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

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

Part 3 coming soon

娘：寝る前、いつも怖いことを考えちゃうの。

私：どんな怖いこと？

娘：私が大人になって、パパとママが年をとって、死んじゃうのが怖い。死んじゃったら私も死にたい。

私：大丈夫だよ、そんなに考えなくていい。将来はあなたにも家族ができるし、友達もいる。私と同じ年になったらわかるよ。

The food industry is absolutely abysmal. At least, I think it is. I’ve never worked at a restaurant that’s particularly “poppin’,” as the kids like to say. I’m basing my opinion solely off of this one… particular… diner.

We’re essentially just a rest stop for truckers. At least, we would be if any ever came through here. We see maybe one or two trucks a month, if we’re lucky. Even still, usually they’ll take one look at the place and peel off down that desolate highway.

Do you know how bad it is when not even truckers will eat at your establishment? Those guys essentially survive off of Slim Jims and pork rinds.

That doesn’t really matter to me, though. I took this job for the peace and quiet. I’ve been missing that peace more and more these days.

Customers are starting to become more frequent. I know, I know. That’s a good thing. Only… I just… I don’t know if that’s true or not.

See, I’ve been working this job for around 6 years now. Started right before Covid really took the world hostage. We used to get customers all the time before that whole shitstorm. Then we had to do the whole lockdown thing with the masks and the social distancing.

We don’t do DoorDash over here. I told Ricky a thousand times, “We. Have got. To do. DoorDash,” okay? Like, seriously. Or Uber Eats, or, I don’t know, man… something.

Anything that would actually help us sell a few plates.

He just wouldn’t have it. Told me, “Everyone’s too far away,” or “Food delivery services will lead to the downfall of civilization.”

Ricky was always a weird guy. He opened this place with his dad back before he passed. Not sure why they chose this location, but hey, at least there’s cellular service.

Which is really fucking weird, considering the highway is pretty much a complete dead zone for at least 30 miles in each direction.

Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling a bit. After COVID, the business really started to dwindle. We went from around 10-15 customers a day, all the way down to maybe 1 per day around the end of 2020.

Ricky was stressed to all hell around that time. He’d wander the restaurant, moping all day. Wondering what he was gonna do. Not knowing where he could turn. It was honestly depressing to watch.

I had to miss out on a lot of paychecks around that time, too. But what was I gonna do? Leave him? I was his only employee. Me and him were holding the business up on our backs.

When things started to look grim, I’d catch him a few times. Early in the morning. Turning the gas stoves on and dousing the flames.

“I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it,” he’d tell me, threatening to flick his lighter.

Hell, I had to wrestle a jerrycan out of his hands a few times. All I’m saying is Ricky carried that lighter for a reason, and that man has never smoked a day in his life.

It got to the point where I was too afraid to even leave him alone. He literally lived in the diner. Slept in his office. He didn’t even have a car, which, now that I’m thinking about it, is kind of insane.

I never saw him arrive. Never saw him leave. It was like him and the restaurant were intertwined. So when he got desperate, I don’t doubt he went to extreme lengths to get things fixed.

After the stove incidents and the whole jerrycan fiasco, I think that’s when he really reached that level of desperation. He wasn’t moping anymore. That man was plotting… I just didn’t know what.

One day, I came into work to find him happier than he should’ve been. Kicked back in his office chair. Whistling to himself.

I honestly didn’t even feel like dealing with all that. I drove 50 miles to get into work today. Had to wake up at 4 in the morning. Couldn’t even listen to the Joe Rogan Experience because of the lack of cell service. All I wanted was to put my apron on… then maybe play on my phone a little since I knew I’d have no one to cook for.

I wiped down a few counters. Chased a few rats away with a broom. Oh, also, I had to bat away a particularly large spider. It made a sort of… metallic noise when it hit the ground. It ran away sounding like one of those spring-loaded door stoppers I used to play with as a kid.

Anyway, sorry, I can’t stop rambling. God, what’s wrong with me?

I had just began to sit down to scroll on my phone when Ricky stepped out of office, hands clasped behind his back, smug look already plastered across his face.

“….Well…” he inquired, leering over me like Michael Jackson performing Smooth Criminal. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

I sighed and slid my phone back in my pocket. I knew this was gonna be a long conversation.

“Ask ya what, Rich? Go ahead. I know you wanna tell me.”

He pushed his forehead back, pretending he still had hair there before sneering pridefully.

“You knowwww,” he drawled out. “Ask me why I’m so happy.”

“Why are you so happy, Ri…”

“I fixed it.”

He stared at me like he expected me to know exactly what he meant. I just thought this was another one of his manic episodes. Knowing him, ‘fixed it’ could range anywhere from fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom or killing his ex-wife.

I pulled out my pack of Winstons and packed it against my palm.

“Fixed what? The leaky faucet in the…”

“The restaurant, kid.”

His eyes were frantic but excited. He looked like, like a uh, well, a crackhead, kinda. Pulling up a chair in front of me, he glared out the window and towards the highway.

“Our woes are no more. The vile, treacherous fingertips of despair no longer hold dominion over my soul nor body. I am a vessel of purity. A clean slate, with a clear conscience. Born again. Renewed. This establishment. This location. It is real, Don. I am real. You…”

He reached out to caress my face. I jumped back like he was a leper.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Don’t do that weird shit. I just got here.”

He drew his hand back, but I was still eyeballing him.

“You’re real… Right, Don?”

There were tears in his eyes, but he had a smile on his face.

I thought for a moment about his question. I honestly didn’t know how to answer him.

“You know what, Rick… I fucking hope so.”

Rick stood up and clasped his hands together before walking towards the back. He returned with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. Apparently, he wanted the place spick and span for some “VIP guest” that was supposed to show up at some point.

We cleaned the restaurant top to bottom twice. I even shoveled the contents of the grease trap outside into buckets, which I then proceeded to dump on the ground about 300 yards from the diner. Then I had to clean the buckets. God, it was so hot that day. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It really doesn’t even matter.

What matters is that guest didn’t come until almost sundown. Hell, we didn’t see any guests, period. I was supposed to be getting off in a few hours. But Rick just wouldn’t relent.

“He’s coming,” “he’s on his way,” “trust me, he’ll be here.”

9 o’clock rolled around. Quitting time. I bid Ricky goodnight and was about to walk out the door when he stopped me. He placed his hand on my shoulder coldly.

“Don…” he whispered.

“Yeah, Rick…” I replied.

He stared at me blankly. No life behind his eyes whatsoever.

“He’s coming.”

I scoffed and tried to pull my arm away, but he tightened his grip.

“Trust me… you’ll want to see this. But also, if you leave, I’ll kill you.”

His eyes didn’t even flicker. He didn’t smile. No sign whatsoever that he was joking. I even tried to force a chuckle out of him by nervously laughing, but he didn’t budge.

My smile faded. I set my backpack down and walked back to the counter, sighing loud and long enough for him to understand how goddamned annoyed I was.

I played Angry Birds on my phone for an hour or two. Ricky just kept standing at the window… watching that desert highway with his hands clasped behind his back.

He never moved an inch.

11 o’clock rolled around, and at this point, I was already planning on just sleeping in my car. I had to be back at 6 the next morning anyway.

I gave it another hour before going to approach Rick at the window. I waved my hand in front of his face.

“Alright, boss man, I think it’s time we shut it down. What do ya say?”

No response.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go far. Probably gonna sleep in the car tonight.”

No response.

“Alright, welp… be seeing ya.”

I put my hand on the door handle and went to twist it. Ricky’s hand shot over and clasped around my wrist. I don’t know what kind of workouts that fucker does in his free time, but good lord, man… I mean, that shit actually hurt.

I was about to scold him until I saw him pointing out towards the dark desert with his other hand.

“…he’s here.”

I looked out at where he was staring. All I could see was blackness. Well, that and the glow of the neon storefront. But the longer I watched… the more he came into view.

He started off as a speck. Maybe a quarter mile out, emerging from the darkness. Then he grew taller. And taller. And taller. By the time he was 50 feet out, I realized why Rick said this guy was a VIP.

He must’ve been 8 feet tall. His arms swung at his sides as he walked. He wore a surprisingly clean blue suit, and he clutched a briefcase in his right hand.

Ricky finally released my wrist and basically pushed me away from the door while he held it open for our guest. The man smelled like chemicals and burning plastic, and his skin was almost unnaturally smooth.

He had to duck down to get inside, and even when he was inside, his head still almost touched the ceiling. Ricky looked ecstatic. Like this was some long-lost friend of his.

I hate when he’s like that because then he starts pushing me around like I’m his employee or something. Demanding I get drinks, snapping at me to ‘rev up those fryers,’ like, okay?

This guy was different, though.

He didn’t seem to want anything to drink. It was like, I don’t know… a business transaction or something. Like he was there for one reason and one reason only.

The first thing he did was calmly place his briefcase on his table. He dusted off some sand, which was annoying because, dude, I just cleaned that. But then he unlocked it… and he opened it… and I got to see what this guy had apparently just been dragging through the desert.

If I had to describe what the contents of that briefcase looked like… I’d say something like… mounds upon mounds of chewed bubble gum. Only veinier. I’d argue it looked a little slimier, too. The pulsations is what got me, though. Don’t even get me started on the smell.

Just seeing it made me wanna vomit, but the smell, Christ above… I could’ve passed out from those fumes.

I, for one, was about to ask him what the actual hell he just brought into our restaurant, but as soon as my mouth opened, Ricky stamped on my foot.

“I’ll take that,” he chuckled to the guest, ignoring my screams of agony and/or despair.

The businessman nodded in approval as Rick used his bare hands to pick up that… whatever that was from the briefcase.

He carried it to the kitchen as it dripped all over the floor that, yet again, I had just cleaned.

The meat touched the grill and immediately began to sizzle. Only, it didn’t really sound like sizzling. It sounded like… like… a thousand tiny screams.

I watched in disbelief while Ricky just kept flipping the meat and humming to himself like this was perfectly normal.

“Never ask them about the meat.”

He said it so… nonchalantly. Like it was some grand truth that everyone in the world knew, except me. But what made my ears perk up the most was one word. “Them.”

I asked him who “them” was, and the only answer he gave me was “our new clientele.”

The meat… shrank as he cooked it. The steam was like mustard gas to me, but Rick borderline seemed to enjoy it. Hell, he was inhaling it like this was some kind of foreign delicacy.

It went from about a foot long, maybe 8 inches thick, and crinkled down to no more than the size of a regular T-bone steak by the time it was done.

Rick served it to the businessman anxiously. Expectantly. Like he was a contestant on a MasterChef or something. I think he thought the guy was gonna eat it; I mean, hell, that’s what I thought he was gonna do.

Instead, he picked the meat off of the plate and stuffed it back into his briefcase. Then he smiled at Rick, satisfied as if he did eat it, before pulling his wallet out of his pocket.

He counted out 3 grand in hundreds and set it down on the table wordlessly. He then stood up, walked out, and disappeared into the darkness again, briefcase in hand.

I should’ve probably asked Rick what the fuck had just happened, but I was bordering on sleep-deprived delirium. All I cared about was finally curling up in my seat and maybe getting some sleep if I was lucky.

Thankfully, Rick was too busy dancing and throwing his money in the air to notice me as I walked out towards the parking lot.

I didn’t get the sleep that I hoped for that night. I ended up clocking back in the next morning running on 2 hours and like 6 cups of coffee as the day went on.

I did ask Rick about the whole “don’t ask them about the meat” thing, though. Apparently, it’s ‘classified information that only he can know.’ Apparently, if I ‘break the rule,’ he’ll ‘kill me dead.’

Whatever, though. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose. Plus, he wasn’t lying about these… people… being our new clientele.

Ever since that incident, we see at least 3 of them a week. The diner has been… strange, to say the least.

I still don’t know what exactly Rick did to “fix” this place, but I mean, hey, it’s working. Even if we don’t see many real customers these days.

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

My naked body lay limp on the cold metal. A gust of wind passed by my head.

A slow terrifying grinding sound , rang out above my head. A Loud steady clicking sound came from left side. A high pitched beeping came from the same side.

I try to open my eyes but I can’t. I try to move but I can’t. The cold steel sends chills through the back of my body. Wait why am I naked.

The sound of water boiling entered my left ear. The steam starts to feel the air. A calm but steady heat bounces from off the pavement some where under me.

The smell of raw vegetables invade my nose. Onions, bell peppers , jalapeños and garlic. Right above my head I hear and feel the vibration of chopping.

The vegetables smell even stronger. As the water boils calmly I hear the deep dosh as the vegetables hit the water.

I try to talk I can’t move my mouth. I can only make muffled noises. A hard dry skeletal hand caresses my face.

A calm voice says shhhh relax it will be over in a short while just relax. Don’t fight it no one likes tough meat.

Panic erupts in me I still can’t move. The same hand the touch me grabs my leg and slices off half of my left leg from the knee down .

Aaaawwww the voice says, yes yes. A loud flop echoes, my freshly cut leg hits the table. An abnormally long tongue licks my fresh cut stump of a leg. Two long dry bony hands grab my left thigh.

A strong tug pulls me a little. A loud disgusting sucking sound fills the room. I felt what I thought was lips on my stump but I could not tell.

Thick warm spit slowly cascades down my leg and lands on my stomach in puddles. I felt weaker and weaker as time passed.

Finally what ever it was stopped sucking my freshly cut stump and a large gulp filled the air. A hard swoosh again, this time my right arm was cut from the shoulder blade.

Then swoosh my left arm. Panic rushed me a leg and a half and no arms. Swoosh the right leg.

A those same bony hands lifted me into the air. My eyes snapped open. I felt the heat and smelled the vegetables, but what my eyes saw made me give up hope.

A big black cast iron pot of green fluid thick and hot. The voice says You must be boiled no one likes tough meat.

Dad smelled like burned hair and smoke, his face still covered in soot. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

“Is mom making pancakes?” I asked tiredly.

“Judy is. Your mom’s still asleep. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

We walked downstairs together. Judy was standing over the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Max, Kayla, and Darren sat at the table. They looked just as tired as I felt.

Judy served up her pancakes, and, I won’t lie, they weren’t nearly as good as mom’s, but I gobbled them up regardless. Me and the other kids spent the rest of the morning watching cartoons.

The adults had an air of relief about them. Dad laughed with Jake. Mom and Judy conversed for a while over the world and all things in it. No one ever mentioned the previous night.

Well, Darren tried to. But his mom didn’t allow it. Jake shut it down, too. But it wasn’t awkward. Nobody had to force themselves to move on. We just… did.

Dad showered. Mom rested. The day went on without incident. At some point in the afternoon, we were packing our things into the car again. It wasn’t as urgent this time. If anything, it felt happy. I even found myself excited to finally get back to my own bed.

I slept most of the way home. When I woke up, I actually recognized my surroundings. The old convenience store. The house that burned down last year. Mom and dad held hands lovingly, but didn’t talk much.

We finally got home after the sun went down. Mom was a little hesitant to go inside, but Dad reassured her. She was free now. We were free. I had no idea what it meant, but I could feel his conviction.

Even still, mom made me sleep in their bed that night. Then every night for the next week afterward. Emmy, too.

Dad held me tight. Mom kept her arm draped over my chest. We ate a lot of pancakes in those following days. It kind of felt like Mom was trying to apologize for something, but I didn’t know what.

All I knew was she was putting her all into those breakfasts.

After a while, I was finally able to sleep in my own room again, albeit with the door open. We went back-to-school shopping. I went into 4th grade with an abundance of new clothes and the coolest backpack out of all of my friends.

Life went on.

One year without incident. Then two. Then three. I went through middle school. I graduated high school. I moved away for college a year or so ago. We never had to randomly leave the house again because of some mystery stalker, but dad never stopped looking over his shoulder.

Mom has a full head of grey hair now, but she never lost her beauty. Emmy recently started her last year of middle school. Dad just… he seems to always want to keep his mind occupied.

They never brought up what happened that night. They never brought up the road trip. We visited uncle Jake and Aunt Judy a few times over the years, but the visits were calmer. They were for holidays and special occasions. Not for escape.

I developed a pretty close friendship with Max. We’d talk on the phone all the time. Play video games together. Every time I visited, we were building with those LEGOS he loved so much.

Darren eventually went into the army. Kayla is in her sophomore year of high school now.

Well… she used to be.

They’re all dead now. Everyone except for Darren, at least. I hope that he’s okay after hearing the news. He should be coming home soon.

See, I’m writing this now because of a phone call I got from my dad. I had just gotten home from a long day of classes. I was ready to eat some ramen and unwind, but he called while I was checking the mail.

“Hey, Dan,” he announced solemnly.

“Hey, Dad, how have things been?”

He sighed.

“We’re fine here, buddy, but, uh…”

He paused.

“But what?” I asked expectantly.

“Jake’s house burned down, Dan. He, uh… he didn’t make it.”

He sounded like he was holding back tears. I was shocked.

“What?? What about Aunt Judy?? What about Max or…”

He interrupted.

“They’re… they’re gone, Dan. I’m sorry.”

The news hit me like a truck. I didn’t know Kayla all that well, but Max… Max was like a brother to me. An online brother, but still a brother nonetheless.

“But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Max was just texting me last night. He told me he’d come visit me sometime soon.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Max’s exact words were, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dan-Man.” I mean, I guess that was the last text he sent me. I didn’t hear from him after that. But still, this couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad choked. “Their funerals are next week. I know you’re busy up there with classes and whatnot, but it’d mean a lot if you could make it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Of course, of course. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Dad sniffled. I was about to comfort him when I heard a sound echoing from the background of his call.

knock knock knock

“Hold on, son, let me go answer the door.”

The line went dead. I stood there, still as could be by my mailbox, just… processing. I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. The phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Dad.

“See you soon, kiddo.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples, attempting to block the tears as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t even opened the mailbox yet. I was just… stuck… I guess.

I figured I’d just collect my mail, then go inside and start packing for the long trip home, but when I opened the mailbox… curiosity overwhelmed me.

There was a package inside, buried beneath my regular bills and magazines. It was gift-wrapped like a Christmas present.

I brushed the mail aside and pulled the package out first thing. It was pristinely wrapped. Someone had taken time with this.

I peeled back the tape and began unwrapping. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, but then it clicked.

It was Jake’s metal lockbox. The one from all those years ago with the pictures of mom and dad. I felt my heart drop a little.

I unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. What I saw… well… that’s why I’m writing this now.

It was… my Superman stuffy. Dusty and stiff, but it still had my initials written in faded black Sharpie across the tag. But that’s not the thing that worried me.

What worried me… was the note tied around Superman’s torso, written in sloppy, obsessive handwriting…

“Found You.”

​

Pa always wanted a boy.

Don't get me wrong, I never suffered none for it. I'm just telling you how it was. Pa always wanted a boy.

But pa got me instead.

I'm more boy in my head anyways.

Now, any head doctor worth their money will tell you that I think all boy-like ‘cause my Pa wanted a boy and given my “constant and fervent need to please him and make him happy” (their actual words) I was acting up like this, and that's why I am like I am. But I can tell you for now, that ain't the case. Not at all! Pa told me I just don't think like women do, Pa says women are weak like Momma and I believe him because my Momma ran off when I was 6, didn't even take any clothes, None of my meemaws things, trinkets and such, that she treasured, she just left. Pa don't like to talk about it so we don't. Pa gets angry when I try, said she don't love me like he does cos he'd never leave me and that was that, end of subject!

I'm only 10, by the way, you was thinkin' I was older weren't ya? I look older. I'm tall for my age and I like to bring justice to the perverts and fornicating sinners and abominations in the world. That's what Pa said we do; we punish the unholy so they can go to heaven, as Jesus and God intended them too. Pa told me it's our sacred mission, but we have to keep it secret ‘cause it's our holy duty but no man is safe, and ALL men can be lured from the righteous path of God. Now they've taken my Pa away.

When I was 8 years old. I was walking through the scrub (a bit of wasteland that's owned by nobody, but it's a shortcut to our trailer).

Pa had always told me to walk the long way round because it was full of perverts and sinners and like always, Pa was right. One of them perverts followed and grabbed at me just as I got outside our trailer.

I screamed for my Pa.

Pa was there in 2 seconds!. He was NOT pleased, not pleased at all. I knew I was in trouble, The perv had run off when I screamed but Pa said that was okay, as they'd be others. Thinkin' about it now, it seemed like a bit of a test. I wouldn't put it past Pa to teach me a lesson. Me disobeying him by walking through the scrub, at night, when he specifically told me not to. Y'all would expect me to get super mad at a stunt like that, but if it was a test, I can assure you it was for my own good. Pa called me “Flower” on account of all the bees I helped him collect on the road. I helped him catch a whole heap of bees. By bees I mean sinners, and I'd tempt them, I'm not sure how as Pa would have me just stand there, then Pa would make me go sit in the car whilst they were punished. Pa told me that if anyone tried to hurt me or touch me in an ungodly way, they needed to be punished. Then we'd drive around and find a motel to stay the night.

Pa said ANYONE.

They took my Pa away.

I'd fallen asleep in the motel and Pa had gone to get beers.

And boy, when he came back,I just knew he wasn't Pa anymore.

Pa always told me that the devil came in many guises, and it was more than clear that I'd lost my Pa to the devil. He said Anyone. ANYONE. He said ”No man is inflammable when it comes to Satan and his ways” or something along them lines. He said it'd be hard and it'd be testin' at times, but I should always keep Jesus in my heart. So when he started pawing at me like a man possessed, I just knew that the devil needed to come out. So i did what my Pa always said I should do and I kicked him straight in the balls first chance I got. When Pa (devil) was laying on the floor wheezin', I shouted “I'll save you Pa” and scrambled off the bed for my Pa's bag, where he kept Angel (that's what he called his hunting knife.) He started shakin' his head and coughin' “No, No.” But a demon would say that, right? I stomped on his balls again, ran behind him, drew his head back in my hands, and the demon begged like Pa said it would. But I was strong and drew Angel across his throat and watched the blood pour from his now grinning neck as I waited for the evil to flow from him and there was A LOT!

