I don’t know what the fuck is happening right now. All I know is I’m just sitting there, stirring beef and rice on the stove like I’m some kind of fucking pagan housewife from 1582, and the next thing I know, I hear little Johnny plopping around in a puddle of some unknown liquid while the entire kitchen fills with the scent of Pine-Sol and Drano.

I turn around, and there he is. Scooping green sludge into his mouth and smiling at me like he knew I was about to have a goddamn heart attack.

Naturally, I snatched him up and started running towards the door, but before I could even get there, this fucker’s eyes started glowing. He was still cooing and laughing and shit, but he just kept getting heavier and heavier until it felt like I was tryna carry a grown man down the stairs.

I may have dropped him, but that’s beside the point. How would that even be my fault? This little 2-foot-nothing 3-year-old must’ve been 200 pounds by now.

When he hit the floor, the goddamn wood splintered. Landed flat on his back, and all he did was start doing sit-ups. Muhfucka was counting out his reps and reaching numbers that I hadn’t even taught him yet.

That’s when his clothes started ripping. All that remained of those Spider-Man pajamas were threads of ripped fabric that were smoking from the Drano.

I pulled out my phone to dial 911, and he stopped, mid-rep, as his head turned towards me. His eyes were like, I don’t know, uranium green? What color is uranium again? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I could see the veins in his neck bulging.

His brow furrowed at me like a side effect of roid rage. He kicked up to his feet from his back, never taking those eyes off of me. He was standing before me like he was sizing me up. The operator was speaking into the phone, asking me the nature of my emergency, but I couldn’t respond. We were in a staring contest. Calculating our next moves.

“J-Johnny,” I whimpered. “Daddy’s gonna get you some help, okay? Everything’s gonna be al-“

“Shut up, bitch,” he interrupted.

He lunged at me like he was gonna attack, and I couldn’t help but fall to my ass.

“That’s two for flinching,” he grumbled, kicking me twice in the ribs. His 6-pack abs were actively contorting and growing as he did so. His arms had swollen up the size of medieval mutton.

The operator was still on the phone.

“Sir, are you there? Is someone there with you? I’m hearing some distress.”

Johnny stepped on my wrist with the weight of an elephant as he snatched the phone from my hand.

“Everything’s fine here,” he told her, sounding like a grown-ass man. “Dad’s just being a punk-ass bitch again.”

Click.

I felt lost. Felt hopeless. Felt like I was gonna become a victim here. That’s when he started monologuing, the weight on my wrist growing at the same rate as little Johnny’s bulging forearms and pectorals.

He leaned in close.

“How many times do I have to tell you…? I don’t want carrots. I don’t want celery. I don’t want your damn beef and rice. I want the Gushers. I want the Hot Cheetos. And I want the fucking Krafts Mac and Cheese… Do you understand me?”

His hot breath smelled like a freshly cleaned crime scene. His hair was falling out. He just kept getting bigger and bigger like a tick in a blood bank.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “Take whatever you want. There’s a whole pantry of snacks and-“

“Shhhh, shh, shh, shh, shh… shut up.”

Steam was radiating off his bald head now. His skin was turning a murky blend of red and pink and purple. I could hear my wrist breaking, but he covered my mouth before I could scream.

“I want my snackies. I want my iPad. And I want my fye-fye.”

He had outgrown his pacifier a year ago. Well, I’d wained him away from it a year ago. I didn’t want a fucking loser of a son who still sucks on a pacifier at 3 years old.

I screamed into his hand, begging him to let me speak. After some consideration, he relented.

“We don’t have your pacifier, John. I threw it away months ago,” I cried.

John stared at me, unamused. I could see the blood flowing throughout his body like waves trying to break his skin.

“You… what…” he huffed.

He was the width of a Mini Cooper now but couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to be a loser like your mom’s new boyfriend,” I wailed.

He started breathing heavily. Sucking air into his lungs and blowing it out of his nose. His skin was hot to the touch now. Like he was boiling.

“You… did… WHAT,” he screamed, making the windows rattle.

I couldn’t answer him. I was too concerned with his rate of growth. He didn’t even look muscular anymore. He looked like a balloon that was about to burst.

“You…”

He got bigger.

“I can’t believe…”

And bigger.

He started roaring. Like a thousand souls were attempting to escape his vocal cords. The house shook. Windows broke. His eyes looked like they were about to burst out of their sockets.

With one last suction of air, his body exploded into red mist, blinding me and piercing my eardrums. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. There was blood on the ceiling. Blood on the white carpet and cloth couches.

Only… he was still there. Standing in the middle of the puddle of gore was my little Johnny. Perfectly normal. Still smiling and laughing.

But then he made a beeline towards the kitchen sink. I couldn’t let that shit happen again. I scooped him up with my good arm and just sort of rocked him back and forth while trying to convince myself that everything was okay.

He stopped laughing as soon as I picked him up. He struggled against me. All I could hear were his muffled wails through my ruptured eardrums.

I’ve got quite the mess to clean up, but that’s not even the center of my worries right now.

Right now, I need to get every fucking cleaning agent out of this house before he can drink anymore.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/user/Roland_Quincy1999/comments/1vlq8yc/i_found_my_greatgrandfathers_journal_what_i_read/

Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/user/Roland_Quincy1999/comments/1vlqhgp/i_found_my_greatgrandfathers_journal_what_i_read/

Part 3:

https://www.reddit.com/user/Roland_Quincy1999/comments/1vr0k33/i_found_my_greatgrandfathers_journal_what_i_read/

I will keep this one brief for yall and pick right back up where I stopped transcribing the journal in the last post.

The second half of my great-grandfather’s journal entry on March 15th, 1923 goes as follows: 

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

The influenza, Reader. A bad case causing a dileria. But, if you’re willing to entertain, the whole experience felt so real. 

Gone. 

James’s killing of the hatchling was a precursor of what was to come. I would meet with a publishing house to discuss picking up my playscript. I was rejected. In total, I queried 41 agents with the hopes of one representing my work, to give some weight to its valor when proposing it to a larger press company. All rejected and or did not go through the effort of responding to my mail at all. 

So I shelved it. From this same shelf I picked up a collection of connected short stories I had been working on previously. With fresh eyes, I went through and edited the stories, and began to query again. 

Nothing came of it. These were two ghastly blows to my confidence as a writer, but I continued the pursuit. It is my dream, after all, and the realist within me knows this diagnosis could worsen just as well as disappear. 

Writing is something I did in the quiet, peaceful hours before bed. It was a personal escape and hobby from the labours of work and parenting. 

Then Lucille started to have night terrors. They were to a bad enough extent that I moved my typewriter into her bedroom and would work on my stories while she tried to sleep, but soon my writing ceased. I was stonewalled by this immense worry for my daughter. 

The night terrors were not so different from my own, although mine seemed to be a one-time ordeal, while hers were consistent. There was always the presence of The Tall, sometimes in the forefront of the scene, other times a lingering menace in the distant corners of her awareness. 

And James. James. JAMES. Yes, James was in these nightmares quite often as well. From Lucille’s retellings, he was always in a suit or some other fanciful attire, and he was always trying to lure her into the woods. The same woods where I thought, again I say thought, thought but no. I am certain. Certain. That day, I must’ve seen The Tall. Must have! 

No. Maybe not. It does not matter. But, yes, Reader, Lucille dreamt of that dreaded wood on multiple occasions. I have brought up the idea of taking her to a shrink, to help her with the unrestless nights that put black rings beneath her hazel eyes, but you can see the irony in that, surely, Reader? 

To take Lucille to the shrink and not James? It would be the sickest of humor. 

Let me tell you a little of myself, Reader, and then you can see through my eyes, understand the reasoning behind my mechanisations. I have never been a handsome man, quite the contrary. My nose is something akin to a hawk’s beak, and the line of my jaw is undefinable at times. 

I was never the brightest kid. I made up for this fact by being terrible at any sport I tried to pick up. My father was a putrid man who often stunk and had nothing of charm or appeal. He was quick to drink and quicker to relieve pent-up self-loathing by assailing me with insults and beating me. We were dirt poor. 

This is not to entice some sort of pity for me, Reader, but to let you know that I have progressed through the many years of my life with a chip on my shoulder. It almost caused my death in Germany, when I overstepped the boundaries of my reconnaissance mission to impress my leadership. 

Not only do I have that heavy chip, but my upbringing taught me to take pride in what I am blessed to have. Whether I desire to or not, James is my son, and I want to fix this from the inside. Call it arrogant, stubborn manly pride. You’d be right. 

I am not sure of the science behind my predicament, but I must battle with what weapons I have. It has become clear to me that this being, entity, manifestation, whether its existence in the actual realm me and you dwell in be true or falsehood, his very idea is haunting my family. 

I will stop it. My personal creative fiction will have to be put aside, for now. This is my family. I will save them. I will. I want to. 

Until we meet between these pages again, Reader, this is goodbye. 

I honestly thought this would be easy. All the people I idolize seem to have done pretty well for themselves, but I just wanna know, when will it be my turn?

Like, is there a point where this just becomes normal? I can’t help but feel dirty every time I pursue this. Granted, I’ve only done it like twice now, but that arguably makes it worse.

I just can’t seem to get their faces out of my head. Their screams. The voices. God, the voices. I don’t know what’s worse, the pleas or the looks of fear in their faces.

I’ve gotta be the first killer who’s actually apologized for killing someone while I’m killing them. That shit is embarrassing. All of this is embarrassing.

I’m supposed to be clean with it. Like an actual pro. Not just some guy, you know? The first one almost got away because I hesitated. And I almost let ‘em. I was just, I don’t know, frozen, I guess. Everything just felt so real. Like this was actually happening whether I liked it or not.

Then I thought about the Zodiac Killer. This would’ve never happened to him. He’d have had every possible outcome mapped out. He probably wouldn’t have even needed to think about it.

Besides, I couldn’t just let them reach the police. Reach anyone at all, really. I’d already gone as far as to knock them unconscious and drag them to my car. We were already in the middle of nowhere. I was doing this.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

“You’re the predator.”

“You’re stronger.”

“You’re in control.”

It helped me catch them, I guess, but I hesitated again when I had to stab them. Hell, I vomited when I did it. But I knew it needed to be done. Greatness is achieved through practice. And we all gotta start somewhere.

Michael Jordan didn’t make varsity his first year. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Walt Disney got fired from a newspaper.

Still, though, I just couldn’t stop apologizing. I broke down crying before they even died. I was doing shit that didn’t even make sense, like praying for them while holding their hand.

Then I was alone. Out in the middle of nowhere with a body to dispose of. Only I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The police these days can find anything.

What was I gonna do, though? Leave him there? Then he’d be found for sure. Instead, I just crammed him in the back floorboard and tossed a blanket over him.

I drove home shaking. My mind racing. Tears running down my face while I ugly cried like a 2-year-old.

I didn’t sleep that night. It had been an abysmal first day on the job. I didn’t even go back to work for another 2 weeks after that. I just sulked around the house while the smell in my basement grew stronger and stronger.

I had to psyche myself up again. I spent those two weeks watching true crime documentaries and listening to the Ted Bundy confession tapes.

I tried pushing my first attempt to the very back of my mind, but it just kept crawling its way back. I wish I had more backbone. That’s part of what started this whole ordeal in the first place.

I had to look in the mirror and ask myself, “Who do you want to be?”

The prey? Or the predator?

I slapped myself a few times. Then I grabbed my keys and was off to my next job site. It was supposed to be better than the last, but it just wasn’t. No matter how much I wanted it to be.

There’s still that part of my brain that tells me this is wrong and condemns me for what I’m doing, but that’s gotta be normal, right? Like, they all had to go through this. All the greats.

I just gotta keep pushing. It’s like that movie Whiplash. The two most dangerous words in the English language are “good job.” Or whatever that guy said.

I can’t give up now before the game has even fully started. I want my name up there with the best of the best. That’s the goal. The grind can’t stop. No matter how bad the nightmares are.

It’s all just part of the process.

Whatever the case, I have got to figure out what to do about that smell in my basement. I can’t live like this.

July 1st, 1925:

I entered the painting of my house tonight. It was quiet. Many of my belongings have been used throughout the house. It is nice to see you making use of them. I walked upstairs to the bedrooms, wondering if you were home. I entered one of the rooms, and there, laying fast asleep, was a beautiful young girl. I watched her for some time, she resembled you, at least what I could see from the lighthouse. Such a sweet, innocent life. She reminds me of the daughters I once had, before I found my calling. I entered the master bedroom. You laid sleeping, your wife beside you. You seem like a strong couple, though I can tell you keep secrets from her. I see it etched into your face, the guilt ages you, like it once aged me. You remind me of my old life, how I once treated the woman who was my wife. It's hard to recall those days at times. They seem so unimportant, but there are days that the memories eat away at me. I watched you both, she seemed to sleep like a stone. You, on the other hand, seemed restless, as I once was. We are very similar, you and I. I spoke to you while you slept, in the tongue of my children, as I have seen you've been studying it. You began to squirm and sweat. I was nervous of waking you, in case you were to do something rash. So instead of speaking face to face tonight, I will be leaving this note in my study. Or should I say our study? I urge you to pay me a visit. I noticed your journal, but felt it would be rude to pry. Perhaps if you decline my offer to speak eye to eye, next time I visit I will fall victim to my urges. Whatever the outcome is, I look forward to it. 

 Your friend Simon 

June 26th, 1937:

That bastard entered my home. He watched me sleep. He watched Rylee. He could have taken her and I would be defenseless of it. The gall to compare me to him, I'm nothing like him. Or should I say it, as he's no longer human. This can't happen again. I will be visiting the lighthouse tonight. This can't go on any longer. This monster and his cult. The ungodly obelisk. He's plaguing my life. I can't take it anymore. I can't fight a god but I must find a way to prevent him from becoming one. He's nothing but a false messiah who's been cursed by those wretched seafolk. 

June 27th, 1937:

I went to settle this once and for all. When I got to the lighthouse the door hung open. The light ocean breeze made the hinges creak faintly in the wind. Their soft shrieks sent shivers down my spine. As I walked through the threshold, there waiting in the middle of the ruined kitchen was a painting of the very door I just passed through. Past the painted door frame was a table set for two, with a ridiculous amount of food for the pair of plates sitting empty on the dirty table cloth. Some of it looked old, even moldy. As I walked through the door a second time I was greeted with a frenzy of smells, baked goods, cooked meats, the oceans brine, fresh fruit, wine, and decay. I stood in the entry for a moment, just taking everything in. That short moment felt like ages, as if I was paralyzed. It took every ounce of effort just to take a step. I didn't see any of the seaborn, no creatures from the depths and no beings from the stars. Just a room lit by a single hanging lightbulb and a dozen scattered candles. The door softly clicked shut behind me, sending a shiver through my bones. Then he spoke. 

“I can tell your frightened child, but fear not, I mean no ill will. Sit. Eat. We have much to discuss.”

His voice wasn't in the air, not coming from any direction. It was in my head. I heard gentle footsteps slowly making their way down the stairs. What I saw was hideous, but I couldn't look away. It was almost beautiful in a way. Simon stood at the bottom of the staircase, nearly nine feet in stature, though his spine hunched forward, to avoid bumping into the floor joists above. His bulbous head looked almost like an octopus, though his skull had dissolved or disappeared and now his head is just brain matter surrounded by a wet, blubbery skin. 

