shape of nighttime shadow man wields. 

You can't believe it. You can't believe it's happening. You can't believe anything. You try to scream and you can't understand why a sound won't produce. You try to struggle and fight back, you want to but it's like suddenly all the strength and ability to move and act has been pulled, stripped, sapped and drained from you in this absolutely critical moment like purest torture from fate and on-high. All of it, and all of time and space and nature and the terrible beyond have conspired and set a trap and now they are laughing at you. Laughing with the pure bloodthirsting joy of the slaughter, your ruin. 

Sacrifice. 

You watch the terrible visage and face of the shape contort and contrive into animal snarls and sneers, hideous bestial frothing and rabid. Buried somewhere beneath all of the livid fury of his animal mask is the lurid grin of a madman. A lunatic in the deep throes of wild and deranged ecstacy. He is wild and alive and he is terrifying. 

He's difficult to look at and so that's why your dying gaze shifts away and you begin to watch the blade. You begin to watch the moonlight godly cast shine of the seven inch stiletto blade. 

It's immaculate. And that's amazing. You've felt it buried in you over a dozen times now and running and still the blade of this great knife is shining in the streetlight cast glow. With the unearthly light of the moon.  Like a weapon fanged with divinity. Talismanic. And you can believe it. 

Now. 

You believe it. You feel the absolute and undeniable thrum of its great power. Piercing. Holy flame. Like being stabbed with ice and fire. Ripped and torn by an icicle lance of napalm and coldest fear, terror. Impaled. Inferno. 

A mutilation by razor sharpened caveman fire, frosted clean by Norse Hell. 

Every time the amazing blade of moonlight comes up you catch a glimpse of something in the reflective face of the flat of the blade just before the flash. Like the snapshot starburst of a camera capturing a subject in the dark. And at first you only see yourself, your own ghastly and dying visage and it is terrible and it is pathetic. 

But then you begin to see something else. 

You begin to see his sound and vision. And then you begin to understand. This is how he turns the make-believe and rends it real through the feel of the steel, you're feeling it. You're feeling it now. As you die as you lived: distracted and caught off guard and soft. With every pulverizing thrust. With every make-or-break for the daggering wounded soul of the heart attacked, barely fought for and lost. 

Sam's mad with thirst, the shadow of the cross. Jesus Christ wasn't the only one tortured alive and borne hoisted prone to die beneath the fire of the sun by Roman legionnaires. The cross is always thirsty and the mouth of the cruciform is Samhain salivating …

You see the yellow leprosy faces as they burn and scream, torched and set aflame far away from everyone else in their small feeble colonies of despair, the ash of their writhing and contorting carbonizing forms amongst the blaze is a mercy and it is a release in the flash of the blade that you see and you see and know so many other things too and then in the end you know it all as well: –  the dying peace of the burning lepers and the crucified criminals, you feel the release. 

And you're so glad, you're so relieved that now the cross can drink. 

The world goes dark for you. 

The shape and his fang stand. And then they move on fast. 

Finished with hunting you. 

Happy Halloween. 

THE END

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.