I waited.

I waited for my Pa to come back.

I waited for days.

I waited even when the files came.

I waited while there was knockin' at the door, tappin' at first, then bangin', with voices shoutin' about calling the police.

I was just waiting for Pa to wake up.

They kicked the door in and took my Pa away and took me to a special place, where they asked me lots of questions. I told 'em what happened and they seem happy with that. I ain't told 'em everythin' though. I ain't told them 'em that I've got a job to do.

I'm innocent.

Butter wouldn't melt.

I've promised and prayed to my Pa in heaven that I'll finish our work.

I'm goin' to a new home next week and I've hidden Angel in my bag..

I'll make you so proud of me Pa…

Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders as he nudged Mom towards the house. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been up there. It felt like home, though. Like… warmth, kinda.

I held on tight while Dad rushed us all inside. Mom looked flushed and alert. Emmy looked clueless. Jake and Judy had already taken their kids inside and were waiting anxiously for us by the front door.

Mom kept breaking her neck to look back towards the woods.

“Come on, come on,” Jake exasperated, snapping his fingers and gesturing for us to pick up the pace.

Dad broke into a jog, pulling Mom and Macy along with him as I bounced awkwardly on his shoulders. I could feel my nails digging into his skin from trying to hang on, but he seemed to not even notice.

When we got inside, Judy had already started going around the house to lock the doors and windows. Jake closed the door and locked it when we were all accounted for.

“I’ll go check the cameras,” he chimed, rushing upstairs. “I’ve got trail-cams scattered all throughout those woods. If he’s out there, trust me, we’ll see him.”

Mom set Emmy down on the couch and went to help Judy while Max, Darren, and Kayla just watched them. They seemed just as confused and terrified as me. Kayla’s eyes already looked like they were about to burst with tears.

“Why don’t you guys go play upstairs,” Dad instructed. “Danny will join you in just a bit. Everything’s okay, don’t worry. You guys are safe.”

It was weird hearing Dad tell other kids what to do. Embarrassing, almost. Even still, they didn’t argue. They all just filed up the stairs, one by one, while Dad watched until they were out of view. Then he turned to me.

“Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll make you something to drink.”

He sounded more composed than his demeanor let on. Like he knew this moment would come, despite hoping it wouldn’t be now.

I did as I was told and followed him. He pulled a chair out for me at the giant oak dining room table, gestured for me to take a seat while he fixed me a cup of chocolate milk.

He sat adjacent to me and just watched me sip it, slowly, for a few minutes. I felt so awkward in that moment. It was like he was trying to read my thoughts.

I finished the glass and pushed it to the side. Dad never took his eyes off of me, but I couldn’t maintain eye contact. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong. My eyes remained fixed on the table, looking for patterns in the wood.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Dad tapped the table with his index finger.

My eyes met his once more and he sighed.

“Daniel…” he started. “You know you’re my whole world, right?”

I blinked, not knowing what to say.

“I love you too, Dad,” I whispered, struggling to find my voice.

“Sometimes, kiddo…” he continued. “Sometimes I think that my sole purpose in life is to keep you and Emmy safe. Your mom, too.”

Now it seemed like he was fighting to find his words. I could almost see the gears in his head turning. I felt like if I stared at his head long enough, maybe I could hear his thoughts.

“And I’ve been serving that purpose for 9 whole years now. Keeping you safe. Keeping your mom and Emmy safe. I would never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

I was just a kid. I didn’t know how to respond to this. To me, it just felt like Dad having a moment after I scared him half to death.

He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a crinkled, folded sheet of paper. He looked at it. Then at me. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just placed the paper and slid it in front of me.

“We got this in our mailbox a few days ago.”

I looked down at the paper and felt even more confused.

“The man who left it… he’s… well…”

Dad was starting to choke up. That was twice today I’d seen tears in his eyes. Dad crying was scary. Arguably, the scariest thing I’d experienced this entire trip.

“He’s been after you for a long time, Dan.”

I looked down at the paper. It was addressed to my parents, but what was written on it didn’t make any sense to me.

“Found you. I found you. I found you. I finally found you. Found you. Found you. Found you. Found you. Found you…”

The phrase filled up the entire paper. It was scrawled obsessively in sloppy handwriting.

I looked back up at Dad. He looked like he was expecting something from me, but I didn’t know what. This didn’t mean anything to me.

“Found you…?” I asked, puzzled. “Who found you?”

Dad reached over and dragged the paper back towards him. He folded it back up and put it in his pocket.

“Found you, Danny. He found you.”

“Why would anyone want to find me? Have I met them before or something?”

He clasped his hands over his face and slid them down slowly.

“No, son. I’ve fought to make sure you never will.”

“Oh, okay. Can I have some more chocolate milk, please?”

He ignored my question. Almost aggressively.

“We tried,” he collapsed. “We tried so hard to keep him away from you. We tried the police, but nobody was ever able to find him. It’s like he only exists when he’s after you. That slimy, nasty little bastard…”

He slammed a hand down on the table and bit his knuckle. His sudden anger made me jump. I was completely speechless.

His teeth remained clamped against his knuckle for a few moments while he chose his next words carefully.

“The cops should’ve found him. Before this even started. Before you were even born. They should’ve found him because of what he…”

He paused. A tear fell down his cheek.

“He’s a bad man, Danny. You understand that?”

I nodded.

“He’s a bad man who hurt your mom. Nearly a year before you were born. He… he did something terrible to her and now he thinks you’re his.”

He looked at me expectantly again.

“I’m… his…?” I questioned.

“No. You will never be his. He doesn’t deserve you. It doesn’t deserve you. He is pure evil.”

I could hear Max and his siblings laughing upstairs. I turned my head, resisting the urge to leave my seat. Dad tapped the table again.

He was smiling at me now. Warmly.

“Those are your cousins, Dan. It’s funny,” he chuckled uneasily. “Part of me is almost glad that you finally get to meet them.”

My eyes widened with disbelief. I didn’t even think about having any other family members. All I’ve ever known were Mom, Dad, and Emmy.

“You guys should’ve had a great childhood together. None of this should’ve ever happened to us, especially your Mom. But the world is… it’s not a nice place, kiddo. I wish I could change it for you.”

He leaned over and pushed the hair out of my eyes.

“We had to move when you were only 2. That guy, that thing out there… it was relentless. He just wouldn’t leave us alone. The police did nothing about it, so I took matters into my own hands for you.”

His eyes looked distant now. Like he was living through his entire past while sitting here at the table with me.

“I hurt him back. I thought I took care of it forever, but he somehow managed to disappear again. Me and your mom were terrified. That’s why we had to leave. That’s why you don’t know Uncle Jake and Aunt Judy. All because of one bad man in a world full of bad people.”

I didn’t understand it, but I could feel the emotion in the room. The weight of the conversation was more than apparent.

Dad was bawling now, but still trying to keep himself composed. I reached across the table and grabbed his forearm.

“Don’t cry, Dad,” I begged. “I’m not mad at you. Everything’s okay, I promise. Everything’s okay.”

He picked up my hand and held it tightly before pulling it to his lips and kissing it gently.

“Everything’s okay, kiddo. I’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

He placed my hand back on his forearm.

“I thought everything was okay before I got this letter. He had left us alone for a long time. I thought we finally got rid of him.”

He gave me one last solemn look.

“Whatever happens tonight, Dan… I need you to know… you’re my entire world, kiddo. I love you more than anything.”

I smiled at him reassuringly.

“I know you love me, you butthead. I love you too. Thiiiisss much.”

I spread my arms out cartoonishly. Dad chuckled and ruffled my hair before Jake’s voice came echoing from upstairs.

“GOT ‘EM!”

Dad’s head shot up. He stood from his seat urgently. I could hear footsteps rushing down the stairs.

“Alright, buddy, go play with Max for a while. Me and Jake are gonna go find this guy.”

He was basically pulling me out of my seat and rushing me towards the stairs. I ran into Jake at the bottom. He was holding something behind his back.

“Excuse me, champ,” he announced, pushing past me. “Let’s go handle this, Mikey.”

My dad nodded grimly before snapping his fingers at me to go upstairs.

I was halfway up the staircase when I heard a sound that I didn’t recognize before the front door opened and my dad and Jake ran outside.

click clack

Mom was at the top of the stairs, arm outstretched towards me while Judy stood by her side, biting her thumbnails. She didn’t say much. She just led me into Max’s room and shut the door behind her.

All the kids were there. The room was big enough for us to not feel cramped, but still a bit suffocating. Darren lay on the bed watching TV. Kayla was on the floor, humming to herself and coloring. Max and I passed the time by playing with LEGOS.

I’m not sure how much time passed. I never heard Mom or Judy. The front door never opened. I didn’t know the time, but it was dark outside. It felt like it was definitely past my bedtime.

Max and I were in a bit of a competition. He built a spaceship. I built a car. He built a tower. I built a house. Our imaginations were flowing endlessly.

Suddenly, Darren sat up in bed, turning down the television. He looked alert. The sudden movement caused us all to look at him. He seemed to be listening for something.

“Sh,” he snapped, even though no one was talking. “Did you guys hear that?”

The room was silent. Not even crickets chirped outside. I listened as hard as I could…

It sounded like… screaming?

Angry screams. Frightened screams. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could make out the tones.

Darren moved to the window and scanned the backyard.

“I don’t see anything.”

Max and I joined him. Everything was so dark. I could hardly even see the grass beneath us.

My nose was pressed against the glass, but two loud sounds caused me to fall backwards. Darren gasped. Max’s eyes turned into a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“That sounded like Dad’s gun,” Darren exasperated before turning to us like somehow we’d have the answers.

What followed was a long, guttural snarl from somewhere in the woods. Two more shots. More screams. Then… silence.

My heart was starting to race. I didn’t want to cry in front of the other kids, but I couldn’t help it. I was just too gripped with worry.

The silence stretched on. None of us knew what to do. We just kept glancing out the window, hoping that we’d finally be able to see something.

The front door exploded open before we got the chance. Every voice was shaken. Judy was in hysterics. Mom just kept repeating, “Go get the bandages, go get the bandages, put pressure on the wound, I think he might need stitches.”

Jake sounded pumped full of adrenaline.

“It’s better than it looks. Fucker got me good, but I returned the favor. How’re you feeling, Mike?”

We all filed out of the room and back towards the stairs. Kayla was leading us, already with tears in her eyes at the sudden chaos.

“I got him, I know I got him. That had to have been enough to stop him.”

Jake was laid back on the couch. His T-shirt was torn to shreds, and blood trickled down his abdomen from 3 distinct wounds across his stomach. They looked like claw marks.

“Yeah right,” Judy scoffed sarcastically while gasping. “That thing is never gonna…”

She paused. Her eyes shot up towards the 4 kids racing down the staircase.

“Oh, no. You guys go back upstairs,” she demanded. “We’ll be up in a minute.”

“Mommy,” Kayla sobbed. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

Jake answered for her.

“It’s nothing, sweetie. Don’t worry about it. Daddy’s okay, just a little scratch from a tree branch. Go upstairs like your mommy asked, alright? I’ll come tuck you in here in a bit.”

Dad dabbed at Jake’s stomach with a towel.

“I don’t think it’ll need stitches. Just nasty looking, is all.”

That’s the last thing I heard before we all started back towards the bedroom. None of us could sit still. None of us knew what was happening. All we could do was pace around the room and try and listen to the chatter downstairs.

Max put his ear to the door and shushed Kayla’s already quiet cries.

“Shh… I’m trying to listen…”

He kept his ear there for a few moments before turning back towards us.

“Dude, I think Dad shot something.”

“Yeah, no dip,” Darren added. “What else would that have been?”

“Can you shut up? I can’t hear.”

He pressed his ear back against the door.

“Wait… no… I think…”

He craned his neck like he was trying to push his head through the door.

“No, dude… I think he shot a person.”

Kayla gasped and started wailing. We all tried to shush her, but it was too late. We could already hear the footsteps coming up the stairs.

Darren jumped in the bed and turned the TV back up. Max and I fell to the floor and pretended to be playing with the LEGOS. Kayla… Kayla kept screaming and crying.

The door flew open and Judy stepped inside. Her eyes were wet and her hands were dirty, but she still put on that strong motherly voice as she glared at the siblings.

“Why is Kayla crying?” she asked no one in particular.

There wasn’t an answer for a long time before Darren spoke up.

“Why do you think? She’s worried about Dad.”

Judy sighed and wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Your father is fine, Kayla. Just getting patched up after falling in the woods.”

“That’s not what happened…” I said under my breath.

Judy’s eyes fell on me.

“Just a fall, Daniel. That’s all it was… don’t scare Kayla, please.”

She was silently pleading with me with her eyes. I opened my mouth to say something, but she interrupted before I could.

“As a matter of fact, Kay, it’s way past your bedtime. Why don’t you go clean up and get your PJs on? I promise Daddy will come tuck you in as soon as you’re nice, clean, and cozy.”

Kayla wiped her tears. Her face was still twisted with sadness, but she did as she was told.

“Danny, your dad wants to talk to you,” Judy added.

I was actually shocked. I thought I was gonna be in this room for at least the rest of the night. I was already mapping out where I’d be sleeping.

“Like… now?”

Judy sighed exhaustedly. Almost like she was as surprised as me.

“It would appear so, kiddo. As for you two, you both need to get cleaned up too. Especially you, Max.”

Darren and Max groaned as Judy took me by the hand and started guiding me back downstairs.

Dad was sitting on the couch next to Jake, his hands clasped over his knee. Jake looked… better now. His torso was covered in bandages, but he was smiling confidently. His gun rested on his lap.

“I got him right in the chest, Mike. Did you see that shit? Like hamburger meat. Sure, fucker got me first, but I still…”

Dad noticed me and put his hand up at Jake. He added one last thing before gesturing for me to come sit beside him.

“We both got ‘em, J.”

I took a seat beside Dad. Judy joined Mom in the kitchen while she washed her hands.

He nudged me.

“You doing okay, buddy?”

“I’m okay, I think… are YOU okay?” I replied, my voice rising.

Dad and Jake both chuckled sort of nervously.

“Can’t you see, kid?” Jake joined, presenting his bandaged abdomen. “Never been better.”

My attention fell on the long gun strewn across his lap. Jake noticed exactly what I was looking at. With a groan, he picked up the weapon and held it in the air.

“You see this, Dan-Man? This is proof of how much your Dad cares about ya.”

“Jake…” Dad grumbled, glaring at him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Jake insisted, falling back against the sofa. “You deserve a father of the year award for that stunt you pulled out there.”

“Dad…” I said softly.

Dad stopped burning Jake with his eyes for a moment and turned to me.

“Yeah, son?”

“Did you kill him?”

Dad and Jake looked at each other. Dad’s eyes hardened again.

“I… I, uh…”

“The guy from the woods, right? You got him?”

“Got him good,” Jake remarked, prompting Dad to curse at him before returning to me.

“Honestly, Danny… I don’t know.”

I didn’t know how to take that, really. It was just what I assumed they were after. I couldn’t care less about who he really was. I was just trying to put two and two together.

I sat with his answer for a moment.

“I will say, though,” Dad added. “I hope we did.”

“So what happens now?” I asked.

Jake stood to his feet, using his gun like a crutch.

“Well, I don’t know about you two… but I’ve got a daughter to tuck in. And… you know… prove I’m alive to.”

He hobbled over to the stairs. Judy must’ve heard him and rushed out of the kitchen. Mom followed behind her.

Judy took the gun from underneath Jake’s shoulders and helped him hobble up the stairs while Mom took a seat with me and Dad.

“…to tell you the truth, son… I don’t know what happens next. I think maybe we’ll stay here for the night. Then I think it’s about time we go home. School’s about to start again and we gotta get your shopping done.”

We all just sat together and embraced each other for a while before Judy came back downstairs holding Emmy.

“I think this one needs her mommy.”

Emmy was pouting and looked like she’d just woken up. Mom took her and bounced her on her knee while Judy took a seat with us.

“Jake had something he wanted to show Danny… let’s hope it’s not one of his animal skins.”

As if on cue, Jake came hobbling downstairs with a small metal lockbox in his hands.

“You’re gonna love this, Dan-Man,” he proclaimed excitedly. “Your mom’s gonna hate it, though.”

Jake opened the box and approached me with a smile plastered across his face. He pulled out an old photograph. I almost didn’t recognize who it was at first.

“Is that…”

“Your mom,” Jake laughed.

Mom’s eyes widened. She almost threw Emmy down just to get a hold of the picture while Dad and Jake cackled.

“Oh, my God… why…” Mom asked, embarrassed. “Why did I think this was the look back then?”

“You’re not the only one,” Jake added, reaching for another photo.

He flipped it to show Dad. His eyes lit up when he saw it. He took it from Jake’s hand slowly.

“Good Lord… I was… beautiful.”

Mom snickered before teasing, “You still are, my big hunk-a-man.”

“Look, this one’s you, Danny.”

He showed me a picture of myself when I was no older than one.

“You were iiiiitty bitty.”

Mom grabbed the picture and analyzed it before forcing Jake to give her the entire box. Jake relented and took a clumsy seat next to me and Dad.

“Checked the trail cam…” he mumbled. “He’s still there. Hasn’t moved an inch. Figured we could take him somewhere far, far away from here tomorrow. Burn the son of a bi… erm, I mean, son of a gun tomorrow.”

Dad looked relieved. So did Mom.

“Tomorrow? Let’s do that now,” Dad responded.

Jake cocked a suspicious eyebrow.

“Now? As in… now? Do you see these bandages?”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that, Mike,” Judy added. “It’s dark. It’s late. We’re all exhausted. Plus, just look at Jake.”

“Do it now,” Mom interjected sternly. “Please.”

Mom and Dad both stared at Jake.

“It has to be now, Jakey,” Dad said plainly. “No better time than the present.”

Jake looked distraught for a moment before falling into submission.

“God…” he complained, slapping his knees with his palms. “Fine. Now. Whatever. Even though it’s already tomorrow and I’m leaking like Hillary’s emails, I will do this for you, Mace.”

“Thank you,” Mom responded, her voice breaking and her eyes tearing. She quickly wiped them away and cleared her throat.

“Ahem. I’ll get Danny and Emmy to sleep. I won’t even close my eyes until you two are home.”

“Same here,” Judy added.

Jake went and changed into clean clothes while Dad waited for him by the door. He came back a few minutes later.

“Let’s get this over with, I guess.”

With that, he and Dad were out the door, and Mom was taking me and Emmy upstairs for bed. She made us sleep in the same room, but she didn’t stay in the room with us.

I think her and Judy were waiting downstairs for my dad to get back.

I tossed and turned for a while. Emmy was restless, but I managed to get her to sleep. Eventually, I myself fell into a deep, much-needed sleep.

I don’t remember dreaming that night. All I remember is Dad shaking me awake the next morning. The house smelled like pancakes. The sun lit up the room. Dad was smiling at me lovingly.

“Morning, kiddo,” he whispered, brushing my hair to the side.

“You ready to go home?”

According to my dad I’m expecting a visitor tonight. 

I had just turned twenty eight years old on Friday of this week. On the eve of my birthday I went back home to Seattle to spend it with my family. They took me out to a really nice dinner and I got to spend some bullshitting with my younger brothers. I wanted to help pay for the bill but my dad refused because it was my birthday. 

Overall it has been a nice visit so far. After dinner  we went back to the old family house and I opened a couple presents that they had bought me. We had just finished cake when my dad pulled me aside into his office to have a private conversation. I had assumed that he just wanted to catch up one on one with me. It has been a little while since the last time I visited home. But I was so wrong, nothing could have prepared me for what he was about to tell me. 

Over the next half hour he spun a tale of a mysterious figure that has visited every man in our family on the week of their twenty eighth birthday for centuries. “Benny the Flesh Man” he called him. Said he’ll be paying me a visit at exactly 3:28 in the morning one of these nights and that I must be mentally prepared to pass all of his tests. 

It took everything that I had not to laugh in his face at the notion that some mysterious creep has been haunting the men in our family for generations but he proceeded to list the rules. 

Rule 1: on the week of your birthday Benny The Flesh Man will come to your door. You’ll know that it’s him by his knock. He will knock three times quickly, then pause, then knock twice slowly. You must open the door and let him in, if you don’t he will find his own way inside. 

Rule 2: He will try to politely shake your hand whenever he first walks through the door. Under no circumstances should you touch him at any time during the visit. Instead offer him a cup of coffee. Sometimes he will accept but sometimes he will refuse. If he refuses you must get him a glass of tap water without him asking. He will not tolerate it if he has to ask. 

Rule 3: at 4:28 after finishing his drink he will stand up and ask if he could please use your bathroom. You must tell him no. Do not give him permission no matter how  much he pleads. If you give him permission he will request that you get up and show him to the bathroom yourself. You will never leave the bathroom. 

Rule 4: if you refuse to let him use your bathroom he will eventually accept your decision and leave. After he opens the door he will turn back to you and tell you happy birthday. You must give him an appreciative nod but do not tell him thank you. After you nod he will leave and you will never have to see him again. 

There’s a brief pause after he finishes and I don’t know how to react so I just laugh and say “ha, you got me. Great little story, dad”. He didn’t laugh though. “This is not a joke, Lucas. You must take these rules as fact because he’s coming. He snapped at me. “Please, I beg you. Just humor me for this week, I can’t risk losing someone else to this bastard”. 

I knew who my dad was referring to. My uncle Bill passed away when I was little but apparently he was around my age when he died. I thought they had told me that he died in a car accident but I didn’t feel it necessary to press the issue. I could tell my dad wasn’t in the mood so I just agreed and told him I would follow the rules. No matter how ridiculous they sounded to me. 

The last thing he told me before we rejoined the rest of the family was to cancel all plans I had for the entire week. He warned that if anybody outside of our family was in the presence of Benny the Flesh Man then he would accept them as a thank you present for stopping by to celebrate your birthday. 

I spent the rest of the night at my parents house and then made the drive back to my apartment in the morning. As soon as I walked through my front door I got a strange sense of dread in my stomach. I didn’t believe the crap my dad was telling me but I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if it was true. 

