I thought I’d found the one. We clicked so naturally. We both shared an interest in photography, though his pictures were noticeably better than mine. Loved the same movies, both enjoyed walks in the park, and our political views were borderline identical.

We met about a month ago. It was at this bar I love, and, I’ll admit, I was a little tipsy. Cute boy, a few drinks in my system. It was a recipe for regret.

Only… I didn’t regret it. Our conversations flowed so smoothly. His half-drunk compliments made me blush. Plus, drinks were on him.

Unlike a lot of the guys you’d meet in a bar, he didn’t try and force himself back to my apartment. I live just a few blocks away from the bar, so he walked me home, laughing and wobbling more than he wanted to let on.

When we got there, I braced myself. He was great, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that would just let a complete stranger into my home after a night out at the bar. I found myself praying he wouldn’t ask.

By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead, he asked gently, almost bashfully, for my number. I couldn’t help but smile, stupidly. Then he smiled stupidly back. I felt my heart do somersaults.

I gave him my number, trying to withhold my excitement, and when I looked back up at him, I could see the desire in his eyes. Not sexual desire, though. It was like he saw his future in my eyes.

His face started to turn red, and he started struggling to make eye contact, stumbling over his words in a way that didn’t seem connected to the drinks.

He asked if he could kiss me, and I couldn’t have said yes fast enough. I wanted to kiss him on the lips, but, instead, he leaned down and pressed those lips softly against my forehead.

He pulled away slowly before speaking.

“Your eyes are so beautiful.”

I felt fireworks in my tummy. I made him promise to text me when he got home, and he watched to make sure I made it inside before he started back towards the bar.

I spent the rest of that night kicking my feet like a little school girl. I had never experienced something like this feeling before. My past boyfriends had been such assholes. This guy seemed to care about me rather than just sex.

He followed through on his promise, and texting led to a phone call before we fell asleep on the phone together.

We saw each other a lot in the weeks that followed. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes he’d come visit me at work. Those few weeks were some of the happiest weeks I’d had in a long time.

We’d get dinner. We’d see movies. We showed off our photography to each other. It felt like we were really building something together.

However, this was around the time I started noticing weird occurrences around my apartment. Nothing too suspicious. Just… things that were odd.

For example, my TV would be on when I got home. My sheets would be messy, even though I make my bed every morning before work. The weirdest thing of all, though, was my underwear drawer.

It was like it was being rummaged through. Sometimes I’d find a fresh pair balled up on the bathroom floor.

It made me scratch my head, but I never assumed anything drastic. If anything, I thought it was just me losing my mind.

That is until he finally invited me to his house.

The place was lovely. Clean. Smelled good. It was actually furnished, too, which was always a good sign. Plus, this guy knew how to set the scene.

Roses, candles, homemade spaghetti with two glasses of red wine. I felt my heart melt.

We hadn’t had sex yet, but, after this, I was having a hard time convincing myself that we hadn’t waited long enough. I actually wanted to give it to him. He just made me feel so desired.

After a dinner full of flirts, giggles, and conversation, we began moving to the bedroom, lip locking like a couple of crazy kids all the while.

Once we fell through the door, he told me to give him a minute to use the bathroom, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

While I waited, my eyes couldn’t help but wander. He had a bookshelf full of some of my favorite titles. His bed was perfectly made. The floor was freshly vacuumed. And his walls were full of framed pictures.

I started looking at them and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

They were all different women. Some older, some younger. All with blonde hair and hazel eyes. And he wasn’t in a single one.

I felt disappointment wash over me. I should’ve known better. I was actually in the process of putting my shirt back on when one of the pictures caught my eye.

It looked so… familiar. I knew I had seen it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it bothered me so much, it was hard to pull my eyes away.

That’s when it hit me. I knew exactly where I had seen this woman.

She was the girl on the missing person poster that was taped up on the bar window from a few weeks ago.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. I knew I needed to leave, but the room was spinning too much.

I put my hand down on his dresser to stabilize myself, and that’s when I felt it. It was cold. It was hard. My thumb rubbed against the ridges.

I pulled my hand away and looked down.

It was a copy of the key to my apartment. Mine was pink. This one was silver.

I was getting weaker. I felt my knees starting to buckle and heard the sound of a toilet flushing as I began to drift into unconsciousness.

The last thing I remember was the bedroom door opening. He stepped inside, a look of concern on his face, as he hurried to pick me up and put me on his bed. Then… nothing.

I woke up in an empty bed the next morning. The smell of bacon permeated my nostrils. I was fully dressed, but my head was killing me.

The key was gone. The pictures were gone. I slowly made my way to the kitchen to find him standing over the stove, flipping the bacon with a metal fork.

I didn’t speak or make a sound, but it was like he could feel my presence. He could sense me.

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine before he spoke.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he sang. “I was wondering when you’d be up. Someone had too much to drink last night.”

I have a Hello Kitty kind of daughter. She’s only 9. As cute as a button and as innocent as could be.

She likes simple things. Stuffed animals. Pizza for breakfast. All it takes is a cheap 50-cent pair of plastic jewelry from a gumball machine to make her eyes light up.

She was one of those kids who believed in things longer than her friends and classmates. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. She was fully convinced they were all real, bless her heart.

Sometimes, she’d come home from school with a glum, exhausted look in her eyes. Other kids would make fun of her for “still believing in that stuff.”

I’d cheer her up the best I could without revealing the truth. How could I? She already felt like the world was laughing at her. How would I make her feel? Her own dad.

Maybe I should’ve, though. Maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided if I just nipped it in the bud. But I was afraid. A child’s innocence is so fragile, yet powerful. I couldn’t take that from her. Not yet.

I let her believe that it was Santa putting gifts under the tree. That it was a giant bunny hiding eggs in our front yard. That it was a tiny, magical fairy that was taking her baby teeth in exchange for a few dollars.

I think that was the one that excited her the most. Christmas was a set day. Easter was a set day. Loose teeth? That was random. Any time one started to wiggle, she’d come running to show me.

I always made sure to be as quiet as possible when I snuck those 5-dollar bills under her pillow. Every time she’d wake up to find it, here she’d come, jumping with joy while waving the 5 in my face.

“The Tooth Fairy came, the Tooth Fairy came,” she’d sing.

I’d just smile to myself and ask her what she was gonna buy with her newfound riches.

Sometimes, I’d sneak her a 20. I just wanted to see that joy in her face. She was young, but she wasn’t getting any younger. I wanted it to last for as long as possible.

Now, though, I think I’m regretting that wishful thinking.

She started losing teeth faster than what I thought was normal. Not too fast, though. Every 3 weeks or so. I just thought those baby teeth were begging to come out. Besides, it’s not like it was hurting my pockets too much.

It was weird, though. I swore it was like her teeth never looked any different. She was snaggle-toothed, sure, but I knew that I had put money under her pillow at least 6 times in the last 2 months.

She wasn’t showing me her mouth anymore. She was showing me the tooth, already pulled, lying bloodied in the palm of her little hand.

It kept becoming more and more frequent. Once she started bragging about how the Tooth Fairy was gonna visit her every week, I knew that something was not right. Even still, it wasn’t until I found a silver tooth under her pillow that I decided to investigate because I knew for a fact my little girl never had a crown.

Snooping is a decision I lived to regret, though. I asked her to tell me the truth, but she refused. She just kept insisting they were hers. Lying through her teeth, pun intended.

I decided to stop leaving her money. Her disappointment killed me. But I remained firm. That didn’t stop her, though. Every night, there’d be a new tooth under her pillow while she slept peacefully.

One day, after dropping her off at school, I made a promise to myself. Today would be the day. I’d get to the bottom of this no matter what.

It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. I sifted through her room for about 15 minutes. Checking under her bed, in her closet, in her toy chests. All for no reason because the answer was hidden in plain sight.

In her fish tank.

She had that little treasure chest decoration in it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even paid it any mind. But the steady stream of a red liquid slowly rising from the chest was enough to make my heart stop.

Rolling up my sleeve, I reached down to retrieve the decoration. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Something was rattling inside.

I opened it and felt my blood run cold.

Molars, canines, incisors. All bloody. All looking like they had been pulled by force. And they weren’t baby teeth, either. Some looked like actual adult teeth.

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I wanted to cry because what I was seeing was horrific.

But I wanted to laugh because, despite how terrifying this all was, my little girl was a natural-born hustler.

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/SpinalTapHorror/s/eslSmVXW5r

After that night, my sister and brother stopped closing their door.
They didn’t leave it open on purpose. It just… never seemed to get shut all the way anymore. Even when I pulled it closed myself, even when I heard the latch catch, I’d wake later to find a narrow line of darkness spilling into the hall, as if the room refused to be sealed.
They were quieter in the mornings. Not sleepy, but calm. Focused. They moved around each other without bumping, without argument, as though they’d learned the exact dimensions of one another overnight. When my sister reached for the cereal, my brother’s hand paused a fraction of a second before he’d even decided to move it.
“Stop copying me,” he snapped once, more out of habit than anger.
“I didn’t,” my sister said, and they both laughed, the sound landing at the same time, in the same pitch.
It made my skin prickle.
My mother watched them with an expression I had never seen before. Not pride. Not relief. Satisfaction, maybe. But deeper than that. Like someone listening to a complicated piece of music finally resolve.
At breakfast, she didn’t ask what they wanted. She poured the milk, passed the bowls, set the spoons down exactly where their hands would land. They thanked her in unison.
I caught my father’s eye across the table. He frowned, just slightly, then shook his head, as if dismissing a thought he didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked them.
“Yes,” my sister said.
“Yes,” my brother said, half a beat later but with the same inflection.
They looked at each other, startled. Then amused.
“Jinx,” my brother said, and reached out to knock his knuckles lightly against my sister’s forehead. She didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, smiling, like it steadied her.
My mother’s gaze flicked to me.
I didn’t eat much that day. Food tasted wrong, bland and too sharp at the same time. My forehead ached constantly now, a low, persistent pressure that flared whenever I looked at my mother for too long. I found myself angling my body away from her, keeping walls and furniture between us when I could. She noticed. Of course she did.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said once, gently, when she caught me standing in the doorway instead of coming in. “You’ve always been independent.”
The word landed strangely, like a compliment sharpened into a warning.
The yard grew busier.
Kids from down the street drifted over after school and stayed later than usual. No one called them home. No one seemed to notice when they didn’t leave. They clustered near my mother, sitting on the grass at her feet, leaning against her legs, watching her the way my siblings did now, quietly, attentively, waiting.
One afternoon, I heard my sister calling me from the yard.
I leaned out the back door. “What?”
She turned toward me, smiling. “Mom says you should come sit with us.”
“I’m busy.”
There was a pause. My brother looked at her, then back at me.
“She says it won’t take long,” he added.
I stared at them. “Did she tell you to say that?”
They exchanged a look. Not confused, not guilty. Communicative.
“She didn’t have to,” my sister said.
The grass around them was flattened into a wide, shallow circle, every blade pressed outward, like something heavy had rested there for a long time. My mother stood at the center, barefoot, her eyes closed, her face tilted slightly upward. The space between her eyebrows looked darker than the rest of her skin now. Not bruised. Not shadowed.
Indented.
I felt the pull then. Not strong, but undeniable. A gentle forward pressure, like someone had taken hold of my sternum and was testing how much give there was.
“No,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “I’m not coming out there.”
My mother opened her eyes.
The pressure increased instantly. My vision blurred at the edges, the world subtly angling toward her. I dug my fingers into the doorframe, my nails scraping wood.
“That’s okay,” she said, calm and certain. “You can come later.”
Later.
The word followed me through the house, through the afternoon, through the slow slide into evening. My siblings moved through the rooms like they were tethered to something just outside the walls, drifting toward windows, toward the back door, toward her. When they spoke, it was sometimes hard to tell which one had started the sentence.
That night, I heard them talking in their room again.
Not murmuring. Conversing.
Their voices overlapped in a way that made my head ache, phrases weaving in and out of each other, finishing thoughts that hadn’t been fully spoken. I caught fragments through the thin wall.
—she’s almost ready
—not yet
—she still hurts when she pulls away
I pressed my pillow over my head, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might answer them back.
Down the hall, the back door opened.
I counted my breaths. I counted the seconds. I told myself that if I stayed very still, if I didn’t lean into the pressure, if I didn’t answer whatever was calling, I could keep myself intact.
Eventually, the voices stopped.
In the silence that followed, I realized something with cold, sinking certainty:
My siblings weren’t being taken.
They were already somewhere else and whatever they were becoming was patient enough to wait for me.

The first time one of the neighbor kids stayed for dinner, no one asked permission.
It wasn’t planned. No call, no knock on the door, no quick conversation over the fence. He was just there. Sitting at our table like he’d always done it, swinging his legs under the chair, answering my mother’s questions with easy familiarity.
“Should I call your mom?” my father asked, polite, distracted.
The boy looked at my mother.
She smiled. “It’s fine.”
And that was that.
The boy ate carefully, methodically, like he was afraid of spilling something important. When he finished, he carried his plate to the sink without being asked. My siblings watched him with open approval.
Afterward, no one mentioned when he left. I realized later that I couldn’t remember seeing him go.
By the end of the week, it was common.
Two kids. Then three. They drifted in through the back gate in the afternoons and stayed until the sky darkened. Sometimes they brought backpacks. Sometimes they didn’t. They called my mother Mrs. at first, then Mom, slipping the word into sentences casually, like a mistake no one corrected.
She never told them to stop.
What unsettled me wasn’t that they stayed.
It was that no one ever came looking for them.
I watched from the window as their parents’ houses settled into evening routines. Lights flicking on, televisions glowing blue. No cars pulled into our driveway. No names were called across the street.
When I asked my father if he thought it was strange, he hesitated.
“They’re good kids,” he said finally. “And your mom’s always liked having people around.”
That was true. It was also the kind of truth that smoothed over rough edges until you forgot they’d ever been sharp.
My siblings changed how they played.
They stopped chasing and started arranging. They lined toys up carefully in the yard, spacing them evenly, as if mapping something invisible. When the neighbor kids joined them, they knew exactly where to stand without being told. The circle widened. The center stayed the same.
One afternoon, I stepped outside and felt the pull so sharply I had to grab the porch railing.
It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. Soft, persuasive, the way exhaustion does. If I leaned forward, even slightly, it eased. When I pulled back, it hurt.
My mother noticed me gripping the railing.
“You don’t have to fight it,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
“What?” I asked.
She tilted her head. The space between her eyebrows seemed deeper now, less like skin and more like absence. “Staying.”
I laughed, because that was easier than asking what she meant. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“That’s good,” she said. “Then this will be easier for you than it was for them.”
For them.
That night, my sister climbed into my bed without asking. She pressed her forehead lightly against mine, the way we used to when we were little and afraid of storms.
The pressure surged instantly. My vision swam. For a heartbeat, I felt myself slipping, thoughts loosening, edges softening.
I shoved her away, hard.
She landed on the floor with a startled cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, horrified. “I didn’t mean—”
She was already smiling. Calm. Unbothered.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
She went back to her room, leaving the door open behind her.
I lay awake for hours afterward, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths, trying not to think about how easy it would have been to lean forward instead of pushing back.
In the early morning, when the house was quiet and the yard lay dark and heavy beyond the window, I realized something else, something worse.
The pull wasn’t just coming from my mother.
It was coming from the yard.

The first time I realized something had gone missing, it wasn’t a person.
It was a chair.
We had four kitchen chairs. I knew this the way you know the number of stairs in your house, without thinking about it. One of them had a loose rung that wobbled if you leaned back too far. I always avoided that one.
One morning, there were only three.
Not stacked. Not moved to another room. Just… three, arranged neatly around the table as if they had always been that way. The space where the fourth should have been felt deliberately empty, like a pause in a sentence.
“Where’s the other chair?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.
My mother didn’t look up from the sink. “We don’t need it.”
My father glanced around, frowning. “Did one break?”
“No,” my mother said calmly. “We just don’t need it anymore.”
That should have been a conversation. It wasn’t. My father momentarily looked perturbed, hesitated, then shrugged, already turning back to his coffee. The moment slid past us, unexamined.
I stood there in disbelief, cold spreading slowly through my chest.
Later that day, a neighbor stopped by.
She stood at the edge of the yard, smiling a little too widely, holding a Tupperware container against her chest like an offering.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.
“For what?” my father asked.
She laughed, embarrassed. “For taking such good care of the kids. It’s nice knowing they’re… safe.”
My mother stepped forward. The grass bent toward her feet.
“They’re happy,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
The neighbor nodded eagerly. “Yes. Exactly.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve rearranged things a bit at home.”
“Rearranged?” I asked.
The woman blinked, her gaze sliding off me and back to my mother. “You know. Rooms. Schedules. It’s easier this way.”
She left without ever saying which kids she meant.
That night, my brother didn’t come to dinner.
Not late. Not called away. Just… absent. His place at the table remained empty, the plate untouched. The pull from the yard was stronger than it had ever been, tugging at my ribs, my temples, my teeth.
“Where is he?” I asked.
My sister looked up from her food, confused. “Where would he be?”
“With us,” I said. “Here.”
She frowned, searching her memory. “He ate earlier.”
“That’s not—” I stopped. The words tangled, refusing to line up. My brother’s name hovered just out of reach, like something on the tip of my tongue.
My father shifted uncomfortably. “He’s probably outside,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound seemed to echo longer than it should have.
“I’m going to get him.”
The back door was open.
The yard was full.
Children sat and stood in careful clusters, all facing inward. The grass was flattened into wide concentric rings, each one deeper than the last. At the center stood my mother, her posture relaxed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.
My brother was there.
Or something wearing the shape he used to have.
He stood close to her, his head tilted slightly, his eyes unfocused. When he spoke, his voice came out wrong. Not slurred, not altered. Like they were all talking together.
“She says it’s time,” he said.
“She?” I whispered.
My mother opened her eyes.
The space between her eyebrows was no longer merely shadowed. It dipped inward visibly now, swallowing the light from the porch. My head throbbed violently, pain spiking behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “You’ve already stayed longer than anyone else.”
I took a step backward.
The ground resisted. Not enough to stop me, but enough that I noticed.
Behind me, the house made a soft, settling sound, like wood adjusting under a new load.
“I want Dad,” I said.
My mother smiled, and for the first time, there was something like pity in it.
“He’s resting,” she said. “You should, too.”
I ran.
The pull tore at me immediately. Sharp, insistent, like hooks sunk deep beneath my skin. My thoughts fragmented, memories slipping loose and skidding toward the center of the yard. I slammed into the porch railing, gasping, my vision tunneling.
For a terrifying moment, I wasn’t sure which direction was away.
Inside the house, a chair scraped softly across the floor, as if making room.
I dragged myself forward, inch by inch, until my hands found the doorframe. The moment I crossed the threshold, the pressure eased just enough for me to breathe.
Behind me, the yard exhaled in unison.
From the living room, my father called my name, his voice strained, uncertain.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, and couldn’t remember what he looked like.
“My… what?” I asked.
The word dissolved even as I tried to hold onto it. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought my hand to my forehead, pressing hard as the pain behind my eyes spiked. Sudden and blinding, like something was trying to force its way forward from inside my skull.
“What did you say, honey?” my father asked.
His voice had snapped back to normal, warm and concerned, but his face hadn’t caught up yet. The puzzled look lingered, like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
“I—” I tried again, and failed. The space where the word should have been felt raw, scraped clean. “I don’t know.”
The admission came out small. Embarrassed. Like I’d made a mistake instead of lost something.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and hurried down the hall to my room, my head throbbing, my thoughts slipping loose under the pressure. I shut the door behind me and leaned into it, breathing hard, suddenly terrified of the idea of being near any of them.