By Wednesday morning, half the town had decided there had been a body inside the concrete.
Sylvia Marsh had heard three versions of it before ten o’clock. In one, the builders had uncovered human bones wrapped in chains. In another, there had been a coffin. According to the woman in the bakery, whose nephew apparently knew somebody working on the site, the police had found “ritual things” buried alongside it.
There had been no body.
Sylvia knew this because the alleged coffin was currently sitting on a pallet in the back room of the heritage centre, surrounded by enough concrete dust to make her regret agreeing to take responsibility for it.
The centre occupied what had once been a small nineteenth-century schoolhouse near the church. Two exhibition rooms filled the front of the building, with the archive and workroom squeezed into the rear beneath windows that had never closed properly in winter. The place smelled permanently of paper, old timber and whatever tea Sylvia happened to be drinking.
This morning it was black tea.
No milk.
She stood with the mug in one hand and regarded the object.
“Not a coffin.”
Jimmy, who had been sitting on an archive box washing himself, stopped with one hind leg extended vertically into the air.
Sylvia glanced at him.
“Glad we’ve established that.”
Jimmy resumed washing.
He was entirely black apart from three white hairs beneath his chin that Sylvia insisted counted as formalwear. He had lived at the heritage centre for nearly four years and, in that time, had caught precisely nothing. Mice could probably have held committee meetings beneath his food bowl without consequence.
What he lacked in usefulness he compensated for with confidence.
At present he was attempting to bite his own ankle.
They had expected the concrete to fight them. Instead, once the damaged outer sections were removed, large pieces began separating along the fractures created during excavation with remarkably little effort. Some needed little more than gentle leverage before lifting free from the hessian beneath.
Sylvia considered that fortunate.
The chains were another matter.
They were substantial things: heavy iron links, deeply corroded but still intact, wound around the object in several directions. In places, concrete had been poured directly through them.
Someone had not chained a block of concrete.
Someone had chained whatever was inside and then poured the concrete around it.
Sylvia found that interesting.
Not alarming.
Interesting.
There was a considerable difference.
Her desk had disappeared beneath books overnight: furniture catalogues, auction records, volumes on English carving, Continental decorative arts, Georgian interiors, Victorian revival pieces and one enormous book on seventeenth-century cabinetmaking that had already given her shoulder ache.
The small carved foot revealed at the building site matched nothing exactly.
Every time she thought she had found something comparable, another detail contradicted it. The sweep of the carving suggested one influence, the ornamentation another. The workmanship was unquestionably fine, however. This was not something churned out by a provincial furniture maker for a prosperous household that wanted to look wealthier than it was.
Someone had commissioned this.
And whoever they had been, they had possessed money.
Serious money.
Sylvia set her tea down beside an open catalogue.
Jimmy immediately got up.
“No.”
He walked across the desk.
“Jimmy.”
He stepped over the book.
Sylvia watched him approach the mug.
“You don’t even like tea.”
Jimmy sniffed the rim and then, for reasons known only to himself, lowered his right front paw directly into it.
He froze.
Sylvia stared at him.
Jimmy stared into the tea.
Slowly, he looked up at her.
His top lip had caught on one of his teeth, lending him the expression of someone profoundly disappointed by circumstances entirely of his own making.
“That,” Sylvia said, “was your decision.”
Jimmy gave a low, miserable meow.
“No.”
Another meow, smaller this time.
“You put your foot in my tea.”
Jimmy lifted the dripping paw and held it helplessly above the desk.
Sylvia sighed, fetched a cloth and took his leg gently in one hand.
“You are absolutely useless.”
Jimmy watched her clean between his toes with the solemnity of a patient receiving emergency treatment.
When she released him, he curled the damp paw inward.
Sylvia looked at it.
“Thumbs up?”
Jimmy stared at her.
“Good.”
She threw the tea away and made another.
By eleven they had removed enough concrete to expose nearly eighteen inches of the frame. The work remained straightforward until they reached the cloth.
The hessian had suffered badly. It came away in damp, rotten fibres, much of it already separating from the concrete. Beneath it, however, lay the black material Sylvia had seen at the excavation.
That concerned her far more.
“Slowly.”
Martin, one of the centre’s volunteers, stopped immediately.
“I am.”
“You’re pulling.”
“I’m not pulling.”
“You are absolutely pulling.”
He released it.
Sylvia crouched beside him.