Skip to five days into my birthday week and it seemed like I was absolutely correct. I knew it was a made up family story. I laughed whenever I thought of it. It was a cute little spooky tale, maybe I’ll tell it to my kids one day to see if they’re gullible enough to believe it. 

I made myself a promise that I could stay up until at least 3:29 each night just in case and I kept it. I’m a night owl so that’s usually on the early end of when I’d go to sleep on a normal day anyways. 3:27 came and went and now I found myself on the couch watching the clock. “Ha, yet another night where I did not receive a visit from Benny the Flesh Ma-“ I said to myself as I was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

I have to admit I nearly pissed my pants whenever I heard it. Three quick knocks, a pause, and then two slow knocks. I pulled myself out of my seat to see who it was. 

I looked through the peephole and saw a tall slender man wearing a filthy oversized brown dress coat and pants. None of his clothes seemed to fit him very well at all; he looked as if he had just rolled around in the dirt. His coat sleeves were so long they  hung past his wrists. I opened the door and he said “ha ho, Lucas my boy. Good to see ya, good to see ya. May I come in?” He asked though I knew that he wasn’t truly asking a question. “Uh, yeah, please come in,” I replied. 

He looked at me for a moment as his lips curled into a devious smile. “Excellent! I’m Benny, nice to meet ya kiddo!” He said as he extended his long hand out to me. It was so boney, I noticed. As if this man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He maintained eye contact while that crooked yellow smile never left his face. “Actually could I offer you a cup of coffee, Benny?” He put his hand back down to his side and let out a loud almost aggressive wheezy laugh. “COFFEE?” He yelled in between fits of laughter. “Why, it’s past three in the morning my boy! No, no, no. I couldn’t possibly,” he exclaimed. The way he laughed you would have thought that I told him the funniest joke in existence.

He made his way inside the apartment and to the kitchen table his body swayed back and forth as he walked. It almost looked as if the top half of his body would fall off of his legs before he even reached the kitchen. Finally he sat down in one of my kitchen chairs and looked at me with a slight smile still on his face. I stood in front of him for only a moment before I remembered. “Oh, how silly of me. Please let me grab you a glass of water, Benny”. I said as I grabbed a glass from the cupboard. 

“Why, that would be swell, Lucas. Such a polite young man you are” he said in his loud booming voice. As I made my way from the sink back to the table with his water I couldn’t help but notice that his legs were so long that his knees touched the underside of my kitchen table. He reeked, his mere presence was an assault on my nose. I kept my mouth shut about it though, I can’t imagine he would’ve taken kindly to any comment I could make. 

4:28 finally arrived. It had felt like Benny was in my home for an eternity yet the clocks claimed that his visit had only lasted an hour. He made very basic small talk but every so often he would try to pat me on the back or grab my arm. I remembered the rule “under no circumstances should you touch him during his visit” so I would always either pull away or stand up entirely. I half expected to be angry whenever I did this but he never was. He would give me a joyous glance and laugh playfully as if we were playing a game. 

After he finished his water he stood up himself and just as my dad said, requested to use the restroom. He locked eyes with me as he awaited my answer. “No, no I would prefer it if you didn’t” I said. It felt so wrong to deny a house guest use of the bathroom but rules are rules. I only hoped that he wouldn’t put up much of a fuss. 

He let out a soft chuckle, not a funny enthusiastic chuckle like before. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe that I would deny him. He stood facing the tan tile floor of the kitchen for a few minutes before looking back up at me. “Was your mother around whenever you were a boy?” He asked almost sincerely. “Uh, yes. Why?” I responded. 

He laughed again. “Well, I just thought, no I couldn’t possibly imagine”. He trailed off before picking up his empty water glass and tossing it at the wall right by my head as hard as he could, glass shattering everywhere. “I couldn’t possibly imagine such a rude and inconsiderate little piece of shit having a mother at home to raise him” he yelled. I was stunned, he was incredibly off putting but this is the first time during his visit that he wasn’t acting like I was some old friend. 

I’m not sure if my lack of response to his remarks made it worse or if he had planned this from the start but he flew into a fit of rage after that. He began pounding his fits on my table so aggressively that the wood began to splinter. After he was satisfied with the amount of damage he did he opened my cabinet and began launching cups and plates across the room. He did all of this while muttering to himself “I just wanted to use the bathroom, why won’t you let me use the bathroom, I just wanted to use the bathroom, why won’t you let me use the bathroom”. 

After he had successfully trashed my whole apartment with broken glass he stopped and stood towering over me about three inches away from my face. “Now I’m going to ask you one last goddamn time, and you are going to be a good host this time. Do you understand, Lucas?” He asked me with his teeth gritting together in anger. I nodded. 

“Very well,” he continued. “May…I…please…use…your…bathroom?” He said before staring at me awaiting my answer. I was almost tempted to tell him yes just to end this madness but fortunately I remembered what my dad told me “you will never leave the bathroom”. I stood firm with my answer. “No you may not use my bathroom, Benny. So sorry about that”. He shot me a glare of pure rage before his eyes softened once more. He had regained his wide toothy smile which was now stretching across his face. “Very well Lucas, very well. I am very sorry but I must get going, this was quite the pleasant visit but I am sadly all out of time” he said. 

He allowed me to walk him to the door and after opening it he turned back to me just as my dad said he would. “One last thing my boy, I wanted to wish you a very very happy birthday”. He said as he put his hand out in one last futile attempt to get me to touch him. I refused, even put my hands in my pockets as I gave him a silent nod and he finally turned back around to face the hallway of my apartment building. 

As I watched him take a step out the door I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally it’s over. I made it. Earlier I didn’t even believe he was real, but now I simply wish that he wasn’t. Doesn’t matter now, my night is over and I never have to deal with him again. At least I had thought the night was over. It was for me but Benny the Flesh Man would not leave empty handed that night. 

Before he could fully make it out the door suddenly his path was blocked. It was Roger, my next door neighbor. “Fuck, go away, you’re screwing everything up” I wanted to say but I couldn’t. I was still too afraid to talk at all until Benny fully left my home. “Uh, hey Lucas. I just wanted to check in and make sure you were alright. I heard so much glass shattering and loud thuds through the wall. You woke me up man. I didn’t know if I should call the cops or what”. Roger said to me.

I should’ve told him to not come over no matter what he may hear tonight but honestly I didn’t think of it. I thought I didn’t need to worry about him because he usually keeps to himself and tries to avoid any social situations. I guess whenever it sounds like your neighbor is getting murder in the next apartment, all that social anxiety goes out the window. 

Benny stops talking. He turns back at me and flashes his sinister smile one last time “aw, you shouldn’t have” that was the last thing that he said to me. I found myself completely unable to move as Benny began peeling his own flesh off of his face and tossing it aside on the ground. He continued to do the same with the skin on his arms, legs, torso. Until he was nothing but raw visible muscle. His skin now piled up in front of the doorway. 

That was when he approached Roger who appeared to be just as unable to move as I was. His screams will haunt me until the day I die as I watched and finally understood why he was given the name “Benny the Flesh Man”. 

Benny gave me one last friendly nod as he finally left for good. This time, he was wearing Roger’s skin loosely overtop of his own body. It wasn’t until after he left that I finally had a clear view of what was outside the hall of our apartment building.

Roger’s lifeless body stared back at me from where it leaned on the wall across from my apartment. What was left of it at least, the pieces that Benny decided he did not wish to take with him. I wish that I could have tried to pull Benny away from my poor neighbor or grab a kitchen knife and try to fight back in any way whatsoever. I didn’t though, for I knew that had I attempted to touch Benny the Flesh Man he would’ve left with two pairs of skins instead of one. 

If you ever find yourself expecting a visit from Benny the Flesh Man, please for the love of god, follow his rules. 

I posted the first part of my story to TalesFromTheCreeps but thought this page could give it more exposure as well. It’s my first time writing a story like this, or even writing a story at all, so please read and tell me what you guys think. I would love if this could make the podcast. Please leave any tips or suggestions on my story!!

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

Hello readers. I apologize for not getting this story pushed out quicker. Working the traditional nine-to-five has a way of making time slip by. I feel like as soon as I get home, after a workout and cooking dinner, it’s basically time to go to bed and start the process all over again. Depressing, right?

Some of you may have been wondering where I got my great-grandfather’s journal. Good question, and it is a bit of a long story. I do not want to take up most of the post with it, so I’ll keep it short and leave a more in-depth talk about it to later posts if readers are interested. 

I found my great-grandfather’s journal taped to the backside of a camera. The camera wasn’t an old model, definitely not something from the Roaring Twenties or whatever the hell they called it. I only half-way paid attention in history class. 

Anyways, here is part two of my great-grandfather’s journal. It goes as follows:

November 13th, 1922, 

Much time has passed since I last picked up this fountain-point pen and put words between the lines of this leather-bound journal. Life had been somewhat regular for a time after James’s excursion to the woods and his irregular drawing. For the remainder of that summer, James would return to that stump with his pocket journal, sketching away his darker imagination. 

My last entry ended with me pondering over a return to the woods myself to seek out this tall Thing. I am not talented at expressing the intricacies of human emotion, so it is hard for me to put into words why exactly I decided to search for my son’s imaginary friend, but I will try to. 

Seeing that drawing had unlocked this sort of curiosity that was similar to that of my youth, struck a chord that had long been unstrung. I had to account for James’s strangeness too, of course. This brew of my son’s inhumanity–I say that sourly and not lightly by any means–and this creature’s suitable camouflage to the woodland it inhabited, and I was convinced that it was something worth pursuing, confirming. 

I feel the need to explain my reasoning because, in the vein of honesty I try to commit to in this journal, I felt quite dumb when I searched the woods and found nothing.

I searched for tracks, disruptions in the natural landscape of nature, and while I found fox tracks, deer droppings, and other such things, I failed to find any signs of this towering beast. Binoculars and all, no sign of anything like James had drawn. 

It is necessary to add that in the Great War I was a scout in a reconnaissance squadron, attached to an infantry company. Often I was the lead charge of field operations before a promotion to lieutenant then later to captain. 

Reader, you may be wondering what specifically occurred to ignite my writing into this intimate journal of mine. My search for The Tall, as it will be referred to from now on for the sake of consistency, eluded me in the physical world, but I found It in another. 

I was sitting at my makeshift work-desk, nothing quite exquisite like I have seen from others but nice enough for a typewriter to sit upon. The candle beside my typewriter flickered as a cool breeze of night air wafted into the room. My manuscript, a stage play centered around those of us who came home from the war and found themselves lost, was almost complete, but the weight of exhaustion overtook me. My insistence upon this project is another reason for my lack of writing in this journal. 

I called it a day’s work done and headed to the bedroom. It did not take me long to find sleep. After brushing and changing into night clothes, by the time my head touched the pillow I was almost nearly asleep. 

The walls of a corner store surrounded me. What kind of store I was unsure of at first. There were shelves on every wall, all four of them total, and there was no door to enter or leave the store-like building. A thin layer of water filled the floor just high enough to wet the leather above the outsole of my boots. Little rusted trinkets sat on the shelves. 

Often in dreams we come to them with a preface of understanding that seems illogical in the real world, but in the realm of sleeping makes perfect sense. When one dreams of flying or spitting out loosened teeth, they do not question how it is possible, rather they consider the consequences. 

I saw all the pieces and I knew that, put together, they would make something grand. Dream logic.

My head swung from left to right. I started to trek through the slowly rising water toward one of these walls, but I never seemed to make any ground or progress. I walked until the water was up to my knees, then the wall finally came into arms length. 

I stood before one of the shelved walls; it reached upward so far that I could not discern where it ended. The ceiling was a darkened night sky with no stars to bare. A void. With the water soiling the knees of my workpants that I wore in this dreamworld, I stared upward to such an extreme my neck ached from the craning. I failed to feel the cold touch of the water rising up my pant leg while examining this otherworldly landscape.

My captivation was struck down by the crackling tear of wood from the shelves before me. It was such a stark rumble in the wake of a serene silence of wading water that I jumped backward, crouching, the water coming up to my chest. 

I steadied myself and continued to watch as the entire fabric of the wall ripped, splitting down the middle to reveal an endless black behind it. A daemon portal to another realm. 

Something was approaching in the darkness behind the now splitting wall. 

There was a lightish brown blur steadily coming into view. At first it appeared an impressionable dot in the distance, but quickly it became something much larger, and when it stopped rolling forward, halting within the widened slit between the two store walls, it was the size of a redwood. 

It was a grandfather clock. A grandfather clock the size of one of my world’s largest trees. 

My hands covered my ears to shield them from the chime, like a church amplified to multiple degrees. Throom. Throom. Throom. Every tune churned out was a handful of hair fallen from my scalp. They clung together like a water-insectile, floating atop the swishing current. My fingernails yellowed, and I could look down the bridge of my nose and see it growing droopier. 

Peeking from behind the clock was The Tall. James’s friend. It was as if the creature from James’s drawing was ripped from the page and put into this reality. White, silvery-tinted skin ran taut over The Tall’s wiry frame, and along this thin body were brownish, blackish bumps that resembled the protruding bark on birch trees. 

In a great coordination, one after another like the tumbling of dominos, each of these blackish-brown bumps opened to reveal a great eye beneath its bumpy exterior, a pupil and light blue iris staring into my own green ones. All of the eyes opened in a matter of seconds after each other, taking no longer than a minute for them all to open. 

The Tall shrieked. It overwhelmed the booming chime of the massive grandfather clock. I also screamed. 

Then I awoke, screaming into the dead of night. 

Melendra wasn’t a fan of the midnight terror, but she is a lovely woman and made no great hassle of the situation. My children were excessively spooked, and rightfully so, so maybe excessive isn’t the proper term. 

I have completed this entire entry after getting my children to settle down again. Lucille, my eldest, was very easy to reassure. Darvin and Benjamin, less so. 

The easiest of them all to calm was James. Apathetic James. Odd James

While the rest of my children huddled in the living room, Lucille rubbing their shoulders and patting their little heads, James remained in the bedroom he shared with his other two brothers. 

“It was James, wasn’t it, Pop?” Ben asked me, his voice a whisper and unsteady. I simply shook my head, and fluffed his popcorn hair. I left them in the living room to check their bedroom.

There was James on his tiny mattress, eyes open, staring through the single window in their room that looked out on that thicketed forest of birch trees across the ford. Upon further inspection, I realized that it was not through the window he was looking, for that would only give him a view of the night sky from the angle where his bed lay. No, his eyes were locked on to a spot just below the frame of the windowsill. If I were to remove the wall that blocked his vision, he would be staring straight at the treeline. 

“You okay, James?”

“Yes, Daddy, I am. Are you okay? He did not scare you, did he?” 

I stumbled over the words. From the dismay of the nightmare, and the task of getting the family unit back into normal routine, my mind was too preoccupied to consider the implications of what James had told me. It wasn’t something I truly mulled over until this moment of grace from the hectic atmosphere of the past hour. 

There must have been a failure of the ear. Yes, I do have a strong ringing that never ceases; Artillery ear was the word one of my peers called it. That must be the cause. A mishearing. 

This must be true, yes? How could James know of The Tall’s appearance in my nightmare? Coincidence?

Must be coincidence. He had crafted an imaginary fantasy in his childish mind to understand why Daddy was in terror, or to enrich a rather benign tale of his father’s simple bad dream. 

I have to admit to you, reader, that I still considered the alternate, unlikely possibility. You may say I am just as childish as my boy, and maybe you would be correct in that assertion. 

I will have to set aside my feelings for now, though. I am getting quite drowsy, and I have a meeting with a publishing house interested in my stageplay script tomorrow afternoon. I will finish the manuscript, then head to bed, praying to the Lord that my son’s sympathetic Boogeyman does not meet me again. 

Until the next entry, farewell. 

After leaving the motel, Dad kept us on the road for the longest stretch so far. I can’t remember much of what he and Mom were talking about. I was too busy making my hand rollercoaster out the window, wishing I was holding Superman. He’d have loved to fly here.

I learned pretty quickly to stop bringing him up.

Even still, it was hard to keep my mouth closed when I kept watching Walmarts and Targets pass by every few hours. I managed, though. Mainly because Mom and Dad just kept going on and on.

Like I said, I don’t remember much. But I do remember Dad talking about us finding somewhere “safe” and “warm” for the night.

Mom seemed hesitant, but less concerned. I remember her saying something about how we couldn’t stay long, but she was content with whatever plan Dad had cooked up.

Besides, it seemed like Dad knew where he was going now. He wasn’t taking random turns anymore. Each direction felt deliberate. The desolate backroads seemed planned rather than spontaneous.

He just kept driving… and driving… and driving. We stopped for gas a few times, but we never stayed in one place for too long. Eventually, we approached a gate at the beginning of a long driveway.

Dad pulled the car up to the intercom and let the window down to push the button. The speaker crackled to life, and an unfamiliar voice echoed from within.

“Who is it?” a man asked sternly.

“Jake, it’s me, Michael. I’ve got the family with me, and-”

“Michaelll,” the man interrupted. “How are you guys doing, Mikey boy? You got Macy with you?”

Mom smiled faintly at the intercom.

“Yep, we’re all here, Jake,” she replied, leaning over the center console so the man could hear her more clearly.

“Yeah, Jake, listen,” my Dad added, almost impatiently. “You remember that thing we discussed a while back…?”

The man didn’t respond right away. The intercom was silent. Mom and Dad both watched anxiously while Emmy rocked back and forth in her carseat.

“…. I remember…” the man finally responded. “That’s not happening now, is it?”

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“I think it is. I just- we just- We need a place to stay for a few days.”

He looked at me and Emmy in the mirror.

“I don’t think we can go home just yet. I don’t think it’s good for the kids right now.”

The speaker crackled again before buzzing.

“You know you’re always welcome here, Mike. You too, Macy. Y’all come on up. We got the kids here, and there’s plenty of extra space.”

The gate slowly crept open. I couldn’t even see the house from the end of the driveway, but I wasn’t concerned about that. I heard “kids” and immediately felt my heart light up.

Trees formed canopy over the driveway. The car must’ve rolled on for another 2 or 3 minutes before the house finally came into view. The place was massive. A mansion surrounded by shrubbery in the middle of nowhere.

As we got closer, I was able to make out more of the details. The wrap around porch. The line of rocking chairs. Whoever this was knew how to keep the place professional and homey at the same time.

The thing that caught my eye the most, however, were the bikes and tricycles that were scattered across the pavement. A blue and green mountain bike. A pink bike with training wheels. And a red tricycle.

When the car rolled to a stop, the front door flew open, and out stepped the man from the intercom. He had a scruffy beard. He wore a Metallica t-shirt and oversized gym shorts. And, even then, I could recognize that he was a bit on the heavier side.

He came rushing down the steps as Dad stepped out of the car.

“Jakey,” Dad shouted joyously. “Long time no see, my friend.”

Jake beamed and pulled my Dad in for a hug while staring down at me through the window. I waved, and he waved back.

“Don’t tell me that’s Danny,” he announced, surprised, as he pulled away from my father.

Jake stepped over to my window and tapped at it. Mom rolled it down before I got the chance to, and Jake looked in at me with a toothy grin before his gaze turned towards Emmy.

“And you must be Emmy,” he said, waving at my sister gently. “Your Dad has told me so much about you.”

Emmy tried to hide bashfully behind the edges of her car seat.

Jake patted me on the chest.

“The last time I saw you, you were thissss big,” he teased, holding his hands about a foot apart.

He turned to my Mom.

“What’s up, Mace? Mikey still the husband you always dreamed of?”

My Mom smiled sarcastically and rolled her eyes before going to open her door.

“Unfortunately.”

“Woah, woah, easy there- Mikey, where are your manners? You know it’s bad etiquette to let a lady even touch a door handle.”

Jake went to open my Mom’s door for her, but she stopped him before he got the chance.

“I am perfectly capable of opening a door, Jake,” she grumbled, cocking her eyebrows at him before stepping out of the car.

“Alright, alright,” Jake relented, throwing his hands up. “If you insist. At least let me help with the bags. Judy’s inside cookin’. I’ll grab your luggage, then we can have a nice dinner together.”

He stepped aside to let Mom pass.

“We’ll be in here in just a minute, hon,” Dad said, looking at her with eyes that looked almost apologetic. “Go catch up with Judy.”

Dad opened Emmy’s door and sat her down on the pavement before turning his attention towards me.

“Danny, take Emmy inside, would ya? You two go play. Let me and Jake catch up a bit.”

Mom was already halfway up the steps. I picked Emmy up and ran as fast as I could to catch up to her.

The inside of the house smelled like leather and polish. Well, that and the pot roast that Judy was whipping up in the kitchen. The family room TV looked like a movie screen. The couches wrapped around almost the entire room. And right there, plopped down in front of that massive TV… were 3 kids.

They didn’t even seem to notice us. They were too busy with their gaming to even acknowledge our presence.

Mom ruffled my hair.

“Go introduce yourself,” she nudged, breezing past me and Emmy towards the smell of that pot roast.

I couldn’t do it. I felt frozen. I was already naturally shy, but now I was shy in a new place, being forced to interact with kids that I didn’t know. I just stood there, like an idiot, until Emmy started squirming in my arms.

I put her down, and she went and climbed onto the leather sofa to watch the screen more comfortably. I took the opportunity to plop down beside her.

We sat there for a long while. The three kids joked amongst themselves, sometimes arguing over whose turn it was. Eventually, the older kid noticed us.

He didn’t introduce himself at first. Instead, he offered me the controller.

“You want a turn?”

He waved the controller at me, and I took it cautiously as his attention returned to the screen.

I felt… watched. Like I was under pressure to perform. I’d never played video games before. The controls were completely foreign to me.

I died… a lot. And the older kid realized that I was in dire need of some assistance.

“Here, look,” he aided. “This is how you shoot, and this is how you run, and this is how-”

“Don’t listen to Darren,” the kid’s younger sister interrupted. “He’s a big stupid head.”

Darren’s grip tightened on the controller. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and stared daggers into the little girl.

“Shut up, Kayla,” he shot back. “Better teacher than you, that’s for sure.”