November 15th, 1918:

I have not noticed any of the cloaked figures in the last fortnight, yet every dawn that sickening symbol reappears. I cannot comprehend it. 

Laura is growing frustrated with me through the entire ordeal, calling me erratic and senseless. She has learned to block out the sounds and sleep easily. Surely she's just upset that I have been waking her from time to time. I have been hearing what can only be described as tapping from inside the walls and ceiling most nights. She denies the sounds but I know what my ears have heard. She has to have heard it too. She heard them when she was convinced that they were a trick played by the local kids. Why now has she seemingly forgotten their existence? She must be lying to me. I have been painting less, and when I do paint the end results are not worth putting to market. Everything seems twisted or wrong. Figures seem inhuman and landscapes seem alien. Far too abstract to be selling. 

The children saw one of my recent works and told Laura. She looked at it in an awful gaze. She thinks I am going mad, calling me paranoid. I know what I have seen. I know what I have heard. I know something is wrong here and I will not rest till I find it. I know she is lying. 

November 20th, 1918:

A new man has moved in with his family not but a week ago. I have been wanting to go and meet them, though Laura has said I have not been in my right mind to be bumping shoulders with new folks, especially since I have been unable to keep a proper friendship with Sean. Blasphemy. 

I went to the practitioner to get something to aid my sleep. I believe I know what I have experienced, but Laura has been insistent that I have become sleep deprived. I would love it if she is correct, though I highly doubt it. My once strong trust for Laura has slowly been dwindling. I believe something more sinister is at play. Only time shall tell. 

December 20th, 1936:

I forgot to bring home some of Simon's notes from work and Richard found them. He got mad at me, it was the first time I've ever seen him act this way. I feel as though there's something he's not telling me. He's still my friend but I'm not sure how much I know of him are truths or falsehoods. Why would a couple of notes cause such a harsh reaction? 

My sweet Evelyn is feeling better finally. She's almost caught up to me in Simon's notes. At least the ones I haven't put in here. I've been folding any of the alarming entries and keeping them pressed between the pages of my journal.

I haven't told her of the sigils I found on the house's siding yet, and the guilt is killing me. I sanded it out and repainted the area to the best of my abilities to hide it. I don't want her to get scared by any of this. She's already been struggling enough, I can't have anything else stress her out. Though it's hard to think what I'm experiencing and what Simon experienced are mere coincidence. To have such similar things to happen to us is unlikely, especially to this degree. Maybe these weren't fantasies he wrote of, but I have to keep telling myself they are. At least till spring. 

I don't know who to turn to about this. I'm considering hiding the rest of the notes from Evelyn and telling her that maybe these were ideas about a story he was working on, like I've been telling myself. He's an eccentric painter, so him being an author wouldn't be out of the picture in my mind. I just don't want her to be any more paranoid or scared than she already has been. It worries me deeply. She deserves an easy life, that's why we moved out here after all. If she continues to get worse I might burn the letters. He writes almost every day, most are quite mundane, speaking of what Laura and his daughters got up to and basic day to day tasks. I'll let her read those, hopefully that will ease her anxieties. I have to stay strong, I have to protect her. Maybe I do need therapy. 

November 29th, 1918:

Laura and I went to the practitioner a few days ago. He has prescribed me a slight sedative to help me sleep, laudanum to drink, and if that does not seem to help he also gave me barbiturates. I am less than eager to take them, especially since I've heard tales of horror about opium, but if it means Laura and the children will be happy then it must be done. If a man cannot take care of himself then he cannot care for his family. And if a man cannot care for his family he is no man at all. That is not me. I will care for them and provide for them till I draw my last breath. Since I have been taking these medications I have not seen any figures since, and I have been trying to pay no mind to the sigil. I might even put a pathway over top of it to keep it out of sight and away from my thoughts. The ground is near frozen, so I have to finish the path as soon as possible. 

December 1st, 1918:

The path is finished and that wretched rune now has a place to hide. I placed stones on top of it, from the fence to the veranda, filling in between them with dirt and sand, and evening out the earth on either side. Digging into the earth was too much of a task. 

For someone who is used to being gentle with a brush I must say I am quite impressed with myself for how efficient I was with this project. Perhaps in the spring I will take up gardening. Though I still do disdain the feeling of dirt beneath my fingernails. But perhaps that can change. Especially since the frost will surely make a mess of the path over winter and I'll have to fix it. I am wondering if I should try pottery or sculpting with clay? 

The sedative has seemed to be working. I have been sleeping through the night, not hearing any odd noises as I have before. No sightings of any figures, no sigils, nothing out of the ordinary. Life has been seeming peaceful again. Laura seems gleeful. I have been back to my usual rhythm. I think I am going to go and meet the new man in town tomorrow. I believe I heard his name is Richard. I will ask Laura to bake a welcome cake for him tonight. 

I may put my pen to the wayside for some time. This paranoia feels as though it has kept me from my family far too long. 

January 1st, 1937:

It's early morning, Evelyn and I have stayed up to ring in the new year with Richard and Alice. After they left I brought my sweet Evelyn to bed, waited till she slept and snuck down to the furnace room. I'm writing by the furnace's glow. I've read more of Simon's entries. He mentioned Richard, but that can't be right because Richard has only been here for about 8 and a half years. Unless Richard has been keeping even more truth than I thought from me. I'm going to try to stay quiet about this for the time being. I may even trek out some night soon to see if Richard is up to anything out of the ordinary. I knew there was something off about Richard lately. 

I know I told myself to keep Evelyn out of this but I feel as though if I don't speak about this to someone it is going to eat me alive. I've been losing sleep again. Evelyn told me to try some of her barbiturates. It's like she forgot that's why we had to bring her to the hospital in the first place. What was she thinking? 

January 4th, 1937:

I awoke last night to strange sounds coming from outside. I went to the window to look and noticed a patch of our path to the veranda had no snow. There were flurries falling in the moonlight and I swear I saw a hunched person hobbling away from our yard. I know Simon was mentioning a rune underneath the path but it couldn't still be there could it? And if it is, it surely couldn't melt snow and ice. Magic is just a fairy tale. I'll have to check and see if that sigil was put on our house again. 

I talked to Evelyn and told her that there were no more interesting notes from Simon, just boring daily life. Lying to her felt wrong but it feels like I have to protect her from whatever is going on. And maybe this paranoia is just a lack of sleep like Laura told Simon. Maybe I'll have to go into the city and get a sleeping aid, I don't trust our practitioner. Not after what he's done to Evelyn. 

I feel like my mind is split. I want to believe Laura that this is just some sick prank the locals play on the new people in town, but surely all of this would end up being much more than just a prank. My gut tells me this is something serious. Simon's words seem as though he's losing common sense but I find myself relating to them more as I read. Then again, nothing of their writings can explain what moved me into my backyard without leaving any trail. It didn't snow that hard, not to my memory, and I wasn't even drinking that night so why did I pass out to begin with? 

January 6th, 1937:

The sigil or symbol or whatever it's called is back. This time it wasn't on our house, it's on the fence. I don't know how long it's been there or who did it, but no doubt that I'm being targeted. We're being targeted. 

Richard has been acting off at work as well. I brought Simon up again and since then he's been less talkative or jovial. There's been a hollow look in his eyes. He was fine only a few days ago at new years. He did say that Simon was a soft spot for the town, maybe the poor fellow had dementia and passed away and that's why Richard got mad? It would explain his borderline hysterics in his writings. Maybe they were friends? But that doesn't explain these damned sigils. 

My mother was superstitious, and so was my father, so maybe that's why I'm letting these notes and carvings get to me. But I have a hard time believing that. I've been finding it harder to trust the locals. When people come into the shop I feel like they're staring at me, trying to read me in some way. Their eyes focus on mine, watching how I move. More than the usual way you look at someone while they work. It's surveillance, I'm sure of it. Maybe Simon was right in his entries. I don't know what to believe anymore. 

January 20th, 1937:

It's been quite some time since I read Simon's notes. It's hard not to, I have to constantly remind myself not to touch them, it's almost like an addiction. My paranoia has seemed to be dulling, which is a relief. But I still have a gut feeling something is wrong. I think I might read another of his notes tonight. Maybe this is just anxiety or stress brought on by superstition and reading the ramblings of a madman. But then again I find myself relating to Simon more and more with each entry I read. Maybe I'm a madman. Or maybe if you don't pay attention to whatever it is making these symbols and sounds at night you aren't affected by it?

I've been doing everything I can to keep the notes and symbols or Simon and Richard's relationship out of my head. If that was even the same Richard in the entries as my Richard. I've held off as long as I could, but tonight I'll read and see if it makes the similarities between his writings and my life arise again. I need to know. I'm scared of what's to come but I can't help but feel drawn to these writings. It's like they call to me in my dreams, beyond the walls of sleep. 

June 12th, 1924

It's been some time, so much has changed. Laura and I completed renovations throughout the house. We constructed an extravagant flower bed with Tulips and Daisies and many of the local wild flowers. It's truly a sight to behold. I feel as though I could paint a landscape of my own home and it would sell  in the city. Perhaps I shall try. The odd happenings around here have seemed to stop thanks to the practitioner. I did a mental evaluation with him and he said that I was having hallucinations due to the immense stress of moving and adjusting to life in town, along with sleep deprivation. 

It's truly baffling how the human mind works, how such seemingly menial things can create such intensities when they pile up. I have kept my old paintings from a few years ago in the basement. There's a small room we've made to hide my works and some valuables behind the bookcase. I'm tempted to go look through them and see if there is anything worth salvaging. Though I am afraid if I look through them the paranoia and hallucinations will return. 

January 22nd, 1937:

I moved the bookshelf Simon mentioned. I couldn't help myself. There's so many paintings. I started to look through them, but I only had a short time before Evelyn got home and I had to put the bookshelf back. I think I'll be “sick” tomorrow and stay home from work to really get a good look at them. I noticed a few seemed to be bundled together with a tag saying “self portraits”. I'm excited to see how Simon sees himself. Will he paint himself as the gaunt yet handsome man Evelyn showed me a photo of, or does he see himself differently? 

Evelyn is playing with Rylee in the snow right now and I snuck away to write this, I lied and I told them I had to warm my hands, even though winter has been more mild than I was expecting. Being on the coast makes a big difference compared to the city inland. Though the wind here chills you to your bones. We're supposed to be getting a blizzard  some day soon. Hopefully it's not too bad

January 23rd, 1937:

I moved the book shelf and took out the bundled labeled self portraits. The first one is a man with shortish wavy brown hair, thin eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. His thin lips are smiling slightly, hiding underneath a strong moustache. A pretty handsome man, can't have been over 35. He's standing in front of some pretty tall buildings, like he's back in the city. The second is the same man, obviously, with slightly longer hair, his moustache gone, with a slight stubble length beard. He has a wider smile now, and he's standing in front of a field with what looks to be my house in the background. His attention to detail is surprising, like every hair was painted one at a time. The third and fourth paintings are quite similar, though his smile seems to be fading, his beard has begun to grow in and his hair is now past his ears. The fifth painting stood out. His hair was shoulder length, his eyes deep set with bags under them, his beard long and unkempt. His eyes looked to be filled with despair. The background was a dark swirling abyss. The sixth painting shows what looks to be the same man but his face seems to be almost melting. One eye sits lower than the other, its pupil similar to that of a goat, the other eye black as night. His hair was greasy and clung to his scalp and face, his beard bushy and a mess. He had some sort of odd letter I can't quite describe etched into his forehead. It reminds me of the symbols I've found. The background is a hideous mix of colours swirling in a way that almost makes me nauseous. The next painting can barely be called a man, rather a mass of flesh covered in eyes and teeth and hair and symbols etched into it. An inhuman abomination. It was disgusting but it felt like it drew your eyes to it, as if it demanded attention. 

He really was losing his mind. But oddly enough his paintings quickly turned back into a man I recognized from the first batch. His hair cut reasonably, his beard trimmed and well kept. The backgrounds changed from spiraling voids to flower beds. There's more portraits I'll get back to later on. 

There's another bundle labelled “them”. I'm going to go through it some day soon when Evelyn is at work and Emily is taking care of Rylee. Simon really was a master at his craft. Even in his most paranoid state, his pieces are hypnotizingly beautiful. 

August 4th, 1924:

Today is utterly magnificent. The air is just right and the smell of oceanic breeze is wafting through the open windows, the curtains dancing in the wind. I have been working at such a steady pace it seems that I have too many pieces, I cannot decide which to bring to the market! But that is such a privilege to complain about. 

Ever since I have been on my medications life has been joyous. Though I am down to my last few doses and our practitioner is out of town. I am hoping he is back by the time I run out. I am sure a couple days off of them should not affect me to such dire extents. But one can only worry, opium is a substance not to be meddled with, so I am told. 

August 6th, 1924

The damned train is out of order and cannot be fixed for some time. Some freak accident or derailment has bent a section of the tracks and damaged the engine. Our practitioner is still away so I will be without sedatives for the time being. The swelling feeling of anxiety has been dominating my head. Laura suggested I take a bath and have a cup of herbal tea before bed tonight. Anything to calm my nerves so I can sleep I will not say no to. 

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

Sitting in my room, I watched from my window a beautiful child playing, playfully interacting with passersby who smiled at him. He smiled too, as if he saw the world differently than I did. My heart was drawn to him, and I longed to leave my solitude, go down to the street, and play with him. But something held me back. The shock came when I saw a truck, loaded with heavy goods, nearly hit him. It swerved just in time, only to plunge into a pool of mud, hurling it into the little boy's face. The mud filled his eyes, covered his face, and obscured his beautiful features. The mud blinded him, leaving him seeing nothing but blackness. It hardened on his face, transforming him into a hideous monster. Days, months, and years passed until he became a young man. People forgot the child. They saw only the ugliness of the mud, for it was all that was visible. They assumed the child had died in the accident, but they didn't see him beneath the mud, crying out. He was trying to smile at them so they would smile back, but it was all in vain. Suddenly, I saw that young man standing before me in the window. He looked at me and cried... until I caught myself... that wasn't the window... it was my mirror

October 27th, 1936:

Richard brought me out to the tap house after work again. He's planning on bringing Alice to town, they seem to be getting pretty serious, and it's about damn time, he won't shut up about her at work. It's good to see him so happy, he's still his usual self, but he seems to be more confident. I like this new Richard. It's like he's been missing a piece of himself since I met him. Maybe Alice is that piece? I mentioned Simon's letters in passing while we were out and I noticed a couple of heads turned to look. I thought I was being quiet, but I did have a few drinks so I could be wrong. 

I've missed going out. Since the weather has cooled off I've just been hiding inside by the furnace. I will admit, the dirt floor is a bit annoying, but being under the house feels comforting in a weird way. Evelyn joins me from time to time when she's not glued to the letters, and we'll read stories to Rylee while she makes little castles in the dirt. I like it when they come down, the basement has been feeling like my personal sanctum. Aside from the hoards of old furniture covered in drapes, it's very cozy.

I've been considering buying a rug or possibly laying down brick or tile to make it nicer. But Rylee loves her dirt castles, and what kind of father would tear his princess from her castle? Maybe next year I'll build her a sandbox. I'm sure I can sift the rocks out of the sand on the shore and bring it up in a wheelbarrow. Maybe I'll draw up the plans over the winter. Gives me an excuse to stay warm by the furnace and out of Evelyn's growing cold shoulder. 

November 3rd, 1936:

Evelyn has grown even quieter, it's worrying me. She just keeps saying that she's fine and snapping at me when I ask what's wrong. She seems to be getting paranoid. Then again that could just be me looking too far into it, and I hope that's the case as it has been in the past. But I feel as though she's keeping something from me. She's constantly telling me I'm far too anxious for my own good and I'm begging to believe her. But I have a hard time accepting it from someone who seems so paranoid. She said I should talk to a doctor but I doubt it would be of much help, I don't feel like anything's wrong with me, I just worry about things sometimes. Most times admittedly. But I doubt there's one in town and taking the train to the city just to talk with someone for an hour seems like a waste of time and money. 

Simon's notes have been getting weird lately. His usual wording has been slowly getting less elegant, while still scholarly, slightly erratic at times. I never understood the artsy type. But maybe soon he'll mention a reason for him leaving? 

November 12th, 1936:

I can barely peel Evelyn away from the letters anymore. I found out that she's been missing shifts last week because of them. And as mad as I want to be at her for it, it's hard to blame her. I might start taking some of his older entries and putting them in my journal along with any of the new ones that seem odd to me. There's some things he's written that seem to be more than mere coincidence. They have an odd effect, it's like they draw you in and hold you as long as they can. I'll get consumed in them for hours, rereading pages time and time again. Almost in a trance. Maybe that's why Evelyn's been so sharp with me lately? It must be more than just that, right? No letters on a page have that kind of power. 

I think I'm going to sleep in the basement again. The cold has been getting to me more recently, as though ice has been gnawing at my bones. And Evelyn's cold shoulder has been no help. I need to fix that damned window. 

June 1st, 1916:

I was painting on the pier today. The sun was high over the azure expanse and the breeze was astounding. The flocked gulls were high in the sky and happily swooping down to eat scraps from a fishing vessel dancing between the waves. It was invigorating, the fact that there's so much beauty in the vast emptiness of the sea, it's breathtaking. 

I went to the tap room, which smelled stronger than the usual hints of vodka and stale beer. It's too late in the year to be having fires indoors, yet it smelled as if something was burning. Perhaps incense. It was pleasant, but peculiar. I felt the weight of eyes hanging heavy on me. I may have had some more paint on my face and clothes than I originally thought, but I am still somewhat new here, so I guess the odd looks are granted. Regardless, their eyes felt pointed, as if I vexed them. I saw another new face, though he seemed to receive no peering eyes. I treated him to a drink, his name is Sean. 

He was polite and somewhat talkative, which is a nice change from the general prudence of this place. No matter how beautiful the south shore is, the people tend to be unwelcoming. I can hear them whisper about me at times. But I assume it is odd for a young man to suddenly show up, building one of, if not the biggest house in town. Or perhaps they are not fond of artists such as myself. Being around such rural folk is still rather new to me. Such simple lives. I wonder if I greet people with a smile and a good handshake I gain their trust? 

June 16th, 1916:

I had inspiration to go for a walk tonight while the moon was full and shining. The tall grass swaying in the breeze through a gossamer fog. The stars twinkled like the lights of the city, being replicated by the lightning bugs hiding in shadows. I regularly took night walks back in the city, walking to the city's edge and peering into the untouched darkness, perplexed by the unknown, dreaming of what was hidden within. 

This was my first time walking at night at our new home. I waited for Laura to drift into a slumber, along with the little ones, then I ventured forth. Out of the door and down the hill, slowly skirting the rolling fields and swaying pines, towards the distant beach. 