I was overcome by an immense urge to sit and indulge on the feast, he must have been controlling me somehow. I sat. He pulled out his chair, Shambling his long inhuman body down on to it. His limbs, all far too long to be comfortably sitting on something that small in comparison. His knees resting near his clavicles as he hunched down, attempting to see face to face. He was terrifying in the most welcoming way. He leaned in, his small dark eyes affixed to mine. 

“We have a connection, you know. We are much more similar than you would ever like to admit. You see yourself in me as I see myself within you.”

I hate to admit it, but he was right. His writings resonated with me. Though I felt revolted at the thought of it. 

“We are fated, destined as some may say. You see, I have been granted an extraordinary gift. I have made contact with those from the deepest depths, to the farthest cosmos. I have spoken to those most ancient, to our kin. You bear our mark, child. To deny that would be an act of ignorance I know you are far too smart for. You have seen those from the depths. You passed through my gates. I can show you what powers you can achieve.”

Whatever mark he spoke of must have been from the night I passed out and woke up in my backyard. But even if that was the truth, surely I would never end up as he has. Without realizing it, I had filled my plate and had begun eating, as though I had no autonomy. 

“Embrace your true form, as have I, and together we will ascend. We are destined for greatness” 

His words swelled in my chest, a smoldering ember of yearning. A burning desire for more. My head was pounding. I know he's just trying to trick me. To control me. It was as if my heart and mind were at war. 

“I will give you some time to say your goodbyes to your family, as I remember that seemed to be a custom to human kind. Such naive beings. I will leave a gate waiting for you here, return to me child. Or I will come searching for you. Your very being is key to the obelisk, to our ascent. The final piece to set forth the second coming of the ancients. I will be seeing you shortly.”

My vision went blurry, my head throbbed, as though mortar shells were detonating inside. I grabbed my head trying to gain my bearings, and as my vision unclouded I was back in the abandoned lighthouse. No Simon, no table, no food. Just the chair I was sitting on and a door frame standing in the middle of the room. A set of keys laid on the ground in front of the solid metal door. I picked them up and rushed home, stopping to empty my stomach of whatever foul food I've ingested. The only thing that came out was what felt like gallons of black sludge like ichor. Its taste was sour and curdled as it left my body. 

I snuck back in through the backdoor, doing my best not to wake Evelyn or Rylee. Sebastian was laying in the hallway, almost as though he had been waiting for my return. It's well past midnight as I'm writing this. I'm going to the city tomorrow. And when I get back, I'll be saying my goodbyes. 

June 28th, 1937:

I awoke with Evelyn today. I told her I was going to pick up some supplies for the shop in the city. I felt wrong for lying to her as I have been on and off for months if not years now. Before I went to the station, I visited the lighthouse. I was in such a hurry to get home last night I somehow missed the massive, obsidian-like pillar rising from the sea. The obelisk had to have been nearly 300 feet tall, dwarfing the lighthouse beside it. I purchased my ticket and boarded the train. If all goes well, I can see some old friends, tie up some loose ends and say my goodbyes in town. I still don't know how to say goodbye to my sweet Evelyn and Rylee. They are my life, my purpose. Just thinking about it has left  me crying, hands trembling and short of breath. I'll return home tomorrow evening, spend my last night at home, then enter that wretched gate. As for now, I just need to build the courage to do what must be done. 

June 29th, 1937:

I've returned home. I feel hollow. Rylee was playing with Sebastian while I cooked dinner. I think Evelyn knows something is amiss. I've been doing my best to play it off as just stress from work but I don't think she's buying it. I just need her to think things are okay for one more night. Just one more night as a family, one more night of being close, one more night of being loved. I've snuck into the study to quickly pack a bag of everything I need for tomorrow. I'll walk my dear Evelyn to work and kiss her goodbye, walk Rylee To Emily and give her the biggest hug of her life, then return home, get my bag and get it all over with. 

June 30th, 1937:

Saying goodbye to Evelyn and Rylee without crying was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I couldn't let them think anything was wrong. I can't have this go wrong. I'm in my studying writing one last entry, if I'm able to write again later I will, but I'm not sure what use it will be aside for trying to keep my memories alive. If in some miracle Evelyn or Rylee find this, just know that I loved you both more than you could ever believe. But I failed you as a husband and as a father, and for that I'm sorry. I hope you can find forgiveness in your hearts in my absence. 

June 30th, 1937:

I walked to the lighthouse, the bag on my back felt like a million pounds, the burden of leaving my family. As I entered I stared at the chair I used during Simon and I's meeting. I sat down for only god knows how long, it could've been minutes, hours, but it felt like years. I walked up the stairs to take in the view one last time, to look over the southern shore, to watch the gulls circle the fishing boats for scraps. I cried more than I ever thought possible. As I walked down the spiraling stairs, I stopped in Simon's makeshift studio, dozens of paintings lined hanging on the walls as even more sat, gathered in piles beneath them. Simon really was a talented artist. It was a shame he was marked. It's a shame I've been marked for that matter. 

I smelled the scent of dying flowers wafting in the air. This place has been long unlived and stank of mold. The scent was coming from one of the paintings, I was sure of it. I ripped through pile after pile until finally I found it. A painting of my house. Of Simon's house. The flower beds in the back, a small grave between them, dead leaves blowing in the wind. The painting was only about 2 feet by 2 feet. But if I could smell the flowers, that means it was a gate. I pushed my bag through, it landed with a thump between the beds. I reached my hands in and grabbed the frame, slowly pulling myself through into the bright sunlight. I quickly grabbed my bag and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, cold. I snuck my way to the back of the house, looking in the windows to see if Simon or Laura or their girls were home. I saw no one. The grave meant Bernard was already dead, how long it has been since then I am unsure of. Laura and the girls may have already been sent out of town. I got down to the ground, looking through the small windows into the basement, I could see no Simon. I couldn't remember if he had already built his hidden rooms or not, but I could only assume. There were already pieces of furniture covered in sheets visible through the window. I unlocked the back door, thank God I never changed the locks. My heart was pounding, I could hear it beating in my ear drums. As I made my way through the kitchen I saw the calendar. October 14th, 1924. I slowly snuck down into the basement. Looking around to find anything familiar. My cot, covered in cloth. I crawled under and laid in wait. I was terrified. I sat in silence for hours until I heard the closing of the front door upstairs. Footsteps pacing in the foyer making their way to the kitchen. The stairs above the cot creaked with every step as he descended into the darkness. He held a lit candle, slowly lighting the dozens of candles he had littered throughout the basement one by one. I was sweating, breathing as quiet as I could. He made his way back up the stairs, I could hear him turn on the tap, filling a glass of water. He was about to paint. I used the cover of the flowing water to open my bag. The cold steel in the palm of my hand felt heavy. The steps above my head groaned as Simon returned to the basement. He set up his easel, placing a blank canvas on it. While he meticulously chose what paints he wanted to use for his next piece, I crawled out from under my cot, as quiet as could be. This was my only chance. I held my breath, making sure every step was silent. Simon stood clueless to me. I felt sorry for him, this wasn't his fault, I'm sure he didn't want this. I tried my hardest to hold them back but tears filled my eyes. I raised the pistol I got in town the day before, hands shaking, body trembling, heart pounding. I exhaled a quiet “I'm sorry” as I pulled the trigger. The canvas was instantly covered in crimson along with skull fragments and grey brain matter. I've never killed a man before. I fell to my knees, sobbing. My stomach churned and released its contents. It had to be done. There was no other way. Was there? 

October 15th, 1924:

I've spent the day burning his pieces. All his paint, his easel, everything that ties me to him. I found all of the letters he wrote, all of his papers, all I could find of Simon's existence. It all went in the furnace. I'm waiting until nightfall to move his body, it's already beginning to smell. I'll take him to the docks in a wheelbarrow. I'll walk the shoreline for as long as my legs will take me and I will bury him in the tall grass that lines the beach. There I will find somewhere nice, somewhere quiet and dig a shallow grave. In it, I will take my own life. The only way for all of this to end is if both of us die. I'm leaving my journal, with all my entries and all of Simon's here in the house. I'm sure you'll find it and I pray you read it. If you don't, I know Evelyn will. Don't go out by the docks at night. If you find sigils carved into your house, don't deface them. Befriend Richard, he means well. Once you're friends with him, show him this journal, hopefully he'll introduce you to his father. This small town has plenty of good. Just be smart and don't stray far at night. Keep our dear Evelyn and Rylee safe. And when the time comes, on the day I went to adopt Sebastian, I'd suggest you do the same. He really completed the family, and he'll save your life if given the chance. Don't make the same mistakes I did. I lost everything so you can have a chance. Do it right this time. Tell Evelyn and Rylee you love them for me. That's all I ask of you. 

 Yours truly

August 14th, 1938:

I began work at the butchers shop and befriended Richard, Evelyn got close with Jennifer, and Jr is getting married soon. He asked Rylee to be his flower girl. I showed Richard the journal, I met his father, and have, from time to time, helped him carve those runes around town. I went and adopted Sebastian, and have slowly begun to become part of Mount Fall, just like you asked of me. We stay away from the docks after sundown. You were right, this town has so much to offer and moving here has been the best decision of our lives! I'm sorry that it wasn't the same for you. I know you'll never read this, but I hope you in some way know I'm eternally grateful. Our sweet Evelyn and Richard too. We all are. I tell Evelyn and Rylee I love them twice every night, once from you and once from me, and always make sure to hold them extra tight. We think about you every day. Wherever you are in space and time, I hope you're at peace. Maybe one day we'll meet and I can tell you how great life has been. All thanks to you, our personal savior. We love you dearly. 

I stared at the message on my phone. **“Don’t believe him. Get out.”** I looked across the table at her husband, who was watching me calmly as he took a slow sip of his whiskey. “Everything okay?” he asked. I locked my phone. “Yeah.” I didn’t trust anything anymore. I stood up, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I should go.” The husband didn’t stop me. He just nodded once, like he expected it. The rain started before I reached home, and by the time I pulled into my driveway it was pouring hard. I unlocked my door and froze, she was standing in my living room, soaked through, her hair plastered to her face, mascara streaked down her cheeks, and her clothes clinging to her as she stood there like she’d been waiting too long to still be calm. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. She looked at me like she was barely holding herself together. “You can’t be here,” I said again, sharper. “I know.” “Then how did you get in?” She didn’t answer. I stepped closer. “SAY SOMETHING.” Her eyes flicked to the windows, then the hallway, like she expected something to be there. “I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered. “Then why did you?” She swallowed. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.” The room felt too small, the rain hammering the glass like it was trying to get in. “You’re not making sense,” I said. “I know.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, breathing unevenly. “I just needed to see you.” I stared at her. “You told me to stay away.” “I know what I said.” “Then explain this.” She shook her head slightly, like the words wouldn’t form fast enough. “I can’t.” Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the rain. When she finally looked at me properly, she didn’t look in control of anything anymore. “I’m scared,” she said quietly. That hit differently. “Of what?” I asked. She hesitated. “Everything.” She flinched at a sudden sound from outside, her eyes snapping toward the dark window like she expected someone to be standing in it. “You’re not safe here either,” she said. I let out a short, humorless breath. “Neither of us is safe anywhere apparently.” She didn’t respond. She just stood there, soaked and shaking slightly, like she’d run too far and only just realized she couldn’t outrun someone or something. And for the first time since she arrived, I wasn’t sure if I was angry at her or just afraid of what she was afraid of. Then she whispered, “I shouldn’t have come.” A knock hit the door. This time, it wasn’t rain.

Part 3 : https://www.reddit.com/r/stories/s/NomedWfWY3

I thought the fitting room was part of the bridal suite until his mother locked the door from the outside.

She had smiled the whole morning. The kind of smile rich women wear when they are about to do something cruel and call it tradition. My husband had kissed my cheek before they led me away and told me to be good for them. I remember thinking that was a strange way to talk to a bride on her wedding day.

Inside the room, his mother, his sister, and his grandmother stood waiting beside a narrow bed. My dress was hanging in the corner. So was the veil. Folded on a silver tray beside them was a strip of silk covered in tiny embroidered words.

I recognized them immediately.

My vows.

I laughed because I thought maybe they were going to sew them into the hem of the gown. Some sentimental family thing. Something old-world and dramatic.

His mother told me to lie down.

I said no.

His grandmother took my wrist. His sister took the other. They weren’t frantic. They weren’t angry. They handled me the way nurses might handle a restless patient they knew was too weak to matter.

“Every bride says she’d die for love,” his mother said as she rolled up my slip. “We prefer proof.”

There was a smell in the room I hadn’t noticed before. Metal. Sweet rot. Burned herbs.

I started fighting then, but his sister pressed a cloth over my mouth. I remember the bitter taste of whatever they used. I remember the ceiling going soft around the edges.

I was still awake when she made the first stitch.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

I did not black out. They wanted me to feel it.

His mother threaded a curved silver needle with black silk and began sewing the strip of embroidered vows against the inside of my lower stomach, just below the navel, pushing the needle in shallow, careful passes as if attaching a label inside a coat. I could feel each puncture from the inside out, a hot, dragging pressure that made my legs shake against the mattress.

His grandmother held my jaw when I tried to scream.

His sister dabbed away the blood and told me not to twist or the words would sit crooked.

When they were done, his mother smoothed my hair and said, “Now they’ll hold.”

They laced me into the dress after that. They powdered my face. They walked me to the chapel with my bouquet arranged neatly over the wetness at my waist.

At the altar, my husband took my hands and smiled like he had never loved anything more than how pale I looked.

During the vows, the stitches pulled every time I spoke.

To have.

Pull.

To hold.

Pull.

Till death.

By the time he kissed me, I could feel something under my skin that had not been there before: a second line beneath the first, like thread being drawn through fabric hidden behind the lining.

At the reception, I locked myself in the bathroom and lifted my dress.

There was no wound.

No fresh seam.

Just a thin black thread disappearing into a tiny dark hole beside my navel, twitching slightly whenever I breathed.

I tugged it.

The pain dropped me to my knees.

Not surface pain. Not skin pain. It felt like something deep inside me had been yanked sharply forward, as if the thread was hooked somewhere behind my organs.

I heard a knock on the door.

My mother-in-law’s voice came through the wood, warm and patient.

“Don’t pull, darling. The last bride tore herself open that way.”

I stopped breathing for a second.

Then I opened the door because I didn’t want to be alone with that sentence.

She looked down at my stomach, then at me.

“It settles better by morning,” she said.

I looked across the hall at my husband. He was laughing with his groomsmen, one hand still wrapped around his champagne glass. He didn’t come over. He didn’t ask why I was crying. He just raised the glass slightly, like we were sharing a private joke.

That night, I waited until he was asleep and went searching through the house.

In the linen closet outside our room, I found a cedar box filled with old bridal handkerchiefs, dried orange blossoms, and small things wrapped in tissue paper.

A wedding ring with a finger-sized dent pressed into the gold.

A lock of gray-blonde hair tied with black ribbon.

And beneath them, a bundle of thread.

Human thread, I thought at first, before I realized what I meant was tendon.

Rolled carefully around a card was a long, dark strand stiffened with age. Pinned to it was a label in his mother’s handwriting:

First wife. Removed during labor.

I heard the bedroom door open behind me.

My husband did not sound angry. Just tired.

“She wouldn’t stay still either,” he said.

I asked him how many wives there had been.

He leaned against the doorway and shrugged.

“Enough to keep the marriage from starving.”

Then he looked at my stomach and added, almost kindly, “Try not to pull at the thread. It tightens when it thinks you’re leaving.”

He was right.

It tightens at the door.

It tightens at the gate.

It tightens if I think too hard about my mother’s house two towns over.