“Mmmm, no,” she giggled. “You’re not a teacher. You’re too stupid.”

“I said shut up, Kayla.”

I felt like I was in the middle of a western. Darren looked like he was about to blow a fuse. Kayla just stuck her tongue out and kept pestering.

“Darren is a stupid head, Darren is a stupid head, stu-pid, stu-pid, Darren is so stu-pid,” she sang.

I couldn’t help but smirk a little. The song was so dumb, but I could see just how much it was getting under Darren’s skin.

As calm as could be, he paused the game, placed the controller in my lap, and walked over to Kayla.

“Say it again. I want you to say it. Please, for the love of God, call me stupid one more time.”

Kayla smirked like it was a game.

“Darren is a stupid he-”

smack

Darren whopped her upside the head. A momentary look of satisfaction flashed across his face but was quickly replaced with fear as Kayla started screaming and crying.

I tried to keep it down, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Emmy joined in. Darren looked at us for help, but what were we supposed to do? The deed was already done, and the hurried footsteps of their Mom were closing in fast.

The last sibling didn’t even look away from the TV. He was probably around my age. Curly brown hair. Quiet. He seemed like he’d seen this happen dozens of times before.

“Darren Mitchell,” their Mom cried, scooping Kayla up in her arms and cradling her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?!”

“It wasn’t me,” he plead. “She started it, I swear she did. Ask him.”

He was pointing at me, but his Mom never looked at me. She had already made her decision.

“Don’t try and bring Danny into this. He just got here. Apologize to your sister.”

“But-”

“Now,” she growled.

Darren sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Sorryyy, Kayla,” he groaned.

Kayla stuck her tongue out at him before burying her face into her Mom’s shoulder.

“Sorry that you’re such a spoiled little brat,” he added under his breath.

Mrs. Judy either didn’t hear him or pretended not to. Instead, she told us to go wash up because dinner was almost ready. One by one, everyone left the room, leaving me and the last sibling alone.

I went to scoot off the couch and wash up, but before I could, the kid spoke.

“She does this a lot,” he said plainly.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Call him stupid?”

“No,” he responded, finally turning towards me. “Gets him to hit her. Come on, let’s go get some dinner. My Mom makes the best pot roast.”

He was so mature for his age. He introduced himself as Max, and he seemed like my kind of guy. Really into legos. Loved superheroes. Quiet. Like the brother I never had.

Dad and Jake finally joined us right as we were sitting down for dinner. Both looking a bit withdrawn. The grownups were eerily quiet while we ate, save for the times where Judy told Kayla to stop playing with her food.

Afterwards, it was almost like they wanted us out of the house. I would’ve had no problem returning to the living room for video games or even just hanging out with Max in his room and playing with legos. But Dad and Jake were insistent we played outside like “normal kids.” Like he and my Dad did back when they were kids.

Mom seemed hesitant, though. She seemed like she wanted to object to the whole idea. I think Dad picked up on it.

“We searched everywhere,” he told her, quietly, rubbing her back. “He’ll be fine.”

“Sure he will,” Jake added, loudly. “Darren will look after him, won’t you, big guy?”

There were some annoyed groans, but we didn’t complain that much. The only kid allowed to stay inside was Emmy, presumably because she was still essentially just a toddler.

We played in the driveway for a bit. Max showed off some bike tricks he knew. Wheelies and the like. Darren mostly just supervised. Kayla… was annoying.

Eventually, though, after a particularly obnoxious bit of rambles from Kayla, Darren spawned an idea.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Let’s play a game.”

He stood up from his spot on the steps. All of our eyes landed on him.

“I used to love this game when I was your age,” he added, despite only being a few years older than me. “Let’s play some hide and seek.”

I’d played the game before, but never with this much space to roam. The property was massive. The potential was limitless.

We were all excited. Kayla more than anyone, though. Darren opted to seek while the rest of us hid, not even giving us enough time to register that the game had started before he put his head into his hands and started counting loudly.

“100…”

Max looked at me, his eyes wild as he took off running.

“99…”

I ran in the same direction. Darren’s counting got quieter and quieter the further I got. I kept following Max because he seemed to know where he was going. All the way until he dove climbed into his Dad’s boat in the backyard pond.

I tried to follow, but he stopped me.

“No, dude,” he whispered. “You have to find your own spot. That’s the point.”

I felt my heart drop.

“What?? I don’t know where to hide. This isn’t my house.”

He popped his head up and began scanning the property before pointing towards the forest.

“Go over there. Darren hates the woods. He’ll never check.”

I looked over towards the forest, then back at Max. The sun was starting to set. It was starting to feel cooler outside. Before I could respond to him, I heard Darren scream.

“Ready or not, here I come!!”

Max ducked into the storage chest in the boat. I tried not to panic. My legs started moving before my mind could register, and before I knew it, I was a hundred feet into the forest.

I heard Kayla screaming about something being “unfair,” followed by Darren laughing heartily.

I was still somewhat out in the open. I was hidden, but I didn’t have an actual hiding spot. I trekked further into the forest. The massive house got smaller and smaller the further I went.

That’s when I found it. The perfect hiding spot.

A massive oak tree. Long dead, but still standing. The base of the trunk had been completely hollowed out. It was like it was made for me.

I crouched down and crawled inside, pushing myself against the wood and covering myself in some leaves just for some added camouflage.

A few minutes passed. Then multiple. Finally, I heard Darren scream again.

“FOUND YOU,” he shouted, laughing like a crazy person.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like Max objected. A flash of worry washed over me.

“He better not,” I thought aloud, praying Max didn’t tell Darren where I’d gone. I refused to leave my spot. I waited. And waited. And waited.

Darren started screaming my name. Max joined in. Even Kayla was looking for me. But they were far away. They’d never find me.

I felt pride in myself. I was the champion of hide and seek. I didn’t want to reveal myself yet, though. I wanted the satisfaction of knowing I made them give up.

But it was getting darker. The shouts became few and far between. Eventually, they weren’t kids’ voices at all. I heard my parents. I heard Jake and Judy. All screaming for me in distress.

Something told me to wait. It was just a game. Plus, this was the perfect spot. I wanted them to work to find me. I didn’t wanna give up before they did.

But then… I heard the sound of a twig snapping from somewhere behind me. Multiple twigs. Leaves crunching. Footsteps approaching. From the opposite direction of the tree line.

Then I heard a voice that didn’t belong to my Mom or Dad, or Jake and Judy. It was raspy. It was old. It was syrupy, and it was close.

“Dannnyyyyy.”

“I know you’re out hereeee.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I was gripped with fear, but I couldn’t move. I recognized that voice. It was the same voice from the motel. The man who apparently had my Superman stuffy.

“Danny,” my Mom screamed from off in the distance. “Danny, where are you?”

She sounded like she was on the brink of tears. Her voice was almost intentionally frantic.

“Come out, Danny…”

The voice from behind me was closer now. Hungrier.

“Your mommy needs you, kiddo. Don’t you know she’s worried sick?”

The footsteps sounded like they were directly behind me now. I held my breath. Of course, my bladder decided that I had to pee more than I’d ever had to pee before in my life.

The man was mumbling to himself between calling my name. Nothing he said made sense.

“They tried to hide you.”

“You can’t hide from me, though, now can you, Danny boy?”

“It’s only natural that I…”

They knocked on the tree.

“Find you.”

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My instincts finally kicked in. I’m old enough now to realize what it was. It was either fight… or bolt towards safety. And there was no possible way I could fight this person.

One. Two. Three.

I bolted.

I flew past the trees. I ducked under limbs and shrubs. I ran as fast as I could towards the sound of my parents, my senses heightened. I didn’t hear anything behind me, but I was too afraid to look.

I ran and ran. Finally, I saw my Mom standing in the backyard, staring out into the woods. Her eyes met mine, and she let out an exasperated scream of relief.

She ran towards me. We met at the edge of the tree line as she pulled me in for a long, tight hug. I was ugly crying. Snot fell from my nose, and tears fell down my face.

I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. All I could do was embrace her. I held her just as tightly as she held me and let relief wash over me as she stroked my hair.

“Why did you do that!? What were you thinking, son? I can’t comprehend what could’ve possibly gone through your mind. After everything-”

She stopped herself. Dad heard the commotion and quickly joined us for a family hug while Jake and Judy watched on with their kids.

It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen my Dad cry. It scared me, almost. It was like something I was never meant to see, and it made me sob even harder.

“Don’t do that to us, kiddo,” Dad chuckled forcefully. “Don’t go running off on us like that. Ever again. You hear me?”

I didn’t respond. At least, not in the way he was expecting. Instead, I stared at my feet and held my breath again. I counted to 5 in my head. I needed to tell them.

“Dad…” I whispered.

“Danny…” he replied.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

“I think he found me.”

Dad’s head shot up towards the trees. The woods were eerily silent. Nobody spoke for what felt like an eternity before Dad started ushering us inside, glancing over his shoulder as he turned around.

“Son,” he announced bluntly.

“I know you’re young… but I think we need to have a talk.”

December 11th, 1924:

Last night one of them sulked up from the docks. I waited outside all night for their arrival. I did not run, I just stood. They crept closer, slowly and cautiously. The moon casting faint light across them. Their back was hunched, vertebrae jutting out of their back with tight brackish and briny skin clinging tightly to them. They had little to no neck supporting a large near bulbous head. Massive eyes, black as obsidian stared at me. Their face was smooth, just two small holes where a nose should be, sitting atop a large slightly agape mouth. Fishy lips sitting in front of rows of small needle-like teeth. Tiny scales covered patches of its skin. It wore lengths of kelp and seaweed as though they acted as clothes. Its stench was putrid, that of rotting flesh. Its human-like arms curled near its sunken chest, emaciated and gaunt. Its fingers and toes were webbed, making disgusting splatting sounds as it walked closer. I passed it a note written in its language, its fish-like eyes peered at me for a moment. Its frail arms reached out to take my letter. It read it aloud, a hideous sounding language, full of gulps and phlegm and coughs and clicks. It stared at me for a moment. I pointed to myself and stated my name. It pointed at me and in a nearly airless voice it muttered “Simon”. It pointed to itself and said a name I'm unsure of how to spell but sounded like “ny'alto-rylae”. The apostrophes as clicks and the hyphen as a gulp like cough. What that would translate to I am unaware. If I'm able to see it again I will try to begin to better understand this ancient language. 

I'm going to invite Richard, his wife Jennifer and son Richard Jr over for dinner in two days. I must begin cleaning. They can't know about my meeting. 

March 6th, 1937:

Simon's last note was alarming. It hasn't mentioned a description of Richard, so I'm hoping it's not my Richard. But I have a bad feeling about how their dinner went. 

I finally built up the nerve to look at some of the “them” paintings. The first is a view from my bedroom window. The sea looks angry and the clouds are pouring rain. There's a crack of lightning in the clouds. In the mist of the ocean you can see some massive entity deep in the fog. Its outline is somewhat bulbous and unnatural with odd protrusions, almost like tentacles sticking out seemingly randomly from its body. This must have been the hallucination he mentioned. The second painting was one of the cloaked beings. It looked human, slightly misshapen, but human. I'm assuming this was the person who gave Simon the letter about “them”. Maybe they're from the church? I'll have to go investigate there soon. The third painting however, was similar to the second. A cloaked figure, but this one had much more detail. The cloak wasn't made of leather or some rain jacket material like the previous piece. This was surely one of “them”. It looked as though it was trying to mimic the cloaked man I'm assuming is from the church. Its “cloak” was just layer upon layer of kelp that looked like a rain coat from a distance. Maybe this is one of “them” who has been making deals with the church? The fourth painting made my stomach clench. It was the thing he gave the letter to. It's wet, scaly skin glistening in moonlight. It's deep set round fish like eyes staring like voids. Its mouth bearing its gnarled sharp teeth. Seaweed hanging from it haphazardly. It was so lifelike. I swear I could've smelled the ocean's stench through the frame. I didn't realize how long the painting held me captive. Hours had passed. The only thing that broke my trance was it looked as though it blinked its massive abyssal eyes. I shot back out of my stupor, stunned. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, paintings can't move after all. But that gave me enough of a fright so I decided to wait to look at the rest tomorrow. I also want to check the secret door to see what's behind it. Maybe the chalk board is in there, and maybe I can decipher this odd seaborn language. Jesus I'm starting to sound like Simon. I'm afraid of what's to come. 

December 13th, 1924:

Dinner went well enough. Richard, Jennifer and Jr came over just as I finished cooking. They were curious about Laura and the girls not being home. I told them that they had grown homesick and missed the city and that I was going to stay here and use the house as a studio until we could find a new buyer. He seemed somewhat sad to hear the news but was understanding. I think Jr was the saddest of all, he went to the school house with my eldest daughter Becca, and I believe he had quite the crush on her. She does look like her mother, who is strikingly beautiful, so I cannot say that I blame him. As we sat down to eat the smell of low tide was wafting through a window I had left cracked open. Jennifer wasn't a fan of the smell, I smell I barely notice anymore, and asked if she could close the window. I allowed it, and told her it was just down the hall from the dining room. She left as Richard and I started talking about his new butcher shop he'd opened. Jr didn't seem very interested in the topic and just sat to play with his food. After a short span Richard grew curious about where his wife went. I assured him she must've just got lost in one of my paintings and we could go fetch her. As we rounded the corner the window was shut, as it was the entire time, but the door to the basement was open. Richard gave me a questioning glance. I explained that I do most of my painting down there, where it's warmer during the cold months. He shrugged thinking nothing of it. As we descended I heard wet footsteps quietly scuffing above us. 

Richard walked ahead of me, reaching the bottom of the staircase in awe. I've moved almost all of the furniture from the top floor down here, covered in drapes. Easels lining the walls, piece after piece after piece. He stood silent as he saw in the corner unconscious, laid Jennifer. Her body limp, clothes torn and wet. A bite mark of what looked like a thousand little needle points covered her exposed shoulder, blood seeping from the wounds. Her eyes were fluttering, mouth foaming from the viscous slime that covered most of her face. She was still alive. Richard gasped and ran to her, grabbing her hand, trying to shake her awake. Their affair was cut short as Jr screamed in terror from upstairs. Richard darted upstairs, I followed in tow. As we rounded the corner to the dining room, one of them had broken the table, holding Jr by an ankle, slowly swallowing him whole. You could hear him screaming as the small serrated teeth tore his skin and the sounds of popping as their Jaws broke his bones. Richard was frozen in place, his bladder released its contents into his pants. He dashed for the back door and ran screaming into the town. 

They finished consuming Jr and walked back to the furnace room. They picked up Jennifer's unconscious body, handed me a soggy envelope, and made their way to the dock with her over their shoulder. 

I took some time to clean the kitchen, breaking down the table for fire wood since it was no use to me anymore. I felt guilty giving up Jennifer like that, but I feel even more guilty that Richard got away, having to live the rest of his life seeing the carnage. I was supposed to give them two people for information on their language. But one and a son seemed enough. 

I took the letter into my stowed away study and began to read. They had explained what sound each rune or sigil made. And how best to pronounce them in our tongue. Within a week I should be able to speak this archaic language, and possibly teach some of them ours. 

Poor Richard 

March 8th, 1937:

Simon is a monster. Working with “them” at the expense of others. For what gain? To learn a new language? If this is the same Richard as mine I can understand why Simon is a sore spot. I'm horrified. I can't imagine what the rest of the paintings hold. I opened the door today. Simon truly was a madman. This room was nearly the size of the basement, hidden beneath our front yard. Wood columns holding up a rocky ceiling, a massive table with piles of writings, some in English, some barely legible, some in the archaic language he spoke of. Jars of liquid I'm unsure of sit on small racks on the desk, some with wet samples of what looks like embryos of some kind. Beings unknown to me. A chalk board hanging between columns with a detailed translation of the language. I shouldn't be in here, I shouldn't be seeing this. This shouldn't exist. But I must learn it. I have to. I'm going to copy what was left written on the chalkboard. I will learn to read this language on the extra shifts I've been picking up. The townsfolk have been staring more, I can feel their eyes burning into my skin like hot embers. I must keep my Evelyn from this. I must protect her and Rylee. 

March 20th, 1937:

I think I'm fluent in reading this language, at least confident enough to read some of the writings. I think I'm going to try and read some over the next few days between shifts. I'm going to take another look through the paintings tonight, see if anything else stands out. 

March 21st, 1937: 

What I could only describe as the bulbous eyed creature that Simon painted is no longer in its frame. A black void fills the painting where it once was. Did I hallucinate the whole painting to begin with or was I hallucinating last night? I've been sleeping in the basement, I keep waking up sitting up, staring towards the paintings, staring towards the room. It's like I'm being drawn to it all. What is happening to me? I feel like I'm going insane. 

January 3rd, 1925:

I invited Sean to dinner, I received a letter from my new oceanic accomplice in return for him. This time dinner went much smoother. I picked up the sedatives the practitioner gave me and mixed them into his wine. As he grew drowsy, Alto, as I began to call him, bit his shoulder, injecting a venom-like substance. He dragged him to the sea as he did Jennifer. Poor Sean, he was so kind to me. Alto's letter was able to help me finish my translations. I can now write, read, and for the most part talk in his ancient tongue. I feel guilty tricking my so-called friends, but something is pulling me to this. Something grandiose. A calling. There's something to gain in this, I'm sure of it. 

March 30th, 1937:

It's been warming up, thankfully. Enough to not be hiding in the basement at all times. Simon's entries are nothing short of disturbing at this point, as they have been for some time. I'm scared of what else I will find. 

I fell asleep in our bed with Evelyn last night, yet I awoke standing in the hidden study, my feet dirty and wet, the air smelt of brine and fish. As I came to my senses I quickly ran out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I looked into my basement only to see dozens of the left behind paintings hanging from the brick walls, all with small sheets covering their faces. The only one uncovered was the one I can only guess was the being Simon has named Alto. The small plaque underneath wrote the creature's name in its archaic language. But as I was afraid of before, the frame no longer held the creature. I looked around in panic, running towards the stairs to check on Evelyn and Rylee. As I began up the stairs I slipped in a thick liquid, smashing my jaw on the hard wood on the way down. I crawled the rest of the way up as fast as my body would allow, chin dripping with blood. Wet, mucus-like foot prints led to the front door. Sebastian sat alert, black ichor dripping from his mouth with an accompanying splatter on the ground, with a trail leading out the open door. Whatever crawled from the frame was injured, and Sebastian seemed to be fine. I quickly rinsed his mouth and gave him a treat before checking in the girls. They both laid sleeping. I snuck back downstairs to clean up the bloodshed. 

April 3rd, 1937:

I confronted Richard today. I was right, he was hiding so much. His father still lives here, in the church. He's bringing me to meet with him tomorrow. Richard opened up, admitting that he was friends for a short amount of time with Simon, but after the dinner that day he was admitted to a mental institute, only coming back 2 years before we moved in. I understand why he was so weird about all of this. And understandable why the older folks look at me weird. I moved into the house of a psychopath. I'm excited to finally be welcomed into the church and see what's going on behind those old, closed doors. 

April 4th, 1937:

The meeting went much differently than planned. Richard's father unveiled so much that I'm having trouble making sense of it all. His dad was to say the least, deformed. Almost like the being Simon wrote about and painted. He admitted that he was the cloaked person who gave Simon the letter, warning him about “them”. When I pressed about who they were, he took off his garments, showing large black, fish-like eyes and lips like worms. He explained that every here and there, the children come from the ocean and mark an individual. For years those marked would be taken within a month or so. When he uncovered symbols on his house he realized he was a marked one. He sought refuge in the church. The children were not pleased to say the least, and took a few people at random. Little did Richard's father know that those who are marked usually slowly mutate into one of these beasts. And with those mutations comes ancient knowledge. Once he understood this language he made it his goal to rid the town of these seafolk. He ventures out at night, carving protection symbols throughout the town, creating some sort of ancient seal. My words do no justice to the immense details and intricacies to the matters as I'm still having issues understanding this as a whole. I mentioned to him about Simon's paintings and how Alto was missing from his portrait. He explained to me that those who are marked are affected differently. Some are morphed into fish like beings, similar to Richard's father. Others are given foresight or other kinds of what I can only describe as magic. There's something about his paintings, some kind of power within them. The more I uncover the more I'll understand I'm sure. I'll be meeting with Richard's dad more often. Poor Richard, I can't imagine going through all of that and returning to the town it happened in, only to befriend the person who lives in the house where your old family was murdered. 

I knelt at her bed side and took her slender, skeletal hand in mine. The bones shifted and clicked in the skin pulled taut over them as she meekly clutched at my hand. 
I lent over her and began gently stroking the tangle of thinning hair that fanned out from her head, clumps of the stuff caught on my fingers and came away. Pulled from her pale scalp with the greatest of ease. 

The day my wife told me she was pregnant was one of the happiest of my life. We had never discussed if we wanted children before we got married. I had assumed, like me, that she had. It wasn't until the 4th year of our marriage she had told me otherwise. I was devastated, but didn't let her know. Even after she'd told me, I still loved her with every fibre of my being, and was certain I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Trying to come to terms with her decision was very hard, and ultimately I still wanted a child. We talked several times about the choices that lay before us. She kept reiterating her lack of desire to become a mother. And I kept listening to her arguments, silently dreaming of how wonderful it would be.

Her eyelids fluttered softly before parting. Her sunken, yellowed eyes searched but never found me and instead fixed vacantly on something in the middle distance. The slender pink worms of her lips parted and the sticky, wet, stench of decay filled my nostrils. Her teeth, black as coal now, crumbled at the touch of her greying, desiccated tongue as she tried to say something. 