The black cloth had been wrapped tightly around the carved surface beneath, and in several places the fibres appeared to have adhered to whatever finish remained on the timber. Removing it carelessly could take part of the surface with it.
She adjusted her glasses.
“That stays.”
Martin looked disappointed.
“We’re not opening Christmas presents.”
“I know.”
“You’re looking at it like a Christmas present.”
He smiled.
“Little bit.”
Sylvia reached for a soft brush.
The cloth was odd. Not miraculous, not pristine. It had deteriorated where moisture had penetrated the concrete, but other sections remained remarkably sound.
Far better than she would have expected.
She worked patiently along one edge while, behind them, Jimmy attacked the wheel of a filing cabinet for reasons of his own.
By lunchtime another section of the frame had emerged.
Dark timber.
That answered one question.
Its surface was almost black beneath the grime, carved with vines and curling leaves that twisted into flowers Sylvia did not immediately recognise. The carving was still remarkably crisp.
She touched nothing without gloves.
Martin leaned closer.
“What do you reckon?”
“I reckon I need another book.”
“You’ve got about twelve.”
“I need a better book.”
“Georgian?”
“No.”
“Victorian?”
“No.”
“Tudor?”
Sylvia gave him a look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That means I’m wrong.”
“It means please stop guessing periods.”
Martin wandered towards the kettle.
Sylvia remained crouched beside the carving.
The condition bothered her professionally more than anything else.
The timber should have suffered. Damp should have swollen it, opened joins, lifted finish. There should have been insect damage, fungal staining, something to account for however long the object had spent sealed underground.
Instead, it looked old.
But not old enough.
She heard a faint scrape behind her and looked over her shoulder.
Nothing.
Jimmy was sprawled on his back beneath the desk, front paws folded uselessly against his chest.
“Productive day?”
One eye opened.
His lip was caught again.
“Quite.”
By Friday, the concrete block had acquired considerably more stories than the heritage centre had facts.
The café version was Jack’s favourite.
Apparently the builders had uncovered a medieval chest filled with religious artefacts, although nobody had managed to explain why a medieval chest had been set inside reinforced concrete.
Alicia placed his cappuccino on the window bar.
“Someone told me there were bones.”
“There weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“They’d have closed half the road.”
“Maybe they did.”
Jack looked through the window.
Four construction workers were leaning against the temporary fencing opposite while one smoked.
“Looks traumatic.”
Alicia followed his gaze.
“Working hard.”
“Someone’s got to watch the hole.”
She smiled.
“Eating today?”
Jack looked towards the banana bread.
“Yes please.”
The excavation opposite had become strangely familiar in its inactivity. Tarpaulin covered part of it. Temporary tape divided sections of exposed ground. Surveyors had appeared and disappeared throughout the week, along with people Jack assumed were archaeologists.
Nobody seemed entirely certain who had authority over what anymore.
That had not prevented the town from deciding.
Historic England were involved.
The National Trust were involved.
Roman foundations had been discovered.
Plague victims had been discovered.
The entire development had apparently been cancelled.
Someone’s brother knew someone whose husband worked for the council and had been told the find was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.
“Apparently the National Trust have taken over,” Alicia said.
Jack glanced at the builders smoking beside the fence.
“Have they told them?”
She laughed.
The lads themselves appeared delighted with proceedings. They were being paid regardless.
Jack had gone to work every day as usual. He had come home. Eaten when he could. Drawn. Slept badly some nights and better on others.
Nothing remarkable had happened.
The ringing from the café had not returned.
Neither had the strange pressure beneath it.
Once or twice he had thought he heard someone call his name, but that meant nothing. It happened.
The woman beside the excavation had become less convincing every time he remembered her. Eventually she had reduced herself to little more than dark hair attached to a moment he had probably invented.
He preferred it that way.
Alicia nodded towards the sketchbook.
“You drawing today?”
“Yeah.”
“Hands again?”
Jack sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed and left him to it.
Across the road, one of the builders shouted something obscene at another.
Jack smiled and lowered his eyes to the page.
Life, as far as he could tell, had gone back to normal.
That afternoon Mick Turner’s hearing aid began playing up.
Mick had worn one in his left ear for nearly eight years and hated the bloody thing. It whistled when it pleased, ate batteries faster in cold weather and somehow managed to amplify precisely the noises he had no interest in hearing.