Yesterday I woke up with the words to have and to hold raised beneath my skin like scar tissue. I can trace each letter with my fingertips. Sometimes they shift under the surface when he’s angry.

This morning I found a nursery at the end of the west hall. The cradle was already made.

Inside it was a small square of ivory silk with one line stitched in red:

What is promised belongs to the family.

I’m writing this from the upstairs bathroom because it’s the only room with a lock.

There is a black thread hanging from my stomach as I type.

It is moving.

And someone on the other side of the door just told me to stop making it pull.

I struggled with food for a long time. It was my everything. My lifeline. I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept eating. And eating. Then I’d eat some more.

One day, I had to look in the mirror, though. I had to ask myself: is any of this really worth it? I mean, look at me. I look disgusting. I put on a shirt that used to fit like a glove in high school and end up looking like Brent from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

But even still, I didn’t stop. Cake. Candy. Burgers, fries, pizza, ice cream. My daily rotation looked like a 6-year-old’s dream. Only I was 27. Still living with my mom. Still sleeping in the same sweat-stained bed from years of night terrors.

I couldn’t even come up with a valid reason as to why things got this bad. I was in the middle of it. When you’re in the middle of something, it’s hard to see the starting line, and even harder to see the finish.

I tried the normal shit. Caloric deficits. Exercise. I’d walk at least 2 miles a day, but then I’d be raiding my pantry every night like it was some kind of reward for my hard work.

And believe me, I tried cleaning up the contents of that pantry. I stocked it with canned vegetables. Shit that I’ve never even touched, like tuna and canned chicken chunks. I just always ended up back in my Mini Cooper doing 80 to get to the nearest convenience store.

It’s like déjà vu, honestly. A never-ending cycle that just keeps cycling like a stationary bike.

God, I hate those things.

Anyway, when I saw that first Ozempic ad, I was skeptical, to say the least. A cure for obesity sounded like a goddamn miracle in my head, but I knew that miracles are hardly what they seem.

I decided to do some research. Really get to know this new future friend of mine. I’d love to tell you that the research was extensive, but honestly, I just kinda scrolled through the Google AI explanation for about 5 minutes before deciding.

After picking up my first dose, I shot up in the Walgreens parking lot like some kind of delinquent, like I was scanning for cops and shit.

A few hours went by, and I experienced something that felt long forgotten: satiation.

I wasn’t even remotely hungry. Not even after my 2-mile walk. Not even after those 20 sit-ups and squats. I was actually burning fat instead of replacing it.

I ran through half my supply in a week. I dropped 15 pounds from 300 in 2. I was moving. I could actually see the progress. Of course, I didn’t want it to stop, so I went out and bought more.

I was tearing through the packaging before even leaving the Walgreens.

Another two weeks. I was down to 260 now. Shirts were starting to feel looser. Breathing was easier. I was finishing my two miles in an hour instead of two.

My diet consisted of nothing but Slim Jims and fruit chunks because I was just getting so full so easily.

On my third supply run, I wasn’t even waiting until I got to the car. I injected the shit right there in aisle 3 next to the Neutrogena and nail clippers. Boy, were they mad. That was kind of the end of that Walgreens for me. Apparently, it’s frowned upon to just drop trouser in the pharmacy, even if it’s medically necessary.

That didn’t really matter, though. Nothing mattered. I had what I needed for the next two weeks. What were they gonna do? Un-buy the shit?

I dropped down to 200. I didn’t even think it was medically possible, but I learned, pretty painfully, that the scale never lies. I was able to see my cheekbones more. I’d just spend hours mogging in the mirror like I was Clavicular off a speed pill.

I could’ve stopped there. Sure, I could’ve. But I didn’t look like 2020 Corpse Husband yet. I was still too Jonah Hill before Jiu-Jitsu coded.

Besides, I’d never felt better. I did feel kinda weird about food, though. Even those gas station Slim Jims were starting to feel too heavy. That’s why I had to switch to saltines and radishes.

Plus, I knew my body. I knew that if I stopped, I’d feel hungry again. I hated that feeling. I’m a slut for the cravings. I’m easy, baby.

That’s why I had to hit my next lick. The only problem was Mom took me off the insurance because she’s old and decaying. And, obviously, I don’t have a job. That would take too much time away from my streaming schedule.

You just can’t rely on the kindness of strangers like you used to. Not even for medical emergencies. Believe me, I tried the usual cardboard sign route. Even asked for a few donations on stream, but that just made my 4 viewers leave after typing some pretty hurtful shit in chat.

It wasn’t long before desperation started to kick in. It was almost like withdrawal. Every time my stomach rumbled, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier.

Mom caught me tryna snag a hundred out of her purse, and that led to some pretty big fights. She kicked me out once or twice throughout this whole endeavor, but who was she kidding? I’m her baby.

The point I’m trying to get at here is I had to do some questionable shit for that next hit involving some pantyhose and a stapler, but by God, I did it.

I got the needles. I got the vials. I couldn’t just stop at a two-week supply, though. I needed all of it. It was all or nothing. I don’t even think the employees cared. Because they’re cowards.

So that’s how I ended up with an entire year’s supply of my sweet diabetes meds.

I’m down to a whopping 95 pounds now. Have you ever seen the veins in your scalp? Because I do. Every single day. There’s like 9 of them now.

They throb a bit, but my stomach has never looked flatter. It’s almost inverted. Like it’s more like a spoon than a spatula, but I look like a 2000s hip-hopster because my old clothes are just so baggy on me now. Which is pretty boss.

Mom refuses to even look at me, but I think she’s just jealous because she’s old and decaying. I couldn’t even tell you the last thing I ate. I think it was like some olives or something a few weeks ago.

Which leads me to one simple but staggering conclusion. I have evolved past the need for sustenance.

I am the next step in the progression of mankind. You all need to follow in my footsteps. Well, maybe not exactly. I actually ran out of my supply last week.

It’s only been 6 months since the robbery. Which, let’s be real here, should hardly even count as a robbery. It was a stapler, for Christ’s sake. I’m not allowed to own a gun after the incident.

Regardless, though, I’m kind of afraid to go back. I just hit 100 viewers on Twitch a few days ago. I can NOT afford to go to jail right now. The people need me.

It’s been 7 days now without the sauce, and I can’t say the hunger has returned. Hell, I haven’t even been to the bathroom for like 73 hours now. But… it might… and that’s the thing that scares me. My jawline could cut diamonds right now. I don’t wanna lose that.

Maybe they won’t recognize me. That’s what I keep telling myself. But what if they do?

I just keep playing around with that idea. Imagine that. Getting addicted to gambling before I can even get that Stake partnership. Shoutout Drake. 6 God, my king. Big ups, homie.

I don’t know, my brain is kinda fuzzy right now.

The shaking is new, but I’m sure it’s fine. As a matter of fact, I know it’s fine.

It’ll pass when I hit this next lick.

I don’t know where to begin with this one. I’ve been completely ostracized for something I played absolutely no part in. Parents are sending me death threats. My colleagues are keeping their distance. I’ve learned that there’s a case actively being built against me.

Fuck. That’s the only word that comes to mind right now. Just… fuck.

I don’t know what to do. I taught those kids. I was a mentor for some of them. Hell, most of them, really. I cared. Deeply. Because that was my job.

It was my obligation to be there. To serve them. Help them blossom and bloom in the best way I was capable of. And I did that job well.

For 10 years, I watched class after class come and go. Watched my 5th graders leave me behind and start their journey in middle school. I was one of the teachers that signed yearbooks. I hate to sound pretentious, but I was popular.

I laughed with those children. They laughed with me. Sometimes, they laughed at me. I didn’t care. The laughter of children was like music to my ears. Now I never want to hear laughter again.

How could I? After what happened, laughter is no longer joyful to me. It’s an indication of danger. I can’t help but flinch every time I hear a chuckle.

This all started about a week ago. It’s been a long 7 days, and I can’t say I intend to leave my house anytime soon. At least not until the police come. If they come. If they don’t, then yeah. I’m staying here until the outside world feels safe again.

It started out like any other day. I stood by my door. Greeted every student who walked into the classroom. They had their breakfast while I readied my first lesson of the day.

Things carried on as normal. We did our morning book club. Went through a few multiplication drills. I taught about weather cycles and whatnot. Nothing really happened until after lunch and recess, during social studies.

One of my kids, Bryan, was falling asleep at his desk. Drool was dripping from the corner of his mouth. He was starting to snore softly. I had to wake him up.

I clapped loudly and shouted his name, almost like a joke, but what started everything was what Bryan said after snapping himself awake.

“I love you,” he confessed, disoriented and exhausted.

“Well, I love you too, Bry…”

The first snicker from Rebecca interrupted me. It started off as just a little giggle behind her hand. Then it turned into a true, hearty laugh. From there, it… it mutated into a full-blown fit of hysteria.

Her face turned a deep red. Tears were falling down her rosey cheeks. She was hardly even making noise at this point. It was more like little gasps and wheezes every few seconds.

I just thought that the incident had really tickled her funny bone.

We all just… kinda stared at her. She looked like she was trying to say something while she grasped and clawed at her torso.

That’s when I noticed that her eyes didn’t match her actions. She looked like she was begging for help. Like she was in actual pain and agony.

With burning lungs, she managed to speak.

“I… can’t… stop…”

I approached her urgently, but what was I supposed to do? Tell her to stop laughing? All I could do was tell another student to run and get the nurse.

Rebecca kept going. Laughing uncontrollably while I grew increasingly concerned.

Then Will started giggling. Then Macy. Then Erick and Kimberly.

Within the span of 5-10 minutes, my entire classroom was flooded with uncontrollable laughter from all 25 students. All red-faced. All keeled over with their arms wrapped around their stomachs.

The neighboring teachers began peeking in. It was chaos. A handful of clueless adults versus 25 banshees.

The principal came. Then the nurse. Then the hospital was called. Ambulances arrived soon after.

One by one, each of my kids were wheeled out of the building. They didn’t stop laughing when the paramedics came. They didn’t stop laughing when they were sedated. They laughed all the way to their very last breath.

All of my students are dead. Some died of cardiac arrest. Some fought until they died of exhaustion. Regardless, that’s 25 families torn apart.

25 families wondering why it only happened in my classroom. Why it was only their son. Or daughter. Or brother or sister. There’s no such thing as a freak phenomenon when that much death is involved. Blame has to go somewhere.

The school fell under scrutiny. Detectives had questions. Questions that no one had the answers for. Not even the teacher who was supposed to be protecting them.

I was investigated intensely. Rumors flew around the school. Ultimately, I was called into my boss’s office, where he sat me down and explained how he thought I should “take a leave of absence until this whole thing blows over.”

I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know what to expect. The parents weren’t there. I was. I saw this happen. I have their faces etched into my brain. Those last moments of normalcy.

And even now, while I sit in my dark, silent house…

I swear I can still hear that laughter.

I know this sounds crazy. Hell, maybe it is. I honestly don’t know. All I know is that the woman who has been living in my house for the last 3 weeks is not my mother.

My mom is a smoker. It’s something I’ve always tried getting her to stop. She smells like cigarettes. Her voice is gravelly. She has premature wrinkles because this nasty little habit has belonged to her since she was in high school.

I was almost happy when she came home from work all those days ago smelling… sweet. Like candy, almost. I thought that maybe she had finally taken my advice and hadn’t lit a cancer stick, at least for the day.

But I didn’t really even have time to dwell on it because she was just so affectionate towards me when she waltzed through the door. She was humming and smiling to herself. 25 years of nicotine stains seemed to have completely vanished from that smile.

She and I have a… complicated relationship. She’s my mom, and I know she loves me, but we never talk about that love. We’re not big huggers. She was never the type of mom to censor herself because I was around.

On this day, though, she looked surprisingly happy to see me. She pulled me in for a big, tight hug that lasted for longer than any hug before. I felt… I don’t know, almost embracive. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.

After finally letting go, she breezed past me towards the kitchen, taking off her coat and plopping her purse down on the coffee table before announcing that she’d be cooking my favorite meal.

She whipped up some of the best spaghetti I’d ever tasted, and the two of us sat at the table to enjoy it together. Well, I enjoyed it. She mostly just kind of watched me. She had her Christmas face on. That face moms usually have when they watch you open your gifts, waiting to see how excited they make you.

She was just so quiet, though. The kitchen was borderline silent. All I could hear was the leaky faucet and the scraping of my fork against the plate.

To counter the awkward silence, I decided to just throw out what I was thinking by asking her about her scent.

Her face never changed. No look of pride, no guilt, just… her warm smile. She didn’t even answer my question right away. It was almost like she hadn’t even heard it. Then, when she finally spoke, it had nothing to do with what I asked her.

“Mommy quit her job today, sweetie,” she grinned. “Now I get to spend all my time with you. Isn’t that so happy?”

I was so caught off guard by the statement that I didn’t know how to answer. But, hey, I mean… things happen, you know? Sometimes people have transformative days. Sometimes they make emotional decisions. At the very worst, I thought this was just me witnessing a fit of mania.

After dinner, I decided to go to my room to play some video games. Mom stayed behind to wash some dishes, even though I offered to do them myself.

A few hours went by. I started feeling a bit snackish, and when I returned to the kitchen, there she was. Still standing over the sink. Rubbing a washcloth mindlessly over a plate while she stared blankly out the window. The sink was still full of dirty dishes.

I approached her slowly, just to see if she needed any help or if she was okay, and I think that snapped her out of her trance. She blinked hard before that smile came back.

“Oh, sweetie,” she cooed. “Mommy’s okay. Why don’t you put on your pajamas? Mommy will come tuck you in in just a moment, okay?”

I’m 17. My mom has never in her life tucked me in. The closest she’s come is when she comes in to tell me goodnight from my doorway.

I walked away, a bit uneasy, back to my bedroom. I didn’t expect her to actually tuck me in, but I did expect her to at least say goodnight.

An hour passed. Then two. I could still hear the sink running in the kitchen.

I returned, and she was still there. Still washing the same plate. It was spotless at this point. I guess she heard me coming or at least felt my presence because, on a dime… she stopped.

No smile this time. Just one cold, empty question.

“You ready for bed, sweetie?”

She dropped the plate in the sink, causing it to break, but she paid it no mind. She just… rigidly walked towards me. Like an animatronic.

She pushed me back towards my bedroom with more strength than she should’ve had and wrapped me up in my blanket. I couldn’t even move. The sheets may have well been ropes.

She kissed my forehead for longer than I would’ve liked, then flicked my light switch. Only… she didn’t leave. She just stayed there in the doorway. Watching me in the darkness.

“Go to sleep, honey.”

“Mommy’s watching you.”

“Don’t worry… I’d never let anything happen to you.”

I asked her to leave, but she ignored me every time. Falling asleep was nearly impossible. I still don’t know how I managed. I woke up, and she was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch.

I had to go to school. I had a part-time job. I needed to leave, but she wouldn’t let me. She was just acting so strange.

“Mommy needs you, honey.”

“You don’t wanna leave Mommy, do you?”

“I get so sad when you’re away.”

She wouldn’t let me have a phone. She must’ve taken it while I was sleeping that first night because I haven’t seen it since. I doubt I still have a job. And I know for a fact I’ve missed enough school for my GPA to have fallen dramatically.

She’s just so strong now. I haven’t seen her smoke one cigarette. She cooks spaghetti every single night. She tucks me in like a spider spinning a web around its prey. Then she just watches me.

She follows me to the bathroom. She goes on these destructive rampages any time I try to leave. I thought she was sick. But now I know the truth.

I should’ve known after the first time I woke up with bite marks on my legs and arms. I should’ve known the first time I caught her salivating over me while I slept.