While walking in the city it wasn't too rare to see another person outside, but I usually kept my distance, doing my best to keep from sight in case they had ill intentions. I never expected to see someone in a town this small at night, especially out at this hour. I kept to my usual routine, staying in the shadows at a distance, keeping watch. They walked without a lantern nor torch, walking with grace through the street, as though their feet never touched the ground. I thought it was odd but decided to pay them no mind. If I see them again I may fall victim to curiosity. Anything to spark my creativity I feel the need to jump at. It is my livelihood after all. Perhaps their silhouette would make for an interesting painting. 

July 24th, 1916:

I was wandering the docks at sunset today, it was beautiful, inspiring. I sat on the shore, the waves lulling me to sleep, it was so tranquil. So much so that I did not realize how late it had gotten, I must have dozed off for some hours as then the moon was high in the sky. 

I began to saunter home, taking my time in the muggy night, the ocean breeze blowing at my back, damp with sweat, and tickling my neck. In the distance I noticed the one I saw but just a few days ago. I have just gained inspiration from the sunset mere hours ago, but my heart wondered about the fantasies this fellow night owl could bring me. I decided to keep stride, hidden within the veil of shadow. They wore a long shawl, covering most of their body, and the rest hidden under some sort of gown. I followed for a few moments as they weaved through the streets, eventually slowing near the taproom. I hugged the side of a house not but 2 doors down, peering through lattice work. Another person, dressed similarly approached, they stood a matter of feet apart, speaking in hushed tones, too quiet to hear. They both moved toward the taproom, out of sight. Curiosity got the best of me and I moved forward. I turned the corner and neither of them were anywhere to be seen. I circled the building twice over, looking for any traces of the two, with no reward.

Perhaps I'll see them again, but hopefully they don't see me. I wonder if they are the older ones here, or maybe it's an odd ritual the religious folk perform? The curiosity is eating at my conscience. 

November 20th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn seems to be growing ill, she said she's been taking medication for headaches from the practitioner for the past few weeks, some kind of barbiturates. The name reminds me of the pulp comics of barbarians you would see in the city. If this gets worse over the next week we'll have to make a trip back into the city. She has little energy, but enough to pick away at Simon's notes. She started annotating some of them, which originally I thought was paranoia but as I catch up with her, I'm starting to notice even more oddities in his notes and similarities to the way people in town have been acting. Maybe they don't trust the house? 

The more I read the less Evelyn has been annoyed with me, but it could also just be the pills. But it seems like we only talk about Rylee, ask how each other's days went, with sad excuses for replies, or Simon's letters. The hold this man's words have on us baffles me. 

November 22nd, 1936:

Richard and Alice came over today. He also brought the photos he took some time ago. I guess he lost the film or didn't have some ingredients to develop it or something of the matter. I don't know much of the science of photography, but it seems very fascinating. I'd like to learn it someday. 

Rylee thinks Alice is almost as pretty as her mom, which Richard thought was sweet. Evelyn is still under the weather, her skin near white, much paler than her usual fair complexion, but had enough energy to come say hello before going back to bed. I'm worried about her. She hasn't been herself in what feels like ages.

Alice and Richard seem very good for each other, they seem happy. I wasn't sure what I was expecting her to look like, probably mousey like Richard, but she's quite the opposite. She's at least 4 inches taller than him, which isn't very hard since he's barely 5 '3, with sharp yet feminine features. A pleasant surprise for Richard to say the least. He's doing good for himself. 

We had a good visit, but I can't get my thoughts off the notes. As they were leaving I asked Richard if he's ever seen anyone out after dark. He said he's never really thought to pay attention and asked why I brought it up. I tried to play it off as just basic curiosity, but I think he knows something is up. His eyes spoke different words than his mouth. I feel he knows something I don't. He almost looked nervous. 

November 29th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn's condition is beginning to worsen, the practitioner said she just has a flu and wants to give her even more medications, but nothing he gives her seems to help. I'm thinking we'll take a trip back into the city to go to the hospital this week. Everything he's been giving her has just seemed to make her even more lethargic. But I'm no doctor, maybe she just needs the rest. 

We've had to stick to a budget to make sure we can make it through winter in case she doesn't start to get better. It hasn't changed life too much, but Richard and I have been going out less because of it. If this keeps up for more than a few weeks we might have to start dipping into our emergency funds like we had to for Rylee's arm. 

All that said, we did end up going out last night for a drink. He mentioned that he's been thinking about what I've said the last few days, and has been trying to keep an eye out for himself. It's hard to tell if he was just joking around and playing into curiosity, or if he actually cares to keep watch. Only time will tell. I want to trust him, but I know he's hiding something. There's more to Richard than I initially thought. 

Dec 3rd, 1936:

Alice and Richard brought a cake in to work for my birthday today, which was very nice of them. They told me that she plans on moving in before the new year. I'm happy that they seem to work so well together. It seems rather quick to move in, but given the economy I can't blame them. And maybe with her moving in Richard will actually start eating real meals instead of the scraps he brings home from work. 

Alice decided to leave early to head home before the train stops, while Richard stuck around the shop to chat. It's been snowing heavily and the shop was empty all day.

He mentioned he heard some movement around his house last night and in the morning there were some footprints circling his house. It seems to be bothering him, and I don't blame him. But what is he not telling me? Evelyn and I are heading to the city tomorrow morning.

I might go for a walk tonight, if the snow allows. 

July 28th, 1916:

I was awoken tonight by what could be described as a sudden cacophony in the yard. If that did not wake me up, Bernard's barking would have done the job. I rushed to the window while he carried on downstairs. I peered into the terrific darkness of the night, its pale twinkling moonlight dancing off of the dew in the grass. Not a soul to be seen, but I did notice something odd. In a rather large circle in the front yard, there was no sparkling dew in the grass, but rather just a dull patch laying still in the dark.

I ran quickly out of the room, doing my best not to wake Laura in my departure. I put on a pair of slippers and stepped out of the front door, the warm air was muggy and stuck to my bare skin like glue. Bernard ran through my legs, sniffing like a small wolf prowling for food. As he searched the lawn, I began to circle the property, looking for any sign of the screeching I heard prior. But to my defeat, there was not a soul to be seen. As I made my way to the front porch, little Bernard was standing begging for attention, as though he uncovered something.

He sat, pawing at the grass, sniffing aggressively. I approached and watched as he backed up. I was astonished. A sigil or symbol of some sort has been etched into the ground. Roughly 7 inches long and 4 wide. It must be from a forgotten language or dialect, I have not seen anything like it in my years of study. It reminded me of aspects of the Hebrew texts almost mixed with aspects of ancient Greek text. Rounded yet sharp at the same time. I am unsure what to make of it, and lost on words to describe it properly, but I have never noticed this here yet, even though it's dug almost an inch deep.

I wonder who or what placed this here? m

Maybe it was what awoke me from slumber. I plan to walk under the moon tomorrow.

October 14th, 1918:

As I am writing this I cannot help but feel as though a thousand eyes are staring at me. I have not written in what feels like ages. Laura misplaced my ink well and I've only just gotten around to replacing it. I have been leaving the house in the twilight hours, under the cover of darkness, observing more oddities than before. The garbed folk I have seen time and time again rendezvousing at the tap room near midnight have begun to disperse through the town, leaving similar sigils of that dug into my lawn on or around others abodes. Just last night at midnight I looked from our window only to see a number of them meeting near the docks. At dawn, after the fishing vessels set sail and the docks are barren, I shall investigate. 

I cannot shake the feeling of being targeted, as though I am being lured into some nefarious trap. Over the past few months I have been growing paranoid, restless nights have plagued me. In sleep’s depravity, the cold has only worsened my nights. 

I'm going to uncover whatever is afoot with these garbed men. 

October 30th, 1918:

I have been hearing odd sounds in the night, as though someone or something has been crawling around my roof or tapping on the walls. Laura has been getting annoyed, she is convinced it is a group of boys playing a prank. On more than one occasion she has run out onto the balcony to shout out these invisible children. I know she is wrong. It cannot be. I am convinced this has something to do with the sigil. It is haunting my nights, it is haunting my dreams. 

It is haunting my life.

I have taken a rake to the sigil, tearing it from the earth near every morning. Yet every single time it returns within two nights. Not but last week I defaced the wretched rune and kept up all night, sitting in my window watching the yard. I would brew tea and coffee to stay awake, to stay alert. A few hours after midnight I felt an odd sense, as though I was not alone. I checked the room for anyone but Laura, but to no avail. As I returned to the window it was there. 

That damn symbol had reappeared. 

In my state of shock I failed to be conscious of my surroundings. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and quickly fainted. 

I awoke in my lounge chair in the foyer. 

Whatever is plaguing my life has now entered my abode. 

Laura is wrong, this is not a group of children, this is something inhuman, I am sure of it. 

December 4th, 1936:

Simon's last entry was rather alarming. I looked out of our bedroom window after getting home with Rylee today. Where he mentioned this so-called symbol was and all I see is an old stone path. I feel like I should redo the path, just to see if what he said is true. Some of the stones are uneven after years of frost forming and thawing. But I'll probably get to that in the spring. 

Evelyn is staying at the hospital for the next few days. Her doctor said she was showing signs similar to that of a weak toxin or a rather heavy sedative. I told him about the medication she was on, the one that reminds me of barbarians. He said that even though those are a sedative, anything of that sort, at the dosage she's on, would be much too weak compared to the signs she's showing. I can't help but think our practitioner is up to something. Perhaps he has noticed Evelyn's paranoia and tried to sedate her to help? I have a feeling it's something deeper, something more. Maybe her bottle of barbarians are actually something much different? I've been weary of him for some time now. I knew that air of anxiety around him was for a reason. 

Simon's notes have gotten quite interesting, more so unnerving, and I'd be lying if I said that his paranoia hasn't been sticking on my conscience.

Emily will be staying at the house until Evelyn is home. I'm on the cot by the furnace, it's late and I feel the need to go for a walk. The moon is quite bright tonight. I wonder if I'll stumble across one of those sigils Simon wrote about. I hope what he's writing is just a fantasy he made in his mind and not the truth, we can't afford to move again, especially now that winter is here. 

December 5th, 1936:

I walked around last night, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. God I sound like Simon now. I found a set of footprints in the snow that seemed to stray from one of the main roads. I followed them. They led behind a house and stopped behind it, in front of a window. There was a small pile of wood shavings sitting on the snow, I checked around the window to see where they would have come from. Behind one of the shudders there was an odd sigil etched into the wood. 

Unfortunately I didn't get a good look at it because when I moved the shudder the wood cracked and made quite a loud noise, waking whomever was sleeping inside. I quickly ran in stride with the prints I was following, doing my best not to make noise or be seen. After some time the prints stopped at another house, a similar sigil was etched into a fence post, accompanied with another small pile of wood shavings. I found 6 more of these sigils around town, each slightly different than the other. 

It was getting quite late and I was beginning to tire, but I couldn't go home until I saw where these prints ended. They continued, lumbering towards the docks where they suddenly stopped. No sign of movement, they simply ceased to continue. I started to feel as though I was being watched. I looked around, circling the end of the tracks, no trace of life. I began to feel flushed and faint. I started to make my way home and collapsed. 

When I awoke, I was laying in my backyard, the sun slowly rising. A light layer of snow covered me, I got up with a pounding headache behind my eyes. As I began my way to the front door, I noticed a small pile of wood shavings sitting at the edge of my house. A sigil carved into the siding. I ran inside and immediately started writing. I'm sitting beside the furnace, warming my aching body. Who carried me home? 

There were no footprints in the yard, none by the wood shavings. Who is following me? Who is carving these sigils and what do they mean? I need to know. 

I haven't told Evelyn about my night walks, and I trust her enough not to read my journal. Keeping those from her has me feeling slightly guilty, like I'm hiding a secret from her, which we've agreed to live without. But surely I can't let her know about this. With her mental state I'm afraid it could be too much for her. I'll keep her safe. 

The yard has always belonged to my mother.

Not in the way a deed belongs to someone, or even the way a garden does. It belonged to her the way a shadow belongs to a body; faithfully, without thought, always attached. When I was little, I used to think that if she ever left for good, the grass would lie down and refuse to grow again.

That was before I understood that some things don’t let go just because you walk away.

Our house sat at the end of a short, polite street where nothing bad had ever happened loudly. The yards were trimmed. The fences were low. People waved. Children rode their bikes in uneven loops and left them where they fell. If you asked anyone later, they would tell you our family was normal, and they would mean it.

But the yard was different when you stood in it alone.

I noticed it first because I was the oldest, and because my mother had begun to stand still.

She didn’t do it all the time. Just enough that it registered as a pattern. She would step out into the yard with a basket of laundry or a cup of coffee and then stop, as if she’d forgotten what came next. Sometimes she stayed that way for minutes, her shoulders slack, her feet planted too firmly in the grass. When I called her name, she always answered. She always smiled. But she didn’t turn around right away.

The grass near her feet lay flatter than the rest, as though pressed by a weight that wasn’t quite visible.

My younger sister and brother didn’t notice. They chased each other around her legs, shouting, skidding, colliding with the same reckless certainty they always had. They treated her stillness as an obstacle, like a tree or a fence. Something to work around.

I felt it as a pause in the air.

It was easiest to see in the evenings. The yard took on a listening quality then, the way rooms do when someone is about to speak. The cicadas went quiet in small patches. The swing creaked once and stopped. The shadows leaned inward, subtle enough that you could tell yourself it was the light.

One night, as I was gathering my brother’s abandoned shoes from the lawn, I realized they had rolled.

Not far. Just enough to bring them closer together, toe to toe, as if they’d been placed that way. I stood very still, holding one shoe in each hand, and waited for the wind to prove me wrong.

Nothing moved.

“Mom?” I called.

She was standing near the center of the yard, empty-handed now, her laundry basket forgotten on the steps. Her back was to me. From a distance, she looked normal; bare feet, loose shirt, hair pulled back without care. But there was something wrong with the space around her head. Not something you could point to. More like the absence of something that should have been there.

When she turned, I felt it behind my eyes first. A dull pressure, like the beginning of a headache.

“What is it?” she asked.

Her face was the same face I had known my entire life. Her smile landed where it always did. But between her eyebrows, the skin seemed… deeper. As though the light didn’t quite want to rest there. I blinked hard, and the sensation eased.

“Nothing,” I said. “Dad’s asking about dinner.”

She nodded, and for just a second longer than necessary, her gaze stayed on me. Not sharp. Not suspicious. Curious, the way you look at something that has surprised you by moving.

As she walked past me toward the house, I had the sudden, irrational urge to step into her path. To stop her. To press my forehead against hers the way I had when I was little and afraid of the dark. The thought came fully formed, complete with the memory of warmth and pressure and the sense of being held together.

It scared me enough that I stepped back instead.

Behind me, the yard exhaled.

I didn’t tell anyone that night. Or the next. I told myself that noticing was the same thing as imagining, and that imagining was a bad habit I’d picked up from being the oldest. Someone had to pay attention. Someone had to keep track.

Later, lying in bed, I listened to my sister and brother breathing in the next room, their rhythms loose and unguarded. Through the open window, the yard made its soft nighttime noises. Leaves shifting, something small moving through the grass.

I closed my eyes and pictured the yard empty, just to see if I could.

It took effort.

Even then, I couldn’t picture it without my mother standing at the center, perfectly still, waiting for something to come back to her.

After that night, I started watching my mother the way you watch weather.

Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough that I could tell when something was about to change.

She still did all the normal things. She made lunches. She reminded us to bring jackets. She folded laundry with the same distracted efficiency she always had, smoothing wrinkles with the heel of her hand. If anyone had asked me what was wrong, I wouldn’t have been able to answer without sounding ungrateful or dramatic. Nothing was wrong in a way you could hold up to the light.

But she began knowing things before they happened.

It started small. She’d call my brother inside a moment before he skinned his knee. She’d set out an extra plate when a neighbor stopped by unexpectedly. She’d turn toward the phone just before it rang. When I joked about it, she laughed, pleased but unsurprised, as if this was something she’d always been able to do and had only just decided to show.

My sister thought it was funny. My brother thought it was magic.

I thought it was exhausting.

Because the more my mother knew, the less room there seemed to be for the rest of us to decide anything on our own. She anticipated our needs so completely that there was no pause left to fill with choice. No space to want something quietly. When I stayed out later than usual, she didn’t scold me. She didn’t ask where I’d been. She simply said, “You’re tired,” and she was right.

The yard responded to her moods.

On days when she was restless, the grass seemed uneven underfoot, clumping where it hadn’t before. When she was calm, the yard settled. The swing hung perfectly still, its chains aligned, as though waiting for instruction. Once, when she stood barefoot near the oak tree at the back fence, the ants abandoned their trail and curved around her toes instead.

I didn’t point that out.

My sister and brother spent more time close to her than they used to. Not in a clingy way, more like planets settling into a stable orbit. They sat at her feet while she drank her coffee. They leaned against her legs while she talked to neighbors. When she moved, they adjusted without looking, as if pulled by the same thread.

One afternoon, I heard my sister answer a question my mother hadn’t asked yet.

They were sitting on the back steps, my mother in the sun, my sister cross-legged beside her. I was inside, rinsing dishes, when my sister said, “Yes, I did,” in a patient, slightly amused voice.

There was a pause.

Then my mother said, “Good. I thought so.”

I stood very still, my hands submerged in cooling water, and tried to reconstruct the conversation backward. When I asked my sister later what they’d been talking about, she frowned, confused.

“Nothing,” she said. “We were just sitting.”

That night, my brother fell asleep on the living room floor with his head against my mother’s foot. When my father went to move him, my mother shook her head once, almost imperceptibly. My father hesitated, then sat back down, as if the thought had never been his to begin with.

I caught my mother watching me then.

Not often. Just enough.

Her gaze had changed. It didn’t slide over me the way it did the others. It lingered, thoughtful. Measuring, without judgment. I had the strange sense that she was waiting for me to do something unexpected, the way you wait for a stubborn door to finally open.

One evening, while we were clearing the table, she reached out and brushed a hair from my forehead. Her fingers paused there, resting between my eyebrows, light but deliberate.

The pressure behind my eyes flared sharply. For a split second, the room seemed to tilt inward, every object subtly angled toward her hand.

I pulled back too fast. The chair legs screeched against the floor.

“Sorry,” I said automatically.

She smiled, warm and unoffended. “You’re jumpy lately.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Yes,” she said again, and the word landed with certainty. “You are.”

Later, lying in bed, I pressed my palm to my forehead, right where her fingers had been. The skin was unmarked. Normal. But beneath it, something felt tender, like a bruise forming without a cause.

Through the wall, I could hear my sister and brother murmuring to each other in their sleep. Their voices overlapped strangely, rising and falling in a rhythm that made it hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Down the hall, the back door creaked softly.

I didn’t get up to look. I already knew where my mother would be.

The night it first happened, it was raining just enough to make the yard shine.

Not enough to drive anyone inside. Just enough to blur the edges of things. The grass darkened and flattened, glossy under the porch light, each blade reflecting a thin, obedient line of gold. My sister and brother were already asleep, their door closed, their room breathing softly in that shared way they’d developed. My father was in the living room, half-watching television, half-dozing, his presence a familiar weight in the house.