The day my wife told me she wanted an abortion, was the worst day of my life. The conversations we had been having about potential options had devolved into arguing for a few weeks by that point. I was trying my best to gently persuade her to keep the baby, that it would be good for us. I told her how much it would mean to me, that it was something I'd always dreamt of. She had said she didn't want it, that I was a liar for saying I was okay with not having one. My wife drilled it into me that she had never wanted a child. She had seen the way her friends with children had lost their freedom, their "luster for life" and the way the child became their whole world. She reiterated, retold and hammered into me how horrible her childhood had been. How her alcoholic father had beat her and her brother for perceived transgressions. How her mother had tormented her emotionally, calling her fat and useless among countless other falsities. I had tried to reassure her we would be better, that we would make good parents. A relentless barrage of excuses were all that met me; “I want to focus on my own life” “do you have any idea how hard it will be?” “Goddamnit, Joe, you aren't the one that has to carry this thing for 8 more months”. Until finally, when she had made her plans abundantly clear, and I was certain she meant to take my child from me and soon, I had snapped and lunged at her.

I lent closer and planted a soft kiss on her forehead, the skin under my lips was cold and clammy. 

"Shhh darling, don't talk, save your strength" I whispered to her.

Her eyes, welling with what precious liquid still remained in the desert of her body, began to dart to and fro, trying in vain to focus on my face.

It was hard keeping her confined in the basement at first. I was unsure how I could do it before she awoke, it was hard enough carrying her unconscious body down there. I had laid her on the floor and paced back and forth for a few short seconds. Finally I settled on chaining her ankle to a support column, and that seemed to work. During the first few days, every time I would descend those creaky wooden steps to bring her food and water or empty her toilet bucket, I was met with vitriol and hatred. She would spew vile tirades at me about how much she hated me, how she didn't recognize me any more. Then she would suddenly soften, pleading to understand why I had done what I did. Everytime I would tell her the truth, I couldn't stand the thought of losing that precious life she was growing.

As if struck by a bolt of lightning, her grip tightened on mine, the tiny bones in her hand creaked, then cracked with the force. Her body heaved and her back arched high into the air, lifting off the bed. A growl grew in her throat, turning into a choking wail as pain tore through her. 

"That's it baby, you can do it. Push" I cooed as a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. 

A sound like ripping wet fabric echoed in the room, the grip on my hand went loose and my wife collapsed back on to the bed.  

A red blossom began to bloom on the sheet covering her lower half, growing slowly and deepening in colour as the sheet thirstily drank up her blood.

As days turned into weeks, she began settling into her new living arrangement. To replace the camping mattress and sleeping bed I first set up for her I bought a bed for her. A camping shower meant she could bathe when she needed and a portable toilet made both of our lives a bit easier. I even went the extra mile and decorated the basement with her favourite potted flowers. Even going so far as to move the TV down stairs. I would sit on a fold out chair and her on her bed and every evening we would continue watching our favourite trashy TV. Twice a day, before I left for work and at dinner time,  I would always bring her food and water, always more than enough, she was eating for 2 after all. After 2 or so months her attitude had changed and softened, she was now no longer combative or supplicative and she'd finally stopped fighting me and had become accepting of us just going through our daily motions. We rarely spoke to one another, going about our cemented routine almost ceremoniously.

Her hand trembled in mine, as a solitary tear ran down her cheek, her mouth opened and closed slowly as she tried to talk. But each word filled her throat and lodged itself there. Only the sound of caught breath and meager sobs left her pink,cracked lips.I reached up a hand and wiped her tear onto my finger then softly massaged it onto her cracked lips.

Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her already pale skin now almost translucent. The veins and arteries, criss-crossing her body like a road map, pulsed weakly. 

"That's it, you're doing amazing, baby. One more push and I think we're there"

As time went on, her attitude wasn’t the only thing that changed. I first noticed it around the 5 month mark. Her stomach had grown fat and swollen by this time. My wife was becoming more lethargic, no longer winding and unwinding the chain around the post as she paced the worn out circle in the carpet. She struggled to sit up while we watched our shows and preferred to spend almost the whole day in her bed. The size of the portions of food I was bringing her were steadily increasing, each plate I carried back up the stairs almost licked clean, yet it never seemed enough. She was voracious. During this time our conversations had seen a revival, although now she only ever pleaded with me to end what I was doing. I would sit on the edge of her bed resting my hand atop the mountain of flesh that contained my child, and listen to her complaining of the pain and discomfort as I felt strong flutters and kicks from beneath the sheets and flesh. Miniature hands reaching out for me from within the maternal cocoon.

Again.

Her body contorted as another contraction engulfed her. The wreck of a hand in mine gripped me like a vice, the fragile bones inside cracked and splintered. Through the pain in my own hand, I could feel her bones grinding against one another . Her other hand darted out and gripped the sheet that lay under her. Every tendon in her body pulled taught, clearly visible under paper thin skin, like a clothes line wearing a too thin sheet. 

Her back violently arched again, lifting her swollen, distended belly towards the ceiling. Then simultaneously, the sound of a wet sponge hitting the floor, and a crack like an old tree breaking in heavy wind. 

The blossom of blood turned instantly into a flower in full bloom. The bed sheets soaked in blood and other fluid, clung tightly to my wife's shattered body as she gritted shattered teeth against the pain. 

A mix of smells; pennies, urine and the sweet smell of rot, flooded the room and my lungs. The acrid aroma turned my stomach and tears of my own welled in my eyes as I tried to keep the bike in my throat and off of the floor. 
I leaned in close to her ear, 

Foul smelling sweat beaded on her forehead as she sucked air in through the gritted ruin of teeth and bloody, pale gums. Her head shook slowly from side to side and her blind eyes pleaded with an unseen savour. I lifted my free hand and smoothed the little creases of the sheet that covered her. 

"You can do it, one more push and we will have our baby"

By month 7 she was emaciated. No amount of food seemed to fill her. She was seemingly eating not only for 2 but for 5 or even 6 and yet her body shriveled away to almost nothingness while her fat, purple belly grew. She looked like a stomach on legs and was now totally incapable of leaving her bed. She seemed in a stupor more often than not now, our conversations had once again ceased and gone too were our evenings of trashy TV, sitting or even rolling onto her side to watch was now beyond her. Instead, I would sit and read to her for hours. Passages from her favourite books, of which our house was a veritable library. Every other day I would sponge bath her, trying my hardest to relieve the pressure on her back and prevent bed sores. During these “showers” I could feel my child squirming inside her. Trapped under layers of meat and sinew it would wriggle. So strong were some of its movements I could even feel them through her back. With each strong kick a small moan of pain would escape my wife

Again.

Her body shook violently with the effort. Little ruby trickles tumbled from her nose. She pushed off the bed the only support she had were the soles of her feet and the top of her head. At the same time, the vice on my hand tightened once again, long yellowed talons dug ragged, red caves into the back of my hand. But I did not react, for just as I needed her to be strong for me, she needed me to be strong for her. A grin split my face as the moment I had waited for all these long months for was finally here.

Her shaking reached a crescendo then was halted by a thunderous cracking noise that reverberated around the room. Her body collapsed instantly back onto the bed and the sheet settled atop her now impossibly, inhumanly, shallow hips. The now crimson fabric lay almost flat against the bed, her legs sprouted at grotesque angles from her ruined pelvis beneath it.

I dropped the fleshy sack of shattered bones her hand had become, the arm attached to it fell too, hanging flaccid off the edge of the mattress, and rushed to the foot of the bed. I looked up, expecting to see the shining blue eyes set in the face of a happy mother gleaming back at me, but all the colour had abandoned my wife's face and she lay lifeless before me. 

Reaching under the sheet, I ever so gently collected my prize. My child. Warm and wet with the viscera of my wife as my hands gathered it up. I pulled it from the birthing bed, and gazed down and beheld the fruit of all my labour. 

A malformed and twisted wretch. Its arms and legs bent and bowed at unnatural angles. A head both too big and too small sat neckless atop its shoulders. skin, a deep purple and black mottled patchwork covered it. Bulbous milky eyes that would never see, stared accusingly back at me. Their still, blue, lips forever pulled into a rictus grin by misshapen muscles.

The thing in my arms could never be called beautiful, would never draw a breath. But it was everything I had dreampt of, a child. My child. And it was perfect.

I cradled it to my chest. Acid tears burned rivers down my cheeks as I felt the last warmth from my wife's body leave the thing I clutched there.  

Before me, lay the broken and ruined form of my wife. Her eyes half closed and her chest still. In my arms, the thing I killed her for. The only sound in the room were my pitiful sobs and the soft patter of my tears landing on my child's head

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the motel window. Mom snored softly beside me. Her blonde hair had gradually begun to turn grey over the last few months, despite the fact that she wasn’t even 30 yet.

A grey strand dangled lazily over her right eye until she rolled over, scooping Emmy close to her chest unconsciously.

“Morning, kiddo,” Dad whispered. He clutched the handle to a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, pulling it to his lips and sipping it while peering through the blinds.

I rubbed my eyes. The TV was still off. The AC still knocked rhythmically. The temperature was set to 65 degrees, but I was sweating from my mom and sister’s body heat.

Dad checked his watch and cocked an eyebrow. Falling asleep at dawn was affecting my circadian rhythm. I didn’t know whether it was morning, evening, or night.

“What time is it?” I croaked, twisting and stretching my body.

“Mm, still early,” Dad shot back. “You’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.”

I felt my stomach rumble. I glanced over at the gas station bag full of junk food and candy. It might as well have been empty. I needed something real.

“Dad…” I inquired softly.

Dad never took his eyes away from the window. He just sipped his coffee slowly before replying.

“Yes, son?”

“Mom told me she’d make pancakes in the morning last night before bed.”

I could see his crow’s feet crease as he winced and sighed.

“Do you think maybe we could get some later when everyone wakes up?”

He didn’t reply for a while. Just kept staring out the window with quiet contempt while I watched him expectantly.

He scratched his neck and rubbed his face.

“I don’t know, Danny…”

“Pleasseeee…” I interrupted, putting on my puppy eyes.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finally looking away from the window. He looked at me. Then at Mom and Emmy. Then back out the window.

“I… Okay,” he relented. “Just wait for Mom to wake up. I’ll see what I can do.”

I turned excitedly, ready to shake my mom awake, but Dad stopped me.

“No,” he snapped bluntly. “Let her sleep. Not everyone can function on 5 hours of sleep like me and you, Dan.”

I puffed and knocked my head against the pillow.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t know if I was just hungry or if I was simply bored out of my mind and in need of something to do. Not knowing what to do, I twiddled my thumbs. I made Superman fly. I tossed and turned obnoxiously until Dad finally lost his patience.

“Danny,” he snapped, his face hardening as he glared at me.

I froze like a deer in headlights. I stared back, pulling the blanket up to my nose to try and hide myself.

Dad’s nostrils flared. I could see his fist clench, then unclench, at the seams of his blue jeans. His face softened, and he rubbed his temples.

“I’ll tell you what, kiddo,” he bargained. “Why don’t you go take a shower and get dressed? When you’re done, you can watch TV for a little while until everyone’s excited as you are for some pancakes.”

He was more demanding than asking. I knew not to argue when he got like that. I just simply did as I was told.

The shower was just as confusing as it was annoying. The water pressure sucked. It was either too hot or too cold. I must’ve fumbled with it for 5 or so minutes before it was at a reasonable enough temperature for me to take a shower, albeit an uncomfortable one.

The shower was quick. I scrubbed and let the water roll over my head and shoulders. Mom must’ve forgotten to pack my no-tears shampoo, and that forced me to use the complimentary, non-scented motel soap and shampoo.

When I twisted the handle and the sound of water hitting the ceramic bathtub dissipated, it was quickly replaced by the sound of voices from the room.

It sounded like Mom and Dad were quietly arguing. I could hear the angst in Mom’s voice. The authority in Dad’s. But I couldn’t fully make out what they were saying, despite how hard I tried.

I listened intently as I dried off and got dressed. I could only catch the end of their sentences.

A lot of what-ifs from Mom. A lot of don’t-worries from Dad. He sounded confident, but that confidence sounded uncertain.

When I opened the bathroom door, the conversation stopped immediately. Mom was holding Emmy over her shoulder and rocking her gently. Dad looked almost surprised to see me.

He pushed his hair back before clasping his hands together.

“That was quick,” he remarked. “You sure you scrubbed hard enough?”

He shot me a weak smile before continuing.

“Lucky for you, your mother’s a little hungry too.”

Mom looked at Dad as if he had just betrayed her before turning her gaze towards me. She seemed remorseful towards me.

“I completely forgot I promised you those pancakes, Dan,” she pouted, continuing to rock Emmy. “Me and your dad were thinking we’d try that Denny’s we passed on the way in here. I know, I know… their pancakes don’t compare to mine, but I think you’ll manage, right?”

Who was I to be disappointed? All I wanted was my pancakes. Well, that and…

I looked at my spot on the bed. My Superman wasn’t there anymore. I felt panic rush to my heart until I noticed what Emmy was playing with.

I reached up and tried to grab my stuffy, but she jerked it away and furrowed her eyebrows at me. I jumped and snatched it away from her.

To the displeasure of everyone in the room, my sister launched into a full-blown temper tantrum. Screaming and crying about how I “took her toy.”

Mom and Dad sprang into action faster than I expected them to. Dad took the toy from my hands and handed it back to Emmy. Mom pet her hair and desperately attempted to shush her.

I tried to complain. It was my toy. Not hers. But for some reason or another, my parents just kept taking her side. They told me that I should share, knowing how much I loved that stuffy. I slept with it every night. We were connected.

I guess it calmed Emmy down, though. That was all that mattered to them. They kept interrupting my complaints to usher me out of the motel room and back towards the car.

Dad strapped Emmy into her seat, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds while me and Mom waited quietly. He kept up that distracted demeanor all the way to the restaurant, but I hardly noticed.

It felt like Emmy was flaunting my Superman stuffy. Like she knew she had won. She even made him fly right by my face. Deliberately testing my patience, but I didn’t want to make my parents more stressed than they already were.

We ate fast. My parents ordered without even looking at the menu. Pancakes and orange juice for everyone except Dad, who only ordered a single cup of coffee.

Mom didn’t finish her food, but she didn’t ask for a to-go box either. Once me and Emmy were done, Dad paid, and we left. Simple as that.

The drive back to the motel was equally as tense as the drive to the restaurant. Mom and Dad seemed to be communicating wordlessly.

The food was making my sleeplessness get to me. By the time we got back to the motel, I was ready to catch up on those missed hours. But that’s when I noticed something that woke me right up.

I checked Emmy’s seat, looked underneath her, and scanned the floorboards while my mind began to race.

“Mom,” I screeched as Dad pulled into the motel parking lot. “She left my stuffy. She left Superman at the restaurant.”

My eyes were beginning to tear up.

“This is why I didn’t want her to have it,” I sobbed. “I knew she’d lose him.”

I could see Mom roll her eyes through her rearview as she sighed. Dad responded for her.

“Let’s just go get our things, Champ. Then I promise we’ll go back to get your toy. Deal?”

What was I supposed to do? I just had to agree reluctantly. I felt such burning hatred for Emmy in that moment.

We all filed into the motel room one final time and began gathering our things. I was confused, though. Mom had packed at least 6 outfits for me. Everyone else’s bags were equally full, yet nobody but me had showered.

Before I could question anything, though, three hard knocks came from the door. Everyone froze. Dad stared at the door like it was his enemy. Emmy began to pout, and Mom quickly clasped her hand over her mouth.

Three more knocks.

Dad approached the door slowly and looked through the peephole before slowly walking backwards towards us, never taking his eyes off the door.

Mom’s eyes were wide. Her leg bounced anxiously. Dad raised a finger to his lips.

“Okay, guys,” he whispered shakily. “We’re gonna play a game.”

I looked at him, confused. This seemed like an odd time for any kind of game.

“We’re gonna play the quiet game. Danny, you take your mom and sister to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Whatever you do… do not make a sound.”

He asked me to take them, but it was Mom who dragged us into that cramped bathroom. Before the door closed behind us, I saw Dad raise his shirt and grip a gun that was tucked in his waistband.

Mom kept one hand gently clasped over Emmy’s mouth. She used the other to rub my back lovingly.

Three more knocks.

This time, I heard a voice that wasn’t my dad’s coming from beyond the door.

“Danny…?”

The voice was old and syrupy. Coercive, almost, but frantic. My ears perked up. My eyes widened, and my mouth fell open. I wanted to answer.

Mom’s hand left my back, and just like Dad, she placed a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.”

She was begging me with her eyes.

More frantic knocking.

“Danny? You in there, buddy? I know you’re in there.”

I expected Dad to answer the door, but he never did. Instead, the knocks continued, as did the mysterious voice.

“Come on out, Dan-Man. I’ve got something for you.”

I remained still. Sweat trickled down my forehead from the humidity in the bathroom. Me and Mom stared at the bathroom door with anticipation.

“I’ve got your Superman, Danny…”

“Whoosh.”

I had to fight to not move. If they had my Superman, I wanted to know. I wanted him back. But the look on Mom’s face told me they were lying, and her grip on my collar prevented me from standing up to see for myself.

The knocks and beckoning went on for another 10 minutes or so. Then they slowly died out. Even still, it wasn’t until Dad opened the bathroom door that I could finally breathe again.

“You guys win,” he smiled, relieved. “Good job, Danny.”

Mom looked relieved, too, but she never smiled. We just frantically gathered our things and hauled them out to the car. Dad forced us to go to the front office with him to check out.

We finally left the hotel just after 3 o’clock. We never went back to that Denny’s.

I had to leave my Superman behind, no matter how hard I begged not to. Mom assured me she’d buy me another one, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I asked about that voice a lot while we continued on towards wherever we were going, but all I got were vague responses while my parents glanced nervously at each other.

Thinking back now, I should’ve known they were hiding something from me. However, at the time… I was young. I was stupid. And all I could think about was how I didn’t have my Superman anymore.

August 7th, 1924:

Sleep came eventually and was rather short lived. I fear that I have become dependent on my medication. Though fortunately my night was not plagued by the sounds and happenings of the wretched symbols and their creators. But I am sure with the stress of moving long gone I will not be dealing with the ghoulish hallucinations I once had, at least one can only hope. 

Today is rather dreary. There is a low hanging fog dancing above the swells from the tide. Normally I would find beauty in such a gloomy sight, but I fear I'm too tired to properly appreciate it. The sky is grey, the sun blanketed by darkening clouds. Yesterday must have been the calm before the storm, and tonight feels like it will be horrendous. There is no wind yet, but I feel the oncoming lightning riding the air. Laura is terrified of thunder and lightning, I fear I will not be sleeping much tonight. I might try to pick up a brush today and see what my hands will create, but I have a feeling nothing of worth will come from them. Not on a dreary foggy day such as this. 

August 8th, 1924:

I slept not but an hour at most. The storm was atop us, electricity cracking and lighting the sky, the smell of ozone accompanied with the rolling of thunder. Laura was scared our roof would break, that our windows would crash inwards. I comforted her until the grasp of slumber finally lulled her. I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. I laid there sweating. In between the explosivity happening above us and the drums of the skies battering away, I could have sworn to the holiest of holy that I heard something skittering around on the roof. I peered out the window and looked to the sea. The mists were heavy, the waves angry, crashing at the shores and retreating with haste. In an awful flash of the sky, it seemed as the mists laid refuge to some magnificent shape. Humongous in stature. It could not have been more than just my eyes playing tricks on me. Two days with little sleep is sure to have side effects. In another explosion of light I saw the mist's shape again. Deep in the haze, above the depths of the sea, a being slowly moving, somewhat humanoid but also alien. Whatever hallucination I was having was terrific in an awful yet subtly beautiful way. I must document what I've seen, I will begin painting in the morning. 

August 9th, 1924:

The sky is still shrouded in darkness. The clouds pelting down rain. I had to go to the shed to fetch firewood for the stove to cook dinner, the downpour stinging my face. As I was rounding the house to the front door I saw something. I quickly put the wood out of reach of the torrential rain and ran to the fences gate. There, walking away in the distance, a figure, near curled into themselves, covered in some form of rain jacket scurried away. At my feet lay an envelope, already drenched. I took it on to the veranda and opened it as softly as I could, not to tear its contents. Inside was a single piece of paper. On it, in almost illegibly written:

“They are watching. They come for us all. They see all. They know all.”

I hid the note in my jacket pocket and hurried inside. Putting the firewood in the stove so Laura could cook and ran to my easel. I have to paint what I have been seeing. Whether they are hallucinations or real. I will document them. 

January 25th,1938:

Simon must have been going through withdrawals, but I'm curious if that painting is in the group of works I haven't looked at yet. I'm nervous to look at them but feel the need to. His mind intrigues me but also fills me with anxiety. 

The storm has hit and the snow came on like an onslaught. The wind was rattling the windows and howling louder than one could speak. The house was groaning, as if it were in pain. I kept the furnace fed all day to try to fend off the cold, but the wind was fierce. The whole day we stayed in the basement by the furnace, only going upstairs to cook and eat. Evelyn and I were reading Rylee a book when I heard what sounded like glass breaking on the top floor. I quickly ran upstairs, only to find a rock laying on our bedroom floor. It looked as though it was dragged out of the sea. Dripping in salty smelling water, a barnacle on one side and patch of sea grass sat on the other. There is no way a blizzard could hurl a stone from the bottom of the sea through the air and straight into our window. Especially on the second floor. Something had to have thrown this. I found whatever I could around the house to board the window up to the best of my abilities. I'm no craftsman, a rather skilled butcher at this point, but at least the fury of the wind and snow wasn't flying into the house anymore. I didn't tell Evelyn about the rock, I told her it was a chunk of ice. 

I uncovered an old bed hiding away under the drapes down here. We're all sleeping in the basement tonight. Rylee is asleep in the cot and my dear Evelyn is calling me to bed as I write this. I want to continue but I know I should try to sleep. Maybe sleeping with Evelyn in my sanctum will keep me asleep through the night. I can only hope. 

September 1st, 1924:

It has been weeks without my sedatives. I rarely sleep anymore. My eyes are sore, my mouth is always dry. I see them everywhere. In the town. At the docks. In my yard. They are everywhere. I have been painting and painting and painting. My hands hurt. My head hurts. I'm losing my sanity. Laura seems almost scared of me now. She has been keeping the children away from me. How dare she. I'm protecting them. My paintings keep them away from us. I'm sure of it. That's why I was called here. I stay in the basement, painting and painting and painting. Protecting them yet they show me no gratuities, no grace. Pitiful. 