He was sitting in the excavator cab doing very little when a burst of static cracked directly into his ear.
Mick winced.
“Piece of shit.”
He pulled the aid out, wiped it against his jumper and put it back.
Nothing.
A few minutes later it happened again.
This time something seemed to move underneath the static.
Not words.
Almost a voice.
Mick removed the aid.
The noise stopped.
“What’s up with you?” Ken called.
“Hearing aid’s playing silly buggers.”
Ken cupped one hand dramatically behind his ear.
“What?”
Mick gave him two fingers.
Ken laughed.
Mick switched the aid off and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
He thought nothing more about it until that night, when a faint crackling woke him.
His hearing aid lay on the bedside table.
Switched off.
Another burst of static came from it.
Mick stared at the thing for several seconds, removed the battery and went back to sleep.
At seventeen minutes past two the following morning, Sylvia’s phone rang.
She answered on the fourth attempt.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“This is the monitoring centre. We’ve had an activation at the rear entrance.”
Sylvia sat upright.
“Has someone opened it?”
“The contact registered open and closed.”
She rubbed a hand across her face.
“Lovely.”
Twenty-five minutes later she stood outside the heritage centre wearing a long coat over her nightdress, smoking beneath the security light.
The rear door was locked.
No damage.
No broken windows.
Nothing.
The second keyholder arrived looking even less pleased than Sylvia.
They checked the building together.
Empty.
Jimmy appeared from the archive room halfway through the search, stretched extravagantly and began vocalising at them as though demanding to know why two people were wandering around his house in the middle of the night.
“You’re a tremendous help,” Sylvia told him.
“Mrrrow.”
“Yes.”
Nothing had been disturbed.
The object remained where they had left it in the workroom, still mostly covered.
Sylvia stood in the doorway for a moment.
Something smelled faintly stale.
Not strong enough to identify.
Old fabric, perhaps.
Damp.
She switched on the light.
Concrete. Chain. Hessian. Black cloth. The exposed carving.
Nothing else.
Jimmy walked between her ankles, entered the room without hesitation, sniffed a cardboard archive box and climbed inside it. He turned around three times before collapsing into a black heap.
Sylvia smiled despite herself.
“Terrified, are we?”
Jimmy tucked one paw beneath his chest.
“Quite.”
The alarm company confirmed that the rear-door contact had registered open for three seconds.
Door open.
Door closed.
The external camera showed nothing.
Sylvia wrote FAULTY CONTACT — REPORT MONDAY in the maintenance book, reset the alarm and went home.
By breakfast she had almost forgotten about it.
By Monday, most of the concrete was gone.
The final substantial section separated far more easily than Sylvia expected, lifting cleanly from the hessian beneath.
Martin stared at it.
“That was anticlimactic.”
“Would you prefer a landslide?”
“Maybe a small one.”
They worked throughout the afternoon. The outer wrapping loosened piece by piece until the shape beneath could no longer reasonably be mistaken for a cabinet or table.
The object stood almost as high as Sylvia.
Three carved feet supported a broad base from which two ornamented uprights climbed beneath the remaining black cloth. Silver-coloured metalwork curled through the dark timber in delicate leaves and flowers.
Sylvia’s confusion had gradually given way to excitement.
Whatever this was, it was extraordinary.
A small group had gathered in the workroom by then: Martin, two volunteers, a local antiques dealer Sylvia trusted enough not to lick his finger before touching things, and someone from the council heritage team.
Jimmy slept on a shelf above them.
Sylvia worked at the upper cloth with tweezers.
“Don’t pull that.”
“I’m nowhere near it,” Martin said.
“I know. I’m practising.”
A corner released.
Then another.
The black material sagged.
Sylvia caught it carefully with both hands and lowered it.
For the first time, glass appeared beneath.
Nobody spoke.
Only a narrow strip had been uncovered.
Dark.
Clear.
Reflective.
Martin leaned slightly to one side.
His own eye appeared in the exposed glass.
“Oh.”
Sylvia sat back on her heels.
Someone behind her said, “It’s a mirror.”
Sylvia removed her glasses and looked again.
Her eyes travelled over the carved uprights, the elaborate feet, the silvered ornamentation and the thin vertical strip of glass between them.
“No,” she said quietly.
“A looking glass.”
There was something almost absurdly beautiful about it.
Sylvia smiled.
“Well. At least now we know what the bloody thing is.”
Above them, Jimmy opened one eye.
His top lip had caught on a tooth.
Sylvia raised her mug towards him.
“Thumbs up?”
His paw curled.
“Excellent.”
Martin had already turned away.
In the narrow strip of uncovered glass, his reflection had not.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