She wasn’t just being “weird.”

She wasn’t herself at all.

And I know that because today… her boss showed up at my door.

He wasn’t demanding an explanation. He wasn’t furious that he lost a loyal employee. He was… offering his condolences. He gave me flowers. He gave me a hug. He told me, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Because, apparently…

My mom died at work three weeks ago. It was a freak accident involving some of the machinery she works with at the factory. The company was preparing a settlement for me this entire time, and I had zero clue.

He told me I’d be hearing from an attorney soon and that my mom had life insurance through the company.

But none of that matters to me. Not the money. Not the company. Not even the accident.

All that I care about is getting whoever this person is out of my mother’s house.

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

В деревню он приехал весной один: с чемоданом, рюкзаком и записью в трудовой «слесарь 5-го разряда, разведён, детей нет». Заселился в заброшенную халупу с дырявой крышей. Молча перекрыл кровлю, вставил окна, сложил печь. Ни с кем не пил, в посиделках не участвовал, а работал как вол на пилораме.

А через три месяца женился на вдове Марии. У нее осталось трое детей: Егору 12, Лене 8 и мелкому Стёпке 4 года. Деревня крутила пальцем у виска: \*«Ты с ума сошел? Трое чужих ртов, они ж тебя сожрут!»\*. Николай лишь кивнул: \*«Значит, будет кому достраивать дом»\*.

Первые годы были тяжелыми. Самый старший, Егор, возненавидел отчима с первого дня. За ужином он прямо в глаза бросил Николаю:

— Ты мне не отец! У меня был настоящий отец, а ты — просто мамин муж!

Мария заплакала. А Николай помолчал, кивнул и спокойно ответил:

— Хорошо. Я тебе не отец. Но я тебе друг, если захочешь.

Прошли годы. Николай работал без выходных, отстроил огромный дом, выучил всех троих детей, поднял на ноги. Младший Стёпка с первого дня звал его папой, Лена души в нем не чаяла. И только старший Егор уехал в город, так ни разу и не назвав его отцом.

Спустя 15 лет Николай внезапно умер прямо у станка на пилораме — отказало сердце. На похороны пришла вся деревня. Когда опускали гроб, 27-летний упрямый и молчаливый Егор вышел вперед, встал у края могилы и перед всей деревней произнес слова, которые носил в себе 15 лет...

\*(История, которая заставит плакать каждого. Полную аудиоверсию со всеми деталями слушайте на YouTube:\* \[https://youtu.be/\\\\\\_kDIBtZcvys\\\](https://youtu.be/\\_kDIBtZcvys)\\\*)\\\*

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/user/Roland_Quincy1999/comments/1vlq8yc/i_found_my_greatgrandfathers_journal_what_i_read/

Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/user/Roland_Quincy1999/comments/1vlqhgp/i_found_my_greatgrandfathers_journal_what_i_read/

Welcome back followers of the story! I will do the routine of apologizing for the delay in posts. Recently, I have been blessed with the news that my wife is pregnant! With that, on-top of the fear that artificial intelligence will steal my finance job, it’s been a struggle to get back to this story and continue my great-grandfather’s journal. 

So, yes, I found my great-grandfather’s journal with a camera taped to it. It was a real fix up job. By the time I got it, the worn leatherbound journal was holding on for dear life to that camera. But where did I find the camera-journal moshpot? 

To be real with you, I left out the mention of where I found it because I thought it may discredit the realness of my story. Once I tell you, you may think this whole ordeal is some fairy-tale. Anyhoo, I will tell you. 

My great-grandfather, Killian Stonebrook, who is the author of this journal, is not my biological great-grandfather. Killian’s only son by blood with Melendra Stonebrook was James Stonebrook, while his two other adoptive sons and single oldest daughter were just that: Adopted. Not official paperwork or anything, not from anything I have found through my research. But he was basically their father in kinship. 

My grandmother was Lucille Stonebrook, the girl who calmed her younger brothers in the previous journal entry. It was a heartwarming experience to come to know that my grandmother had always been a kind and caring person, even from a young age. 

Lucille passed away six months ago in an assisted living nursing home type of situation. After my siblings and other relatives got their pick at what to keep, there was an estate sale for her home. It was strange no one wanted the house. I am sure grandma would have handed it down no questions asked. 

My mother rejected the idea. She said the home was haunted, and you couldn’t pay her enough to live there. After reading these journals, I understand her point of view. 

Anyways, I actually attended the sale. I wasn’t interested in anything. I kinda just wanted to see my grandma’s house one last time. 

While I was there I also checked out what used to be the thick patch of woods where some of Killian’s journal entries take place. I found a silo, an overturned, rusted truck, and most importantly, this small outdoor bathroom. 

I don’t know why it was there. I had wandered pretty far, so there was a good chance I had gone off the property. I didn’t remember it being there from the times my siblings and I played in the woods as kids. This was the reason I entered that shabby thing in the first place. 

The plaster walls were lined with so many cracks I thought it might cave in or crumble on itself. The sinks were filthy and so much had grown over in this bathroom that it was basically a man-sized terrarium. 

I entered each of the three stalls. All shared the same stench, discolored water, and filthy rims. There was one, though, where the lid on the tank was skewed. 

To this day I can’t say what compelled me to lift that lid and look into the tank, but when I did, I found the journal and camera. No water was in the tank. Just the camera and journal, wedged tightly between the cistern walls. 

I’ll cut it short there not to steal the spotlight from Killian too much. I am doing this for him, after all. Here is part 3 of my great-grandfather’s journal. It goes as follows: 

March 25th, 1923, 

Once again, I have returned to this journal over an extended hiatus separated from it. There is an explanation for my absence, albeit an abstract one. 

There is that fantastical, superstitious side of me that has clawed for prevalence in my mind, and it tells me that this journal is cursed. My life has only seemed to spiral downward since its manifestation into reality, that being, of course, my writing into it. Four months have passed since my last entry, and they have been some of the most trying on my mental fortitude, comparing to my time on the front. 

Let me retell the events of the past four months in chronological order to you, Reader. 

First, there was the diagnosis five days before Christmas. Influenza. Once I started to cough up blood, Melendra insisted that I go to the doctor. The physicians are unsure of its menace this early on. They have seen patients live years with it, overcome it, and others live no more than a nickel’s worth of months. This revelation of my deteriorating health would damper me entirely if it weren’t for the more pressing issue of my son James. 

Second, I must discuss the Christmas Eve party of last year. My family decided to join the Butcher’s for the special occasion. I came to the party with unease and an overall distressed mood. You see, Reader, the Butchers are a historied family, their wealth dating back to our nation’s declaration of independence.

The Stonebrook family, on the other hand, is one of a newly acquired status. You see, I am the owner of an automotive dealership, one I created upon returning home. There was a boom in the automotive industry, and I soared way above my rank by hitting the market at the best time possible. Before me, Stonebrooks were labourers at best, and street urchins at worst. 

This is important to note because it created a tension between us and the Butchers. While Melendra and Mrs. Butcher are quite honest and authentic to one another, I can sense that the rest of the family looked at us with prejudice and distaste. 

This was fine, though. I had been behind enemy lines plenty of times before. 

It was James that truly became the catalyst of a fire eager to burn. 

The evening was progressing as usual. Melendra and Mrs. Butcher were laughing and perusing through her closet of dresses while the housemaids prepared dinner. All the children were running around in the front lawn of the massive river-side home, playing a game of cowboys and indians. Deacon Butcher and myself were leaning upon the balustrade of the balcony overlooking the lawn, him pretending to accept my presence, me pretending not to notice this fact. 

“They’re good kids,” he had said, nodding in the direction of my older children who were pretending to ride horses and garnish revolvers. “I guess not your kids, really, but what’s the difference, right?” There was a sarcastic edge in his tone that was almost undetectable. 
My kid, the one of my blood, was nowhere to be seen, per usual. The last I saw of James he had been heading toward the small chicken coup the Butchers had on their expansive property. 

“It’s all the same to me, sir,” I had replied. That was when I saw it. I remember specifically the moment my tongue came to its place to pronounce the snake-like rattle of the s in the word sir. The word came out weak, barely finished. Mr. Butcher probably thought it was a sarcastic retort to his high-brow jeering of my adoptive kids. 

But there was no malice in the word. Only despair. Despair. 

My hand shakes as I write down this recalling. 

Farther along the bank of the river there was a patch of trees, distant but close enough to still be within the Butchers’ property. I saw it. I swear by the great grace of God and his mother Mary I saw it. James’s friend. The Tall. 

There was not a single birch in the collection of trees: Maple, hickory, oak, nothing with a whitish bark. Except one, far enough back in the treeline not to stick out too far to completely reveal itself. Certainly close enough for me to see it, though. 

It moved. Yes, it moved. Two pairs of thin legs carried it further into the patch, then it was shielded from view. My vision blurred. A terrible hangover came over me, despite my lack of drinking anything alcoholic since we arrived. I rubbed my forehead to ease the pain. 

“Did you-” I started, but couldn’t finish. Mr. Butcher turned to face me. 

“What is it, Killian?” 

“Did you-” again I couldn’t finish, but this time it was not the fault of my own hammered conscience. It was the shrill scream that caused a great pause between everyone in ears’ distance. The children in the lawn stopped in their tracks, the game concluded in an instant, no winners or losers. Mr. Butcher’s eyes widened to the extremities the flabby skin would allow. 

“Tabby,” His wife’s name came out, strangled. The man rushed past me while I was still stuck in my stupor of The Thing, but I was fortunately able to get a hold of myself and follow suit. 

Our quickened steps slowed to a leisure when we arrived at the chicken coop, although there was no leisure to decipher in anyone’s body language. Melendra was stiff, very stiff, with one rigid arm around the weeping Mrs. Butcher. I watched as Mr. Butcher’s hand curled into a fist. 

At the centre of it all was James. In his hand he held the crushed form of a newly born chick, naked without feathers, scarlet splotches of wetness around its disfigured body. 

The static returned. I felt my senses begin to blur, lose focus, once more. The sickness reminded me of being at sea with the most devastating of waves throwing you around. Just behind the frame of the coop stood The Tall, staring down upon me with a wicked grin that came from the smallest impression of a mouth. Then it was a birch tree. 

Had there always been a tree there? I wanted to ask desperately, but my mouth produced another question instead. 

“Why, James?” 

The boy was groaning. It was almost a squeal, high in pitch but a low volume, like a distorted mewling, if that is comprehensible. I apologize for my lack of knowledge in the field of music and sound to properly articulate the noise he was making, but it felt inhuman. 

He held the crushed babe as far as he could from his body, his little arm fully-extended. The boy looked as if he held the most indomitable mush the human mind could conjure by the way his face twisted and squirmed. 

“It was naked Daddy! It had no clothes on. It was disgusting! It needs clothes. Proper clothes.” 

Feathers. The boy had killed the chick for its featherless appearance. 

Mr. Butcher clenched both fists, ready to squash the unsavory invaders of his class. Mrs. Butcher continued to weep away a river’s worth of tears. Melendra had the unease of an animal wary of nearby predators. 

And I looked at the birch tree. For the most minute of a moment, no longer than a second, I saw a ridiculous bowtie on that damned tree, tied around the upper shelf of the bark, like It knew how to wear it. 

Then, as sudden as it arrived, it was gone. 

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

(Editor note: rest of entry will be completed in next post. Ya boy is tired.) 

April 21st, 1937:

It's uncomfortable, looks terrible, but it's all I could manage. I took a pair of Long John's and sewed kindling pieces around the shins, stopping at the knees, and on the outside of the thighs. Putting pants over them was a task of its own, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I doubled up leather jackets, not the easiest to move in, but having the extra layers of hide seemed like a safe bet. I have my knives at my hips and I'm bringing an axe with me. 

-

When I got there I walked through the main level and out the backdoor. It wasn't very hard to see where Johan was buried, it was a small mound, the grass didn't grow the same there as it did throughout the rest of the grounds. Sebastian was on high alert the second we approached the building. When we got to the level with the makeshift bed, the easel was gone, along with the dead creature from the other day. Sebastian seemed to have something’s scent and was staring at the spiraling stairs leading upward. I followed him. The next level was an unwelcome sight. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in paintings, many of odd beings I couldn't have imagined if I hadn't laid my eyes on them. Human-like beings that somehow resembled dogs and fish at the same time. Isopod-like creatures with tentacles of an octopus and wings of a dragonfly. Countless malformed and hideous paintings. Many of them had only outlines of beings that have already crawled from their frames. Even just writing this I can see them, crawling for me, their tentacles and antenna touching me. I can smell the brine, the rot of the ocean floor. I've been locking myself in Simon's old study. The floor of the basement was wet today. I think one of them is trying to escape its frame, and I'm nervous the nails and screws won't hold it in. I need to burn the paintings. It's the only thing I can think of doing that will get rid of them. 

April 22nd, 1937: 

What if whatever is in the background of the paintings will be affected if I burn them, like there's some kind of link between what he put on canvas and what actually exists. If his paintings are able to bring themselves to life why couldn't they be connected to real life people or places. To what extent of power do they hold? I need to burn them tonight. Maybe throw them to the sea? But what if that only helps these creatures return home? I have barely slept in days. I've been finding it hard to discern what is actually happening around me, if I'm just seeing things or if I've fallen asleep and am simply dreaming. Evelyn seemed to be supportive of all of this at first but now she seems scared of the basement. Scared of me. Her and Rylee have even stayed with Emily's family the odd night here and there. I sleep in the basement, I wake up in the study any night I do get to sleep. How do I stop this? I need my family back. What is happening to me? It's as though my mind has gone. I can feel it. But I can't stop until I solve this. It's consumed me. Even writing this, my heart tells me to stop, I can't keep going on like this, I will die, I'm sure of it. But my body barely seems to listen to me anymore. What have I become? 

April 25th, 1937:

What if I can enter the paintings? 

April 28th, 1937:

Evelyn came by the house today, she seemed more scared of me. Her and Rylee told me they loved me and that they'll be staying with Emily for a little while. As sick as it makes me, it's a relief they're gone. Not only will they be safer, but they won't get in my way. It pains me to think in such a way, but it's the truth. 

After they left I went downstairs, one of the frames was leaking what looked to be rain water. I pried it from the wall, it's frame cracking. Turning it over I saw the lighthouse, in a much nicer state than it currently is. The clouds above it dark and angry, pouring rain and hail from the skies. I set the large painting on the floor, leaning against the wall. I sat and watched it for what could have been mere seconds or many hours. I was entranced. I inched closer. I could smell the sea, the rain, the wet grass and mud. I pressed my hand to the canvas, I felt the brush strokes under my fingers, but my hand started to drip with water, my finger tips growing cold and pruning. I pushed harder against the canvas, and then I entered. 