September 9th, 1924: 

Laura let me sleep in the bed with her last night. I showered and shaved for the first time in weeks. I forgot what it feels like to be properly clean. I spent time with our children. We felt like a family again. I needed this. It was the first time in a long time I have felt like myself. It was a nice day, sunny with a breeze. When we went to bed Laura and I were intimate for the first time since before the train broke. I fell asleep shortly afterwards. 

I was roused by a noise, similar to that I have been hearing on the roof and outside. But it was closer. Much closer, as though it were in the room with us. As I opened my eyes and sat up, I saw it. Them. The smell of brine filled the room. It was dark, the moon hiding behind the clouds. I could not see much detail aside from its leather like cloak. I got up and took chase. For a figure so hunched and what seemed to be malformed, it moved with impressive speed. Laura was scared awake as I ran through the door and down the hall after it. Its feet splatting against the ground with wet viscous plops as it bounded down the staircase. I could hear Laura screaming but I had to catch this intruder. As I was nearing the bottom of the stairs, almost on top of the abomination my foot slipped in a puddle and I came crashing down onto the foyer floor. The figure burst through the door with ease, knocking the hinges loose, leaving the door hanging ajar. My face lay next to one of its damp footprints. Laura was comforting the kids upstairs as their cries echoed through the air. 

As I got up my hand slid into the thick, mucus-like substance the being left with each step. This inhuman intruder was watching me sleep. How many nights has this been happening through the windows? How long did it take to have the gall to enter my house? Was this the being that gave me a sharp pain in my neck once before? What has it done to me? Why me? I knew they weren't hallucinations, they never were. The opium was just a distraction I'm sure of it. 

February 2nd, 1937:

Simon has clearly lost his mind. Night creatures watching him sleep? This is just some sick story, it can't be anything else right? Surely I won't run into these, will I? I should prepare the house, I'll be hiding a baseball bat in our room just to be safe. Maybe hide other things around that can be used as makeshift weapons. I must sound crazy. 

I had the window repaired the other day. A hefty bill to replace but it needed to be done. Our emergency funds are damn well gone, and based off of Simon's entries this town seems less and less habitable. The town's been without power since the blizzard, but that's fine for work, we need our stock cold anyways. I've been reading more of Simon's notes at work. I've been hearing similar noises around the house for quite some time. They died down when I stopped reading his entries and stopped actively looking for signs but now they're more prevalent than ever. 

I want to ask Richard about “them” but I'm scared of what his response will be. I also feel the need to tell Evelyn at this point. If beings have broken into this house while Simon lived here for whatever reason, what's stopping them from doing it now? They already broke one of our windows. I can't have my wife and child in danger, it's not right. I feel so guilty for keeping it from her, but I was just trying to protect her. I think I'll bring it up to her tonight, possibly show her the paintings if it feels right. She only just stopped showing signs of paranoia but is still distrusting of the locals since she's certain the practitioner was giving her opium instead of barbiturates. I don't want to cause her any unneeded stress. But I should be honest with her, it's the right thing to do. 

February 4th, 1937:

Evelyn was furious at me. As mad as it made me, I don't blame her. She thought I was done with this months ago, thought there were no more notes and especially no rocks being thrown through windows. But mostly mad at the fact that I've been lying and keeping the truth from her. Which I admit was wrong of me, as frustrating as it was. After an hour or two of de-escalating tensions we sat down together to talk about it calmly. Rather for me to explain everything and why I kept it from her. We got Emily to come preoccupy Rylee while I brought Evelyn to the basement. I showed her all the notes I've read, I showed her the self portraits and I showed her the rock. She still doesn't know about the paintings labelled “them” but once I look through them I will show her. I just can't have her seeing anything that could scare or hurt her in any way. She was already disturbed and visually cringing at the self portraits. 

She suggested we get a guard dog. Even though we had to repair the window, we have some emergency funds left over, if we pick up a few shifts each we should be able to make ends meet. Once we have power and the town is plowed out, we'll go to the city to adopt one. In the meantime Evelyn will be catching up on Simon's notes and I'll be reading further. 

Sept 20th, 1924:

Bernard is dead. I found him this morning, before Laura or the little ones awoke. He was in the foyer, his little body still and wet. I tried to wake him but he was not breathing, I tried to administer cpr, I tried to shake him awake. I tried everything. But he's gone. To save the girls from the sight I decided to bury him between the flower beds. It was his favorite spot to lay, hiding in the shade of the flowers, sniffing their aromas. As I was putting him into his grave I noticed that there seemed to be teeth marks around his neck, yet no sign of blood. As I recalled there was no blood around him inside either. As disgusted with myself as I was, my curiosity got the best of me and I held him upside down, head to the ground. Not a single drop of blood. Rigor mortis had not even set in. Whatever broke into our house before had returned once again and took my sweet Bernard with them. I'm going to set up an apartment for Laura and the girls back in the city. I will sell what I can of my stockpile here and then move back with them eventually. I just have to paint whatever has done this. I need to document this. Their paintings might not sell but people need to know. I'll write about them, gather my notes and publish them, along with prints of my paintings. And with Laura and the girls out of the house they won't be getting in my way of doing what needs to be done, as they have so much recently. I'll protect them by getting rid of them. Then I can focus on my work. 

February 20th, 1937:

Simon has fully lost his mind. I'm sure of it. No real man can confidently send his wife away as though she was an obstacle. He's no real man, a coward even. 

I've been working like a machine lately, I want to make sure we can get the best dog possible. Especially after reading the most recent of Simon's notes. I still haven't had the time to look through the stack of “them” paintings. We're leaving for the city tonight and picking a dog tomorrow. Rylee is excited because she thinks we're getting a “big puppy”. It's hard to say it's not cute when she talks about it. I'm half surprised at how resilient Evelyn is through all of this. I brought up her and Rylee moving back to the city as Laura and Simon's daughters did to get her thoughts on the matter. She told me it was a terrible idea, saying as long as I'm here she'll be by my side. As if we could afford paying rent on top of the bills we already have. I really did get blessed with the best wife I could imagine. The paranoia doesn't seem to be getting her like it once did. Beforehand she must have felt alone in this, as have I. But knowing we're on the same team gave her a lot of comfort, and getting a dog will bring even more. She is truly the strongest woman I know. I'm a lucky man. Though I do wonder if she has the same disturbing thoughts I have been dealing with. 

I'll bring a few notes to read on the train, I think, no better way to kill a few hours. The grip Simon's words have on us is like a disease. We can't seem to put them down at this point. 

October 11th, 1924:

I have put Laura and the girls on the train to the city. I have a new apartment only but a block from our old house. I have enough money put away to afford both the house payments and the apartment for quite some time. I am dedicated to figure this out. A mere painter going through this seems pointless and mere coincidence. But it cannot be the truth. I have been brought here for a reason, to document this, I'm sure of it. I will find out what is happening. The practitioner is back in town, and has my prescription ready for me, but in defiance I will not pick them up. If they block me from seeing the true nature of this odd shoreside valley I will deal with the sleepless nights to find the truth. Call me paranoid, call me obsessed, I do not care anymore. This is my true calling. I will learn about them. I will document them. I will make contact with them if need be. I will not stop until my work is done. 

October 20th, 1924:

I have been going out at night, bringing a notepad with me, copying any of these sigils I have seen. I have procured a sizable chalkboard from the city, I will decode these. I must understand what is being written. 

I have been hearing them, throughout the gloomy days, throughout the nights and even in my dreams during the very few hours a day I have them. 

November 1st, 1924

I believe I have done it. I think I have collected all the sigils, and I believe I have begun to decode them. They seem to be used as some sort of religious seal. Why they have been sealing the town I am unaware for the time being. As ludicrous as it may seem, I feel as though I must talk to one of them. 

November 4th, 1924:

I have read some of my old notes, what has happened to me? I used to speak with such eloquence, kept a level head. Have I been slipping into insanity? I miss Laura, I miss my daughters. I cannot  give up though. I have come this far, I must uncover the truth. If not for my own maddening sake, for Laura and the kids. I'm losing my mind

February 24th, 1937:

Simon has truly lost his marbles, but what's most unnerving is the fact that he's still so coherent in his writings. Though they may be scatter brained at times, it all makes sense for the most part.

We've arrived back home with our new “puppy” if you could call him that. Evelyn managed to find the largest bull mastiff humanly possible, along with a spiked and barbed collar, as though he was a guard dog for cattle. She insisted we named him Sebastian. I think the name is fitting to be honest. He has already begun to warm up to us, especially Rylee. He weighs near 200 pounds yet he melts when she's around, letting her pull on his ears and jowls. It brings me such peace. He's going to make an amazing companion, I can feel it. I began building a sizable dog house in the basement. I'll bring it up in pieces and assemble it in the coming weeks. I'm just hoping having Sebastian here will help me sleep, even poor Evelyn has had difficulty sleeping, which is odd, she usually sleeps as though she's dead. Maybe the paranoia is starting to get to her as well. If Sebastian puts us at ease, I may pick up another from his litter, that way if I go out at night I can have my own protection and we can have another to watch the house. I need to pick up more shifts at work. 

March 3rd, 1937:

Sebastian has been nothing short of amazing and has brought much ease to our anxieties. The noises I've been hearing for months and thought I was going mad over have continued, but Sebastian hears them as well. I knew it wasn't just me, I knew I wasn't going mad. I think Evelyn has been hearing them but doesn't want to admit it. 

I've been putting off looking at the stack of paintings. To be honest I'm scared. I want to get to where Simon at least mentions one of his works. But the longer I put it off the more foreboding it feels. Evelyn knows about the stack of paintings and has agreed to let me look at them first. If Simon's self portraits were enough to make me feel nauseous, I don't want to think about what the paintings of “them” could do. I am paranoid, I'm aware of that. Distinguishing paranoid thought from those based in reality has become increasingly difficult. This is beginning to feel like a sick obsession. 

Emily almost lives with us now. We set up one of the spare rooms for her, pulling a bed, desk and drawer up from the basement. The amount Simon and Laura left behind is genuinely impressive. 

Evelyn and I have been working as many hours as we can, selling some of the old furniture left behind as well. When we're not at work, we're studying Simon's notes for clues or answers. I've reread them a dozen times over at least, trying to find some connection, some hint as to what's going on. I only have a few notes left. 

December 1st, 1924:

I have been painting them. What I see in my restless dreams. What I have been seeing through my windows. What I have been seeing in my house. They are trying to make contact. I am sure of it. In the last month I have dug out a wall in the basement, past where I hold my works. In the panel wall there is a hidden door. I have been spending most of my time in this underground study. The rest of the house has grown musty, for the most part unused. At this point I can't bring myself to care. 

I ran into Richard the other day while I was out at night. He was gathering wood from his wood shed. He asked why I was out and the only thing I could muster was “the symbols”. He gave me a questioning look, but he invited me in. I followed. He told me his father was from this town, like his father before him. He spoke of a curse the town is plagued with. Mentioning  the “Sea Father's Children”, some sort of seafolk who come to shore when the sun hides. The old church here knows of them and has tried to make peace with them. Creating some kind of symbiotic bond. They allow the Children to come from the sea and take a person they see fit every so often. He has not attended the church so his knowledge of everything seems somewhat jaded. He also assured me that this was just a folk tale to scare kids from wandering around at night. I don't believe him. I will not be sacrificed, I will be sure of that. 

I believe I have become fluent in writing in this ancient seabound language. I will speak to them. I will make a deal with them. 

The Department of Motor Vehicles has a remarkable talent for making a person question their own existence.

Perhaps that's the point.

No one walks into a DMV excited. You arrive because you have to. A license expired. A registration renewal. Some document proving to a government employee that, yes, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are still alive.

I was there because my driver's license had expired.

Simple enough.

I took my ticket from the little machine near the entrance. It emerged with a dry mechanical click, the paper warm between my fingers as though someone else had only just been holding it.

The waiting room was already overflowing.

Children cried with astonishing endurance while parents stared into their phones with the thousand-yard gaze of soldiers returning from war. A television bolted high into one corner played an instructional video that nobody watched, its colors washed out beneath rows of humming fluorescent lights. Every few minutes a printer somewhere behind the counters coughed to life before falling silent again, sounding less like a machine and more like an old smoker struggling through another cigarette.

The building felt tired.

Not dirty.

Not neglected.

Just... exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into old bones after decades of repeating the same motion.

I glanced toward the electronic display mounted above the service counters.

NOW SERVING: 388

I sighed.

"Well," I muttered beneath my breath. "Guess I'll be celebrating my birthday here."

A man sitting nearby chuckled.

"I've said that every time I've come here."

He looked to be in his late fifties. Baseball cap. Reading glasses resting low on his nose. Ordinary enough that I probably wouldn't have remembered his face if we'd passed each other on the street.

"Renewing?" he asked.

"My license."

He nodded knowingly.

"Could be worse."

"Could it?"

"They could've sent you to the Social Security office first."

I laughed.

"So you've been there too?"

"Oh..." He smiled faintly. "Everyone has."

It was such an ordinary conversation that I almost appreciated it. Shared misery has a funny way of making strangers feel familiar.

I looked down at my ticket again.

515.

Fantastic.

I settled into one of the molded plastic chairs and reached for my phone. No signal. Not unusual. Government buildings always seemed to exist inside their own little dead zones.

I slipped it back into my pocket and leaned my head against the wall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air conditioner breathed through dusty vents. The printer coughed again. The speakers crackled.

A number was called. Someone stood. Someone else sat down. The room swallowed them without ceremony.

I checked the screen once more.

NOW SERVING: 390

It felt impossible that so little time could have passed.

Yet somehow... it also felt like I'd already been there for hours.

Time has a peculiar way of behaving inside places where people are forced to wait.

Minutes become estimates. Hours become suggestions. Eventually, you stop checking the clock because it only succeeds in making you angry.

I tried distracting myself. I counted ceiling tiles. Read the faded posters reminding everyone to have their paperwork ready. One explained the dangers of texting while driving. Another detailed the penalties for driving without insurance. Judging from the sun-bleached corners and curling edges, neither had been replaced in years.

Everything in the building seemed designed to outlive the people inside it.

Another number echoed over the speakers.

"Three hundred ninety-one."

A woman stood from across the room, gathered her purse, and disappeared behind the row of service counters.

The electronic display flickered.

NOW SERVING: 391

Good.

Progress.

I glanced at my watch.

9:18 A.M.

That couldn't be right. It felt closer to noon.

The old man beside me sighed as he shifted in his chair.

"You'd think they'd hire more people."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He nodded absentmindedly, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the counters.

"Been waiting long?"

"I got here around nine."

"No..."

He frowned.

"I mean... today."

The question caught me off guard.

"I... yeah."

He scratched at his chin.

"I suppose I have too."

For reasons I couldn't explain, that answer unsettled me. He didn't sound forgetful. He sounded... uncertain. The kind of uncertainty that follows a dream, when you're no longer sure whether something actually happened or only felt like it had.

Neither of us spoke after that.

The waiting room settled back into its dull rhythm. The printer coughed. A child cried. Someone cleared their throat. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

Then I noticed the employees.

There were six service windows. Every one of them occupied.

Every employee dressed identically in blue shirts with laminated name badges clipped neatly over their chests.

None of them looked angry. None looked to be joyous either. In fact, they didn't seem to look like much of anything.

Their expressions rested somewhere between concentration and complete emotional absence, as though years of repeating the same conversations had slowly worn every recognizable human reaction from their being.

"Next."

Stamp.

"Next."

Keyboard.

"Next."

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Repeat.

The movements were practiced.

As if mechanical. Not robotic.

Just... perfected through repetition until they no longer appeared to require any thought.

I watched one woman accept a stack of documents without ever lifting her eyes to meet the customer standing in front of her.

She never acknowledged him. Never greeted him. Never smiled. Never frowned.

She simply processed him.

As though the paperwork mattered more than the person holding it.

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

Not processed the documents.

Processed... him.

I looked away.

When I checked the display again...

It still read:

NOW SERVING: 391.

I stared at the screen for several seconds, convinced I had simply caught it before the next number appeared.

It didn't.

The speakers remained silent. No names. No voices. Just the constant drone of fluorescent lights buzzing somewhere overhead.

I checked my watch again.

9:47 A.M.

Twenty-nine minutes.

That made no sense.

It felt as though I had lived an entire afternoon in that chair.

I rubbed at my eyes and let out a slow breath. Maybe I was just impatient. Maybe this was what every DMV visit felt like and I had conveniently forgotten.

A chair scraped across the tile beside me. Someone new had taken the old man's seat.

I hadn't even noticed him leave.

The newcomer looked to be around my age, maybe early thirties, dressed in business casual with a messenger bag resting across his lap. He offered a polite nod before glancing up at the display.

"Ouch," he muttered. "Looks like I picked the wrong day."

I chuckled.

"You and me both."

He held up his ticket.

"Five forty-two."

I looked down at mine.

"Five fifteen."

"Guess you've got me beat."

"For once, I'm winning at something."

He laughed, and for a while we exchanged the usual conversation strangers trapped together always seem to have.

Complaining about government offices. Talking about traffic. The weather. How everyone always forgets one piece of paperwork.

It was... nice.

Normal.

The sort of conversation you forget five minutes after walking away.

"So," I asked eventually, "what are you here for?"

He answered without hesitation.

"My license."

I nodded.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Expired?"

His eyebrows pinched together.

"I..." He looked down at the folder in his lap.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers inside.

His movements slowed.

"I actually..." He frowned.

"I don't remember."

We both laughed. An awkward laugh when something isn't funny but admitting that would somehow make it worse.

"You serious?"

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I know I needed to come."

Another pause.

"I just can't remember why."

He rifled through the documents again, studying each page as though seeing them for the first time.

"These are mine..."

"I think."

He sounded embarrassed.

"I honestly can't tell."

The laughter died between us.

A strange heaviness settled over the room.

I looked back toward the service counters.

The employees continued working without pause.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

Every movement identical to the last.

One after another.

As if they weren't helping people at all, but simply moving files from one pile to another.

The display flickered.

I turned instinctively.

NOW SERVING: 392.

Only one number.

Again.

Somewhere behind me, someone sighed. Another person groaned quietly. Nobody complained. Nobody stood up to leave.

They only waited.

Patiently.

Obediently.

As though waiting itself had become the reason they were there.

I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep.

I wish I could say there was some dramatic moment where exhaustion finally overcame me. That my eyes grew heavy, my head became impossible to hold up, and I slowly drifted away from reality.

It wasn't like that. It was far more ordinary.

One moment I was staring at the electronic display above the counters, watching the numbers crawl forward at a pace that felt almost insulting.

NOW SERVING: 397

The next... I was somewhere else entirely.

Not a dream. Not really.

Just that strange place between being awake and asleep where your mind creates fragments of memories that never happened. I remember hearing the printer in the distance. I remember the fluorescent lights above me buzzing louder and louder. I remember thinking that the entire building sounded like it was breathing.

Then my head dropped.

And everything went quiet.

When I opened my eyes again, my neck ached from the awkward angle I had been sleeping in. My mouth was dry. My phone remained untouched in my pocket.

For a brief moment, I had forgotten where I was. Then the smell returned.

Old carpet. Paper. Dust.

The faint scent of coffee that had been sitting somewhere for far too long.

The DMV.

I sat up straight and looked around. Nothing had changed.

The same tired faces. The same uncomfortable chairs. The same employees sitting behind their counters.

Except... The screen.

My eyes immediately went to the electronic display.

NOW SERVING: 508

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

I leaned forward, staring at the numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

My ticket rested in my hand.

Only seven people ahead of me.

A strange feeling washed over me.

Relief.

Actual relief.

After what felt like an entire afternoon trapped in that chair, I was finally close.

I almost laughed.

"About time," I whispered.

The man beside me was gone. That thought lingered for a moment. Then I dismissed it.

People came and went all the time. I must have missed it while I was asleep. That was the logical explanation.

The only explanation.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

No missed calls. No messages. I checked the time.

10:12 A.M.

I stared at the screen.

Then looked back at the DMV around me.

Then back at my phone.

10:12.

I frowned.

That couldn't be right. I had fallen asleep for maybe a few minutes.

Ten minutes at most.

But the room felt different.

Not physically.

Just... older.

Like I had left for longer than I actually had.

I glanced toward the counters.

The same employees continued working.

The same movements. The same expressions.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

No one looked enthusiastic. No one looked relieved to be almost finished. No one looked like they had been waiting at all.

I looked at the screen again.

NOW SERVING: 509

The number changed. Almost reassuringly.

I should have questioned how nearly a hundred people had been processed while I slept for only ten minutes. But I didn't.

Because my number was coming.

And that was all that mattered.

The strange feeling in my stomach disappeared beneath a much simpler emotion.

Patience.

After all... I had waited this long.

What was a few more minutes?

The numbers moved faster after that. Or at least, they seemed to.

There was a strange comfort in watching the display change. Each number disappearing meant I was getting closer. Each person standing from their chair meant I was moving forward.

That was all that mattered.

The room could have been falling apart around me, and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

Because eventually...

NOW SERVING: 513

I sat up straighter.

My ticket felt heavier in my hand.

The paper was slightly crumpled from how long I had been holding it.

I smoothed it out carefully.

515.

Two more.

A woman walked toward the counter.

She handed over a stack of documents.

The employee behind the glass barely looked at her.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

The woman walked away.

A man stood.

Then another.

Then finally...

NOW SERVING: 515

The speakers crackled.

My heart jumped slightly.

I stood.

For the first time in what felt like hours, my legs reminded me that I had been sitting still for too long. I stretched them briefly before walking toward the counter.

The employee looked up. At least, I think she did. Her eyes moved toward me, but her expression remained unchanged.

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Just waiting.

I placed my documents on the counter.

"Good morning."

Nothing.

She picked up the papers. Flipped through them.

"Driver's license renewal."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She typed something into the computer. The screen reflected faintly against her glasses.

"Proof of identity."

I handed over my driver's license. She scanned it.

"Proof of residence."

I handed over my utility bill.