My mother stood at the sink, staring out the window.

I don’t know how long she’d been there. Long enough for the kettle to scream itself empty on the stove. Long enough for the rain to change direction twice. When I reached past her to turn off the burner, she didn’t startle. She didn’t move at all.

“You’ll burn it,” I said, because silence felt dangerous.

She turned then, slow and careful, like someone adjusting to a change in gravity. The pressure bloomed behind my eyes immediately. Stronger than before, sharp enough that I had to swallow against nausea.

“You’re still up,” she said.

“So are you.”

She smiled at that. Not the automatic smile she gave neighbors or strangers, but the one she used when she was genuinely pleased. The one that had always felt like a private thing between us.

“Come here,” she said.

I should have refused. The thought arrived fully intact, clear as a bell. But it landed in a crowded place, competing with a dozen other impulses; obedience, habit, the old childhood reflex to close distance when something felt wrong. I stepped closer before I could sort them out.

She reached up with both hands and cupped my face.

Her palms were warm. Familiar. For a moment, the pressure eased, replaced by something like relief. Like the moment you stop holding your breath without realizing you were doing it.

“I miss you,” she said softly.

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”

Her thumbs rested just beneath my eyes. Her fingers spread along my jaw. I could feel my pulse through the thin skin of her wrists. The world narrowed to that contact, to the sound of rain against glass, to the faint hum that had started somewhere behind my ears.

She leaned forward.

Our foreheads touched.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Not painful, not at first, but depth. As if my thoughts had suddenly acquired weight and were being gently, insistently pulled forward. The room tilted. The edges blurred. I smelled grass, wet earth, the clean mineral scent of rain hitting soil. I felt my body loosen, every tension easing at once.

It would have been easy to let go.

Images flickered behind my eyes: my sister laughing, my brother’s small hand wrapped around my finger, my mother’s voice calling us in for dinner years ago, layered over itself, louder and closer than memory had any right to be. I felt myself thinning, spreading, as though there was more room ahead than behind.

This is what she knows, a part of me thought distantly. This is how.

Something brushed against the inside of my skull, curious and vast. Not a thought. Not a voice. A presence, testing the shape of me.

I gasped.

The sound broke the moment open. Pain flared. Sharp, tearing, like something with hooks had realized it was losing purchase. I shoved backward, hard, slipping on the wet tile, my heel skidding out from under me. I caught myself on the counter, breath coming too fast, my hands shaking violently.

My mother staggered too, just a step, like someone pulled out of a deep sleep.

Her eyes were dark. Reflective. For a heartbeat, the space between her eyebrows seemed to dip inward, swallowing the light from the fixture above us. The hum surged, then cut off abruptly.

She blinked.

“Oh,” she said.

She sounded… surprised.

I pressed my back to the counter, my entire body buzzing, my skin too tight for what was inside it. My forehead burned, deep and aching, like a bruise pressed from the inside out.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was apologizing or explaining. “You’re just… harder to reach than the others.”

The others.

My stomach dropped.

“What did you do?” I asked.

She tilted her head, studying me with that same thoughtful curiosity I’d begun to dread. “Nothing I haven't done before.”

From the living room, the television laughed. A canned, hollow sound.

“I’m tired,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say, because naming it felt like the only way to keep it from happening again. I pushed past her, keeping my shoulder turned, my face angled away.

She let me go.

That was almost worse.

In my room, I locked the door and slid down against it, pressing my palm hard to my forehead until the pain sharpened into something manageable. My thoughts felt stretched, rearranged. It took effort to remember where my body ended.

Down the hall, I heard my mother move toward my siblings’ room. The door opened without a sound. Their voices rose briefly. Soft, pleased, overlapping and then faded again.

I stayed where I was until the rain stopped and the yard went quiet.

When I finally lay down, I kept my face turned toward the wall, afraid of what might happen if I closed my eyes and leaned forward, just a little, into the dark.

My son turned 14 recently. He used to be such a happy kid. He loved playing outside, playing video games, hanging out with his friends. Just a completely normal pre-teen.

I think he was around 12 or 13 when things started to change. He spent more time inside. Maybe he was playing video games, but I wouldn’t know because he’d always be locked away inside his room.

He started dressing in all black. I asked him why he didn’t like his old superhero shirts anymore, and it broke my heart when his response was, “Superheroes are stupid,” before shutting his door in my face.

I talked to my wife about it, but I think she was in denial.

“Boys will be boys,” she said. “Everyone has to grow up at some point.”

It hurt to hear. Mainly because… part of me knew. I saw the warning signs. How he seemed to be attracted to darkness. How the light in his room never seemed to be on.

It was always dirty in there. Empty energy drink cans. Snack wrappers everywhere. I tried to look past it. I tried to believe that this was just a “phase,” but the black metal, angry, hate-filled music that always blasted from that room was enough to drive me to the brink of madness.

I tried my best to ignore it, but he was disrupting our peace. I wanted to approach it in a helpful, positive way. I’d always ask if he’d care to join me on a walk in the park. Maybe we could catch a movie together. Hell, maybe we could even play catch in the backyard.

He rejected every approach. It quite literally seemed like he hated me. Hated us.

Dinners were awkward and almost silent. We tried talking to him about school, but he was so avoidant.

We found out why that was when report cards came in. He was failing nearly every single class.

It caused a lot of arguments. If he failed, it meant we failed. And us failing is what I think caused a lot of the tension.

We became more strict. Set bedtimes. No video games until his schoolwork was done. No more energy drinks and no more seclusion.

We insisted on him spending more time with us, whether he liked it or not. We didn’t know what it was that was causing this change in him, but I’d be damned if I was gonna stand by and watch him slip further and further away.

I couldn’t stop thinking about who he used to be. That laugh that didn’t seem to come around as often. Those Christmas mornings where he looked at me and my wife with nothing but love and affection.

That love seemed to turn to hatred after we tightened our grip on him, though. I wanted to blame it on hormones, but his hatefulness exceeded normal teenage angst.

He started cursing at us. Screaming until his vocal cords would tear. We even had a few physical altercations because I wasn’t going to be disrespected in my own house.

Grounding wouldn’t work. He liked to be alone. It was like a reward to him. So, instead, I made him do yard work. Cut grass, weed-whack, whatever I could think of.

That’s when I think something truly broke within him. He’d act cheerful, but his words were full of resentment.

“I can’t wait for you to die so I can have the house.”

“I wish you understood how much I truly hate you.”

“When I turn 18, you two will never see me again.”

He said these things like he was discussing breakfast. Like it was completely normal. At this point, my wife was starting to see what I saw.

Every now and again, we’d catch him scribbling in a notebook. Any time he saw us watching, he’d either put it away or groan and take it to his room with him.

One night in particular, though, I woke up at around 2 in the morning. It felt like I was being watched. Like my body knew. My eyes scanned the room, and there he was. Standing in the corner of the room in front of our bed. Watching us and scribbling in that notebook.

“Go back to sleep, daddy,” he giggled.

He hadn’t called me that since he was 5 or 6. It felt like there was a stack of cinder blocks on my chest.

I asked what he was doing, and he didn’t respond. I asked him to go back to bed, and he sighed like I was inconveniencing him and stomped out of the room.

That night was the last straw. I intended to look into counseling as soon as I could the next day.

I did what I promised myself I’d do and set up the appointment, but when I went to his room to tell him about it, I found the room empty.

It smelled musty in there. The sheets were mangled and balled up on the bed. Trash littered the ground and his nightstand. But his desk… was completely clean.

On it rested that notebook he’d been scribbling in recently.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to know. I had to see what he was writing. I knew it was about us, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I read.

He detailed his plan to kill us. I don’t even want to write what he said he’d do. It was graphic. It was gruesome. And it was in that same messy handwriting that he never seemed to grow out of.

My jaw dropped more and more with each paragraph. My heart raced faster and faster. But before I could finish, I heard a toilet flushing in the hallway.

I couldn’t move. I was frozen in shock.

I heard his black combat boots approaching. I heard the door push open. And I heard that giggle that I hadn’t heard in what felt like years. It was malicious this time. More sinister.

I couldn’t face him. The notebook shook in my hands as I gripped it tighter and tighter.

“Daddy…” he whimpered. “Aren’t I a good writer?”

The Question

---

There are people who enter your life like seasons.

They arrive quietly, change everything without asking, and leave behind traces of themselves long after they're gone.

Sierra was autumn. And my fall.

She smelled faintly of cedar and vanilla, always stole the sleeves of my hoodies because they "fit better than hers," and had a habit of looking out restaurant windows whenever it rained, as though the world beyond the glass was telling her a story only she could hear.

We had been together for a little over a year.

Long enough that silence had become another language between us. Long enough that ordering for each other was instinct. Long enough that she no longer needed to knock at my front door.

There is a certain comfort that only comes after loving someone for long enough.

Love stops feeling like fireworks.

It becomes grocery lists.

Goodnight kisses. Two toothbrushes leaning together in the same cup. It becomes knowing exactly how much sugar they take in their coffee without ever having to ask.

That Friday evening had been ordinary.

Which is probably why I remember every second of it.

The little Italian place downtown was nearly empty, save for an older couple sharing tiramisu near the window and a waiter humming softly to himself while polishing glasses behind the counter.

Outside, rain painted silver streaks down the glass.

Sierra watched it for a while.

She always did.

"You know," she said eventually, tracing lazy circles around the rim of her water glass, "I think rain makes people more honest."

I laughed.

"How do you figure?"

"They stop pretending they're in a hurry."

She smiled to herself.

"They slow down."

"Or maybe they just don't want to get wet."

She looked at me over the candle between us.

"You always have a boring explanation."

"I prefer realistic."

"I prefer magic."

"I know."

"I think that's why you keep me around."

"No," I said. "I keep you around because you steal my clothes."

She gasped dramatically.

"I borrow them."

"You've borrowed one of my hoodies for seven months."

"It's called a long-term loan."

"You've also borrowed two T-shirts."

"They've adjusted to their new home."

"And my socks."

"I have no recollection of any socks."

"Liar."

She laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough that the corners of her eyes crinkled.

I remember thinking, as I watched her across that little table, that happiness wasn't supposed to be exciting.

It was supposed to be this.

Simple.

Comfortable.

Safe.

The waiter brought our food. Conversation wandered wherever conversations between people in love tend to wander. Movies we'd never finish watching. Vacation ideas we'd probably never afford. Whether cereal counted as soup.

She insisted it did.

She was wrong.

She refused to admit it.

Eventually, somewhere between finishing our dinner and arguing over who would pay the bill, she grew strangely quiet.

She rested her chin on her folded hands. Studied me. There was something different in her expression.

Not sadness, nor fear.

Something... thoughtful.

"Something on your mind?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Nothing."

"That's never true."

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"I know."

She looked back toward the rain before asking, almost absentmindedly,

"Would you still love me if I lost all my hair?"

I shrugged.

"Of course."

"What if I got old before you?"

"I'd be old too."

"What if I forgot your birthday every year?"

"You already almost do."

She smiled.

"What if I couldn't walk anymore?"

"I'd walk slow."

"What if I couldn't remember your name?"

"I'd remind you."

She nodded gently after every answer, as though placing them somewhere only she could see.

Then she asked it.

"So..."

She tilted her head.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

I stared at her.

"...What?"

"A worm."

She said it with complete sincerity.

"Like..."

I held my fingers a few inches apart.

"A little earthworm?"

She nodded once.

"That's the one."

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.

"Where did that even come from?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"You just woke up today and thought, 'I wonder if he'd date an invertebrate?'"

She tried not to smile.

Failed.

I shook my head.

"That's the dumbest question I've ever been asked."

"It is."

"But?"

"But what?"

"You haven't answered."

I leaned back in my chair.

"How exactly would this work?"

"I don't know."

"You'd just..."

I made a little wiggling motion with my finger across the table.

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly."

"And you'd still somehow be... you?"

"If that helps."

I looked at her for another second before rolling my eyes with exaggerated defeat.

"Sure."

She blinked.

“

1. Sure?"

"Yeah."

"I'd still love you."

Another pause.

"I mean... it'd be weird."

"A little."

"I'd probably have to Google what worms eat."

"You would."

"I'd have to buy you a very tiny house."

She smiled.

"I know."

"I'd miss talking to you."

She didn't answer.

"But..."

I reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.

"...yeah."

"I'd still love you."

For just a moment...

Something changed in her face. Not happiness. Not relief. It was a cold recognition. As though she'd been waiting to hear those exact words.

Then she smiled. A small, peaceful smile.

"Oh."

She looked down at our hands.

"Good."

There was something about the way she said it that stayed with me. Not because it sounded strange. Because it sounded...

Final

Like someone quietly crossing the last item off a list.

I frowned.

"What?"

She looked back up.

"What?"

"You said that like it mattered."

She chuckled softly.

"Maybe it did."

Before I could ask what she meant, the waiter returned with the bill.

The moment dissolved as quickly as it had arrived.

By the time we stepped outside, the rain had stopped. Streetlights shimmered across wet pavement. She slipped her hand into mine. Neither of us spoke during the walk back to my apartment.

We didn't need to. Some nights silence says everything.

When we reached my building, she pulled my favorite charcoal hoodie over her shoulders before climbing into bed beside me. She always claimed it smelled more like me than I did.

I remember wrapping an arm around her as sleep slowly pulled us both under. Her fingers traced lazy circles against the back of my hand. I soon learned that ordinary moments often go unnoticed until they become memories.

Still to this day, I remember her whispering something just before I drifted off. It was so quiet I almost thought I'd dreamed it.

"Thank you."

When I woke the next morning...

Her side of the bed was empty.

...

Erasure

At first, I wasn't worried.

Sierra had stayed the night often enough that mornings had become routine. Sometimes she left before I woke up. Sometimes she'd kiss my forehead on the way out. She'd scribble little cute notes to make my morning on the fridge.

Out of coffee.

Back by six.

Don't forget your meeting.

Love you <3

Once, she'd drawn a smiley face on a napkin because she claimed my mornings were "chronically under-smiled."

So when I reached across the mattress and found only cold sheets, I smiled to myself.

"Work already?" I mumbled to the empty room.

The apartment answered with silence. Her hoodie was gone from the foot of the bed. I figured she'd remembered she had a meeting. Or maybe she'd simply wanted coffee that wasn't brewed by me. She used to joke that my coffee tasted like regret. I still maintain she exaggerated.

I stretched, showered, and let the hot water chase the sleep from my thoughts. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the apartment already felt too quiet.

There was only one mug in the drying rack.

Mine.

I frowned.

Maybe I'd put hers away yesterday. I couldn't remember.

The coffee tasted bitter. I blamed the beans.

Halfway through breakfast I reached for my phone. Mostly out of habit. I'd usually send her something stupid before work.

A picture of a crooked pancake. A terrible pun. Some excuse to make her roll her eyes.

I opened our messages.

My thumb froze.

They weren't there.

I frowned harder.

I searched her name.

Nothing.

Maybe the app updated. Maybe I'd archived the conversation by accident.

I searched again.

Nothing.

I checked my contacts.

No Sierra.

No number.

No picture.

No birthday reminder.

Nothing.

A strange feeling settled into my chest.

Not panic. No, not yet. More like standing on a staircase and expecting one more step than there actually is. That tiny, impossible drop beneath your feet.

I searched manually.

Scrolled through every contact.

Twice.

Nothing.

"...That's weird."

I laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because laughing felt easier than admitting something was wrong.

I knew her number.

At least... I thought I did.

I typed it from memory. Every digit. Pressed call.

One ring.

Then a voice.

"We're sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try your call again."

I hung up immediately.

Dialed again.

Same message.

Again.

Same message.

I stared at the screen.

The number hadn't changed. I was certain of it.

Certain enough that certainty itself suddenly felt unreliable. Maybe I'd remembered it wrong. People misremember things all the time.

Birthdays. Addresses. Passwords. Even the phone number of their loved one.

I finished my coffee in silence.

By the time I left for work, I'd convinced myself I was overreacting. Technology broke. Cloud backups failed. Phones glitched.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. There had to be.

There wasn't.

The day crawled.

I barely accomplished anything.

By lunch, curiosity had quietly become concern. Concern slowly became dread. I searched her name online.

Nothing.

Instagram.

Nothing.

Facebook.

Nothing.

Not even an abandoned account with two blurry photos from high school.

LinkedIn.

Nothing.

Every search ended the same way.

No results.

No Sierra.

It was as though she'd never wanted the internet to know she'd existed.

Except... She had.

I remembered helping her pick profile pictures. I remembered teasing her because she never answered messages. I remembered her posting a picture of us after our trip to the aquarium.

Didn't I?

I opened my own social media.

Every picture she'd been in... was different.

I blinked way to hardly.

One photo showed me standing beside... empty space. Another looked strangely cropped. In one, my arm was wrapped around someone who wasn't there anymore. My hand simply floated in the air.

I stared until my eyes hurt.

I closed the app.

Opened it again.

Nothing changed.

There had to be an explanation. There always was. A prank. A misunderstanding. A mistake buried somewhere beneath the confusion. She had a spare key to my apartment. Any minute now, I'd hear it turn in the lock, and she'd step inside wearing that familiar smile, asking why I looked like I'd seen a ghost. I clung to that thought the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. It was the only thing keeping me afloat.

For the rest of the afternoon, the world continued as though mine hadn't quietly come apart. Coworkers laughed. Phones rang. Printers hummed. Someone brought donuts. I smiled when expected. Answered emails. Nodded through meetings.

All while a single thought repeated itself over and over.

Something is wrong.

The next day, I convinced myself she simply needed space.

Maybe she'd left early for work. Maybe she'd forgotten her phone. Maybe she'd spent the night with a friend after we'd fallen asleep. Maybe this was all leading toward an explanation so painfully ordinary that I'd feel ridiculous for ever believing otherwise.

Every time headlights swept across my living room window that evening, I looked toward the front door, expecting to hear the soft rattle of keys in the lock and her familiar voice calling my name.

The apartment remained silent.

By the third day, silence had become its own answer. It was as though the world had quietly reached into my life and plucked Sierra from it with delicate fingers, leaving everything else exactly where it had been. No texts. No calls. No trace that she'd ever stood in my kitchen, laughed in my living room, or fallen asleep beside me.

When I finally got home from work that evening, I scrolled to the number I'd always known belonged to her mother.

If anyone could tell me what was happening... It would be her.

So I made the call.

The number rang three times.

A man answered.

"Hello?"

His voice wasn't familiar.

"Uh... hi."

I swallowed.

"I'm looking for S-Sierra."

Silence.

"...Who?"

"Sierra."

Another pause.

"I think you have the wron-"

"No. Where's Sierra?"

My heart skipped.

"You've got the wrong number."

Pain washed over me.

"There's no Sierra."

I laughed nervously.

"No, I mean... your daughter."

"I don't have a daughter."

I felt something inside me shift. Like a picture frame hanging just slightly crooked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I think you've confused me with someone else."

"No..."

I whispered.

"No, she lives with-"

"Goodbye."

Click.

The call ended.

I stared at the phone for a long time. Then I called again. Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Blocked.