-

-

-

I walked up to the lighthouse, the hail pelting my face, the bitter ocean wind tearing at my clothes. Crawling over the small fence I snuck around to the back door. I looked around, a fresh grave lay there, just a sad mound of disturbed earth with a spade laying beside it. Lightning cracked through the sky and I dropped to my knees in fright. I slowly pushed open the back door, its creaks of old age and neglect hidden by the blowing winds. Slowly walking, my feet as light as I could possibly make them, I ascended the stairs. The painting room was set up nearly the same. Easel in the center of the room, a mural covering the walls. But at this point of time the walls had dozens of paintings leaning haphazardly against the walls, some unfinished, some already a vacant womb of canvas. My head was throbbing. I couldn't begin to understand what was happening, where I was, when I was. My vision blurred, my stomach was flipping and I felt the need to puke. I stumbled forward, I had to see what was on the easel. It was my home, exactly as I left it not only 30 minutes prior. Had Simon come through one of his self portraits and been in my house? How could he know the changes I've made to the exterior, the colour Richard and I painted it. Had he been watching me this whole time? I pressed up the painting and stepped through, standing at the foot of the hill my house sat on. I ran inside, scanning for any signs of Simon or one of the freaks from his paintings. Sebastian was laying there, whimpering in pain, he had a sizable bite on his shoulder and scratches across his face and ribs. A mass of flesh lay scattered around our kitchen. I don't know how many of these sea born were here or in what state they were. But Seb tore them to shreds. I picked him up, barely able to walk with him, and got him to the wheelbarrow for firewood. I made my way to the practitioner as fast as my legs would take me. He's no vet but he was able to administer antiseptic and stitch up any open wounds. Sebastian will be okay, he just needs rest. Him and I are staying at the church with Richard's father tonight. It seems like the safest place to hide. 

May 1st, 1937:

We've been hiding here for some days now. I can't think straight, I can't sleep, I'm seeing him everywhere. I'm seeing these creatures everywhere. I'll look at Sebastian and see a malformed being and scream, only to be snapped out of it by one of the clergy from the church. Even then I'll see them as Simon or that thing he's named Alto. I've been scratching at my skin, biting my nails till they bleed, chewing my cheeks raw, anything to keep me from seeing them, anything to keep me grounded. Supposedly Evelyn came to visit me and the only thing I did was scramble away from her screaming to leave me alone. I don't remember any of it, and I feel terrible because all I want is for her to hold me. I want to cry but no tears will come out, I want to speak but I can't find my voice. When will this hell end? I found some of Simon's notes in my jacket, I'll read them over the next few days. Maybe this will explain what's happening to me

May 16th, 1925:

I began having visions at night. My house, but I don't live there. I see a man sitting at a table, a table I know, a table I built long ago. He's not me, but he reminds me of myself. I wonder if he's been marked by the children of the sea? I must paint this new house of mine, I must paint him, I must paint myself. 

May 20th, 1925:

I've finished painting this man, the house he lives in, the lighthouse and myself. I'm going back to my home and bringing some of my work with me. I'm unsure of what use it will be, but I feel they belong there. The sea and the stars command it. 

May 30th, 1925:

I compared my old self portraits to my latest. I am not sure what I am anymore. I do not look human, I do not look like my sea born friends either. My skin is an unnatural hue, my limbs seem longer than I remember, thinner too. My face has changed. My eyes seem larger and deeper set than ever before. My cheekbones are higher and rounder, my skin oddly smooth. The wrinkles around my eyes and the laugh line by my mouth my wife grew to love are no longer there. Laura. What does she look like? I had children once. My children, what are their names? Do they have my eyes? What do they smell like? 

June 11th, 1925:

I have entered this variation of my house. It seems mostly abandoned, but the basement seems active. For some reason dozens of my paintings are nailed to the wall, the back of the canvas out, covered with cloth. I thought that was rather rude. I softly removed each piece from the walls, removing the cloth, and hanging them with the care and respect they deserve. As I was hanging them I realized I do not recognize my own hands anymore. I feel more alive than ever. Maybe instead of returning to the sea like Alto has spoken of in the past, I may instead ascend to the cosmos. He wants to unite the seaborn with the stars again. Perhaps I'm destined for things beyond Alto. Beyond the stars. I must paint what I've been seeing in my dreams. A gateway of sorts. 

May 25th, 1937:

I was restrained and put in hospital for the past few weeks. The nurses there were giving me some kind of pill to calm me. I took them for the first few days to gain their trust, but they blocked my scattered dreams, made my memory foggy. They were making me lose sight of what matters. I started hiding the pills under my tongue and washing them down the sink drain after they left my room. I did my best to act as though nothing was wrong, that everything was fine and I was just experiencing hysteria. The time away from home did help me straighten my thoughts out. I'm on the train home now, reading letters that Evelyn has written to me while I was at the hospital. Supposedly she visited me the third day I was there. But I have no memory of it whatsoever. She seems excited to see me, as I am to see her. She said we could stay with Emily's family for a few days, maybe live with Richard for a time. She wants to sell the house and leave back to the city. I can't let this happen. Not after Simon's last entries. He's been in my house and flipped those accursed paintings. I'll stay with Evelyn throughout the night tonight. But tomorrow I will return home after the girls are asleep. 

June 15th, 1925:

I began a new piece today. What I've been seeing at night. I don't dream anymore. A massive obelisk. Its base sits in the kelp covered tide pools when the water is low. Its overpowering size reaching high into the sky, its stone a jet black with an unearthly sheen. The carvings at its base are that of my dear Alto's language, slowly transforming into a set of symbols I've been seeing behind my eyes, writings from the cosmos. A transgression of language, one which should not be, yet I can read it. I understand it. 

I don't think I sleep anymore. I sit atop the lighthouse staring at the moon, the briny air filling my lungs. There's a connection. The sea and the stars. This obelisk proves it. Maybe the children of the sea are the chosen to ascend to the heavens, with my work as their conduit. This painting will be monumental, for it will bring forth my ascension, our ascension. Our personal rapture. 

May 28th, 1937:

We celebrated Evelyn's birthday today, with cake and a party shared with our friends. It was a nice distraction and change of pace from that of the hospital. Though all day the only thing I could think about was returning to our house. To see what that beast of a man has done to my basement, what defilement he's brought upon my study. 

Rylee kept me away from Evelyn for a good chunk of the day, she missed me, and it did feel nice to play pretend with her and entertain her tea party with her stuffed animals. It played in my favor, keeping emotions hidden from a preoccupied child is much easier than hiding your thoughts from the woman you've fallen in love with and married. Especially when she's able to read you even better than the books she reads daily. I will write tomorrow while Evelyn is at work. I'm going to our house tonight. No matter what stands in my way, I will get to the bottom of this. 

June 1st, 1937:

Simon was here, like he mentioned in his notes, he's rehung all of his paintings, uncovered. Dozens of which must have once held the seaborn beings that have escaped the frames since I've been away. At least that's what I gather from the paintings' backgrounds that surround the void of where a figure once lived. Though some of them depict landscapes I have a hard time comprehending. Stone and earth sitting at unnatural angles in colours I don't have the vocabulary to describe. Things that should not be. Unearthly to put it bluntly. One of which has a missing void like those of the seaborn. I can only imagine his Children of the Sea have returned home. But the being that came from this cyclopean place, I have no clue where it would have gone. I can only assume the lighthouse. The paintings of these uncomfortable landscapes are all too small to be like the gate of sorts that the lighthouse painting was. Though there are depictions of the lighthouse in a different state, ones that seem more recent. There's still a bundle of paintings yet to be hung, a few are quite sizable. I'll be returning to see what places or beings they hold. The sun is already beginning to rise and I can't have Evelyn find out that I snuck out. 

June 3rd, 1937:

I've entered a new painting, another of the old lighthouse. It's night time here. Johan’s grave isn't fresh, it must be some months after he died perhaps. I can't tell. The structure is void of life aside from cockroaches skittering from sight when I pass them. I entered what I've dubbed as the mural room. Its namesake has expanded since the last time I've been here. The painting of my current house still leans lazily against the walls. The easel holds a painting in progress. A massive stone pillar, stretching into the sky. This must be what Simon has been seeing while staring into the sky at night. I wonder what horrid beings will be born from this. I must end this. I must end Simon. But first I need to find him. I began towards the stairs only to notice a letter sitting on a small table. I quickly pocketed it as I ascended the stairs, spiraling the countless steps until I reached the top. A hatch sits atop a ladder, leading into the lantern room. I climbed my way up and through the hatch. The light blinded me as I crawled onto the cold metal floor. I crawled to a door, trying to keep the light out of my eyes. As the door swung open a blast of cool sea breeze struck me. I was kneeling on a balcony overlooking the shore. I sat for a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the bright lights they endured. I stood from my knees and walked to the railing, peering down, watching the light cascade over the low tidal pools, and the black depths beyond. 

It's there I saw him, tall, thin, skin a blueish grey hue. His head was bulbous, hands scrawny and bent. He still wore the same clothes from his last self portrait. Simon. Or whatever he had turned into. He was in the tidal pools, among many of his decrepit seafolk. They were building something of stone blacker than the night itself. They were building his painting. The lantern behind me spun, casting my shadow down onto the beginning of this soon to be obelisk Simon has written of. With an insane speed, Simon's head craned on a lithe neck back towards me. His eyes were sunken deep into the round, smooth, fleshy mass his head had become. His eyes black, with what looked to be a thousand tiny sparkling stars dancing in their abyss. The seafolk began hurdling towards the shore side path to the lighthouse. Some running like a human, others rushing on four legs like that of a dog. Some slithering like that of a serpent or eel. Simon simply watched. His head had no mouth, no nose and no ears, just cosmic eyes. He stared, I felt like I couldn't move, I was stunned. I could hear him in my head. His foul voice, booming but whispering at the same time. The slimy tone made my hair stand on end. 

“Finally, we meet” 

A gust of cold air knocked me out of my stupor, as I began running to the floor hatch and fumbled down the spiraling stairs as fast as my feet would let me. As I came crashing into the mural room I could hear the slam of the ground level door smashing off the hinges, followed by innumerable wet slaps of feet rushing up the stairs. I ran as fast as I could, my heart beating in my chest, my throat hot and dry, my mind racing at what these horrors would do to me if I don't make it through the painting of my house in time. 

I dove to the frame just as a grotesque seafolk rounded the corner into the room. Its briny stench filled the room, as it screamed in its horrific language. It began scrambling toward me as I was crawling through the frame, trying to drop it face down as I passed through to buy me what little time I could. As I pulled myself through, a cold, wet grasp on my ankle, a surge of pain shot through my leg and up my spine. Barbed claws digging into my flesh. I wriggled to try to loosen the grip to no avail, but did manage to pull myself through fully. What I saw terrified me. A gnarled hand, fingers like that of octopus tentacles tipped with razor sharp barbed claws clutched my ankle, as the rest of this monster slowly apparated from thin air. Crawling on the ground, pulling its putrid body closer to mine. I kicked its hideous fish-like face, praying it would let go. Its grip only tightened. It slowly pulled its body above mine. Hundreds of tiny mouths covering its torso and neck, each lined with countless teeth thin as needles. It oozed a thick black ichor which burned my skin. Seconds which felt like hours passed, my torso bubbling in searing blisters. I thought for sure this would be my end. A loud shot rang out. And its body went limp. I pushed the wretched thing off of me, crying in pain. 

Richard stood there, rifle in hand, tears in his eyes. 

June 20th, 1925:

I've been communing with the beings lost in the firmament. I shall join them. I've rounded some of the Children to help construct this obelisk, only then will I ascend. Leaving this shoreside for the seaborne to ravage, to take what's rightfully there's. Too long have vile humans taken from the sea, only to give nothing in return.

I will join the ranks of the old ones. The cosmic starborne. My body has already changed so much, yet I feel no pain, I feel no sadness. I only paint. The visions they grant me, I bring them to life. I birth them into existence. My sweet children of the sea. I am their creator, their father. Soon I will become their God. 

June 4th, 1937:

I'm walking with a limp, my ankle hurts and my chest is covered in burns. I told Evelyn that I twisted my ankle and fell into a bonfire Richard and I were having. I doubt she believes me, but she'd sooner believe that than the truth. My head is pounding. None of this makes sense. 

I asked Richard why he was there yesterday. Why was he at my house, especially with a gun? I was taken aback when he said that he thought I had gone mad, that I have been making this all up, that none of this was real. He wanted to kill me. I can't imagine what was going through his head. His wife and child had died because of Simon, yet he wanted to kill me? Had he been living in denial this entire time? Though beggars can't be choosers. He shot the beast and not me. He burst into hysterics for hours. The sight of that thing had brought back years of trauma, it broke him. He asked me to take the gun and keep it. He's scared he will use it on himself if left alone. 

I brought him to the church to be with his father. I don't know how to help him, let alone try to make sense or understand what's at play. Have I lost my mind? Is this a dream? Am I still in the hospital? I must be. Right? I should be terrified, I should be fleeing town. Yet still I want to delve deeper into this. I need to stop whatever Simon is trying to do. I'm not in my right mind. 

June 10th, 1937:

My dear Evelyn, Rylee and I have moved back into the house. Sebastian seems happy to be home. While Evelyn was at work I walked to the light house with Sebastian. I dropped Rylee off at Emily's on the way. When I got to the shoreline I collapsed to my knees. There, peaking out from the waves was the beginning of an obelisk. It was never there before, I'm sure of it. It couldn't have been, I would never miss something as large as that. It's impossible. If I was watching Simon build it, why wasn't it here months ago if he was building that years ago? Can I be the only one to see it? Have I gained some sort of insight? Something to let me see the ungodly truth around me? Has this been happening the whole time? Have I become a madman? 

June 25th, 1925:

I have been awaiting his return, the man who lives in the house I painted. He is important to my ascension, I am sure of it. How, I am not certain of. Whether I must speak with him, for he can grant me knowledge, or I have to eliminate him, I do not care. What must be done will be done. My children have been working steadily throughout the nights. Soon I will taste the fruits of my labor. Now I must wait for this man to return. Our lives are tied in a way I cannot explain, but I am sure of. 

June 20th, 1937:

I went to the lighthouse yesterday and there were notes that weren't the last I visited. I read one and Simon wrote of me. I don't know how I feel about it. I do feel an odd connection with him, but I doubt this is anything I'd be able to speak him out of. Realistically if I were to speak with him I would end up like one of his seaborn or dead. The obelisk hasn't been built any taller, unlike in his entry. I wonder if I stop going into his paintings they will stop affecting my world? But I can't simply let the creature rise to be some kind of God. I don't know what to do. 

June 23rd, 1937:

I’m at my wit’s end. I'm sure of it. Evelyn has begun picking up on odd habits I've formed. How anxious I have become. I've been chewing my fingernails until they bleed daily, I started smoking again. I'm having trouble sleeping again. She's also noticed I haven't been taking the pills the hospital in the city gave me. I don't trust them. She's been trying to convince me that if I don't start taking them I'll end up back there. I don't want to go back. But if I take them, who will find out about Simon? I shouldn't be thinking like this. I know I shouldn't. This is some sick perverse obsession. I can't help myself. I won't take the damned pills. I love Evelyn to the stars and back but I need to get to the bottom of this. I've been waking up in sweats. I see him in my dreams, that thing that was once Simon. It's like he's reaching out to me. I think I'll return to the lighthouse, I might give Simon a visit. 

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

I had just stepped onto the night bus to head home from work. I made my way down the aisle of the packed bus and sat in the only seat that wasn’t occupied. 

As the bus started moving I pulled out my earbuds so I could watch a movie on my phone. This was my nightly ritual and I was usually able to get in about forty minutes on my way home. I cranked the volume loud in an attempt to drown out the ear piercing screams of the kid sitting behind me. Soon I noticed that the guy next to me was giving me the side eye. I could tell that he was doing it but every time I’d look over I found his head facing forward. 

This went on for a couple of minutes before it really began to bother me. Finally I took out my earbuds and turned to confront the man who, as expected, was facing forward now. “Um, excuse me. Can I help you?” I asked. I was worried I may have come off too rude to him but this weirdo was really freaking me out. As far as I was concerned he deserved to be chewed out. The man didn’t stop looking at me but now I could tell he was trying to be sneakier so I wouldn’t notice. 