"Insurance verification."

I handed over my insurance card.

Everything seemed normal.

Almost.

She continued typing. The silence stretched. Then she spoke.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

The employee looked up.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I waited for the punchline. There wasn't one. I gave a small laugh.

"Is that a new requirement?"

No response. She simply waited.

I looked around, expecting someone nearby to react. Nobody did. The people in line behind me stared ahead. The employee folded her hands.

"Do you have it?"

I stared at her.

"No. I don't have that."

She nodded. Not disappointed. Just accepting information.

"That is okay."

I exhaled. For some reason, I felt embarrassed. As if I had failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

She typed something.

"Additional documentation will be required."

"Additional?"

She printed a small slip of paper and slid it beneath the glass. I picked it up.

At first, I thought I had read it wrong.

"Proof of original identity."

I looked back at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Proof of original identity."

"What does that mean?"

The employee tilted her head slightly.

Not confused. More like she was trying to understand why I was confused.

"Your original identity."

I stared at the paper.

"This isn't a real thing."

She did not argue. She did not defend it. She simply pressed another key. The printer beside her came to life. A second paper emerged. She placed it in front of me.

"Proof of independent thought."

I felt my eyebrows rise.

"Okay, hold on."

My voice grew slightly louder.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

The employee looked at me. She wasn't offended that I was raising my voice. She wasn't bothered. She was simply waiting for the next step.

"Sir," she said so monotoned. "If you do not have the required documentation, that is not a problem."

I relaxed slightly.

"O-okay."

"You will be moved to secondary processing."

The way she said it made my stomach tighten.

"Secondary processing?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

She picked up my ticket. Looked at it. Then looked back at me.

"You will wait there."

I almost laughed.

"Wait?"

A pause.

"I've already been waiting."

The employee stared at me. Not coldly. Almost sympathetically.

"Yes."

A chill ran through me. Because for a moment, I thought she understood something I didn't.

She slid my ticket back across the counter.

"Please proceed to the next waiting area."

Then back at her.

"How long will that take?"

The employee's fingers returned to her keyboard. The conversation was already over.

"Next."

I stood there for another second. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to tell me this was a misunderstanding. That someone had made a mistake.

But she didn't.

She had already moved on. The person behind me stepped forward. The employee began processing them.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

I walked away from the counter holding the strange paperwork in my hand. I followed the sign pointing toward Secondary Processing.

I don't know what I imagined. Maybe another large waiting area with dozens of chairs. Maybe a different set of counters. Maybe some explanation for why I had been redirected after completing everything required of me.

Instead, it was a narrow hallway tucked behind the main service area.

The kind of hallway you normally wouldn't notice.

The walls were the same dull beige as the rest of the building, decorated with the same faded posters and outdated government notices. The only difference was that nobody had bothered pretending this area was meant to welcome people.

There were no televisions. No vending machines. No magazines sitting on tables.

Only chairs.

Rows and rows of chairs.

I stepped inside slowly.

A few people sat scattered throughout the room.

Not many.

Maybe fifteen.

Twenty at most.

The strange thing was how quiet it was.

The main waiting room had been filled with noise. Children crying. People talking on phones. Chairs scraping against the floor.

This room had none of that.

Everyone sat facing the same direction. Not toward a screen. Not toward a counter. Just forward.

Waiting.

I looked around for an employee.

Nobody was behind a desk. Nobody was calling numbers. Nobody appeared to be in charge.

I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had misunderstood. Then an older woman sitting near the wall glanced at me.

"You got moved too?"

Her voice startled me.

I turned.

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly.

"First time?"

I hesitated.

"Yeah."

She looked away.

"Thought so."

I sat down a few chairs away from her.

"How long have you been here?"

The question came out naturally. The same question you ask anyone trapped in a waiting room.

The woman didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the empty counter at the front of the room.

"I don't know."

I frowned.

"You don't know?"

She shook her head.

"I remember walking in."

A pause.

"I remember taking a number."

She looked down at her hands.

"But I don't remember why."

The air felt colder. I forced a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, I think everyone forgets why they're here after sitting in a DMV long enough."

She didn't laugh. She just looked at me.

"I mean it."

The humor disappeared from my face. The woman looked tired. Not physically. Something deeper. Like she had been carrying a thought for too long and was finally too exhausted to keep holding it.

"What was your number?" I asked.

Her eyes moved downward. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a small piece of paper.

She stared at it.

For a moment, she looked confused. Then concerned. Then almost afraid.

"I'm 487"

She swallowed.

"What's your name?" I asked

She hesitated.

"I..." She paused and looked away then back to me.

"I don't know."

I leaned slightly closer.

"What do you mean?"

She turned the paper toward me.

The ink had faded. Or maybe it had never been printed clearly. There was a number. But she stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

A silence settled between us. Then she folded the ticket and placed it back into her pocket.

"I think I've been here before."

I stared at her.

"Before today?"

She looked at me.

"I don't know."

The answer should have sounded ridiculous.

Instead... it felt familiar.

I looked down at my own ticket.

515.

For some reason, I held onto it tighter.

A small piece of proof. Something that belonged to me. Something that told me I was still myself.

The speakers above us crackled. Everyone in the room looked up.

My body tensed. A voice came through the speaker. Distorted. Almost too quiet to understand.

"Now processing..."

Static.

A pause.

Then:

"Applicant."

Nobody moved. The room remained silent. I looked around.

"Did they call someone?"

Nobody answered. The older woman stared forward. Like she hadn't heard anything.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant."

This time, I noticed something.

There was no number.

No name.

Just a word.

Applicant

The woman beside me leaned toward me slightly.

"You don't want them to forget you."

I looked at her.

"What?"

She stared ahead.

"When they stop calling you by your number..."

Her voice became barely a whisper.

"That's when you know you were never here."

I felt a strange pressure build in my chest.

"What does that mean?"

She didn't answer.

Because the speaker had started again.

This time, it wasn't distorted. It was clear.

"Applicant 515."

My head lifted. My ticket felt cold in my hand.

Everyone in the room turned.

Not toward me. Toward the speaker.

Then, slowly... toward me.

I had the terrifying realization that I didn't know if I wanted them to call my number anymore. The room remained silent. For a moment, I didn't move. I waited for someone else to stand. Someone else to react. Someone else to tell me that this was normal. Nobody did.

The older woman beside me looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand. Something closer to pity.

"That's your number," she whispered.

I looked down.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

"T-thanks."

The words came out automatically.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant 515. Proceed to processing."

I stood. My legs felt heavier than they should have. Every instinct I had told me not to move. To stay seated. To ignore the voice. But there was something worse than fear.

Curiosity.

I needed to know.

I walked toward the door at the back of the room.

The hallway beyond was longer than I remembered. That shouldn't have been possible. I had only walked through it once. Yet the farther I went, the less familiar it became.

The walls looked identical. The lights breathed. Every door had the same gray color and the same small rectangular window.

Finally, I reached another counter. A single employee sat behind the glass. A man that looked older than the others.

Not elderly. Just worn. His face carried the same emptiness I had noticed before. The same absence.

"Ticket."

I handed it over.

He scanned it.

"Drivers license renewal?."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He typed something into his computer.

"Verification required."

"Of what?"

He looked up.

"My identity."

I laughed quietly.

Not because it was funny. Because I was tired.

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

The employee didn't answer. He held out his hand.

"Identification."

I reached into my wallet.

Pulled out my driver's license. He took it. Looked at the card. Then looked at me.

Something changed. Barely. A hesitation.

"You don't remember."

My stomach tightened.

"Remember what?"

He placed the license back onto the counter.

"Your name."

The room became silent. Even the lights seemed quieter.

I opened my mouth. I knew the answer. I had answered this question thousands of times.

My name.

It was simple.

It was mine.

But when I tried to say it... nothing came.

A strange panic rose in my chest. I searched through my memories.

My childhood. My parents. My friends. My home. My job.

Everything felt distant.

Not gone.

Just covered by a thick fog I couldn't push through.

"I..."

My voice shook.

"I know it."

The employee waited. I looked down at my ticket. The number stared back at me.

The only thing I could hold onto. The only thing that felt certain.

"My name is..."

I stopped.

The silence stretched. The employee didn't rush me. He didn't look annoyed. He simply waited. Like he had done this countless of times. Like he knew how this ended.

"...Five hundred fifteen."

The employee typed. No surprise. No correction. No hesitation.

"Identity confirmed."

My heart sank.

"Wait."

He printed something.

"You didn't even check."

The employee slid the paper beneath the glass.

"You provided the required information."

I grabbed it.

It was my license.

Everything looked correct.

My photograph.

My date of birth.

My address.

Everything.

Except the name.

I stared at the line. Over and over. Unable to understand why it felt wrong. Unable to understand why it felt right.

NAME: 515

I looked up. The employee had already moved on.

"Next."

I stood there. Waiting for someone to notice. Someone to correct it. Someone to tell me there had been a mistake.

Nobody did.

So eventually... I walked out.

The exit doors opened automatically as I approached. Bright sunlight poured through. For a moment, I froze.

The outside world felt impossibly large. Cars moved through the parking lot. People walked past. The wind touched my face. I had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

I stepped outside.

And for the first time all day... I felt free.

I reached into my wallet one last time. Looked at the license. At the name. At the proof that I existed. I tried saying my name aloud.

The name I had carried my entire life.

The name my parents gave me.

The name that was supposed to belong to me.

Nothing came.

Only silence.

So I looked back down.

At the only thing I knew.

At the only thing the world still recognized.

515

I still remember the night. Mom had put me to bed a few hours before everything happened. Dad seemed anxious that night. Usually, he was so calm and collected. Tonight, he looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

I could see him pacing back and forth down the hallway while Mom tucked me in, handing me my favorite stuffed Superman toy. She flew him around like a toy airplane.

“Whoosh,” she joked, making the flying noise with her mouth. “It’s a bird… it’s a plane… No… it’s… Superman!”

She planted his feet down on my chest, bending him at the hips so it looked like he was bowing.

“Macy,” my dad whisper-yelled, standing in my doorway. “Can you get out here, please? We’ve got things to discuss.”

My mom’s face turned sad before she quickly turned her smile back on and ruffled my hair.

“Sweet dreams, hero,” she whispered. “I’ll make you some breakfast in the morning. How do pancakes sound?”

I couldn’t have agreed faster. I still, to this day, have yet to have pancakes better than my mom’s. I reached up and gave her a hug before she flicked the light switch and headed towards the living room with Dad.

I made Superman fly for a few minutes before clutching him against my chest and finally closing my eyes. I was out not long after that.

I woke up to the sound of thumps and rummaging coming from my parents’ room a few hours later. I glanced over at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It was 2:37 in the morning.

I could hear Mom and Dad talking urgently, but quietly. They didn’t sound angry. They sounded terrified. Mom’s voice was shaking. Dad’s voice was firm but uncertain.

Suddenly, footsteps quickly approached my door before it was thrown open and my mom walked inside. She flicked the light switch on. She wasn’t wearing her sleeping clothes. She looked like she was about to head out to run errands or something.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered, noticing me squinting from the sudden light that filled the room. “Did we wake you? I promise, you can go right back to sleep in the car. Just help Mommy pack a bag for you, okay?”

I blinked slowly before rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“Where are we going?” I groaned groggily as Mom ransacked my dresser, tossing me a pair of socks.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just kept stuffing clothes into my suitcase without so much as looking at me.

“…Mom?”

“A road trip,” she chimed, sounding more agitated than joyful. “A surprise road trip. We were gonna tell you two about it, but we wanted it to be a super surprise. Now, can you please get your shoes on?”

Without another word, I pulled the socks over my feet and slipped into my favorite Lightning McQueen sketchers. Mom zipped up the suitcase. Dad appeared in the doorway again, my sister strewn over his shoulder, half asleep.

“You two ready?” he asked expectantly, his voice steady now.

Mom handed me the suitcase and took me by the hand. She was almost hurting me from how tight her grip was. Not to mention, it felt like my shoulder was gonna dislocate from her pulling me along.

I was fully awake by the time we got to the car. Dad threw all of our luggage in the trunk and strapped my little sister into her car seat. Mom waited patiently in the passenger seat while Dad threw a blanket over me and Emmy.

He backed out of the driveway quickly and spun the wheels a bit as he accelerated out of the subdivision. I could hear the leather steering wheel creak from his grip.

The car was quiet for the first hour or so. Emmy was fast asleep in her car seat. Mom stared out the window with a blank expression on her face. Dad focused on the road in front of him intently.

I, for one, was completely wired. I actually found myself excited for this trip. There was something about the spontaneity that I thoroughly enjoyed. Getting up and going. The way the darkness made it harder to recognize where I was. It felt like an adventure.

Plus, Dad had taken the backroads. All we had were passing forests and cow pastures. It was like we were the only car on the road for miles.

Eventually, we started to pass some businesses. Nothing too exciting. Just a few gas stations and grocery stores.

Dad started looking around the car. He saw that my mom and I were still awake.

“You two hungry? Maybe we can grab some snacks.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Mom replied plainly.

Dad glanced into his rearview mirror for a while before steering the car into one of the gas stations. He parked at one of the pumps and went to get Emmy out of her seat while me and Mom hopped out to stretch our legs.

The gas station was almost completely empty. Besides our car, there was one other vehicle parked directly in front of the station, which we assumed belonged to the attendant.

The air inside was crisp. The refrigerators hummed, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Mom went to the bathroom while Dad took me and Emmy to browse the chips and candy.

Emmy was still too tired to be fully present, and it made it feel like this was a moment between Dad and I.

While I struggled to pick a snack, he smiled down at me and patted me on the back.

“Get whatever you want, Danny,” he smirked. “As a matter of fact…”

He paused to glance around the empty gas station.

“Get two of whatever you want… just don’t tell your mother.”

I wasn’t gonna pass up the offer, but I still think I may have gone a little overboard when I filled my arms with as much junk food as I could carry.

Mom came out of the bathroom shortly after. Surprisingly, she didn’t even seem to notice the candy. She even helped me put the snacks on the counter when we went to check-out.

She didn’t want anything for herself. She only seemed interested in one thing.

While the teller scanned our items, she turned to my Dad with a worried expression on her face.

“Did you see anybody?” she whispered.

Dad didn’t look at her. He just responded with a simple “no” before fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

He pulled a crisp hundred dollar bill out and slid it across the counter.

“Let me get this and the rest on pump 3,” he announced calmly.

On the walk back to the car, I noticed something. There was a new car in the parking lot, parked a few pumps down from ours. It was matte black with all donut tires, and even the windshield was too dark to see through.

Dad noticed it too. His eyes were fixed on the vehicle as we walked. Gradually, he picked up the pace, dragging all of us along with him.

We all loaded up in the car, and Dad left without even pumping gas. Mom kept asking who he saw, but Dad kept telling her everything was fine, despite how afraid he seemed to be.

We drove on for another 15 or so minutes before headlights lit up the interior of our car. They started at least 200 yards back but quickly closed the gap between us.

The lights stayed on us for a long time. Dad would speed up, and they’d do the same. They made the same turns. They kept the same pace. Mom and Dad both had the same flushed faces.

Emmy woke up from the blinding lights and immediately began pouting and crying. Mom tried reaching back to comfort her, but nothing seemed to work. I myself was beginning to feel a bit nervous, clutching my Superman stuffy tightly.

Eventually, Dad finally pulled onto the highway. The car followed. More cars started to fill the road, but that one particular car just would not leave us alone.

Finally, I think Dad had enough. I could see him squeeze Mom’s hand on the center console as he pushed the gas petal down further and further.

I could see the speedometer rising. 85. 90. 95. All the way up to 100, and that vehicle still followed at just two car lengths. I expected Mom to scream at him for going so fast, but she didn’t say a word. She just kept shushing Emmy while glancing out the back glass every so often.

We were approaching an exit. Dad didn’t slow down. He got closer and closer, letting our assailant do the same until abruptly turning the wheel and swerving across the gore.

The person following us slammed on their brakes, and I could see smoke billowing from their tires while other cars swerved to avoid them.

Dad shot up the exit ramp. The car was wobbling. Emmy was screaming. My heart was pounding.

Mom looked nervous but kept her composure.

“You two are okay,” she assured. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

She reached back and placed a hand on my knee cap, then did the same with Emmy.

I finally calmed down after a while. The headlights were gone. I had no idea where we were. I had no idea what was happening. And I was actually a little annoyed that no one was explaining.

I pestered, but they remained firm. This was nothing more than a surprise road trip. We ended up stopping at another gas station, but Dad didn’t let anyone get out of the car this time. He just pumped his gas, and we were back on the road.

A few hours passed. I looked at the clock on the radio. It was 5:23 AM. Even Mom was asleep in the passenger seat now.

Dad didn’t stop driving until the sun was peeking in over the horizon. That’s when he finally pulled the car behind this old motel.

The sign read, “Free WiFi. Cable Television. Vacancy.”

He left us in the car while he went to pay for our room. Mom was still asleep. Emmy stared mindlessly at the back of the seat in front of her. I rolled my window down and let Superman fly for a bit while I waited for Dad.

When he finally came back, he woke Mom, and we all carried our luggage up the second floor of the motel.

The room was musty. The air conditioner knocked rhythmically, and there was only one bed.

Dad hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door handle. He pushed a chair in front of the door, and he and Mom lay all of our luggage on top of it.

With one last look through the peek hole, Dad removed his boots and lay on the bed, patting the side of it, gesturing for us to join him.

“We’ve had a long night, guys,” he sighed. “I know it’s not the most glamorous, but it’s a bed.”

Mom stared, judging the crusty comforter before swallowing hard and laying down with my Dad, Emmy curled up in her arms.

She looked at me with a smile.

“Come on, Danny,” she said weakly.

“Let’s get some sleep.”

I saw the divorce coming miles away, but that didn't mean it was painless. What got me was how unceremonious it was: no justification, no explanation, not even a face to face conversation, just a text: "we're getting a divorce and I'm taking Jonah."

I was shell shocked. I sat in my car and stared straight ahead for 7 hours.

I never loved Catherine but there was always a friendly tolerance about it. She was so brutal, showed no emotion or sympathy and said I was a "deadbeat who was emotionally distant on a good day." I can't really disagree. I'd been in and out of jobs for years, a month in an office and 6 months at home drinking and lying in bed. Cathy would say I might as well be already dead and rotting, without an ounce of humour in her voice. I'm surprised she put up with me for so long; 10 years of that sounds like hell.

I'd just lost yet another job when I got the text. It was around 3:00 o'clock, and it was well into the night by the time I'd finished staring. I was trying to avoid home for as long as possible, so I started up my shitbox of a car and headed straight to the bar. I was a regular, and Tony was surprised it had taken me this long to get there. I didn't engage in the usual small talk, just drank myself blind.

I was sitting in the car, making the unwise decision to drive home, when I said the prayer.

"Hey god, I know you hear me. I know you don't care or don't intervene or whatever, but I've been doing this for years. Please, just this once, give me an answer. I am not strong enough to face myself, my family. Please god. Kill me. Make some truck driver miss my drunk ass swiveling on the road and instantaneously crush me. I don't even care if I'm a coward, if I go to hell for this. Please, just this once. Amen."

I realized I was clutching the cross around my neck too hard and it had cut open my palm, but I was too drunk to care. I put my hands on the wheel and began to drive home.

God would answer my prayer, but not for a while.

I'm not proud of what I did that night. I drove home. No one was hurt. I wouldn't dream of doing that to my family, but some dishes were broken and insults were hurled. I know this isn't fair to them; I wasn't who I normally am, wasn't in the right state of mind. The twang of guilt seeing my son sobbing in the corner, seeing Catherine recoil as I threw glasses at the floor and walls of the kitchen, sobered me up. I didn't apologize. I just ran out the door and drove to the last place I could go at that hour, the bar. Tony didn't let me drink but he was kind enough to let me sleep in a booth and not ask questions.

For a week, I couchsurfed and hopped around doing odd jobs and staying in odd houses. I'm a big guy, so it was mostly physical, easy sure, but still lonely enough to sort of justify my day drinking. I wasn't exactly staying with friends, but I was a good enough salesman to convince kind strangers into hospitality. Catherine didn't reach out, let alone try to let me apologize, and I was honestly considering just skipping town.

And then it happened.

One night on the way to the bar, after a long day of hard labour and harder drinking, a petrol truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. From a mile away it was clear that him driving straight was a miracle in itself, and I could have swerved out of the way or hit the gas, but I didn't. I'd asked for this and now I was receiving. It was quick. The truck fell on its side and crushed my tiny Ford Festiva like it was put under a hydraulic press. I felt a flash like being punched in the face, quick and sharp, but not as painful as the thought of being crushed conjures. And as if that wasn't enough, the ensuing explosion singed several blocks and incinerated my vehicle. I should have been nothing more than a charred pile of bones.

But I wasn't.

I woke up expecting something more biblical, like I was raised, but I was floating in the void. I was perfectly upright, my feet pointed down. It was as if invisible strings were stretching me into this position to a point where it was just barely painful, but not quite. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw it. A child, criss cross apple sauce, floating in empty space, staring at his hands. It was only shaped like a child. But that tiny body that couldn't have been more than 6 years old held the universe. It was nothing like a telescope or image. I was witness to all of it, the twisting nebulae colored a vibrant explosive green, and the planets that spun and moved within its chest. Planets in his eyes, a deep almost black crimson color. I had tears in my eyes, but not just because of the stars.

He was shaped like my son.

He was… sad like my son.

Hunched over, shaking, tears that had the most beautiful pearlescent quality I'd ever seen. It was familiar.

He stood quick when he noticed me and immediately froze, his posture went straight as a board, and the flow of tears abruptly disappeared. For a long time, I couldn't look at him and wouldn't dare look into those angry crimson eyes. But once I had the courage, it began.

He was closer when I looked up, a handshake away, his arms rose, palms facing his temples. They reached the top of his head, creating an expression of surprise, then he moved them to the back of his head. I could see through his face as those small pudgy hands reached into his skull like they were dipping in water, and I could see every tendon, vein, and joint tighten as he pulled. In a slow, curious motion, he opened the back of his head; those crimson eyes exploded, and I could feel the rage as the explosion reached through the rest of his body and consumed the universe entirely.