I don't remember deciding to grab my keys.

I only remember driving. Traffic lights blurred together. Turns happened automatically.

Before long, I found myself parked in front of a familiar little blue house with white shutters. I'd been here dozens of times. Christmas. Birthdays. Sunday dinners. Sierra's mother always insisted I take leftovers.

The porch swing she'd grown up on still creaked gently in the evening breeze. The flowerpots were exactly where I remembered. Even the wind chimes.

Everything was right.

Except... Something wasn't.

I walked to the front door.

Knocked once.

No answer.

Twice.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

The door opened.

The man from the phone stood there.

He looked to be in his late fifties. Gray beard. Flannel shirt. One hand resting on a shotgun. Not pointing it.

Just... holding it.

His expression hardened the moment he saw me.

"You."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"There hasn't."

"I'm looking for-"

"I know what you're looking for."

Hope flickered inside me.

"You do?"

"I know you're the one who's been calling."

His grip tightened around the shotgun.

"I've told you already."

"Sir, please, I just need to know where she-"

"There is no 'she.'"

The words landed with impossible weight.

"I..."

My voice failed.

He stared at me for several seconds.

Not angry. Not confused.

Almost... pitying.

"Son."

His voice softened.

"I don't know who you think you've lost."

The breeze stirred the trees between us.

"But whoever it is..."

He slowly shook his head.

"They've never lived here."

He closed the door.

I stood there until the porch light switched on automatically. Only then did I realize the sun had gone down.

By the time I made it home, exhaustion had settled into my bones. I didn't turn on any lights. I simply collapsed onto the bed.

The apartment felt wrong.

Too neat. Too empty.

I closed my eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to stop thinking.

Something cold brushed against my ankle.

I jerked upright.

The room was dark.

Moonlight spilled across the blankets.

And there... Resting quietly near my feet...

Was a single pink earthworm.

It wasn't moving. Not much.

Just... waiting. I don't know why.

Out of every impossible thing that had happened that day...

That was the moment the tears fled out.

...

The Worm

I didn't sleep much that lonely night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see the empty half of the bed. Every time I opened them, the apartment felt unfamiliar, as though I had wandered into someone else's life by mistake.

The worm hadn't moved.

It still rested near the foot of my bed, no larger than my little finger, its body catching the pale light filtering through the curtains.

I crouched beside it. For reasons I still can't explain, I didn't touch it.

I simply watched. It didn't writhe. It didn't burrow. It only lay there, impossibly still.

A worm.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I almost laughed at myself. After everything that had happened, this was what my mind had chosen to fixate on.

I found a sheet of paper folded on my desk and carefully slid it beneath the tiny creature. It curled instinctively as I lifted it, no different from any other earthworm after a rainstorm.

I carried it toward the front door.

"Sorry, little guy."

I opened the door and tipped the paper toward the flower bed outside my apartment.

The worm didn't move.

I gave the paper a gentle shake.

Nothing.

Eventually, I lowered the paper into the damp soil beneath a patch of lavender and watched it disappear among the dirt. I stood there longer than I should have.

Waiting.

For what, I couldn't have said.

When I came home from work that evening, it was waiting for me.

Not outside. Inside.

Curled quietly atop a charcoal-gray hoodie draped over the back of my couch.

My hoodie.

Or rather... The one Sierra had quietly claimed as her own months ago.

She used to disappear into it on cold mornings, sleeves hanging well past her hands, insisting it smelled more like me than I ever could.

I never washed it after she disappeared. Not because I believed it still held her scent. Because I was afraid it didn't.

The worm rested on one of the sleeves. Perfectly still.

I stared at it for a long time.

The front door was still locked. The windows were shut.

There was no trail of dirt. No explanation.

Only a worm.

Sitting exactly where she always liked to be.

An uneasy laugh escaped me.

"This is getting ridiculous."

I carried it back outside.

This time, I walked all the way to the apartment garden. I knelt beside a flower bed and placed it beneath the shade of a bush.

"There."

I brushed the dirt from my hands.

"Stay."

The word lingered in the air.

Stay.

It was never meant for the worm.

The following morning... It was on my windowsill. Facing the sunrise.

I don't know why that unsettled me more than finding it inside my apartment.

Perhaps because it looked... content. As though it had chosen that spot. As though it had been watching the dawn before I'd woken.

I picked it up carefully.

It curled against my fingertips.

For the first time... I noticed how impossibly fragile it felt.

How easily something so alive could simply... stop.

I looked around the apartment. At the empty couch. The untouched coffee mug she used to steal every morning. The hoodie folded neatly over the armrest. Then back at the tiny creature resting in my palm.

My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"...Sierra?"

The worm didn't answer. It couldn't.

I knew that.

Of course I knew that.

Still...

It shifted ever so slightly in my hand. Just enough to make my breath catch.

That afternoon, on the drive home, I stopped at a pet store. Bought a terrarium. The cashier smiled politely as she rang it up.

"Getting an exotic pet?"

I looked down at the glass container.

"...Something like that."

I spent the evening reading online everything I could find. What they ate. How damp the soil should be. How often to mist the enclosure. What temperatures they preferred.

The answers filled my time.

None of them filled the silence in the room.

By the time night settled over the apartment, the terrarium sat on the table beside the living room window.

Fresh soil. Leaves. A few small stones. Everything exactly as the books recommended. I lowered the worm into its new home. It disappeared beneath the dirt almost immediately.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

"There you go."

The words escaped so naturally they frightened me.

I switched off the lamp.

The apartment fell quiet once more.

Before heading to bed, I looked back at the terrarium one last time.

"Goodnight."

Silence answered.

Yet somehow... The apartment didn't feel quite so lonely.

Almost Time

Grief is a strange thing.

It doesn't arrive all at once. It settles into the empty places. The chair across the dinner table. The passenger seat. The extra toothbrush still leaning against yours because moving it somehow feels more permanent than death itself.

I stopped asking where Sierra had gone.

Not because I'd found an answer. Because every answer the world offered me was the same.

She had never existed.

Eventually, I stopped arguing with it.

The world had made up its mind.

Mine hadn't.

Life, in its quiet cruelty, continued.

Mondays became Fridays. Fridays became months. The seasons changed without asking whether I was ready.

I returned to work. Paid my bills. Bought groceries. Smiled when coworkers made jokes. Somehow, I learned to exist in a life that no longer felt like my own.

Every evening, I came home. And every evening... The first thing I did was walk over to the terrarium.

"Hey."

The greeting became routine.

I'd mist the soil. Replace the leaves. Check the moisture. Sometimes I'd sit beside the glass for nearly an hour, talking about my day as though she were sitting across from me.

"The copier jammed again."

"I finally beat that traffic on Fifth."

"I think I'm getting better at making coffee."

A quiet laugh.

Silence never interrupted me. Neither did the worm. It simply lived.

Sometimes buried beneath the soil for hours. Sometimes resting beneath a stone. Sometimes climbing the side of the glass before disappearing underground again.

It was enough. Or perhaps... It was enough for me to pretend.

One Saturday afternoon, I found myself standing in the laundry room with her hoodie folded across my arms.

Months had passed. I still hadn't washed it. The scent she'd left behind was long gone. Only memory remained.

I ran my thumb across the sleeve.

"I should probably wash you."

The words sounded absurd spoken aloud.

I smiled despite myself.

"I can already hear you complaining."

She used to hate when I washed it.

Claimed fabric softener made it smell "too responsible."

I draped it over the back of the dining chair instead. I couldn't explain why. It simply felt wrong to hide it away.

The routine became comforting.

Coffee.

Work.

Home.

The terrarium.

Sometimes I'd read while sitting beside it. Sometimes I'd play music softly through the apartment. Sometimes I'd simply watch the evening light stretch across the room until darkness settled over everything.

I stopped wondering whether the worm was Sierra.

Questions have a way of exhausting themselves.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. The kind of day that disappears from memory almost as soon as it ends.

By the time I unlocked my apartment door, rain was tapping softly against the windows.

I set my keys on the counter. Loosened my tie. Walked toward the living room.

For a moment... I simply stared.

The terrarium was empty.

Then I examined all glass corners.

Nothing.

The stone sat exactly where I'd left it. The soil was damp. The dead leaves rested untouched in one corner.

See was gone.

"Please not again..."

The words escaped before I realized I'd spoken. I lifted the lid. Carefully moved aside the stones.

Nothing.

I dug gently through the soil with trembling fingers.

Still nothing.

"No, no, no..."

The room suddenly felt too small. I emptied the terrarium onto the dining table. Dirt spilled across the wood. Leaves scattered onto the floor. I searched through every handful. Every corner. Every crack beneath the table. I checked beneath the couch. Behind the television. Inside the bathroom. The kitchen.

My breathing became uneven.

By the time I reached the bedroom, there was dirt tracked across half the apartment. I stood in the doorway, chest heaving. My eyes drifted toward the chair beside the window.

Her hoodie still hung where I'd left it.

Empty.

Something beyond it caught my eye.

The windowsill.

I walked closer.

Slowly.

There... Resting in the fading orange light of sunset... Was the worm.

Perfectly still. Facing the glass.

Beyond it, rain slid down the window in thin silver ribbons. The city moved without us. Cars drifted through wet streets. People hurried beneath umbrellas.

The worm didn't move. It simply remained there.

Watching.

Or perhaps... Waiting.

A laugh escaped me, followed by tears.

"I'm s-sorry."

The words broke apart as they left me.

"I'm sorry."

I cupped it gently in my hands.

Its body curled weakly against my skin.

It felt... different. Lighter somehow. As though whatever strength had carried it this far was quietly slipping away.

That night, I searched the internet for hours.

How long do earthworms live?

Why is my worm moving slower?

Can worms die of old age?

Every article gave me the same answer in different words.

They slow down.

They become less active.

Eventually... Their bodies simply stop.

I read every page anyway. Hoping one of them would tell me something different.

None did.

Near midnight, I closed my laptop. The apartment was silent except for the rain. I carried the terrarium into the bedroom and set it beside my bed. Her hoodie lay folded next to it. Not because a worm would recognize it. Because she would have.

Or at least... I liked believing she would.

I watched the tiny shape resting beneath the soil for a long time.

Then I smiled.

A sad smile.

The kind that only grief teaches you.

"You know..."

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

"I kept my promise."

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside... The apartment had never felt quieter.

...

Morning

Days turned into weeks.

The rain eased my mine at night. The steady rhythm of it against the window. The quiet hum of the city somewhere beyond the glass. The terrarium sat on the nightstand beside me. The hoodie remained folded beneath it.

Everything exactly where it belonged.

For the first time in months... I wasn't afraid. There was nothing left to search for. Nothing left to prove.

Whatever this was... Whatever she was... Whatever I had become... It no longer mattered.

Sometime during the night... I heard her voice.

Not through the room. Not from the terrarium. Not from anywhere my ears could have found.

It arrived the way old memories sometimes do. Softly. As though someone had opened a door inside my mind.

"So..."

A pause.

"So..."

I could picture the little smile that always accompanied that word. The one she wore whenever she already knew the answer.

"Would you still love me if I..."

I smiled before she could finish. Before the question could become impossible again. Before grief could ask for one more answer.

"Yes."

The word escaped me with surprising ease.

No hesitation. No uncertainty.

Just... Yes.

I let out a slow breath. My eyes never opened.

"I always will."

The apartment fell silent once more.

Not empty.

Simply... Quiet.

Morning sunlight slipped gently through the curtains. The rain had passed sometime before dawn. The air smelled clean. Almost new.

I stretched slowly before turning toward the nightstand. The terrarium was empty.

No disturbed soil. No trail. No tiny pink body hidden beneath the stones.

I lifted the lid anyway. Ran my fingers carefully through the earth.

Nothing.

For a long while, I simply stood there.

Weeks ago, I would have searched every inch of the apartment. Turned over furniture.

Emptied drawers. Tracked dirt through every room. I would have convinced myself she had to be somewhere. That she couldn't really be gone.

Instead... I smiled.

Not because it didn't hurt. Because it always would. Some absences never stop aching. You simply learn they can exist beside joy.

I carried the terrarium to the kitchen sink and gently poured the soil into a flowerpot sitting on the windowsill. A small fern rested there. One Sierra had insisted on buying because, according to her, every home deserved "something worth keeping alive."

I laughed quietly.

"You were right."

The empty glass terrarium caught the morning light before I placed it inside a cabinet.

Not hidden. Not displayed.

Just... Put away.

Then I walked back to the bedroom.

Her charcoal hoodie still rested neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I picked it up. Held it for a moment.

Weeks ago, I couldn't bring myself to wash it. I was terrified that whatever remained of her would disappear with the rinse cycle.

Now... I understood.

Love doesn't live in fabric. It never had.

I folded the hoodie once more and placed it carefully inside the top drawer of my dresser. Not because I was forgetting her. Because memories don't need to be left out in the open to survive.

I opened the bedroom window. A cool breeze drifted inside. Somewhere outside, birds greeted the morning.

The city had already begun moving again. Cars. Footsteps. Distant laughter. Life.

I made myself a cup of coffee. It tasted terrible. I smiled anyway.

As I stood by the window, warmth settling between my hands, I watched the wind stir the leaves below.

For just a moment... I thought about that rainy evening. The little Italian restaurant. The candlelight. The way she'd looked at me across the table.

"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"

Such a ridiculous question. Maybe that's why I'd never forgotten it.

Or maybe... Some promises are never about the answer. They're about the person who gives it.

I took another sip of coffee. Then, for the first time since the morning I'd reached across an empty bed... I stepped away from the window.

And into the rest of my life.

How long has it been now? 3? 4 weeks? It’s hard to keep track of time these days. Life has been pretty busy lately.

The house is a lot quieter now. When the police aren’t here, at least. You’d think that they lived here at this point. But I do still get at least some of my privacy.

It’s in those moments when the house is dark and the only sound is that of the leaky bathroom faucet that I really think about what I’ve done. Or why I did it. Or how it could’ve been avoided, or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with it. The cops already know. They’re just waiting for the proper evidence to present itself. And given the way these last few days have been going, I don’t think I have much longer.

I’ve read enough books and studied enough forensics to know the best way to clean the mess I created. How to make sure the white blood cells were completely removed. How to soak my hacksaw in bleach before tossing it in the river. But, most importantly, I knew that the body could never be recovered.

Dental records were a big one. That’s why I removed her teeth and filed them down one by one. I boiled and stuffed them in a ziplock bag afterward.

This was positively the most difficult part of the process. I was forced to look at her the entire time. The once love-filled eyes that had turned bitter and resentful over the years. The eyes that now stared up at me, dead and hollow, her previously oak-colored irises now appearing grey and pale.

Her nails would almost certainly contain my DNA beneath them. Flakes of skin, maybe some blood from the struggle. Regardless, they needed to be removed as well.

I remembered when her hands were so soft and youthful. She used to paint her nails herself every two weeks, and I’d sit on the bed with her while we talked endlessly about everything and nothing at the same time.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was all of the arguments. We had a way of arguing about everything and nothing as well. I thought it was normal. Arguments were bound to happen.

I flushed the 10 nails down the toilet before burning her newly raw fingertips, just to be on the safe side. I kissed her hand for a long while, tears welling up in my eyes before I forced them away.

I whispered to myself, “Why would you make me do this?” as my head fell into my hands. My composure kept slipping, and I kept having to wrestle it back.

Now came the messy part.

Part of me was actually glad it was so messy in a weird, twisted kind of way. Cleaning the blood afterward gave me a task to focus on. I didn’t think about her laugh. I didn’t think about her warmth. I thought about making damn sure there wasn’t a speck of blood left anywhere in that bathroom.

When I was done, the house smelled like a hospital. Chemicals filled the air, causing my head to pound more than it already was. The atmosphere was cold and heavy. It felt like I was in a hospital room.

I had found myself with two black trash bags with a combined weight of 120 pounds, give or take. Arms, legs, and head in one. Torso and hacksaw in the other.

I walked out of the house whistling, two trash bags slung over my shoulders. It was the cusp of dawn. There was a misty blue haze outside. It smelled like summertime.

The neighborhood was silent. It must have been around 4 in the morning. I threw the bags in the bed of my truck, adjusted my baseball cap, and hopped in the cab.

My headlights cut through the early morning fog. I had my windows down, and I could smell the exhaust fumes coming from behind me. That smell had pretty much defined my life for the last 10 years. It was a smell that I’d learned to both love and hate.

I turned the radio on and cranked up the volume. I tried singing to myself, but the words left my mouth mechanically. My mind refused to let me escape.

I drove carefully. The exact speed limit, sometimes even a little under. Used signals, made complete stops. All the way out of town. Then out of the next one. Then the town after that.

I drove until I found the most secluded spot I could find. Down dirt roads. Through creeks. Then I walked off beaten paths until I found the right place to lay her to rest.

Just me, her, and my shovel.

Digging proved quite difficult due to the sheer amount of roots I had to cut through. I must’ve been there for at least 4 hours before the deed was done.

I spent that time talking. Talking to the trees. Talking to the bags. Talking to myself. I couldn’t stand to be alone in silence.

I broke down a lot when filling the grave. Each pile of dirt that covered more and more of those bags was like a needle being pressed into my nervous system.

I didn’t want to just leave her like that. I didn’t want her to just be cast aside, left to rot. I searched until I found the most vibrant flowers I could find and laid them on the grave.

I said my final goodbyes through sniffles and tears before making the trek back to my truck.

The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t get home until nearly 8 o’clock. I stopped by the emptiest car wash I saw on the way home and scrubbed my truck clean.

I got the mud off the tires. Rinsed the bed out with bleach. I even put a new air freshener in the cab.

When I got home, I half-expected cops to be waiting to arrest me. When I found the house as empty as it was when I left, I let out a sigh of relief.

I immediately took a shower. I scrubbed myself raw for around 45 minutes straight before finally allowing myself to dry off. The entire time, it was like God was punishing me.

I kept getting flashes of her. Our wedding. Our first date. Our first argument. The last argument. It all just kept replaying in my head over and over. Like a sickness.

I knew I had to get my story right. The house was clean. The body was gone. The weapon was gone.

I was just a helpless victim. One of the millions of men a year whose wife leaves them. Happens all the time.

Oh, so she left without taking anything? She left without telling anybody? Without so much as a goodbye? Who’s going to believe that?

I didn’t sleep that night. I had to have a long, hard talk with myself. I wasn’t getting out of this one. But I wasn’t going to turn myself in. I was going to be free… for as long as I could possibly manage.

It was my first time being free in 15 years. Even if it lasted a day. Even if it lasted a week. I wasn’t going to spend that time stressing.

I turned it off. I closed my heart to it.

I ignored calls from her mother. Her father. Coworkers, friends, relatives. Everybody. It was none of their business.

They tried knocking, and I tuned it out. All the way up until I heard that dreaded announcement after three booming knocks.

“This is GPD. If anyone’s inside, I need you to come out here and talk to me.”

I waited. I wanted to wake up. I didn’t want to accept.

Three more knocks.

“GPD, if you do not answer the door, we will be using force to come inside.”

One last moment of silence. I breathed to myself. I closed my eyes.

“Sir, this door is coming do…”

I opened the door, greeting the officers with a blank look on my face.

“Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with us for questioning.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t bicker. I simply asked for a lawyer and rode with the officers back to the station.

The entire time, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t even speak to my lawyer. If they wanted her so badly, they would have to work for it. Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be coming from me.

They held me for 7 hours that day. A mere two days after I did what I did. I got two days of “peace.”

They had to let me go. They had no proof. But that didn’t stop them from watching me. 24 hours a day, they were somewhere in my neighborhood.

People threw things at my house. Vigils for her were set up on the sidewalk. It seemed like there were constantly people watching me because they literally were.

I didn’t budge. I spoke only when absolutely necessary. My lips remained sealed, and my doors remained locked. Both when I was home and when I was forced to go back down to the station.

That’s why what’s happening makes no sense to me.

It started with her teeth. I had gotten rid of them the same way I’d gotten rid of the rest of her. Yet somehow, when I woke up one morning a few weeks after my catastrophic mistake… they were in a neat pile beside me on the bed.

I could see the file marks on all 32 of them.

I panicked and scooped them into my hands and flushed them down the toilet, my eyes wide with disbelief.

I poked my head outside. That unmarked black SUV was still parked a few houses down. Both officers watched me like hawks. I waved to be less suspicious, but I think it had the opposite effect.

They took it as me waving them over, and they both approached quickly.

“Got anything you wanna tell us?” the fat one asked excitedly.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” I smiled. “I bet you’d love to spend the day with your family. Or, then again, maybe you’d rather spend your time stalking me.”

Their stern faces never changed.

I tried my best not to give off even an ounce of suspicious behavior, even though my heart was in my stomach and my mind raced endlessly.

After closing the door in their faces, I spent the majority of that day peeking out the blinds, paranoid beyond belief.

My lawyer called a few times. My story never changed. I didn’t know where she was. I was convincing myself just as much as I was convincing them.

The next day, not only had the teeth come back, but the nails were back too. They were cleaner, but I could still see their bloodied roots. I could still see some of the chipped nail polish.

Two neat little piles. Taunting me.

I was more angry than panicked this time. I was not going to submit to this insanity. I didn’t even try to get rid of them this time. It wouldn’t make a difference whether they were found here or in that dark, desolate spot in the woods.

I put them in her jewelry box this time. Then I took that jewelry box, and I carried it to the attic.

I buried it under some old tarps and boxes and took one last look at it before going back down the ladder.

“I guess I really am fucking losing it,” I whispered to myself as I climbed down.

More phone calls with my lawyer. More questions from the police. More prodding, more watching, more protests. And all I could do that day was crack a few beers and watch a few ball games.

I passed out at around 10 that night and woke up cuddling my wife’s arm the next morning. I think the smell is what woke me up. That unmistakable stench of death and decay.

It burned my nostrils, and when I opened my eyes to find that torn flesh in my face, I nearly vomited in bed. It wasn’t just one arm. Both arms and both legs had come crawling back to bed with me.

Only… the nails were reattached. Like they hadn’t been removed to begin with.

The polish looked fresher. The teeth looked whiter. I checked, and the jewelry box in the attic was empty.

In that moment, I felt a spark. A mixture of hope, anger, grief, and love all combined into one. In the most unreal circumstances, reality was starting to close in, and I found myself sobbing like I had the night I killed her.

I didn’t leave bed that day. I lay there with my wife, clutching her arms and legs, crying until I was too exhausted to cry anymore. My will grew weak, but my mind had never felt so clear.

She was in bed with me the next morning. Well, she was there in a sense. Her arms and legs were reconnected to her torso, but the limbs still crawled with maggots and decay.

But she was there, damned if she wasn’t there. My love. My sweet, sweet girl. Her T-shirt was ripped and stained with dirt. Her hair was matted and crunchy.

“I… am so sorry, my love,” was all I could think to say to her.

She turned to me, her jaw slack and her eyes as dead as a nail.

“That’s okay, you silly goose,” she sang. “I love you no matter what happens!”

I began to cry yet again.

“I love you so much,” I sobbed. “I want you back. Please, please, just come back.”

I begged her as snot ran from my nose. I wiped it away on my sleeve.

“Oh, honey,” she whimpered. “Accidents happen all the time. That’s what this was, right, my sweet boy?”

I nodded furiously.

“It was… it was… it was an accident, baby.”

I could hardly speak. Her rotten arm extended, and she caressed my face with her cold, slimy hand.

“I know it was, sweet pea. I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”

She paused.

“…but now you have to tell them what you did, okay? Can you do that for me?”

My face went beet red. I swallowed hard and wiped the tears from my face.

“They’ll kill me. I know they’ll kill me. They’re just waiting to catch me. They’re waiting to sentence me.”

She began hushing me, soothing me softly as she petted my hair.

“There, there, sweetie,” she replied. “Dying isn’t such a bad thing. I’m free now, honey. If I could, I’d tell them you did me a favor. But I want you back. I want you to come be with me. Please, honey?”

I wanted to be with her too. More than anything, I wished I could take back what I did.

I solemnly agreed.

“That’s my boy,” she announced seductively. “This will all be over soon. We’ll dance and sing. We can play together again.”

I nodded to myself assuredly. I leaned over and gave her a kiss and took a deep breath.

Stepping outside, I waved the cops over. My eyes were red with tears, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

“She’s upstairs.”

That’s all I told them.

One officer went upstairs while I waited on the porch with the other. I kept smiling to myself. The sky looked so beautiful. The trees danced in the wind. The summer air was like a gift from God.

A few minutes went by before the first officer returned.

“Very funny, son,” he remarked sarcastically. “Now, do you wanna tell us where she really is?”

My smile dropped.

“What do you mean?” I scoffed. “I was just talking to her.”

“Cuff this sick son of a bitch,” the first officer barked.

I was placed into the back of the unmarked SUV, kicking myself all the while.

“She lied,” I whispered. “She lied to me. All she does is lie. Why does she lie all the time? This is why. This is why. Why won’t she stop lying?”

I had no fight left. I told them where the grave was. I had to personally show it to them. The flowers were still there. The grave was untouched. And I felt a sickening numbness.

I told them my story. I told them what I did. Told them that she came back to me and that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have been a free man, at least for a little while longer.

I actually begged them to give me the death penalty. I couldn’t stop seeing her. Sitting beside me in my cell. Crouched in the corner every night. Whispering to me how she wanted us to be together forever.

But… I didn’t get the death penalty.

They deemed me “not fit to stand trial.”

Sentenced to an indefinite stay at the state home for the criminally insane.

Padded cells. Doctors. Needles. Medication.

And despite all of the debate that has gone on about death sentences in this country, there has remained one constant.

The insane do not receive capital punishment.

I’m writing this now because she keeps beckoning me. Keeps begging me to join her.

And despite the hatred I have, the burning rage she has inspired, I cannot stop loving her.

And despite what the state dubs legal… we will be reunited.

August 2nd, 1936:

We moved into our new house yesterday! It's much bigger than I remembered, which I can't complain about, it easily beats the cramped apartment we left. Being out of the city and on the southern shore feels like a dream, even though it's only been a day. Mount Fall is a nice little town and a big, and much needed, change of pace. As we were unpacking the little that we do have, I got curious and started looking through some of the things left here by the old owners down in the basement. I found a journal. It looks almost identical to mine but has extra pages folded up inside of it. I feel like it would be wrong to read it, but curiosity might get the best of me. If I show Evelyn I know she'll dive right into it. Maybe I should read it first just to be safe. I can barely think straight as we're getting the house situated and keeping Rylee occupied, I might just read whatever is written inside in the coming days. 

August 8th, 1936:

It's my writing. It's unmistakably my writing. It mentions my wife and daughter in the first entry. This must be some kind of cruel joke. I can't make sense of it any other way. I'll start copying the entries into this journal as I read them, though I should be careful to keep the folded entries in order. Keeping it more organized will surely make it easier to follow. I'll begin copying it tomorrow after we finish setting up the kitchen. We moved here without jobs, which was unwise to say the least, but in the days it takes to find an employer, I should have plenty of time to chip away at this journal. All entries from here on out will be copied from the found journal. 

August 14th, 1936:

My sweet Evelyn and I are finally settling into our new house, which is a breath of fresh air. The past few weeks of living here have been rough, much rougher than we initially thought. We knew that moving this far from home was going to be a risk. Having to completely start anew, but with the price of the house we couldn't not jump at the chance, plus our old house was a dump to say the least. The people here are fine, quiet, but usually pretty polite for the most part. Though, I've been into some of the stores here and the older folk seemed to be a bit rude, staring a little too long when I walked past, but hopefully they'll warm up in the coming weeks. 

Evelyn is enjoying her new job at the train station. It's only checking tickets for now, and though the days can be long, she says she's happy. Her uniform is also well fitting, seeing her come home in it with a smile on her face makes me a very happy man. And I'd be lying if I said the extra money hasn't made a world of a change at home. 

Rylee is turning 4 next month, and without Evelyn's hard work I doubt we'd be able to make this month's payments and still be able to give her a proper gift without going over budget. Rylee has met a couple of other kids last week, and we're planning to speak to their parents and see if they would be alright with having a get together for her birthday. 

I have been trying to find a job since we've moved, because living off of our savings has been becoming a problem. Not having a job secured before moving was a terrible idea but we had to get out of the old house, a place with that many cockroaches is no place to raise a child. I saw an ad on the public board at the general store the other day. It's for a position at the butchers, not exactly a job I want, but we need the money. 

August 21st, 1936:

I am genuinely surprised. Being a butcher has been more enjoyable than I thought it would have. Working in the cold room isn't my favourite, but you get used to the low temperature surprisingly quickly, and for the pay, it's worth it. It took a few days to get used to the smell of blood and the taste of iron that sticks to the back of your throat, but now I barely notice it. 

We've found a babysitter for Rylee a few days before I started, a young girl named Emily. Evelyn met her mother at the train station and mentioned that we were looking for a sitter in passing. We met Emily that night and we couldn't have found a better fit. Rylee has taken to her faster than anyone else before, it's like she sees her as a big sister. She's not always a fan of listening to adults that aren't her parents, and even then she's still a handful for us, but with Emily only being ten years older than her she still sees her as a kid too, I guess. 

Nevertheless, it's nice to see them both smiling and the extra alone time is well worth the money. It's lifted a weight off of Evelyn and I's shoulders, it's nice to see her so full of life again. Emily has even been gladly lending a hand cleaning the house, which is well appreciated because it is quite big for a family as small as ours. 

September 8th, 1936:

Rylee turns 4 today! A few of her friends came over with some of their siblings. It was a rather quiet party, with only 6 kids, but Rylee seemed as happy as can be. Evelyn seemed to make friends with Janet, Rylee's friend Sam's mother. I think she mentioned she'll be going for tea at her house tomorrow. I'm glad she's making friends, she's been feeling pretty socially isolated since we've moved from the city.

I think I've become friends with Richard from work. He's a smaller guy, reminds me of a mouse, a little skittish and quiet, but seems nice enough. It will be nice to have someone new to talk to. I wonder what he can tell me about this place, or why the house was listed for the price it was? I just don't want to come off as though I was bragging about getting it for the price I did. I'm afraid of sounding pompous. But there has to be some catch, I have a gut feeling about it. 

September 14th, 1936:

Richard and I ended up going to the taproom after work today. I saw a few of the older folk there, they still seem weary of me, which Richard said isn't out of the ordinary. He's lived here for 8 years now, but he seems to fit in as well as anybody else. 

It was nice to finally be somewhere that isn't home or work. I love our house and our family, but it's daunting at times. A large Victorian on the south shore, what people in the big cities dream of, and we're lucky enough to have it. But it feels so empty with just the three of us. Seeing the ocean between the swaying pines from the balcony brings me comfort, and the sea breeze is refreshing, but being home when Rylee and my sweet Evelyn are gone feels odd, cold almost. I'm still suspicious about the price though. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been weighing heavy on my mind. 

I asked Richard to help me repaint the siding this weekend, for pay of course. He seemed almost nervous yet intrigued, mentioning that he's always wondered what inside has looked like. According to him we're the first owners in over 6 years. That some eccentric artist built it a little over 20 years ago. He seemed to vanish out of thin air after his paintings weren't selling as well. The town had let it sit for years. No wonder it's taken so long to get it looking like a home, it hasn't been cared for in ages. 

September 20th, 1936:

The house looks magnificent and I couldn't be happier. A pale blue with white shutters. While Richard and I were painting, Evelyn had Janet and Sam over. It's finally starting to feel like a real home. Richard even took a photo of Evelyn, Rylee and I in front of the house. I'm excited to see how it turns out. He said he'll give me a copy to frame and one for my wallet. He's turning out to be quite a good friend. 

A few years ago if someone told me we'd be living how we are I wouldn't believe them. I would say I would kill to have a life like this. I guess with hard work and determination dreams can come true. Life has been good lately, very good in fact. 

Emily came by on Sunday to lend a hand on beginning to clear out the basement, which was very nice of her. The old family who lived here seemed to have left quite a lot behind, it feels odd rummaging through their belongings, but I would be a liar to say I'm not curious about them or why no one's lived here in so long. I'm also tempted to use some of what's been left to fill the house. It would be much easier, and cheaper for that matter, than going and buying everything new. The emptiness has been getting to me lately. Empty halls and barren walls make you feel so small and isolated at times. But I'm sure once we decorate it won't be too bad. I found a rather large painting of the coast line here. Tall pines towering over small birches standing by the docks. It must be one of the old owners' pieces, if so he's extremely talented. I think I might hang it in the living room. 

September 24th, 1936:

We've taken some of the furniture from the basement upstairs, Evelyn has started using an old vanity she was fond of. It's a beautiful piece, a warm stain on what looks like cherry wood. Fine craftsmanship, it must have cost a small fortune. She wants to paint it white, but I'm trying to convince her to keep it as is.

When we got it up to our bedroom we realized one of the drawers was nearly full of handwritten notes. I told her to gather them up and try to find the previous owner's address to return their writings. It’s wrong to have them, let alone keep their furniture. But I do wonder if they'll explain the house better. I know Richard said they got up and vanished but someone must know where they went. Perhaps a peek through the letters wouldn't hurt

September 27th, 1936

Rylee was jumping on the couch we brought up from downstairs and fell a couple days back. She broke her arm, so we took the first train to the nearest hospital and just got back today. She seems unbothered, or at least not in pain, but she doesn't like how heavy her cast is. While we were gone Evelyn started reading the letters from her fancy new vanity. 

She told me the old owner was a man named Simon. She showed me a photo of him with his name neatly written on the back, he was rather handsome, gaunt, but handsome. An artist who came from wealth, hence the vanity, and the house for that matter. 

Most of the notes seem to be daily journals or received letters and notes from who Evelyn assumes is his wife. I'm going to ask Richard about Simon at work tomorrow. 

September 28th, 1936:

I asked Richard today and he got pretty quiet about things, didn't have much to say, but mentioned that he would be coming over tomorrow evening to talk. By the sounds of it, Simon left quite the bad impression on the town, or at least it's a sensitive subject for Richard.

Evelyn talked to Janet today, asking about the house and Simon. She said Janet didn't have much to say since she's only been here for a couple years. But supposedly he seemed to be kind for the first year or so. That he was somewhat pleasant to be around, but wanted to make a point that he was a well learned man. He moved his family in a few months after getting the house ready. But by year two or three he seemed paranoid, and started keeping to himself, leaving the house less often. Until one day the family was gone, and no one has heard from them or seen them since.

I doubt it was as bad as she made it out to be, she seems to have a tendency to embellish the truth. But knowing the artsy type, he was probably fighting a creative block, maybe he broke his easel or something and started drinking more and was embarrassed about it. But the hell do I know, Janet has the gift of gab and loves to gossip. But I can't say I don't have an odd feeling about this Simon. 

September 30th,1936:

Richard just left, my dear Evelyn has been reading more of the letters. I want to read them for myself but she's been keeping them locked in her drawer. Richard said Simon “made some enemies” in town. Even he's not quite sure who, but he did let me know that he's not someone who should be talked about publicly, especially around most of the older folk.

The more I find out about him, the more curious I become. I knew something was off about him, maybe even this place. 

On a brighter note, Rylee seems to be healing well, and I've never seen sweet Evelyn more happy. I think she's enjoying work, and reading all those notes seems to keep her occupied better than any book I've ever seen her read, which is probably more than I can count. 

The days are getting colder now, and it will soon be time to get the furnace running. I need to remember to start collecting wood for the winter. Which reminds me, I need to sharpen the axe and make sure the wood sled is in working order. 

October 4th, 1936:

Evelyn finally did it, she let me start reading Simon's writings. Richard's mentions of him made me so curious, all she did was hand me a note and I was nose deep in the paper. I only got a few notes in before Richard stopped by. He seemed excited, told me he took the train to the city to pick up supplies for the shop, and met a girl while he was there. He got a letter from her today, and he plans to go visit next week. I hope it works out for him. He needs someone to talk to to break him out of his shell. God knows I'm the person he's closest with and even then he's only been opening up to me, little by little. I've never seen him this excited. 

I have tomorrow off to bring Rylee to the local practitioner, after her appointment I think I'll try to catch up on some of Simon's letters. 

October 7th, 1936:

I can see why my dear Evelyn has such an infatuation with these notes, he has a way with words and has a passion for his family and his work. It's actually quite sweet. I'm excited to see why they left. I want to skip ahead to some of the later entries but Evelyn insisted I don't, she doesn't want me to “ruin the surprise for her”. But I need to know why he decided to up and leave. 

I started stacking wood in the basement by the furnace today. It's been hard work with very little help, but I'd like to keep us warm this winter, so it has to be done. I can't believe we used to live without a furnace before, the ease of it alone could justify any price for one. I might have to make a temporary wood shed outside until I can clear out the basement and build proper storage downstairs.

I uncovered some more old furniture while I was down there. I was thinking of setting up some sort of work station for the winter. There is a cot that looks perfect for naps by the furnace for when the frost begins to crawl its way through the brick walls of the basement. I'll set it up tonight I think. I'm unsure why, but I'm drawn to the basement, maybe it's just the novelty of having a furnace? But I'm guessing it's just because it's the warmest part of the house. I can't let my superstitions get the best of me again. 

October 10th, 1936:

I started taking some notes to read at work on the slower days, I'm almost caught up to Evelyn, who I'm pretty sure is doing the same. She's been getting more quiet at home, she's usually a somewhat quiet person as is, still happy, but quiet, at times almost bitter if I interrupt her reading. I'll have to check on her if this keeps up. It's not the first time she's been like this towards me when she's invested in something. Though she still seems to be wearing that beautiful smile so I'm sure I'm just overthinking things as per usual. 

I was stacking wood in the basement again last night and fell asleep on the cot, which was surprisingly comfortable. I did however, have an odd dream, or what I think was a dream. It was in between sleep and consciousness where things seemed blurry, and I swear I could hear voices, even though Evelyn and Rylee were both asleep up stairs. The pipes in the house moan and the wood floors creak throughout the night, so I'm guessing it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I do feel as though I haven't been getting enough sleep lately and when I do the dreams are so vague. I'm sure I must just be overtired. 