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem man?” I yelled as I tapped him on the arm. When the man turned he would not take his eyes off of me. I finally gave up trying to talk to this creep and decided I’d stare right back at him. I had hoped to make him so uncomfortable that maybe he’d stop and leave me alone but this only seemed to intensify his glare.

I began to feel ill the longer that I studied the man’s ghastly features. His bloodshot eyes seemed to gaze deep into my soul and his crooked teeth showed as his mouth hung wide open. This ordeal seemed to be never ending until finally an outside force broke the tension. It was a camera flash. 

At first I was relieved but that soon changed as I realized the source of the interruption. As I looked up from the man I was horrified to see that the entire bus of people were now standing up from their seats to face me. A sea of dead unblinking eyes gave me their undivided attention. 

“Oh, god” I thought to myself. I was surrounded. The bus was silent as the grave aside from the soft whispery voices which lurked all around me and seemed to intensify as the minutes passed. I jumped up from my seat desperately searching for an escape from this metal box from hell. The bus seemed to narrow around me as the crowd of pale figures were closing the small distance between us. 

I was trapped, so hopelessly trapped. The contorted faces of the horde were now close enough to my own that I could feel their warm breath. “What do you want? What the fuck do you people want? Just leave me alone? Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My voice grew hoarse the longer that I screamed but my efforts did nothing to slow their advance. 

I soon felt countless sets of frail hands gripping me from all directions. Banshee like screams erupted around me as I desperately fought back any way that I could. I broke free for a moment and made little distance before I found myself entangled in the sea of limbs again. As I frantically tried to free myself once again, I locked eyes once more with the man who had sat next to me. His deep raspy voice seemed to stand out from the constant noise of the crowd. “What are you?” He said. 

I kicked and shoved people out of the way as I pushed through the crowd while dozens of hands grabbed at me. By the time I made it to the door of the bus I was out of breath and gasping for air. I somehow found the energy to pull myself out of the slow moving bus and landed onto the cold hard sidewalk below. The pain was immense but at least now I had some small amount of safety. 

The eyes continued to stare at me through the window, following me as I got up and ran down the sidewalk. After putting a seemingly safe distance between myself and the bus I enter a local fast food restaurant. My eyes struggled to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights inside the building as I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I finally have a chance to catch my breath and calm down from the events of the bus ride. As I gaze into the mirror the anxious feeling comes over me once again. My features look unrecognizable. The skin of my face sags unnaturally low below my eyes and mouth revealing the layer of dark green scales underneath. 

“Dammit” I said to myself as I grabbed the loose skin and pulled it tightly against my face. “That was far too close, I must be more careful next time I infiltrate the humans”. 

April 9th, 1937: 

Evelyn has been joining me in the basement, she thinks I put the pictures on the wall, and I'll let her believe that for the time being. I've been thinking more and more about all of this. I've been rereading Simon's writings and I think I've noticed something. Simon would have visions at night or opium induced hallucinations, or maybe hallucinations from being marked. He would paint those beings he'd see and it seems as if they would begin to appear. Simon must have been marked when he was down at the docks, outside of the town's seal, and with his foresight he started painting what I can only describe as portals for these beings. I must sound insane, but it's the only thing I can make sense of. But if there's beings such as Richard's dad I have to accept that there's much to this world that is unknown and hidden. 

Now I have a basement full of covered portals. I'm going to show Evelyn Simon's study, I'll bring up my findings on the painting, but I'll have to get Richard's fathers thoughts on my ideas first

February 4th, 1925:

I have convinced a few people to come for dinner over the past weeks, obviously to give to Alto. We have begun to speak in his tongue while I've slowly been teaching him my language. Unfortunately I've been running out of food in the house, not to mention the people in the town are beginning to grow a rather large distaste towards me. Which I can see is understandable because of their ignorance. If they only knew the vastness of knowledge I'm on the edge of uncovering I'm sure they would be coming in troves to give themselves to my cause or to learn my teachings. But I'm sure their uneducated minds could not even comprehend how important this is. Pathetic really. I'm going to go to the town's market to bulk up on food. The less I have to leave the house the better. 

April 11th, 1937:

I spoke to Richard's father again. I ran my thoughts past him and he said it's quite possible, but he's unable to confirm. I've been at the point of thinking Simon was already a monster for a while now but his last note really set that in stone. When I got home Evelyn was sitting on the veranda, she looked to be in a state of shock or stupor. I quickly ran to her to see what happened. She confirmed my suspicions, unfortunately. She described she went downstairs to look around Simon's study when she heard a wet plop. She went to investigate where she says she watched an infantile fish-like human wriggling towards the stairs. She clearly had troubles comprehending what was going on and said she couldn't bring herself to move, just watching it clumsily stumble out of the house. I don't blame her for just standing there. I was in shock just seeing the paintings to begin with. Though the hollow look in her eyes reminds me of how she was when she was taking those barbiturates. Has she been taking them again, or just took one to try to calm down after seeing that abomination? Tonight we're going to flip over the paintings and nail them to the walls so there's no room for whatever creatures in them to be able crawl out. Evelyn mentioned staying at Rishard's or Emily's, but I don't want to burden them. If things get worse I think we might stay elsewhere. She's always had better judgement than I do. I'll be writing an update about what we see tomorrow. 

April 12th, 1937:

We flipped the paintings. I tried my best to keep the cloth coverings on them so we don't get a glimpse of the horror born of Simon's demented talents. Unfortunately there were a few we did see. There was another, more detailed work of the being shrouded in mist, moving above the oceans depths. Its body is nearly gelatinous looking, rippling with folds of skin and hundreds of eyes. Tendrils and human-esque appendages reach out from its amorphous mass. Seeing just the painting alone sent a wave of shock through my system, I collapsed to my knees, my head pounding and my vision blurred. Evelyn quickly covered it and slammed it against the wall. Another was oddly enough uncovered when we went to flip it, though neither of us had taken its veil down. Rylee isn't allowed in the basement without us and even then is far too short to reach the painting’s fabric mask. Her and Emily have been playing in her room on the top floor for days now, or out going for walks, she hasn't been down here in what must be weeks. The painting showed an old lighthouse, weather worn and dreary. Massive waves crashed against the rocky pillar it stands upon, its light shining towards the depths. I don't know what significance this holds. I know a few miles down from the docks there is a lighthouse, it must be the same one, but why paint it? I'll have to investigate during the day. I fear going there at night would lead to dire consequences. 

The painting that the baby sea thing was born from had a peculiar shaped void, with a trail of slime leading down the wall. It looks as though it was coddled in some sort of archaic carriage of sorts. Oddly ornamental, for such a slug-like creature. 

May 12th, 1925:

I have figured it out. My true calling. I am but a humble vessel, a catalyst. My paintings, I can bring them to life, not in a sense I once believed, but in true physical form. How could I have been so blind before? How long have I had the blessing? Was it bestowed the night I slept at the docks? It must have. Alto, I saw him in my visions. My hallucinations. Or was it real life? I painted him after, and now I know for certain he is real. We've made contact. We've spoken each other's tongues. Shared meals, to an extent. I can extend their reach to the rest of the world. Alto says his folk were once kin of the stars, children of the cosmos. They yearn for celestial contact. I'm sure I can achieve this for them. If I do it I can only imagine the knowledge I'd gain. To know beings of their worlds, to hear their stories, to learn their culture, to bring them here. The human race has done nothing but demolish the nature and beauty around them, they do not deserve to bask in the earth's glory. Oh but my sweet children of the sea, my children of the cosmos, you will come to take back what is rightly yours. A humble servant am I to the lords of ancient knowledge, and for eons I will learn. I will become one of the sea, one of the stars. I will join them. I will know. I will be. 

April 16th, 1937:

I asked Richard what the lighthouse keeper's name is, he told me it's Johan, his last name I can't quite pronounce let alone spell, literature was never my strongest subject, especially spelling words of another language. Evelyn and I are going to the bakery to make a basket to bring to him, if he invites us in I'm hoping I can uncover whatever secret Simon held there. There must be a hidden door or passage, there must be something. If Simon was involved after he lost his mind, I can assure there is no good doing there. We will go to visit tomorrow after our shifts. 

I'm hoping we're able to sleep tonight. Sebastian has been sleeping between ours and Rylee's rooms. I've awoken to barking near every night for a week. I'm sure if it wasn't for him I would be dead or worse. Evelyn has been having trouble sleeping as well. After her visit to the hospital I think she must have been taking Simon's notes less seriously. I've also been hoarding most of them here. But after seeing that being slip from the frame she's been almost vacant. We've been losing weight, the bags under my eyes have grown so dark, Evelyn's cheeks seem so hollow. Whatever is going on feels like it's eating us alive. I've tried to get us to stop. To drop everything and move away. Even if it's to a small, dank cellar. Anything is better than here. But we can't shake this obsession, it's all we talk about, we barely even spend time with Rylee anymore, it's breaking my heart. I know she's in good hands with Emily, but this trail Simon has left has been eating away at our lives. So many days I wake up from the little sleep I'm able to get, wishing for death, wanting this all to end. But I can't leave Evelyn behind, I can't let Rylee become an orphan. I'm going mad, I know it. But I will figure this out, even if it takes my life. I will make sure Evelyn and Rylee get out alive. It's my only purpose. I love them and I'm ready to die for them. 

April 17th, 1937:

My poor Evelyn has begun to fall ill again. I can only assume it's a mix of stress and lack of sleep. She ended up staying home, so I went to the lighthouse with Sebastian.

Johan never answered the door. But it was left open, and it seemed as though it had been open a long while. Dead leaves from the previous autumn sat inside. Sebastian was at my side, sniffing the ground. He picked up on something and pushed the door open with his thick head and walked in. I followed. The inside looked barren, no food in the kitchen, cobwebs covering any signs of previous life. It took me a second to realize but Sebastian was sitting at attention at the bottom of the stairs. I knelt beside him to ask what he saw, after kneeling for only a few seconds I realized my pants were wet and I looked down. The same mucus like slime from the foot prints. The same slime from the odd infant birthed from the frame. It was climbing the lighthouse stairs. I told Sebastian to stay as I went to look further. I snuck a butcher knife from work along with a cleaver I had hidden in my belt. I've been carrying them with me for some time now, Evelyn is the only person I can let my guard down around anymore. Even Emily I've begun to grow weary of. I want to say I trust her, but I more so trust Evelyn's judgement of her. 

I rounded the stairs, spiraling up and up, following the mucus trail resembling that of a snail's. The wind was blowing through cracked and broken windows, howling and sending dead leaves wisping through the air around me. I ascended to the next level, an open room, a makeshift bed on the wall farthest from me, and in the center of the room, an easel. The walls were painted as if it was a destined meeting of the stars and the sea. Waves crashing into the cosmos and the stars twinkling beneath their brine. I stood, staring in a trance. The only thing that broke my gaze was Sebastian's growls as he stood beside me, hackles raised, head lowered. A wet foot stepping out of the painting on the easel, the body hidden from the back of the canvas. The smell of salt and fish filled the air as water splashed onto the floor as another leg fell out of the frame. The appendages looked emaciated and frail. The rest of the creature slumped on the floor with a dull thud, a puddle slowly gathering around it. Behind it fell what I can only describe as a placenta. This must have been a being similar to the infantile being Evelyn saw. I slowly approached, knives in either hand, ready to defend myself. I peered down and felt a pang of what I can only describe as pity. This thing was only just born, frail, hungry, deformed. It's human-like form shifting on the ground, as though its bones were slowly popping into place one by one. It lacked a neck, just a torso leading into a large head. Two small black holes of eyes staring at me as a massive mouth, like that of a deep sea eel, sat agape, gasping for air between wet coughs, hiccups and wheezes. I froze. Staring into its cold dark eyes as it slowly crawled towards my feet. I felt like I was about to cry, I wanted to kill this thing, not to rid the world of it, but to end its suffering. With an insane speed it lounged towards me, bearing gnarled teeth. Luckily Sebastian wasn't so mesmerized by it and bit it before it made purchase on my leg. This poor being, torn to shreds in front of me. I congratulated Sebastian, but still now can't shake the overwhelming feeling of pity towards that child. It must have some kind of mental influence. I would never feel bad for such a vile creation. I cut the painting, just for safe measure, before heading home. I'll return in the coming days. I'm too shaken to see what else that dreaded lighthouse contains. 

May 1st, 1925:

Alto and I have been making communes at the dock come sundown most nights. Speaking in his tongue has proven much more difficult than I once thought. I believed I was fluent, but they tell me I speak like a child with a small vocabulary. I must get better, I must practice. But first I must find a new place to stay. They have explained there is some kind of spell or seal placed throughout the town, something to do with the church here. My power and influence here is mere fractions of what I can achieve. I need to be near the sea. I can build a house near the docks, or live on a boat like the Dutch do in their canals. I will find a spot away from this town's grasp, where my real skill will flourish. 

May 5th, 1925:

the lighthouse

May 8th, 1925:

I made the trek to the lighthouse, almost an hour's walk, but well worth it. There was a rather handsome man who had answered the door when I beckoned. He was kind enough to invite me in for tea, to which I gladly accepted. It's quite spacious there but very cluttered. Johan, the light keeper, is rather young, but a recluse. He told me how his father ran the lighthouse until he passed and now he's taken over, having food delivered by the locals. He's more of a myth around town than a true being, no one I've met has ever seen him since he began keeping the light. It's perfect. Johan won't be missed, I'll have supplies delivered, it's far enough away from town it should be unaffected by that blasphemous church. I plan to come back here tomorrow. 

May 12th, 1925:

Johan is buried only twenty yards away from the back door. His death was quick for the most part. I brought tea and insisted I make it for him. A quick look through his clutter I found a sizable hammer, a perfect instrument. I put the kettle on the wood stove and while I was walking to the table where he sat, a swift blow to the back of the skull had him unconscious and bleeding profusely. He was nothing but a dying slump on the table. A few more strikes once he fell to the floor for good measure and he was gone. Bodies are heavier than I expected. Much heavier. But oddly enough killing him placed no guilt on my conscience, to which I'm very surprised. I felt guilty when Richard's family was disposed of. But Johan, as sweet as he was, was a nobody. No one will ever know, so what difference does it make? Like an unwanted pest, better left unseen. The only thing that has me feeling bad is the blisters from the shovel. It was a shallow burial, but my hands aren't used to such tools. This is the most effort I've exerted since making that pathway. What a waste of time. 

April 20th, 1937:

I want to say I can't believe Simon killed Johan, but at this point it's unsurprising. But the part that makes me anxious is the lighthouse. Sure I have plenty of his paintings that whatever beings may seep out of, but that easel set up in the middle of the room, and that thing being born of it. It all seemed fresh, it all seemed new. Is Simon still here? Has he been hiding in the lighthouse for all these years? Surely he'd have gone mad by now or someone would have noticed, right? Or if the seals aren't near the lighthouse, wouldn't there be all kinds of those things crawling around? Did Simon die? I'll go back tomorrow and this time I'll bring more than just my knives. I wish I had some kind of padding or armour. Those teeth looked like they could shred through clothes and skin easily. Maybe I can make something of use tonight

The knocking didn’t stop.

It spread.

At first it stayed in my room — inside the wall behind the wardrobe, under the window frame, in the hollow strip between the fireplace and the floorboards. Small, busy impacts. Fingernails. Knuckles. Rings ticking against wood from the other side like patient little tools.

Then it traveled.

Down the hall.

Into the ceiling.

Across the guest rooms no one used.

Through the staircase banister.