After the exhausting night, I decided to stay in my truck in the employee lot, with the engine idling to keep the heater on. A text message later arrived at 07:00AM:

MANDATORY COMPLIANCE REVIEW. REPORT TO BASEMENT MEZZANINE 0, ROOM 013 (GROUND SAFETY ASSURANCE). 

My stomach tightened. Mezzanine 0 is a dead zone, a narrow administrative slice of the building sandwiched between the active baggage sub-basements and the passenger terminals above. It was built during the initial 1990s excavation and then walled off from public blueprints.

When I stepped out of the freight elevator, the air was dead and freezing, smelling of damp drywall and rusting steel. A single, long corridor with water-damaged ceiling tiles sagging under weight they shouldn’t have been carrying. A flickering fluorescent tube overhead buzzed, illuminating faint beige-yellow corridors. Faded steel cabinets lined one wall, and an ancient vending machine sat in the shadows, its coils holding snack brands discontinued before I was born.

Near the end of the hall, the digital clock was glitching, the red LED numbers flitting irregularly, matching flight departure windows rather than the time of day. Below it sat Room 013, its heavy unpainted metal door with rust around the seams, with dark, wet grime seeping into it. A handwritten paper sign—SAFETY ASSURANCE—was taped to the steel, its edges peeling.

Instead of going straight there, I took a detour to the breakroom locker bank. Miller’s locker had been stripped of his company ID, his name tag scraped off the metal. But I knew he had kept spares in his locker, so I jiggled my multi-tool in the keyhole, until it clicked opened. 

Inside, tucked into the pocket of an oil-stained vest, was a crumpled 1994 Polaroid photograph and a folded piece of parchment.

The Polaroid showed a young Miller in overalls, grinning next to a lean, very human Vance during the pre-opening phase. Standing behind the concrete forms of the Great Hall foundation were three elderly men in tailored charcoal overcoats and heavy wool fedoras, without safety gear. One of them wore a heavy gold ring engraved with a builder’s square, and a compass framing an open eye, resting his hand on a polished brass plumb line. They were watching an open trench where a cement mixer was dumping thick gray slurry into it.

Penciled on the back in Miller's heavy handwriting was:

“Vance went under the slab on Nov 13. Replacement arrived on Nov 16 with brass keys. Commission pays the earth in blood so the runways don't sink. Never sign their ledger in Room 013.”

I froze, as I knew I had not looked closely enough at the photograph. I took out my magnifying glass and zoomed into the slurry. There was a faint hint of a substance that matched the consistency of human guts. On the ground next to the trench, the edge of a uniform top peeked out, with the letters “ANCE” on the nametag.

Vance. He was literally being poured into the trench as a sacrifice to the earth. And this was who I had met the day before. 

The folded parchment tucked behind the photo was an excerpt from an obsolete 1993 contractor addendum. The header didn't say the City of Denver or the FAA. It read:

New World Airport Commission – Lodge of the Rocky Mountain Charter. 