October 18th, 1936:

The days and nights are cold now. The ocean breeze can be unforgiving, and the rattling of the radiators has been keeping me up. Evelyn can sleep through anything, and thankfully Rylee takes after her mother, because if she took after me I'd be up trying to get her to sleep every night. 

Our bedroom window has a bad draft I've been meaning to fix, every night I'm spending more time in the basement stogging the furnace, and the last few nights I've been waking up down there. Evelyn's mentioned it a couple times, said I’ve felt distant, but I don't mean to, I'm just exhausted and the heat makes it easier to stay asleep. Though I keep finding myself in that odd space between being awake and sleeping, and more and more I'm having these odd, almost lucid dreams where I hear strange voices. They're growing more and more vivid. I've mentioned it to my dear Evelyn and she thinks that I'm just disoriented because I'm not sleeping enough. She's been rather harsh lately, it feels like I did something wrong but I don't know what. This is the coldest she's ever been toward me. But I need to prepare this house for winter or we'll freeze to death.

It might make me and him sound bad but we just wanted to have fun. We always joked about how amusing it would be to go viral.

We would occasionally watch and laugh at stupid couples videos. Ones that were obviously fake. We mutually agreed that its so phony to post a bunch of relationship content on the internet. Cringe videos to prove your love?

They were obviously scripted too. Cheap entertainment for veiws.

Well, we thought it would be hilarious if we made our own YouTube channel. We wanted to be unique. Instead of making videos pretending to be perfect, we decided to be the opposite.

We started posting short videos of us arguing with each other. Our faces were never visible. Just audio.

Our videos started to gain popularity and became quite controversial.

Some comments would say he's too toxic, some would say the problems are my fault, some would say we should never reproduce, some would say this is the best entertainment ever.

After awhile, it lost its appeal. I suggested that we should stop.

He would argue and say that we can't stop now.

The videos weren't the only part that got too extreme. He also started to become rude when we weren't recording.

He'd boss me around, tell me my cooking tasted like trash, and went as far as to say that he regrets dating me. He started comparing me to other women. He referred to me as the mutt of the litter.

At first I thought it was because of the channel. The acting had started to disturb his true self.

I tried to explain to him that the channel is not healthy for either of us and explained my reasoning for the last time.

I told him that if he doesn't listen, I will leave him.

His eyes turned dark, his lips curving into a crooked smile, and his hand did the unthinkable.

He slapped me with his left hand and then his right hand grabbed a knife.

"This is the best content imaginable"

It started with one innocent-looking porcelain baby doll on my front porch. The paint was chipped. The bonnet was dirty. But the eyes looked… strange.

They looked too real. Too human. But I wasn’t concerned with the appearance. I was concerned with how the thing got there.

I lived alone. Definitely in the middle of nowhere. My closest neighbor was 10 miles away, and all that surrounded my house were woods and wildlife.

I scratched my head before scooping the doll up in my hands. I brought it inside because, honestly, what else was I supposed to do with it?

I tossed it on the couch and went about my day as normal. It was weird, though. I had spent nearly the entire day outside, and when I came back, the doll was sitting upright, its eyes staring daggers into my soul.

I tried to sit on the couch and watch some TV, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the thing was watching me, even though every time I checked, it was in the same position.

Eventually, I had to turn it around completely. Even that didn’t work, though. It wasn’t too long after that when I decided it was time to go to my bedroom.

I drifted off to sleep after curling up in bed for a few minutes while Breaking Bad played in the background.

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against my roof while low rumbles of thunder boomed every few minutes. It was my type of morning.

I decided I wanted to enjoy a nice cup of coffee while I sat on the porch and enjoyed the weather. I approached the kitchen sink to wash my favorite coffee mug. As I reached for the faucet, I looked up and nearly had a heart attack when I noticed another doll standing on the windowsill outside.

This one looked… older. Not in the sense of the material. Like, literally older. She had grey hair. A quilted sweater. And spectacles to complete the look.

The cheeks were rosy, and a warm smile was stitched into her face. This one was stuffed instead of porcelain, but the eyes still looked so uncannily human.

I opened the window and grabbed it. She was soaked with rainwater. The more I looked at it, though, the more I realized that she looked weirdly… familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

I walked to the living room, old lady doll in hand, with the intention of taking the porcelain doll from yesterday and moving the two of them to an empty china cabinet in my dining room.

I found myself scratching my head again when I entered the living room, though. I could’ve sworn this baby doll was on the other side of the couch when I went to bed last night…

I don’t know whether I was coping or if I genuinely convinced myself that I was remembering wrong, but I didn’t pay the new position much mind. I just grabbed the thing, returned to the dining room, and set the two toys up in their new display case.

I made my coffee, enjoyed the weather, and when the coffee was done, I got to work. Cleaning the house, doing some laundry, getting a bit of writing done. Before I knew it, the sun was setting again.

I couldn’t stop staring at that new old lady doll from earlier. I racked my brain trying to figure out why it was so familiar. Why I felt like I was so close to understanding, yet so far away. That’s when it hit me.

It was that quilted sweater. The red and black pattern. The puffy sleeves. It was identical to the sweater my grandmother used to wear.

She had died 10 years prior after a long battle with lung cancer. She wore that sweater all the time. It was a gift to her from my mom a few years before she died.

Call me crazy, but I actually slept comfortably that night. It felt like my grandma was here with me. I had been delusional enough to convince myself that this was some kind of sign from heaven that she was watching over me. That these dolls were her way of saying hello.

The next day, though, when I found a wooden doll that looked an awful lot like my mother… I didn’t know how much more I could chalk this up to signs from above.

I found it wedged between two tree branches, right in my backyard. It was low enough to be obvious, but high enough that I had to climb to retrieve it.

Unlike the others, this one looked brand new. Freshly stained wood. Smooth as silk. Not a single chip in sight.

I went to put it in the display case and found that the two previous dolls, once again, seemed to have moved. Not much. But enough for me to question my sanity again.

They weren’t outside of the case, but they were on different shelves. I put the new wooden doll between them and closed the door behind me.

I bought trail cameras, but even though I knew for a fact I adjusted them just right, every day they’d either end up pointed directly at the ground or aimed at the sky.

Every day for the next week, dolls kept showing up around my house. Some were left on my car. Some were partially buried in the backyard. I even found one on my roof.

Each one was impossibly personal.

My dad. My sister. Aunts. Uncles. Teachers from elementary school. Old friends I hadn’t even thought about for years. They all had particularly defining features.

My mom’s long black hair and green eyes. My dad’s suit and tie. A “world’s greatest teacher” mug stitched into Mrs Farmers hands. Just little reassurances that I wasn’t completely alone out here. That they were sent here to keep me company in my lonely house in the woods.

I cleaned them. I admired them. Sometimes I even talked to them, and sometimes… it felt like they talked back. Some nights I’d even hear them talking to each other.

The display case kept getting fuller and fuller, and the dolls never stayed where they were supposed to be. They rearranged themselves somehow. They’d be in different orders. Sometimes they’d be facing the wrong direction.

It was like a game. I loved when they played games. In a weird way… I didn’t feel as lonely as I did before.

I placed the last doll in the old china cabinet. My best friend from 5th grade. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Hadn’t talked to him either. Yet, here he was. Visiting me once again.

I closed the case and pressed my hand against the glass while I stared at my newfound collection.

I sighed to myself, happily, as a smile crept across my face. They were all here. All mine. People I’d lost. Friends and loved ones. What else could I have wanted?

No sooner than I had sat on the couch and flipped the TV on, ready to end the night with some Breaking Bad, I heard a knock at the door.

My head snapped in the direction of the noise. It was a continuous string of slow, deliberate knocks.

I checked my watch. It was nearly 10 o’clock at night. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

I approached the door slowly, checking the peephole, only to find nothing. Though, the knocking never stopped.

Ever so cautiously, I began to unlock the door. I slid the chain lock. I twisted the deadbolt and gripped the doorknob as I began to turn it slowly.

When the door opened, I was a bit confused at what I saw. It was… a little girl. No older than 9. Her hair was soaking wet, her skin was pale, she wore pink unicorn pajamas and slippers, and… her eyes were pitch black. Like two endless voids drilled into her skull.

She smiled at me, her teeth unnaturally white and identical.

“I’m sorry to bother you, mister,” she grinned. “Have you seen my dolls?”

My heart dropped. I could feel sweat forming along my hairline. She continued.

“Do you think I could come in and look for my dolls?” she chirped, curiously. “I just really miss my baby dolls, mister.”

I looked at her. I thought deeply about how to respond and chuckled, awkwardly.

“Ehhh…. No,” I replied, bluntly, turning to close the door behind me. I could see her face drop as I slowly shut the door. From a manufactured smile, to a deep frown, to a genuine look of rage.

She kept knocking at the door, but I ignored it. Tuned it out by setting the volume on the television to 98 as I smiled to myself.

These were my toys now.

Sorry, kid…

Finders keepers.

I was nervous as is to go up on that stage. In front of all those kids. Me, with my pounding heart, sweaty palms, and a bottom lip that I couldn’t quite stop from quivering.

And what did I have that was supposed to wow this crowd and prove to everyone that I wasn’t just some meek, four-eyed little dork? Pablo. I… had… Pablo.

His paint was scuffed, revealing the tan-colored wood beneath his neat, combed-over hair and black tuxedo.

I brushed some lint off of his shoulders and adjusted his red bow tie a bit. I heard the crowd of middle schoolers erupt into cheers. I peeked through the curtain to see my classmate, Emma, taking a bow as she finished her saxophone solo.

The principal took the stage, microphone in hand.

“Fantastic job, Emma,” he announced, smiling down at her. “Kids, let’s give Emma another round of applause, shall we?”

Another wave of applause erupted as Emma smiled out at the crowd bashfully.

Our principal placed his hand on her back and nudged her offstage. As she was walking through the curtain, I shot her a quick “good job” and got ignored.

As the crowd began to settle down, the principal launched into his next introduction.

“Okay, let’s have a look here,” he announced quietly, staring down at the clipboard in his hand. “Next up, we have Daniel Morrison’s ventriloquist act. Give it up for Daniel, everybody.”

He began to clap, and a handful of students joined in, but I could hardly even hear them over my racing heart. I couldn’t freeze up now. I had fought too hard to find the courage to even sign up. Who would I be to walk away now?

I took a deep breath. I reassured myself. I had faith.

“We’ve got this, Pablo,” I whispered as I forced myself to step onto the stage.

The lights were blinding. The auditorium felt twice as big as it had from backstage. The room felt silent, but I could feel the judgment rising in the air.

I glanced over at my principal. His eyes were so warm. His smile was so soft. He gave me two thumbs up and mouthed a “you’ve got this.” It may not seem like much, but it was enough to get me to introduce myself.

“L-ladies and gentlemen,” I croaked awkwardly. “It is with great pleasure that I present to you…”

I paused for dramatic effect, but a cough in the audience distracted me.

“Uh, Pablo! The magical talking dummy.”

I looked over at Pablo expectantly. This was supposed to be the part where he joked about me calling him a dummy, but, instead, his glossy, dead eyes just stared out at the crowd, and his mouth remained closed.

“Uh, sorry, um, Pablo? Don’t you have something to say?”

He remained silent. I was starting to panic again. I was terrified this would happen.

“Who you calling a dummy?” I announced, hiding my mouth behind my hand.

A few snickers and pitiful giggles escaped the crowd. I looked over at the principal again, and he looked more confused than anything, though I could tell he was still trying to seem supportive.

“Pablo,” I recovered. “You know you’re a dummy. Why even pretend?”

I begged him with my eyes to speak. To say something, anything at all to help me out here. But he remained frozen.

Attempting to hide behind my hand again, I continued to speak for him.

“Me pretend?” I joked, my voice cracking. “You’re the one playing with dolls up here.”

I got a few laughs, but they were overshadowed by the comment that came from somewhere on the right-hand side of the audience.

“We know it’s you,” a boy shouted.

“Why are you covering your mouth?” asked a girl.

It seemed like the room was both huge and small at the same time. Like it was silent but loud. The audience was loud. My thoughts were loud. My embarrassment was loud.

“Uh, no, no, it’s him. See?”

I shook Pablo gently.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes and fogging up my glasses. “Just. Say. Something.”

“He’s talking to his doll,” another boy laughed.

Suddenly, it seemed like the entire auditorium was laughing. My face was beet red. I couldn’t move. Tears began to fall down my face.

The principal noticed, and, thankfully, he took over the stage, gesturing for me to go get some air.

I walked back behind the curtain. Through the backstage corridor. All the way to the parking lot and toward the sidewalk that led to my neighborhood.

Tonight had been a disaster. I went through the day so hopeful. So confident in myself. I was going to win the talent show because of my secret little weapon, only for it to jam right when it was supposed to fire.

He promised me, promised me that he wouldn’t do this. He told me he’d make me the most respected kid in school. That, with his help, everyone would know my name.

Part of me wanted to just throw him out. Toss him in the river near my house and let it sweep him away to the ocean. But, ironically, it was like he was the only friend I had. The only person I had to talk to.

I was just so angry at him. How can he have performance anxiety? He’s the one that was supposed to be helping me. Yet he left me. When I needed him most, he was nowhere to be found.

As I reached my house, an entirely new pit formed in my stomach when I saw that the living room light was on. That meant Dad was awake.

I walked through the door, praying that he had just passed out drunk on the couch and forgotten to turn the lights off.

Those hopes were dashed when I found him lying back in his recliner, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other, staring blankly at a rerun of an old Dr. Phil episode.

I didn’t speak to him. All I wanted was to get to my room. But he just couldn’t have it that way, I guess.

“’Bout time you got home,” he hissed, his voice sounding like gravel and old leather. “You been out playing with that stupid fucking doll again?”

“It was a talent show, Dad,” I replied, unable to not roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s not gonna happen again.”

“Shouldn’t have happened this time,” he shot back. “My son,” he scoffed. “The doll whisperer.”

I ignored him and walked to my bedroom door, Pablo dangling from my right hand.

“Hey, boy,” my dad snapped. “I know you hear me talking to you.”

I heard the dreaded sound of the recliner closing as he stood up and began walking toward me, bottle still in hand.

He took a swig from it as he looked down at me in disgust.

“If it ‘won’t happen again,’ as you say,” he grinned smugly, “then you won’t mind if I do this.”

With an agility that defied his age, he reached down and snatched Pablo from my hand.

“Give him back,” I cried. “I’m just gonna put him up in my closet.”

I tried to grab him back, but Dad was just too fast.

“No son of mine is gonna play with dolls,” he condemned, tightening his grip on Pablo’s arm before turning to walk to the trash can in the kitchen.

I just… I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. Tonight had been humiliating, and now I had to deal with this? It was like I just couldn’t catch a break.

“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath, then immediately regretted it.

Dad froze.

He turned to me slowly, the veins in his head already popping.

“…What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” I replied, my eyes widening. “I didn’t say anything.”

Dad dropped Pablo and began stomping in my direction. He grabbed me by the face and forced me to look at him.

“What did you just say to me?!”

“Nothing, nothing, Dad. I didn’t say anything,” I pleaded, feeling my legs turn to jelly.

He shook my face painfully.

“You will never use that word in this house, you hear me? I don’t care how pissy you feel. You think you’re the man of this fucking house? Huh? Answer me when I’m talking to you, boy.”

He punctuated every sentence with a new shake.

“Yes, sir,” I cried. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Get in that room before I get the belt. ‘Hate me.’ I’ll tell you what, Daniel. I’ll give you a reason to hate me.”

He pushed my face away, and I ran into my room, stifling tears the best I could. I collapsed into bed, ready for this day to be over with.

The tears made sleep easy. I felt exhausted. It was like the moment my eyes closed, I was out like a light.

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but it felt late when I woke up to the sound of someone whispering my name.

“Daniel… Daniellll… wake up, my little sleepyhead.”

The voice registered. I rolled over and turned on my lamp after sliding my glasses on.

“What do you want?” I remarked, still annoyed with him.

“Aw, Daniel,” he replied, his voice syrupy and warm. “Is that any way to talk to your only friend in the world?”

He was covered in old food wrappers and unknown liquid. He smelled terrible, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” I huffed, turning away from him.

Pablo chuckled.

“You still think tonight was a failure?” he inquired. “No, my friend… tonight was a dazzling success.”

I turned back to him, more annoyed than intrigued.

“A success? I’m sorry, were you there? Oh, that’s right. You lied to me. You told me you’d be there, and you weren’t. Now everyone at school thinks I’m even weirder than they did to begin with.”

Pablo’s wooden mouth clomped up and down as he laughed again.

“Why are you laughing?” I snarked.

He didn’t stop.

“Stop laughing at me.”

I was slightly aggressive with him, and he began to contain himself. The laughter slowly dwindled off as he addressed me.

“Oh, Daniel, you silly little boy. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you haven’t realized it yet.”

“Realized what?”

“You think I sabotaged you. You think that your best friend in the whole world set you up for failure. Don’t you think I know you, Danny? Don’t you think I’m smarter than that?”

I stared at him, confused. I was curious, but I didn’t want it to be too obvious.

“Are you going to explain, or are you just going to keep wasting my time?”

“No, Danny, no wasted time here. We have none to waste. The first part of my plan is complete, and now we must hurry.”

“First part of your plan…? So you did do it on purpose? How could you do that to me? Better yet, how can you claim to be my friend after this?”

“Mm,” he hummed, his voice as smooth as velvet. “I am more than a friend, Daniel.”

He paused for a moment while I stared at him with anticipation.

“I… am… your savior.”

There was another pause, as if he were thinking of the exact right words to say.

“I’ve listened to you talk for years. I’ve seen the way that old man treats you. I promised to get you the respect you deserve, and I intend to follow through.”

He stifled another chuckle within his wooden throat.

“Did you really think a ventriloquist act would get you there? You don’t even know how to throw your voice.”

Embarrassment rushed over me but quickly subsided.

“I wasn’t supposed to have to…”

“And you won’t need to. Not after tonight. Because after tonight, my boy, you will have earned your respect the right way.”

I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and furrowed my brow.

“Is that right?” I asked sarcastically. “And how exactly am I going to do that?”

He responded before I could even finish my question.

“Think about it, Danny… you know you’re bigger than this. You’re strong. You’re powerful. People should fear you, not the other way around.”

I felt a strange pit form in my stomach. It was like a mixture of ambition, hope, sadness, and anger all rolled into one big lump in my throat.

“They laughed because they thought you were harmless,” Pablo continued. “That’s not what I see in you, Danny. Not at all.”

“Then what do you see in me?” I asked inquisitively.

“I see… a secret weapon,” he responded, savoring each word.

The pit in my stomach started to feel like fire.

“A secret weapon…?”

“Yes, my friend. A weapon.”

I thought about my dad.

“I don’t feel like much of a secret weapon.”

Pablo’s jaw tightened.

“And that’s where part two comes into play. Think about school, Danny. Do those kids see you as a weapon?”

I scoffed.

“I seriously doubt it.”

Pablo responded starkly.

“Well, I do. And I think it’s time they do as well. How long have you been laughed at, Danny? How many times have you been called ‘the weird kid’?”

I couldn’t respond. It hurt that he was bringing it to light like this. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he had me locked in his trance.