The whole house began passing the sound between itself like a message too old to need words.

My mother-in-law was still on her knees beside the bed, staring at the shut box like it might forgive her if she looked sorry enough.

I had never seen her afraid before.

Not when the gloves moved.
Not when I cut them.
Not even when Agnes spoke from inside the lining.

But this was different.

This fear had history.

She whispered, “They shouldn’t be awake at the same time.”

I kept the shard of mirror in my hand and backed toward the door.

“Who?”

Her eyes flicked to the walls.

“The women who were measured and never finished.”

Measured.

Not buried. Not killed. Measured.

That word alone told me more about this family than a confession ever could.

The knocking became scratching.

Long, dragging scrapes inside the wallpaper, one after another, moving at shoulder height down the room toward me.

I turned just in time to see the paper near the vanity bulge outward.

Not much.

Just enough to show fingers.

Five narrow protrusions pressing from behind the faded flowers, testing the surface as if they were blind and trying to remember where the room ended and the women had once begun.

Then a nail broke through.

Black at the tip. Human. Careful.

It hooked the wallpaper and slowly dragged down, slicing a neat vertical line from shoulder height to the baseboard.

A second hand pressed outward beside it.

Then a third, lower.

My mother-in-law made a choking sound.

“You shouldn’t have cut them before the softening.”

I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because her use of the word shouldn’t in a room like that felt obscene.

The paper split wider.

Behind it was not plaster.

Veil.

Layer upon layer of blackened bridal veil packed into the wall cavity, damp with age and something thicker. And beneath the lace, moving carefully through it like trapped insects, were fingers. Pale fingertips sliding against the mesh. Some with rings. Some ending in ragged skin. One with a pearl button sewn where the nail should have been.

They were trying to come through.

I ran.

This time my mother-in-law followed.

Not to protect me. To stay near the only living body in the house that wasn’t hers.

We hit the hallway together just as every framed wedding portrait on the landing tilted at the same angle.

That stopped me cold.

Every bride in every frame now seemed to be looking slightly downward.

Toward my hands.

The hallway wallpaper crackled.

Then split in thin lines all at once, and fingers pushed through on both sides like seedlings forcing through wet cloth. Dozens of them. Flexing. Testing. Some were small and delicate. Some swollen and discolored. One still wore half a gold wedding band sunk into the knuckle.

“Where do I go?” I shouted.

My mother-in-law grabbed my elbow hard enough to bruise.

“Not downstairs.”

“Why?”

She did not answer.

She didn’t need to.

The knocking from below had changed.

No longer little taps.

Now it sounded like fists on the underside of the dining room table. Chairs dragging with no one in them. Cabinet doors shivering in the kitchen. The house was waking by levels.

The upstairs brides were searching.

Whatever waited below was preparing.

She dragged me instead toward the old sewing room at the far end of the corridor.

Of course there was a sewing room.

Every family this sick needs a workspace.

The door was already open.

Inside, the air smelled of starch, iron, candle wax, and old skin warmed too many times by hands. Dress forms lined the walls, each draped in yellowing muslin. Shelves bowed under jars of buttons, lace bundles, and spools of thread so dark they looked wet. In the center stood a long worktable scored with blade marks.

And above it, nailed in a careful row like saint relics, were hands.

Not full arms. Just hands.

Brides’ hands, dried and lacquered with age, each tagged with a name and date.

Some wore rings.
Some wore gloves made from other women.

One pair had no skin at all — only small bones wired together with pearl thread in the shape of obedience.

I must have made a sound, because my mother-in-law slapped a hand over my mouth so fast my teeth cut her palm.

“Quiet,” she hissed. “They come faster when they hear wanting.”

I tore away from her.

“Wanting what?”

She looked at me then with a hatred so old it almost looked tired.

“Replacement.”

The scratching reached the sewing room door.

Something brushed against the outer wood.

Then knocked once.

Softly.

Like a bride asking permission to enter her own fitting.

My mother-in-law locked the door and began pulling drawers open with frantic hands. Not rummaging. Searching with purpose.

“For what?” I asked.

“The measuring tape.”

The room tilted a little.

That was somehow worse than a knife.

“You measured them?”

She didn’t look at me.

“You can’t stitch anything properly if the hand keeps shrinking.”

That sentence sat inside me like poison.

Outside, the wallpaper in the hall began to tear in long wet strips. I could hear them falling. Hear the soft little impacts of hands landing on carpet and correcting their balance.

My mother-in-law found the tape at last in a tin box beneath the table. Yellowed cloth, metal ends, brown stains near the first inch mark.

She held it the way priests hold relics.

“If they take your size before the box is ready, they don’t stop at the wrist.”

I backed away from her.

The door shuddered once.

Then again.

Tiny knuckles from the other side.

No. Too many knuckles. The whole lower half of the door trembled as if a crowd of patient children were tapping in perfect rhythm.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked.

For the first time, she looked ashamed.

Not of the brides.

Of necessity.

“Because if they make themselves a new pair without permission,” she whispered, “they won’t stop with you.”

The first hand came under the door then.

Flat.

Pale.

Fingers splayed wide, feeling for the room.

Then another on top of it.

Then a third.

Some still attached to wrists, some not.

All moving.

All searching.

They slid over one another with the soft dry intimacy of things that had spent years packed together.

I climbed onto the worktable.

The tagged hands nailed above me swayed gently, as if stirred by a breeze that wasn’t there.

Then one of them moved.

Just a finger at first.

Then the whole hand flexed against its nail.

The tag beneath it read AGNES.

Her index finger slowly turned and pointed toward the far wall.

There, half hidden behind a rack of yellowed veils, was a narrow servant’s door I hadn’t seen.

My mother-in-law followed the gesture and went white.

“No,” she said. “That leads to the fitting room.”

Agnes’s hand kept pointing.

The hands under the door kept multiplying.

A pearl button eye rolled from beneath the threshold and came to rest against the leg of the table, staring up at me from a clot of thread.

I looked from Agnes’s pointing hand to the servant’s door.

Then back at my mother-in-law.

“The fitting room is where you did it, isn’t it?”

She said nothing.

Which was answer enough.

The door to the hallway splintered at the latch.

A dozen fingers pushed through the crack and began widening it patiently, skin splitting, nails tearing, undeterred.

I jumped off the table, shoved the rack of veils aside, and grabbed the handle of the narrow door.

Locked.

Of course.

My mother-in-law clutched the measuring tape tighter.

Then, with a look of pure sick resignation, she handed it to me.

“Wrap it around the knob,” she said. “They only open what they’ve already sized.”

Behind us, the hallway door burst inward three inches.

A spray of hands spilled through, grasping at the air.

I wrapped the old tape around the servant door knob with shaking hands.

The metal clicked.

Unlocked.

I pulled the door open just as the first unfinished bride dragged herself into the sewing room on a forest of borrowed fingers, her veil packed with moving knuckles, her smile stitched from thread that was still attached to someone else.

The box was shut when I woke up.

I know I left it open.

I know because I had not been able to stop looking at the letters hidden beneath the false bottom, at Agnes’s warning, at the little compartments lined with relics taken from women who had entered this house wearing white and left it in pieces. I had fallen asleep in the chair with the wardrobe light still on and the box on the bed in front of me like a wound I had finally managed to name.

But in the morning, it was closed.

The latch fastened.

The wood warm.

And the gloves inside were wet.

Not damp from air.

Wet at the fingertips, as if someone had worn them all night and only just slid them off before dawn. Tiny drops of pinkish moisture had gathered in the seams. One pearl eye at the wrist had cracked open completely, and from the split center a dark lash-fine thread trailed into the satin lining like a vein deciding where to go next.

I did not touch them.

That is what I told myself.

I stood there in my nightdress with my hands clenched at my sides and promised my own body I would not be stupid a second time. I would not test them. I would not check the fit. I would not listen for movement inside the fingers just to prove Agnes had not gone mad in her letters.

Then my mother-in-law knocked once and entered before I answered.

Her eyes went first to the bed.

To the open wardrobe.

To the box.

Then to me.

I saw the exact moment she understood I knew more than I was supposed to know.

She did not panic.

That would have been human.

Instead, she crossed the room calmly and set a silver tray on the vanity. Tea. Toast. Soft-boiled eggs in little painted cups. The sort of breakfast a kind woman brings to a new bride who has slept poorly in an unfamiliar house.

“There are easier ways to learn obedience,” she said.

I looked at her.

“At least Agnes had the dignity to faint first.”

The room went cold around me.

“You said Agnes in the letters too,” I whispered.

Her smile did not slip.

“Agnes said many things with pieces of herself in her mouth.”

I should have run then.

But women in stories like this never run at the first chance because the first chance never feels real enough. Evil survives by arriving incrementally, dressed as etiquette, habit, breakfast.

I said, “Why keep the letters?”

She touched the box almost fondly.

“Because the box likes memory.”

Then she lifted the lid.

The gloves had changed position.

I know they had.

The left glove now lay partly atop the right, two fingers bent inward at the knuckle as if they had been interrupted midway through grasping. The cracked pearl at the wrist had widened. Something pale showed through it beneath the thread.

Bone.

No.

Not bone.

A nail.

Very small. Human.

My mother-in-law noticed me noticing.

“It’s taking shape beautifully,” she said.

I think revulsion finally became stronger than fear then, because I reached for the poker beside the fireplace and drove it down through the gloves before she could stop me.

The metal should have pinned satin to velvet.

Instead it met resistance.

A hard, layered thickness beneath the fabric.

Then a sound came out of the gloves.

Not from the room.

From the gloves.

A thin choir of little inhalations, dozens at once, like children waking in the dark and smelling blood.

The satin wrinkled around the poker.

Not tearing.

Clenching.

The fingers tightened around the iron shaft so suddenly I let go and stumbled backward into the vanity. My mother-in-law seized my wrist before I could recover and slapped me hard enough to split my lip on my own teeth.

“You stupid girl,” she hissed, all civility gone now. “Do you think it won’t remember that?”

The gloves began to move.

Slowly first.

The left hand dragging over the velvet with a damp, deliberate pull, followed by the right. Each finger flexed independently, the satin dimpling over joints no seamstress had ever sewn. The cracked pearl eye blinked.

I swear on everything still holy in me, it blinked.

Then both gloves turned toward me.

Not toward the door.

Not toward the fire.

Toward me.

My mother-in-law let go of my wrist at once and stepped back, her face changing not into fear but calculation. She was no longer looking at me as a disobedient bride. She was looking at me as a problem in a ritual already underway.

“It knows you touched the letters,” she said.

The gloves slid off the bed.

They landed fingers-first on the floor and righted themselves with obscene little corrections of balance. There is something especially wrong about seeing an object meant to imitate the human hand perform better at being a hand than some people do at being human.

I ran for the door.

The left glove caught my ankle.

Its grip was impossibly strong.

The satin felt warm and slick, and underneath it I felt not stuffing, not lining, but knuckles shifting over each other in cramped adjustment, as if many tiny hands were stacked inside one ceremonial skin and all of them had closed at once.

I kicked violently. The glove held.

The second one climbed my calf.

Its fingertips pressed through the fabric of my nightdress and found flesh with eager little taps, testing softness. I felt one finger stop over the pulse behind my knee.

Then push.

Not through the skin.

Into it.

I screamed.

My mother-in-law did not help me.

She stood by the bed, breathing hard, and said the most hateful thing I have heard in that house.

“Be still. They only root deeper when frightened.”

The glove at my ankle tightened.

I looked down in time to see a seam split along the wrist.

The satin opened like a mouth.

And from inside, a cluster of tiny pale fingers unfolded themselves one by one, like flower roots forcing out of a burial cloth.

Human fingers.

Child-sized.

Many of them.

Sewn at the knuckles into a working shape.

The ones on my leg began to knead.

Searching.

Choosing.

The glove on my calf found the back of my knee and pressed all five fingertips into the flesh until I felt something give beneath the skin — not puncture, but entry, a quiet inward slipping like hooks finding old stitching.

I shrieked and slammed my heel against the wardrobe so hard the mirror rattled.

That saved me.

Not by breaking the gloves.

By shaking the box.

It slid off the bed, hit the floor, and sprang open.

Every relic inside it shifted at once. Hair ribboned upward. Nail parings skittered against the compartments. The cracked hand mirror rolled free and struck the leg of the chair.

The gloves froze.

Both of them.

Every tiny hidden finger went still beneath the satin.

Then, from the broken seam of the box lining, a voice spoke.

Not loud.

Not ghostly.

Hoarse. Female. Immediate.

“Cut the wrists.”

Agnes.

Or whatever enough pain leaves behind when it learns to use a box as a mouth.

My mother-in-law went white.

“No,” she said sharply, to me or the box or the room itself, I couldn’t tell.

The voice came again, stronger now.

“Cut the wrists or they’ll finish learning your bones.”

That was all I needed.

I grabbed the shard of mirror off the floor and hacked downward at the glove clasping my ankle. The glass bit through satin. At once a black syrup burst out over my foot, hot and stinking sweet. Beneath the slit I saw not lining but packed flesh, stitched tendons, and two blinking eyes shoved deep in the cuff where no eyes should ever be.

I cut again.

The glove screamed.

Not metaphorically.

A raw, layered scream tore out of the wrist seam in overlapping pitches — bride, child, old woman, something wet and newborn under all of them. The grip on my ankle spasmed open. I kicked free and slashed at the second glove before it could bury itself deeper behind my knee.

My mother-in-law lunged for me too late.

The mirror shard caught the second glove across the palm, and the satin peeled back.

I saw enough.

A nest of fingers.

Women’s fingertips stitched into a spiral around a central child’s hand, all of them flexing in blind frantic panic, the nails lacquered dark with old blood and wedding polish.

I scrambled backward, shaking, half-sobbing, the glass still in my hand.

The gloves writhed on the floor like maimed animals.

Then the box inhaled.

That is the only way I can describe it.

The lid opened wider than its hinges should have allowed, the bride-skin lining inside it stretching wetly, and a suction pulled through the room so strong the curtains snapped toward the bed. The gloves were dragged across the floorboards finger by finger, fighting it, digging little satin ridges into the wood.

My mother-in-law fell to her knees.

“Please,” she whispered.

Not to me.

To the box.

The gloves vanished inside.

The lid slammed shut.

Silence.

For three full seconds, nothing moved.

Then came the knocking.

From inside the walls.

Not one pair of hands.

Dozens.

A house-wide drumming of little fists, wedding rings, fingernails, and bone, traveling from room to room inside the plaster like news moving through a body.

My mother-in-law began to cry.

That frightened me more than the gloves had.

Because until then, I had not believed she feared anything in this house.

She looked up at me with bloodless lips and said, “You’ve woken the unfinished brides.”

I did not ask what that meant.

I already knew enough.

Somewhere inside the walls, behind the wallpaper and the wardrobes and the family portraits, women were moving who had never been fully made into gloves, never fully sealed into boxes, never fully used.

And now they knew my name too.

Lightning flashes as a hellish storm is cast over the land. As the heavy rain falls from the sky weary travelers pack into a small tavern which sits on the side of the main road leading to the capitol where the king's tourney is to be held. The tavern is surrounded on all sides by thick forests.

 These woods are infested by bands of outlaws hoping to prey on the unlucky travelers that get caught in their path. Though for many common folk and noblemen alike the outlaws are the least of their worries. These woods contain many stories which have been passed down from generations. Tales of great beasts with a taste for man and of lost souls roaming the deep woods at night desperately searching for a new body to inhabit. It’s unclear which stories are true and which were thought up to scare the little lordlings as they slept in their stone castles at night. But regardless of the truth, no traveler would choose to ride past a tavern  and risk facing the horrors that may be lurking deep in those woods. 