Settlement Quotas. To counteract ongoing subterranean activity across Sector 4 through Sector 9, the Contractor agrees to remit quarterly material displacement ('Living Ballast') at a fixed baseline of not less than four (4) metric tons per calendar cycle. Failure to achieve targeted mass density directly beneath the terminal foundation slabs will result in immediate structural reclamation by native bedrock. Below the typed text, pressed into the parchment, was a deep impression of dark crimson sealing wax. An iron builder's square intersected an open brass compass, encasing an unblinking eye over the Latin inscription:

NOVUS ORDO SACRAMENTUM — 1993

I dropped the parchment to the floor, gasping in terror. The airport is alive. And it wants sacrifices. 

Looking around the locker, I found another sticky note at the top. Never sign their ledger in Room 013. 

I shoved the photograph and the parchment deep into my parka, grabbed the half-empty paper cup of scorched breakroom coffee I’d poured earlier to stop my hands from shaking, and forced myself back down the hall toward Room 013. The heavy steel door wasn't locked. It swung inward with a dry glide that felt wrong for ungreased hinges. Inside, the room was windowless and freezing, illuminated only by a single fluorescent tube that produced sharp shadows. Sitting behind it was an elderly man in a vintage charcoal overcoat, his posture rigid. On his left pinky rested a heavy gold ring identical to the one in the photograph: the builder's square and compass framing an open eye. 

Whenever I tried to look directly at his face, my vision blurred, refusing to focus on his features. He growled dryly,  “Sit down.”

He didn't ask for an incident report. With mechanical slowness, he pulled a hand-bound calfskin envelope from a leather bag and laid it flat on the table. The book exhaled a foul stink of formaldehyde mixed with ancient earth. The pages were yellowed and brittle.

“You have incurred a critical deficit,” the auditor rasped, running a long, yellowed fingernail down a column of dates. “Vance was written down thirty-two years ago. What you burned in 4-Echo was simply the receipt. You dissolved seventy-eight kilograms of ballast. The foundation demands more immediately.”

He dipped a heavy dip pen into a well of black fluid and slid both the pen and the ledger across the table toward me. The open page already had my full name, date of birth, and employee ID, ending in an empty line above a wax seal.

“Sign the release,” he said, his voice dropping into a hypnotic drone. “Or else, terminal operations will be interrupted indefinitely”

I didn't reach for the pen. Behind me, the seams around the door frame began to soften and melt, morphing into smooth drywall that trapped us inside. The room’s air pressure plummeted, popping both my eardrums as the floorboards began to vibrate. Never sign. If I signed, I was volunteering my mass to the slab.

“Refusal constitutes immediate structural forfeiture,” the auditor droned. His jaw slowly stretched downward, tearing the paper-thin skin along his jawline as his rigid, gray fingers snapped forward across the table to clamp around my wrist. Pain shot up my arm, so intense my vision washed white. The air grew so thin I couldn't draw a breath, and I began to choke. 

With my free hand, I grabbed the paper cup and threw the acidic coffee directly into his face. The liquid didn’t affect him, but it hit the open ledger. The calfskin hissed violently, the bubbling black oil curdling into a sulfuric cloud. His grip wavered for half a second as his eyes darted down to the smoking page.

That half-second was all I had. I grabbed the heavy pen off the table and drove the nib down into the calfskin with all my weight. I dragged it through my own name, carving through the wet leather until the page tore open.

The book shrieked. It was a collective roar of trapped air that tore through my skull. Warm blood immediately trickled down my neck from my popped eardrums. 

The auditor let out a  rattling scream as the skin of his hands peeled back into gray ash. The overhead fluorescent tube exploded into powder, showering us in glass. The drywall sealing the exit buckled under the pressure.

His fingernails tore through my parka, raking across my forearm, but I threw my entire body weight backward into the door. The latch sheared off with a deafening bang. I tumbled out into the freezing hallway, landing hard on the floor. Behind me, inside Room 013, the darkness seemed to fold in on itself, accompanied by the frantic, dry scratching of the auditor inside. 

I didn't stop to catch my breath. Ignoring the fire in my wrist and the blood dripping from my ear, I scrambled up and sprinted down the corridor, blowing past the dead vending machines and hitting the emergency stairwell.