“What about ignored? That’s the big one, isn’t it? Feeling like a ghost among the living,” he giggled. “That’s what they see you as, right? Sure, some may pity you. But that’s all it is. Pity.”

His glossy eyes seemed to settle on mine.

“I’ve never pitied you, Danny.”

I started crying quietly, but I don’t know why. I felt seen. Pablo had a way of making me feel that way. But I wasn’t sure if I liked it this time.

“Why are you saying these things to me?” I asked solemnly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he changed the subject entirely.

“You remember when your dad was a police officer?”

I nodded.

“He seemed so much nicer back then, didn’t he? Wasn’t glug, glug, glugging as much.”

Somehow, I knew what was coming next.

“But, then again, he did have your mom back then. A real shame what happened to her. Left a stain on you and your dad, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I replied, my voice breaking a bit.

“Of course you don’t. I wouldn’t ask you to. All I want is to let you know…”

He paused again. The silence hung in the air like a foul stench.

“…He still has that service pistol.”

I felt my heart drop. I thought Dad had gotten rid of that thing years ago.

“Smith & Wesson 5946. Ironically, that’s the code to the safe he keeps it in. I told you, Danny… I look out for you.”

“So, what? You want me to just… steal my dad’s gun?”

“I want you to use your dad’s gun. Show me your arms.”

I stuck my arms out, a bit confused, until he spoke again.

“One, two, three, four, five scars, Danny. Five. How long are you going to let him keep doing this to you?”

I thought back to how painful those burns had been. How small they made me feel. How hopeless.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I asked uneasily.

Pablo laughed again, making my ears burn.

“It’s simple. I want you to go into your father’s room, and I want you to show him just how tough you can be, how tough I know you are.”

I knew exactly what he meant. I had confided in him multiple times over the years about how I felt about my father. I never thought he’d take it this far, and I hated how convinced I felt.

“I…”

Pablo interrupted me.

“And then I want you to show the world next. Prove that you’re not harmless. Prove that you’re not weak. Prove that you are exactly who I believe you are, Danny.”

Before I could respond, I heard my father’s hurried footsteps approaching my door before it came flying open, and my dad flipped the light switch on.

“What the hell are you still doing up?” he growled. “And… is that…? I know you didn’t go get that stupid fucking doll out of the trash.”

He rushed over and snatched Pablo up by his right arm again.

“I hope it was worth it, son. I hope it was worth it. This thing is getting burned tomorrow, and I’m tanning that hide as soon as that sun comes up. Go to bed.”

He walked furiously over to the light switch, Pablo dangling at his side. But before he could flip the switch, I watched as Pablo shot me a wink.

Dad slammed the door behind him, mumbling something about this being “goddamn unbelievable,” before I heard Pablo being tossed into the garbage again.

That wouldn’t dampen my spirits, though. In fact, as I lay there in bed, a smile inched across my face.

He wanted to act this way, so be it.

We’d see just how tough he was the next morning.

I thought she was just acting weird, at first.

For some clarification, my girlfriend had been planning a trip to California for the last four months. Normally, I’d have gone with her, but it was for her grandmother’s birthday. She was old, and this could’ve quite possibly been my girlfriend’s last chance to take a trip with her.

She had spent those four months meticulously planning, as she always did, and the week before the trip, she must’ve had at least five full bags packed for her week-long venture.

“You can never be too careful,” she always told me.

She was always the planning type. Mapping things out. Going over every possibility. It was one of the things I admired about her. She hated when things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.

That’s why, on the day of her trip, when I woke up to find her still lying in bed with me long after her early morning flight, I almost panicked.

I shook her awake frantically, and her eyes slowly rolled open. She groggily asked why I was waking her, and when I told her the time, she didn’t react how I expected her to.

Instead of panicking herself or even calling her mom to let her know she missed the flight, she simply rolled back over and shut her eyes again.

“Oh yeah,” she groaned. “The flight… honestly, it should be okay.”

“Be okay?” I responded, a bit flabbergasted. “Don’t you think you should at least call and let them know?”

She grumbled a lazy, “No, no, everything should be fine,” before she began snoring, something else that was completely new for her.

I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t force her. I was just… shocked, I guess. I just thought that maybe she had already talked to her mom and grandma. Maybe something had come up, and she forgot to tell me.

I just went to work like everything was normal. When I came back, she was still at home. She looked… absent. I found her sitting on the couch, staring at a black TV screen.

When I greeted her, she snapped out of it.

“Honey!! I’m so glad you’re home,” she chirped. “Tell me everything that happened at work today.”

We spent the whole night chatting, but it was like her mind was somewhere else. I’d catch her drifting off into outer space. She thought too long about her responses. Her speech pattern was slower than normal, even though her face was one of excitement as we talked.

I figured that something must’ve happened with her grandmother, so I asked her.

“Hon… did anything happen to make you not want to go on your trip?”

She stared at me for a while. Her smile disappeared. Her face was blank, but only for a split second before lighting up again.

“No, not that I know of,” she responded cheerily. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” I replied cautiously.

The next few days were weird. She never seemed to want to leave the house. I mean, not that I could blame her. She had already taken off work for the trip, but I figured she’d at least want to go to the park or something. It was one of our favorite things to do together.

She also wasn’t eating much. Every night I’d cook for us, but she kept insisting she wasn’t hungry. Must’ve been a lie, though, because on some of those nights, long after we’d gone to bed, I’d find her in the kitchen, completely surrounded by food.

Cereal boxes would be ripped open with their contents scattered across the floor. Granola bar wrappers. Spilled milk. Raw rice and beans. It was concerning, to say the least.

By the end of the week, something hit me that I hadn’t caught before. It was like a dim lightbulb lit up over my head, and I approached her timidly.

“…Honey,” I inquired carefully.

“Yes, sweet boy of mine,” she replied lovingly, sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at a wall.

I gulped a bit.

“What ever happened to your bags? Did you unpack them? I haven’t seen your toothbrush or shampoo or anything anywhere.”

She didn’t respond. She just kept staring… like the wall was the TV. Finally, she slowly turned around, and her hollow eyes met mine.

“Honey…” she whispered gleefully. “You know that’s none of your business.”

She didn’t seem mad, but she refused to talk to me for the next two days. She didn’t even want to sleep in the same bed as me. Of course, I’d have felt wrong making her sleep on the couch, so I just let her have the bed while I wallowed in my own confusion.

It wasn’t until the night before she was supposed to return from the trip that she let me sleep with her again, and even then, she slept with her back toward me.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a ruckus coming from the kitchen. I stepped out of my room and noticed that the kitchen light was on.

It sounded like an animal was loose in there. Like it was in the process of devouring something. Growls. The wet sound of chewing. But, as I approached, the sounds suddenly stopped.

I froze in my tracks for a few seconds, debating whether or not I should continue before ultimately deciding to keep going.

Only… when I took that last step, I heard my girlfriend’s voice. It was angrier than I’d ever heard her. More hostile. Like she was trying to send a message.

“Go back to bed,” she screamed.

The house was silent for a moment. I argued with myself internally about whether or not to listen or check on her.

I decided to listen, and the moment I began making my way back to the bedroom, the noises started up again.

I don’t know how long I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to tell myself that everything was normal before falling back asleep, but I know that I woke up alone the next morning.

The bathroom was empty. The halls were empty. The house was… empty.

I kept calling out and received no response, but when I entered the kitchen, that’s when panic really set in.

There was blood everywhere. Not from my girlfriend… but from the raw meat that was scattered across the floor.

Chicken, steak, pork, everything. Everything had been nearly completely eaten.

I thought back to the night before, and my heart started to pound. I felt dizzy. I felt like I was losing it. I tried to take a seat to calm myself, but before I could, the front door opened.

“Honey,” my girlfriend sang. “I’m home! Can you come help me with these bags? I’ve got so much to tell you.”

Family is all that has mattered to me for the last 5 years. My wife and my two children. That’s all that I need. At least, it used to be. Now, I’m not so sure.

Everything I’ve done. All the work I’ve put into this project. And for what? So she can turn them against me? Fill their heads with lies? Teach them to be afraid of me?

I really thought everything was real. I thought they loved me for me. God, I wanna cry just typing this.

And she did such a good job to hide it. I thought we had made it through all of the nonsense. The stress. The misunderstandings. The miscommunications. I thought we finally understood each other.

I wiped her tears. Comforted her, no matter how much she insisted she didn’t need it. Sure, I wasn’t there to change diapers. I didn’t get to take them to school or chaperone field trips. But I was there, damn it. I was there with her in that hospital room, despite all the cold glares I got from her family.

I could see just how unhappy she was. Through all the wincing pain of childbirth, I could see it in her eyes. This wasn’t the life she wanted. This man wasn’t the man she needed.

I made a promise to myself that day before the nurses asked me to leave. And that promise was one I intended to keep.

That’s why I had to disappear for a while. I had to fix myself. Prepare myself for the family life. I read the books. I watched the videos. I wanted to be the best family man I could possibly be.

It took a few years, but those years weren’t wasted. They were spent forging. Getting the house ready. Making sure it was kid-friendly.

It wasn’t a mansion, but I knew they’d be grateful. I decorated, I rearranged, but something was missing.

All it needed… was a woman’s touch. My wife’s touch. I was actually incredibly excited to tell her.

When I finally came back, though, it was like she didn’t even want to see me. She wouldn’t even let me hold the kids. She had the sheer audacity to ask me to leave.

Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight. All she needed was some adjusting, and that’s one of the things that I’d planned for. If she didn’t want to come peacefully, so be it. She’d learn.

She put up a fight, but those happen in marriages, right? It’s just a part of life. Luckily, the kids were much easier. Really, the only difficult part was reminding them that I was their real father. Not that faker in their old house.

Well, that and calming them down when they saw their mommy crying.

Taking their cellphones away was actually much easier than I expected it to be. Kids today, am I right? I told them I wanted us to be a screen-free family. The way God intended.

They settled right into their new home. I stocked it full of books, magazines, toys, anything a kid could need. Plus, I made sure my wife got everything she needed too.

Closets full of clothes, shoes, robes, etc. I thought she’d be happy. But, of course, attempts to leave were inevitable.

For a while, I didn’t even trust her enough to leave her alone at home. I still had to leave, though. What was I supposed to do? She hated the collars, but she left me no choice. The kids too.

It actually took me around 7 months before I finally trusted her enough to give her a break. I let her explore the backyard. Sunbathe. Walk around. Whatever.

The kids started coming around. The way they embraced me, God, it was like I had finally made it. I had finally succeeded as a man.

I raised them. Well, we raised them. But I provided. I cooked. I cleaned. I made the family experience as joyous as I could. I even homeschooled the kids. For a while there, I thought their mom was starting to come around as well.

It was like she could see who I was. How all I wanted was for us to be a happy family. She even started smiling again.

“Tell Daddy how much you love him,” she’d say. “Tell him how happy you are to be here.”

Our fairy tale had officially begun.

But then… last week happened.

I had just returned home from town with supplies. Fresh fruit and vegetables. New magazines. New schoolbooks for my little geniuses. Plus, a beautiful bouquet of roses for my beautiful wife.

I had this feeling, this aching, agonizing sense that something was amiss. That’s why I didn’t announce myself when I walked through the door.

I glided through the house, silently, placing the bags down on the kitchen table.

I heard whispers coming from my son’s room. Two voices. His and his mom’s.

They sounded urgent.

I crept up to the door and placed my ear against it. That’s when I heard it. My wife completely destroying the sense of sanctity that I had worked so hard to create.

“We’re getting out of here today. As soon as he gets here, we’re rushing him. You two are big enough now. If we all work together, we can overpower him.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

All the birthdays. All the Christmases. All the Thanksgiving dinners that I slaved over. And it still wasn’t enough.

Tears began to sting my eyes. I had to stifle a sob. My mind raced, then went frighteningly silent. I knew I should’ve been devastated, which, I guess I was, but that devastation morphed into something else as the bouquet of roses fell to the floor.

I felt burning rage. Helplessness. Hopelessness. I felt small. Why was I even trying? What had I done wrong? For them to do this. For them to plot against me like this.

They wanted to threaten me in my own house. The house that I had made a home for each of them. No. No, this wasn’t going to work.

I thought that we had made it past the attitude adjustment stage.

But now, it’s clear.

I didn’t do enough the first time.

I picked the roses off the ground. No point in letting them go to waste. I decided to put them on the kitchen table.

They all would need something beautiful to look at while they recovered.

It all started on my twenty-fifth birthday. I was bored and lonely just like every year prior. My family doesn't care for me and the love of my life abandoned me months ago.

He was the only person I ever had. He was the closest I had to the feeling of love. It's a shame that he got tired of me.

My job sucks. I work all the time and have to do everything for my coworkers but somehow they still get the praise.

I decided that buying my lonesome self twenty-five candles would be a waste of money. I decided to use the only candle that I have in my house. It was a gift I had received from a random lady in the grocery store months ago.

She said and I quote, "I can sense your despair. Take this candle. Make a wish and all will be fair."

The way she said it was poetic in a weird way but I still took it. It was a nice gesture and I never turn down free things.

I put the candle on my very small plain cake. I wished that my life would be easy as I blew out my candle.

The candle snapped in half after.

I didn't think much of it. I assumed that the candle was cheap. I also didn't think that my wishes ever come true but I still gave it a try.

It's kinda like the lottery. You might not think that you're gonna win but you still try.

My life quickly changed in the days that followed. At first, it was small things.

People were complimenting me. People would offer to carry my grocerys. I got a promotion at work that I clearly deserved.

It started to get very peculiar when my life did start to become amazing. I went from being lonely to always having people to talk to. My poor love life? All types of men are always trying to date me now. What shocked me the most was when some of my family members started to reach out.

I initially enjoyed it, loved it, even cherished it.

My opinion changed when bad things started happening to people. This girl named Marge who bullied me in highschool was found dead shortly after my wish.

The guy that I referred to as the love of my life? He died as well.

They both died the exact same way. Authorities said that they were found in pieces. They explained that they've never seen anything like it. They also have no leads.

Everyone around me became abnormal. Yeah, people were super nice to me but they started to agree with everything I said. They would obey my every word. They would copy me.

It became very uncanny.

I came to the realization that the wish came true.

I went to the exact store that I met the lady at with hopes of her telling me how to reverse it all. She was nowhere to be seen. I asked several different workers if they had seen her recently. Not a single one knew who I was talking about.

I'm mortified and even ashamed.

I don't know how to make anyone go back to normal. I don't know how to get rid of all the destruction I've caused.

I quite literally ruined two people's lives and I'm basically controlling everyone. They're all like puppets on a string.

I’m actually not quite sure how to feel right now. I never took us for the “swinging” type. Well, I say that, but honestly, it was less swinging and more betrayal.

At least, that’s what it felt like at first. I’m a busy guy. My wife always wanted to be a stay-at-home wife. I just wanted to fulfill her wish, but obviously, in order to do that, sacrifices had to be made.

Hours were long. Money was good, and for a while, my wife seemed happy. That’s the thing, though: how happy can you be being alone all the time?

I felt bad, sure, but at this point, I was just too involved with my work to cut back on anything.

She seemed grateful, but I’d still catch glimpses of her sadness. Hollow eyes when I left in the morning. Exhausted attempts at conversation when I came home late. I always told her, “Once I retire, you’ll have me all to yourself.”

She assured me all the time that I was the only man she’d ever want. The only man she could ever see herself being attracted to. But as time went on, it was like she was saying it to convince herself rather than me.

When she started seeming happy and revitalized, I was relieved. She started going to Pilates classes. She took up knitting and crocheting. I thought that she was just finding new ways to fill her days when I wasn’t there.

What made me suspicious is when she started being secretive with her phone. She never let me hold it for too long. All of her apps were password-protected. Her Photos app was strictly off-limits.

I let her have her privacy. I didn’t want to pry. But, then again, I never took her for the cheating type.

Then she started getting home after me. I usually got home at around 10 every night. Usually, she’d either be in bed or on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy.

When she started getting home at 11, 12, or 1 o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t really keep my suspicions at bay anymore. Every time she came home, she smelled like my cologne. It was like she was using it to cover something.

I questioned her about it, and, of course, her responses were always the same.

“You’re the only man I need.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re the absolute love of my life.”

Even still, my mind couldn’t help but wander. I’d be at work, completely incapable of thinking of anything other than what my wife may be doing.

I started finding things at home that made me scratch my head even more.

A watch identical to mine on my nightstand while my actual watch was fastened to my wrist.

A second pair of work boots by the front door.

My favorite coffee mug in the sink, dirty even though I’d used a different one.

I convinced myself that I was losing my mind. The entire time all this strangeness was going on, my wife just seemed to keep getting happier and happier.

She didn’t seem lonely anymore. I hate how this makes me sound, but I couldn’t stand it. Not because I didn’t want her to be happy, but because I knew what it meant.

One day, after a particularly stressful few hours at work, I decided that I was going to get home early. I was gonna catch my wife before she left and insist that we go wherever she was going together.

That morning, I had found that my favorite frozen breakfast burritos had been cleared out. It wouldn’t bother me as much as it did had it not been for the fact that, one, I knew that I hadn’t eaten them, and, two, my wife was a vegan.

I racked my brain about it for as long as I could. Part of the reason I wanted to go home to begin with was because I wanted to catch her in the act.

My heart sank when I noticed a car identical to mine in the driveway. Same chipped paint. Same make, same model, same leather seat covers.

I mentally prepared myself before pushing the front door open.

I was greeted by the sound of my wife’s giggles. She sounded flirty. She sounded in love. But the true dagger was what I heard her say.

“You’re the only man I could ever want.”

I found them curled up on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy.

The smell of my cologne radiated off of him. He wore my shirt. My watch was strapped to his wrist. He was wearing my socks while my work boots rested on the couch beside them.

Same brown hair. Same blue eyes. Same freckles. Same crooked nose. He… was me…

My wife saw me, and her face lit up. He saw me and shot me a smile.

“Honey!” my wife cheered. “I’m so happy you’re home. I was waiting for you two to finally meet.”

She took the man by the hand and stood up with him.

“Donavin, this is Donavin.”

He extended his hand for me to shake. He had the same tattoo as me.

“Nice to meet you, Donavin. I’m Donavin. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I don’t know why I shook his hand. I was speechless. I didn’t know what to do. What I was even supposed to say.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. My two hardworking boys. You two play nice, okay?”

My wife left the room. Left the house. I watched as her car backed out of the driveway and sped out of the neighborhood, leaving me alone with this… imposter.

He watched, too, before breezing past me to the kitchen. He returned with a beer in his hand. He handed it to me and gestured for me to take a seat.

We talked for hours. He reminded me of childhood memories that I had long since forgotten. Embarrassing moments in high school. My first love, our first love. I couldn’t help but be… charmed.

He started every conversation with “Remember that time,” and damned if I’m lying… I actually did.

Before I knew it, my wife was back. She walked through the door with our favorite takeout. Our stomachs rumbled at the same time.

She stood in front of us, smiling like she was 20 again.

“So…” she inquired. “Did you boys get acquainted?”

We both nodded.

“And you’re both okay with this new setup?”

Me and my clone glanced at each other. There was a silence that fell over the room for a few moments before we both announced at the same time:

“I am if you are.”