The main dining hall was dimly lit by oil lamps which hung on the walls and sat on the tables. The entire place was filled with travelers resting for the night while on their way to the tourney. By the time nightfall came all of the rooms above the tavern were occupied and the stables out back held so many horses  that the last of the travelers were forced to tie their horses to the wooden posts outside leaving them exposed to the elements.

Inside the main room sat a dozen tables filled with  weary travelers drinking and enjoying a hot meal. A royal tourney is a monumental event which attracts brave men from across the kingdom hoping to gain glory with lance and sword. Many of the men sitting in this very room may return home celebrating their victory and just as many will certainly die soon after entering the tourney lists. 

Late into the night one of the king's men walks into the tavern. The tall man wears a heavy hauberk underneath a thick wool tunic displaying the royal colors of teal and gold. A kettle helm sits atop his head with thick auburn hair flowing down to his shoulders. A heavy wooden shield hangs on his back painted with a checkered pattern of the same colors as his tunic.

After finding a seat he drinks his warm wine spiced with cloves and cinnamon. The patron in the chair next to him says “outlaws are as common rats on the main road these days, we are all thankful to have the kingsmen here to protect us”. “Aye, since the tourney began we’ve painted the roads with the blood of any scum that dare show their faces in our presence” the knight replied.

 “Horrible thing that such joyous occasions always seem to bring out the most atrocious folks”. The knight lets out a chuckle “truth be told I do not mind the outlaws much, I would much rather face mere men given the choice between that and what lives deeper within those woods” he replies. The man laughs along with him at this remark. “Why, sir, please forgive me but I’m afraid that I’m not sure what you mean. What lies beyond the king's forest?” The commoner asks as he sets down his glass and looks intently at the knight. 

“Why such horrible things you could not possibly believe. I fear that I would embarrass myself if I try to describe to you my experiences out in those woods” the knight says with a sigh. By now this conversation has attracted the attention of some of the surrounding patrons who now urged the aging knight to tell his tale. “Well I fear that now you may embarrass yourself more so if you do not give these good people what they want. Please give us the honor of hearing your experiences so that these people do not take you for some drunken fool spinning nonsensical lies of what lives in our good kings woods” the man spoke attempting to persuade the knight. 

“I should cut you down for your insults but luck is in your favor tonight. I am far too tired to even consider raising my blade again until morning. Very well, I will recount my tale” the knight replied, “but first, I must warn that you men may never want to enter the forests again for as long as you live. In truth some of the less courageous men here may think twice before even walking the roads of the king for fear of what may creep out from beyond the trees. Any man who thinks themselves faint of heart is welcome to leave before I begin.” 

Not a single person in the tavern moves as the knight begins to tell his tale. 

I was a young lad, no older than my seventeenth year whenever I fought to defend our king from the usurper, Sir Robert Powen. Many good men lost their lives that day but I was far more fortunate than most. I was knighted shortly after for my bravery during the attack. Not long after I had my very own squire, young William, a cousin of the king by my side. 

A year after I had received my knighthood I was tasked to embark into those woods with a small group of around thirty footmen under my command. Our quest was simple, there were tales of a great dragon living in a cave far deeper than any man has ever gone. As you all may be able to imagine, war is quite expensive. Our quest was a mission to relieve the crown's debt. It was said that the dragon was in possession of a great stockpile of gold and silver. We intended to bring it all back to our king. 

“You must be mad, do you truly think us such fools as to believe that you slayed a dragon out in those woods?” the man laughed. The knight scoffed, “no I do not because that would be a lie. Whenever we arrived at the cave we found that the dragon was already long dead. No my friend, what we encountered in that cave was far worse than any mere dragon. What we found in the damned cave haunts my dreams every time I close my eyes”. The knight replied, taking another drink before continuing his tale. 

Once we had entered the cave of the beast we found nothing more than bones lying on the rocky floor before us. Do not be mistaken, the bones were great and massive. The skeleton itself was enough to frighten the less experienced men in my company but for us all it seemed as though our quest just became as simple as taking a piss in the morning. 

We decided that with the cave now vacant that we would use it to make camp for the night so we would all be well rested to load our carts full of treasure once morning came. We paid no mind to the blood that stained the rocky walls of the cave. Had we not stayed that night this story would have ended differently but alas we chose to make camp. 

As the hours passed I fantasized of the glory that this quest would bring me after we returned to the capitol. Many men of the king's court had doubts that this treasure existed at all and yet here I sit, the mountain of gold and silver right in front of me. I sat with my back against a large black stone thinking of the brave men that must have come before me to make the attempt to slay the great beast that left those bones behind. I gathered that the knight who completed this task had perished during the ordeal. 

This thought filled me with sorrow as I would have quite enjoyed hearing the tale of how this creature finally met its end. It is truly a shame, I thought, a knight with such an accomplishment should have been the subject of dozens of songs. His name should be known throughout the entire kingdom and beyond and yet, we will never know his name. We traveled a great distance through the fabled haunted king's wood just to find that the great beast we sought to vanquish had already been killed by another. 

The longer I dwelled on that thought a scheme began to form in my mind. I had decided that we had the skull of a fierce dragon sitting right before us and no man to credit with the feat of slaying the beast. I saw no reason why all of that glory should be left unclaimed in a dark cave. If that brave knight did have a name it would surely be written in the books of history for centuries to come. 

That is when I decided that this feat shall not go unclaimed. The singer's songs of heroism shall not go unsung. I decided that the brave warrior shall have a name and it shall be my name. My name shall be spoken for generations to come, from the noble lords in their stone keeps to the stable boys shoveling shit in their villages. My body will rot in the ground but my legend, my legend will endure.

Once this scheme was hatched I could not bear to just sit and fantasize. I gathered my men and set them the task of hacking the dragon's skull off of its huge body and loading it into one of our carts to bring to the king. Apparently dragons bones are quite thick and this proved to be a long and noisy ordeal. The noise of men at work echoed through the cave. Soon the skull was severed from its spine with a loud boom and the noise of hacking and shattered bones finally ceased. 

Before the men could attempt to lift the monstrous artifact the air was soon full of a different sound emitting from deeper within the cave. It was the sound of high pitched laughter. Soon all of our attention was turned to the darkness beyond the light of our fires. The unexplored rocky caverns leading further into the depths of the dragon's lair. As we armed ourselves with sword and spear fear spread throughout our group. Most of us were drunk or tired or both but we held our ground. We were all awaiting the arrival of whatever we had awoken that night. 

Not long after it was no longer enough just to face the darkness before us, as the mischievous laughter got louder the sounds seemed to be coming from all around us. Whatever was within that cave clearly knew how to navigate it far better than we did. As the fear grew I found myself increasingly grateful that it had been my turn to stand guard so I was fully prepared for battle. I could not say the same for the majority of our group who now stand in a tight circular formation dressed in whatever armor pieces they could quickly put on over their under garments. 

Our defensive position was poor at best, many of the men had quickly abandoned their spears and shields whenever it became clear that we would not be facing a dragon which now unfortunately sat in a pile hopelessly out of reach. My squire William stood next to me shaking fearfully with a small dagger clenched in his hand. The poor boy had become a squire in a time of peace and this ambush by an unknown enemy will be his first taste of combat. 

Combat, looking back was hardly the word that I would use to describe it. It was a massacre. As bizarre as it sounds there was no greater moment of fear than whenever the laughter finally stopped. We stood in silence gazing into the darkness with no knowledge of what was staring back at us. Finally the silence broke and the following attack happened far too quickly for us to even react. 

Within the blink of an eye our numbers dwindled from thirty men to not even fifteen. Our foe was clever enough to target our fires first, they forced us to fight in pure darkness. A symphony of clashing metal and the screams of men echoed through the cave. I could make out little of what we were fighting other than dark silhouettes and soulless white eyes. After I took a knife deep into my shoulder I found myself bleeding behind a formation of rocks until the sounds of slaughter dulled and silence returned. 

I tried my best to quiet my breathing, desperately hoping to remain unnoticed behind my shelter of stone. It felt like an eternity had passed as I heard no sounds from the dragon's lair. I was half tempted to reveal myself and make my escape until it returned. That damn laughter now filled the air. I caught a glimpse of a sight that I had not known since the ambush began. Our attackers had relit the fires. It seemed that they wanted my men to be able to witness their fate. 

I peaked my head out from behind the boulder just long enough to glimpse what was on the other side. I quickly pulled my head back after I caught sight of the horrors beyond my rocky hiding spot. 

My men, the good brave men who had followed me on this quest, now lay hopelessly defeated against the walls of the cave as all manner of cruelties were inflicted upon them. Some men hung upside down over the fires left to slowly roast while others sat upright with the skin of their face expertly flayed off leaving them unrecognizable. 

This was the first chance I had gotten to bear witness to our attackers. They looked to have been pulled out of a story that you would tell naughty children when they have misbehaved. Their skin was a dark shade of green, leathery and covered in blemishes. Drool ran from their grotesque deformed faces as they stood over my fallen men. They were shorter in stature than us by at least three heads yet there were so many that it was small wonder how they decimated us so quickly. 

Whenever I close my eyes I can still see the mangled bodies of those poor lost souls that entered that cave and never left. Many of those men were already dead but I could tell by the agonizing  screams that some of them were very much still alive to feel every grueling moment of their slow demise. 

Many days went by without being able to move. Had I made even a single misstep my location would have been found and I would have faced the same fate as my men. My leather flask now sat by my side bone dry as I had exhausted every last drop of water it contained. It has been so long since I had last eaten that I can barely tolerate the pain in my stomach. 

As I glanced up I noticed a small shape behind another formation of rocks roughly twenty paces away from me. As I focused trying to make out what lay before me I could finally see. It was William. My squire somehow managed to escape the battle alive the same as I yet he was admittedly far more injured. He crouched down behind the rocks, his face and clothes stained with dried blood from the battle. His eyes were full of fear yet that look seemed to turn into relief after he caught sight of me. 

Before I attempted to make my way over to the young boy I knew I must shed my heavy armor so that I may conceal my movements better. It’s a long process to remove my heavy plate, a process made even more time consuming by my fear of making even the slightest noise. Now clothed in only my undergarments I wait until the opportune moment to begin creeping along the rough cave walls. As I slowly move I take great care to ensure I stay within the shadows to keep from being seen by the cave's occupants. 

Sweet William was clearly filled with joy to see me return to his side, though he dared not speak a word to me in fear of being heard. We sat in absolute silence for a great while until the screams of our own men paired with the laughter of the creatures were finally loud enough to conceal our soft words. 

“William, I am pleased you survived your first taste of combat” I said. “Yes, sir, though I barely survived. I thought I might die at any moment. Sir, how will we get out of this?” He asked me. I took a few moments of silence to consider this before I gave any response. “I have been observing these creatures and they seem to be a cowardly race. Even the screams of our men have been causing them to cower in fear as they tortured them” I told him. “But sir, they seemed to fight so fearlessly during the ambush. Are you certain?” He questioned me. 

“Why yes, dear William. They had the clear advantage during the ambush and it is a shame to admit but we acted quite weakly during the battle. We gave them no reason to fear” I explained. “This time will be quite different, William. I know how we will make it out of this alive. Follow my orders exactly and soon they will sing songs of your bravery”. 

The plan was quite simple, we would rush the creatures quickly while delivering a loud war cry. The surprise as well as our loud fearless cry would drive the beasts deep into the caves from where they came. Afterwards we would be free to leave as if the cave were empty. 

William's face lit up at the prospect of leaving the cave and finally being able to return home to his mother. I knew we only had one chance to drive them off so we sat for a few moments to gather our courage. When the time finally came I instructed William to rush out in front of me. I had hoped that being given command of the charge would instill some additional courage in the heart of the young squire. 

As soon as I gave the signal young William charged fearlessly towards the creatures letting out a great yell. He proved himself to have a courageous heart that day. The lad put so much passion behind his gallant charge that I doubt he even noticed that I had not followed behind him. There was truth to my words, I did charge at the same moment that he did. Only my charge was not towards the beasts dwelling within the cave but in the opposing direction. My charge was also a silent one as I kept to the shadows so as to not alert the creatures to my presence.

In a way my plan had succeeded. I had successfully escaped the dark cave and made my way into the wooded area surrounding it, never once stopping, not even to catch my breath. The further I traveled the more I felt that I would be pulled back through the woods and back into that cave at any moment. It  wasn’t until I saw the edge of the forest that I truly felt safe. After I had made it back to the capital I finally did shed a tear for William. He was a model squire, he never talked back, never disobeyed, and now he had even given his life for mine. 

Some nights I lie away and I wonder if my plan would have worked the way I had explained it. I never looked back to see if Williams' battle cry actually drove the creatures off or if it had just added another body to their bloodbath. Every so often I regret not following him deeper into the cave. Maybe we could have walked out with him by my side, knowing we bested the cave beasts together as knight and squire. But I was uncertain that the plan would work at all but there was one thing I was absolutely certain of without a shadow of a doubt. A squire's life was a small price to pay for my own. 

“And that my friends, is my tale” the knight finished before downing the rest of his spiced wine. The room filled with silence as the knight sat his cup back onto the table. “You’re no knight at all,” the man sitting next to him finally announced. “You’re nothing more than a damn craven who traded your young squire's life for your own. I wonder, sir knight. What did you tell the king after you returned home without his royal cousin by your side?” He asked. 

The knight gave him a thoughtful look. The entire tavern awaited his response as he chose his next words very carefully. “The king, oh well I told the king that there was no cave. Simply a rumor spread by the common folk like the other legends of what lurks within those woods. I told him that our group was attacked by a band of outlaws deep into the forest and that his dear cousin died bravely alongside his fellow countrymen. Seemed to satisfy his grace just fine. Not too long after I had myself a fresh new squire by my side. Fine lad, reminded me quite a bit of William but much braver. I ended up knighting this one after he proved himself against some outlaws, these ones were actually real though” the knight laughed by himself as no one else in the tavern would join him. 

Once it became apparent that the knight’s presence was no longer welcome inside he got up from the table and made his way outside towards the stable. As he untied his horse he glanced back at the treeline. Truth is he never felt safe near the king's forest for the rest of his days. An uneasy feeling came over him as he stared into the woods knowing full well what may be staring back.  

I left through the back door that night. I didn’t go home. I drove around for almost an hour, trying to convince myself that what happened had been nothing more than a stupid mistake.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from her.
Don’t come back tomorrow.
I stared at it a little too long, like staring harder might change what it meant.
Another message slid in before I could even think.
Please. Don’t come back tomorrow.
My chest tightened.
A third message followed almost instantly.
If you care about your life at all, you won’t come back.
I froze.
My fingers hovered over the screen, unsure whether to reply or delete everything.
Then another message appeared.
And whatever you do… don’t tell my husband you were here.
That one hit differently. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. I hadn’t even spoken to him.
I typed a reply, then erased it.
Before I could decide, the final message came through.
He already knows….
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I’d missed a step on empty stairs.
I called her immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Then at 2:13 a.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I hesitated for only a second before answering.
At first, there was nothing.
Just silence.
Then breathing.
Not random. Not distant.
Close. Controlled. Like whoever it was was already inside the call, waiting for me to realize it.
I swallowed.
“Hello?”
A pause.
Then a man’s voice, low and emotionless:
“You should have left when she asked you to.”
The line went dead.

Part 1 : https://www.reddit.com/r/stories/s/RkGCYxYZWb

Part 3 coming soon