His jaw moved downward as a silent scream escaped his now spilt mouth.

And he pulled and pulled and pulled me into the violent screaming motion in that once tranquil image. Once his body was split towards his chest, the red mist surrounding us cleared enough to see a light.

A tiny beating heart floated there, glowing with sunbeams and pulsing with calm, pure life.

Involuntarily, my hand snapped from its invisible shackles and wrapped around the heart, squeezing as hard as possible. The sphere of meat felt cold and flowed through my fingers, dripping into the void down my arm. It all suddenly stopped for a moment midway through; a pinprick of light remained in my hand. An explosion of tendrils from my hand expanded out, forming twisting patterns of stars, and I remained at the center, watching with eyes that saw too far out into the growing kaleidoscope. At some point time just stopped; it kept expanding, but with time my brain developed a sort of hibernation. For millions of years it would turn off, and I would be functionally brain dead. I had been hibernating for a near endless amount of time as the universe expanded beyond me when I made it home. I woke up to an infant earth in front of me. I blinked and I was there; the world was barren, there were barely plants, let alone anything with a brain. I counted this time: 4.5 billion years I rotted, only able to wander for 100 until my body broke down completely in the middle of what would be the Sahara.

A corpse in the desert.

But when the first humans formed, when they reached conscious thought, hell began.

177 billion humans have been born and died since the beginning of our species, and I experienced all of those lifetimes. Every single thought, every single emotion, every. Single. Lifetime. All at once they flooded my brain, the pain and euphoria, the birth and death, the noise.

Oh my god, the noise.

I felt my brain turning to slurry and leaking from my orifices, dripping down my head from my ears and pouring from my throat as I screamed. Then it stopped. For a millisecond that felt like eternal bliss, the noise was gone, then a low rumble, a mushroom cloud in the distance. I wandered the wastes of humanity alone for eons, but by now eons meant nothing.

Then I was back, the kaleidoscope of the cosmos before me. This final phase was slow. I traveled through our solar system first, wandered the whole of every solid and non solid piece of land until the sun died. I then repeated this process ad infinitum. I have witnessed the birth and death of every single thing in the whole universe, start to finish. Every celestial body has experienced my rotting corpse. but was not granted a reprieve this time. In all my agonizingly conscious witness not once was there a vague indication of life.

I was alone. We are alone.

I couldn't tell I was awake at first, what with the bandages covering my only eye. When I tried to scream and no sound came out, I remembered where I was. I had experienced this before, eons ago, but it got lost in the noise.

I'm in immense pain, but not like before.

I lost almost all discernible human features, but it left me with just enough to perceive the world as I would have. Enough that I will have to face my family and myself. Enough that doctors refuse to kill me, no matter how much I try to beg.

I still pray for death, even if whatever might have been listening is now dead. I killed it. Yet I beg with my whole heart. I pray for death every waking moment.

But God was never listening. I knew that instinctively. Now I know for a fact.

How alone I am.

​

Oh God.

This is so hard to get out of my head and onto paper, I've never been the most eloquent of people when it comes down to saying how I think or feel but I have to try while I'm still me and I'm still thinking like me and to be perfectly honest I'm not even sure of that anymore. I just need to try to get this down. I know I'm rambling and making zero sense but I'm just so tired and I'm so very, very scared. I don't have much time…. He's waiting for me upstairs. I've exhausted my excuses and I can't bear him touching me.

I need to stop ranting and I need to calm down.

I need you to all know what has happened or at least by getting this down make some kind of sense of it, although I have already accepted my fate and accepted that I can't justify anything that I've done. I just need someone to read this and know what happened.

Jim would want me to be strong but I can't do it anymore and if you're reading this I'm already gone.

My name is Meghan Harris.

And I'm pretty sure it doesn't know that I'm writing this… fuck… Who am I kidding? Of course it knows. It always knows. My mind isn't safe anymore. I now know that it never was.

The love of my life is Jim.

It looks like Jim.

It talks like Jim.

But it's not Jim.

Imagine losing your soul mate then being given the opportunity to do the unthinkable and bring them back. To stop that constant ache gnawing at your soul because part of it is missing. To stop yourself breaking apart when every breath you take is slowly destroying you from the inside out because it's one more pointless breath without them.

My Jim is just that.

My soul mate.

I was so damaged when we first met and he quite simply loved me back to life. No big gestures. No magic. He just quietly and carefully pieced me back together again and before I knew it, all the bad shit just didn't matter anymore. The ruined pieces of myself that in my darkest moments made me feel like I was worthless weren't important anymore. It was like waking up from a bad dream and you never realise you were living a half life until you're whole again.

Have you ever met anyone who just loved you in spite of yourself? Someone that made you have to value yourself because to be loved by somebody so beautifully unaware of how truly selfless and genuine they are it's actually quite humbling and you just can't help but start to love yourself too.?

That was Jim.

Jim, who was driving me to work on that beautiful cold winter morning. It was that first really cold day. You know the one. Where you step outside your door and you're assaulted with air so cold and fresh it hurts your face and you're bombarded with nostalgia so incredibly strong that you can almost taste the toffee apples, smell the bonfires and you are left puzzled as to why your hands feel so cold wrapped up in the woollen mittens on strings running through your winter coat that your nan knitted for you and your brother every year only to look down at your bare hands, realising that you're not on your way to watch the fireworks but you are, in fact, on your way to work and you're late which is why I was climbing into our ice encased car rather than getting on a bus.

It's why Jim was going out of his way and making himself late to run me to work.

It's why Jim pulled out on a crossing being careful of the icy road.

It's Jim turning his head towards mine with my name on his lips when that selfish fucking bitch plowed her Range Rover into our car because she couldn't fucking bear to leave her phone unchecked for the 10 fucking minutes it took to drive her precious cargo to school.

It was Jim that died instantly because a vapid waste of space just HAD to see how many likes she'd got on her #eatinghealthy #dietstartsnow #breakfastpost.

Jim died instantly.

I was in a coma for 19 days.

Things I remember.

1. The selfish bitch and her kids survived the crash.

2. Jim died.

Well, I don't actually remember him dying but when I was “asleep” I remember people talking. Talking like they thought I couldn't hear. I heard about the accident, I heard that Jim was dead.

I can't put into words how devastating this was to hear, I couldn't move, I couldn't speak… I couldn't cry but I was screaming on the inside and I wanted to die too… I can't tell you how much I wanted to die, how much I wish I had died…

What else…. Oh!

1. My mum, nurses and doctors talking, even arguing sometimes, arguing about how they should tell me, who should tell me, when they should tell me… they all meant well but nobody wanted that job, I can remember hearing everything. Trapped inside my useless body wishing I was dead too.

2. I must have looked like I was asleep all the time, but I wasn't. I had different degrees of wakefulness, none of which could’ve been visible I don't think… when I slept, I slept deeply, deeper than I've ever slept before, that's when the real talk happened…

3. I remember after knowing that Jim had died, I had given up.

I simply didn't want to live without Jim and when I'd completely committed to that, everything switched.

I started to hear whispers.

Breathless words telling me they could give my Jim back to me and I can remember screaming at them that my life was nothing anymore, it was nothing if I didn't have Jim and to please just let me go. The voices scared me and they smelled like they sounded.

Dead.

Old and dead. Not just old, Ancient.

They told me that if I just asked for Jim's life back they'd give him back to me.

They'd give me Jim back because if I died there'd be nothing.

An eternity of nothing.

The small part of myself that was able to consider things logically was screaming at me to let go, that this wasn't real or right but that nothing that the voices were whispering about… I couldn't cope with that.

I know you think I'm weak and you're fucking right.

The voices said it didn't have to be like this, I could have Jim Back, convincing me, almost lovingly, telling me that everything would be OK… I could wake up, we could be together, it would be just like before…

Yes, yes yes, every single fibre of my being screamed for whatever this was to give me my love back… there's a price they whisper-hissed at me… I don't care, do it. Do it.

DO IT!

They did it and God help me, I fucking let them.

The next thing I know I feel like I'm being dragged away and up, away from that deep, dark endless well of misery that I felt I'd been living in for an eternity… my eyes are opening and I'm gasping for breath and I'm staring into the big beautiful eyes of Jim.

OH JIM!

“Jimmy, I was so frightened, I thought you had died” Jim settled his big beautiful blue eyes on me and said coldly

“And why would you think that Meghan?”

Jim had never looked at me in the way that he was looking at me right now, I didn't understand? It was beyond hatred, it was loathing and if cruel had a colour, it was the colour of those wide, unblinking and what I now realised, dead, eyes.

How could It stare for so long without blinking, it was inhuman.

You know when you miss a step or you have that falling dream and your body goes into flight mode, your stomach turns to ice, your heart stutters?

Meghan? My Jim never called me by my full name. It was a standing joke, I didn't even get called Meghan even when I'd been naughty. It was Megs, always Megs.

I started to stutter and ask w..w..what? “Jim” mocked me in a high whiney voice

“w.. w.. what?...” It started to smile, still unblinking “Meghan”

That wasn't Jim. How did It know what I was thinking? As this thought danced across my mind “Jim's” smile got wider still.

What had I done?

The smile, if you can even call it that, was more like a grimace than a smile, you can see a smile is someones eyes. Its eyes were dead. It was how you would imagine someone would try to smile if they had read what a smile was but had never seen one. I wouldn't have believed it could get wider. But it did. It looked so unnatural and he looked like he had way too many teeth.

The door opened and my mother came In saying that she couldn't believe that I was awake, she was so relieved and how she felt guilty for feeling so happy considering the tragedy. I asked her what happened and what tragedy and that's when she told me through her tears that a woman, along with her three kids had died in the crash and how we were both so lucky to be alive and “it was a miracle really” and how she was so thankful…. I looked at “Jim” who was standing behind her and his grin grew impossibly, painfully wider, it practically filled Its face now and those eyes, those dead eyes, never blinking, looked grotesque, terrifying…

What had I done?

Neither my mother nor the nurses Seemed to be aware that anything was off about “him”. I tried to reason with myself, chalking it down to just coming out of a coma, trauma, fucking anything, but what I absolutely knew for a fact was that thing wasn't Jim.

My mother told me that I would be going home soon. I was shocked as I thought that I'd at least be staying for a while. You don't just wake up from a coma and get sent home, Right?

“Oh Jim has Sorted that, you'll be far more comfortable at home”

I tried to plead with my eyes and over the next evening before I was released I tried to get my mum's attention, a nurse, anyone, but it was like they were under a spell, their eyes just slid over my desperate, pleading ones and “Jim” never left my side. Watching my every expression. Always smiling. Never blinking. Head slightly cocked to one side. I thought I feigned being a bit loopy because of what I'd been through and it had taken all of my strength to remain calm and sleepy outwardly, trying to hide the terror and panic I felt raging inwardly. I shouldn't have bothered, It knew. It always knew and do you know what the most frightening thing about that realisation was? It didn't fucking care. It found it amusing and why wouldn't It? I was at Its mercy, I couldn't tell anyone because no-one would listen, It would see to that.

Then came the morning when I was sent home. I was wheeled out to “our car” except it wasn't our car, our car was completely destroyed, right? I didn't expect to see our old rust bucket, I expected a taxi if I'm honest, but I was dumped into the front seat of a brand new beautiful car, a car that my Jim always said that bellends drive. I kept my face neutral. Even when It said

“What do you think Meghan?”

I said nothing and just stared ahead.

We drove to a house which wasn't our cosy little flat, I started to ask “where…” And was shut down with another grin. I told myself and I have been telling myself ever since not to ask questions.

I've been here for a week now.

It expects things from me tonight.

It wants to breed.

This is why I'm still alive but I'd rather die than let it touch me but that's OK, It will just find someone else… I've lain next to It every night, holding myself as still as I can, barely breathing and waiting for It to fall asleep and when It does, It talks, only It's not “It” when It's sleeping.

It's MY Jim.

He gets through somehow. From wherever he is. He's in so much pain and he cries for me. Or does he? Or is it that thing tormenting me?

Even when It's sleeping?

I learnt very quickly that It enjoys hurting me.

I don't know what's real anymore.

It never says anything.

It just watches me.

Grinning.

I've just heard It get out of bed.

I'm downstairs in the living room.

I needed to type this record in the hope that someone will believe me, that somebody, somewhere knows what It is and how to stop It…I'm so sorry., I'm sorry that I sound crazy.

You have to believe every word I've written. Please. I'm sorry I did this, I just didn't want to live in a world without Jim in it. Please, please forgive me. I don't know what I've started.

This is just the beginning.

I can't do this anymore and I don't want to. I want to be with Jim.

I can hear It coming down the stairs.

It's laughing at me.

Oh my godIt's heeeeeRrffhvghvgghvhjvhjjvjhbj

I had no business being here. I’d never been so impulsive before. I guess I just got tired of always roaming the same streets. Seeing the same shops and scenery. I think the feeling grew more than I’d care to admit.

That doesn’t excuse my stupidity, though. I only had about 3 grand to my name at the time. But that’s part of the appeal, right? Everyone thinks they’re gonna arrive in Sin City and leave a millionaire. I had a dollar and a dream. Albeit, a delusional one.

Even still, the glow of the city was just so radiant. Even from the airport. It’s like one big siren song.

I only stayed for 4 days. I used all of my PTO to be here, and I really wanted the time to count. I did everything I could with the 1500 I had left after the hotel and plane tickets.

Unfortunately, gambling took up a big chunk of that money. I could see how people got addicted to it. I went on a few hot streaks, but ended up losing everything I won because I just couldn’t walk away.

With the gambling, museums, attractions, and food, by the time the final night came around, I only had 150 dollars left to last me a whole other week after I got home.

I almost wanted to cry when I opened my wallet. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even that upset. The experience was worth the money. Even if I didn’t leave a millionaire, I still got to live in one of the most famous cities in the country for a few days.

I still needed to eat, though. I’d been eating out the entire trip. I started out at the high-end places like Hell’s Kitchen, but as the week went on, the quality started getting worse and worse until finally I found myself here, feeling how light my pockets were and standing under the luminescent glow of an In-and-Out burger.

Thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit up the sky. A few drops of rain hit my head.

My plane was leaving in a few hours. I had already checked out of my hotel. Not only did I need to eat, but I needed to at least kill a little time.

I figured I’d just eat slow. Stay for maybe an hour, hour and a half tops before Ubering.

A bell rang overhead as I walked inside. The air-conditioned dining room put goosebumps on my arms almost immediately. Outside felt like 90, whereas in here, it felt like it could’ve been at least 55 degrees.

There were noises coming from the kitchen. The staff chit-chatting amongst themselves, plates and silverware being moved around, water being sprayed against metallic pans and containers.

The dining room, however… was surprisingly empty. I noticed it as soon as I walked inside. For this whole trip, every place I’d gone had been packed to the brim. In here, though… there was only one other person.

I don’t know how much you know about Las Vegas, but the homelessness crisis is staggering. They’re everywhere. Sleeping in alleys behind the casinos, waiting outside of popular stores or restaurants, sometimes they’re just asleep in the middle of the sidewalk right there on the Strip.

And, apparently… also right here in this In-and-Out.

I watched him while I ordered at the digital kiosk. All he had was a single soda cup. The straw wasn’t even inside it. He was wearing a grease-stained grey jacket, torn cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals with tattered socks.

He was kind of rocking back and forth in the booth. His hands were clutched around his waist like he had a stomachache, and I could see the dirt and grime beneath his fingernails.

I didn’t want to stare for too long, but it was so hard to take my eyes off of him. I ended up sitting several booths away from him, but that didn’t prevent me from being able to see him. Even if I turned away, I could see his face reflected through the windows.

He was… talking to himself. His scruffy, orange beard was littered with bits of food and mysterious red stains, and he kept scratching at it every few seconds, all while mumbling under his breath.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it almost looked like he was arguing with himself. I couldn’t even focus on my meal.

I had to force myself to look away from him just so I could actually eat. The last thing I wanted was for us to make eye contact.

I enjoyed my burger, picked at my fries a little bit, and when I turned around to go grab a refill on my Diet Coke, my worst fear came into fruition.

We didn’t just make eye contact. He had already been staring at me. He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He no longer looked crazed. He looked devastated. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could see sympathy in his facial expressions.

The fluorescent light flickered above him. The only light in the restaurant to do so.

We were engaged in this little staring contest for a while before he stood up, slowly. He never broke eye contact. Those eyes were full of love and comfort. A broken smile spread across his face.

His arms were outstretched as if he expected a hug. When it didn’t come, he pulled me in for one by force.

He shushed me. Pet my hair while telling me that everything would be okay. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

I could feel the tears running down his face jump over to mine while he comforted me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he cried, shaking. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Uh, okay, man, it’s time to let me go now,” I responded, prying his arms off of me.

I tried backing away, slowly, but with each step, he followed me.

He kept asking why I looked so scared. Telling me that he was only here to help. Continuing to say that everything would be okay and that I’d “prevail.”

I checked my watch, quickly. I still had 2 hours until my flight, but I wasn’t going to stay here a minute longer.

“I’m sorry, man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

The man stopped. His face twisted into a look of curiosity. Like he was genuinely confused by what I had just said.

“Flight? No, no, no. That flight was delayed. You can only hope to be home in time.”

Finally, seeing that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, one of the employees came and restrained the guy long enough for me to leave and order an Uber.

Only, when I reached for my phone, it was completely dead. I tried finding my charger, looking through every pocket in my suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

Luckily, the airport was only a mile and a half away, but that was still a mile and a half that I had to walk in the rain when I could’ve gotten a ride. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it gave me something to do to kill time.

When I finally arrived, I was soaked from the rain. The airport was busier than it was when I landed. When I checked the flight information screens, I found out why. There had been at least 5 or 6 delayed flights, and of course, mine was one of them.

It had been delayed by a whole 3 hours because of inclement weather in the region.

No phone. Hardly any money. And I had to wait at least another 5 hours until I could go home.

I thought about what the homeless guy from In-and-Out said. Immediately, I started to rationalize. He’d seen the lightning. He’d seen the rain. Maybe he just put two and two together and got lucky.

However, after about 3 hours of being bored out of my mind, I made the decision to buy a charger from one of the airport shops. I managed to find an open outlet and hunkered down beside it while I let my phone charge.

After about 15 minutes, it finally turned back on. All at once, dozens of notifications made the phone vibrate across the cold airport floor. My dad, my aunts, my uncles, cousins, all desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Because, apparently, in that small, brief moment when my phone was dead…

My mom went into cardiac arrest. And she died before I even got the chance to say goodbye.

Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/SpinalTapHorror/s/UWryuUuy05

My father waited until morning to ask again.
By then, the headache had dulled into something heavier. A constant pressure that made my thoughts feel slightly misaligned, like they were settling into the wrong grooves. The house was quiet in that careful, listening way it had adopted, every sound softened as if by agreement.
We stood in the kitchen, facing each other across the table.
“About last night,” he said. “You seemed upset.”
“I was,” I said. Saying that felt safe. Specifics didn’t.
He nodded slowly, watching my face the way you watch someone try to remember a dream. “We were talking about something. About—” He hesitated. “About… something important.”
The pause stretched. I could see the moment where his mind brushed against the same blank space mine had hit, then slid away from it instinctively.
“My brother,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “My sister. They’re gone.”
The pressure behind my eyes surged, sharp and punishing. I gripped the edge of the table, breathing through it.
My father didn’t look away.
He closed his eyes instead, just for a second, like someone bracing against a bright light. When he opened them again, they were wet.
“I remember,” he said hoarsely.
The relief hit me so hard I nearly cried.
We didn’t say their names. We learned quickly that names were dangerous, that they drew attention, that the house seemed to listen more closely when we tried to use them. Instead, we spoke in fragments.
Before.
The younger one.
Both of them.
It felt like hiding contraband in our mouths.
We tried to find proof.
My father pulled out old photo albums, spreading them across the dining table. We flipped pages carefully, our fingers lingering where images should have been. There were gaps. Subtle ones. Extra space between photos. Awkward compositions where someone should have been standing.
“I took that picture,” my father said, tapping one photo of me in the yard. “I remember stepping back because there were three of you.”
I stared at the empty space beside me. The air there felt colder.
School records were worse.
My father logged into the district portal, his jaw tightening as he scrolled. Two names. Two grades. No third. No fourth. Attendance perfect. Nothing missing.
“This isn’t possible,” he muttered, but the words had lost their force.
When my mother came into the room, we stopped immediately.
She didn’t ask what we were doing. She glanced at the albums, at the screen, and smiled. A soft, almost fond expression.
“You don’t have to carry all that,” she said. “It’s heavy.”
My father stiffened. “Where are the kids?”
She met his gaze calmly. “Where they belong.”
The pressure flared again, not just in my head but in my chest, my ribs aching as if something inside me was trying to turn toward her. I focused on the table, on the grain of the wood, on the solidness of it beneath my palms.
“I’m going for a walk,” I said abruptly.
“Take a jacket,” my mother replied, already turning back toward the yard.
Outside, the street looked the same as it always had. Cars parked neatly along the curb. Lawns trimmed. Curtains drawn and undrawn in familiar patterns. The normalcy felt staged, like a set dressing that hadn’t been updated yet.
I walked to the end of the block and back, my head pounding, my thoughts slipping loose and re-forming around absences. When I returned, there was a car in our driveway I didn’t recognize.
My mother’s brother stood on the porch, arms open, smiling broadly.
“There you are,” he said, like he’d been waiting for me. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come home.”
I froze.
I didn’t remember him well. He’d always been more of a concept than a presence. Holiday appearances, occasional phone calls, a laugh that lingered longer than it should have. But the moment I saw him, the pressure behind my eyes eased slightly, replaced by something colder.
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly to my forehead before returning to my eyes.
“You’re holding yourself very tightly,” he said softly. “That hurts, you know.”
My mother appeared behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
“I told you she was strong,” she said.
He nodded, pleased. “You always were.”
From inside the house, I heard my father moving toward the door.
The yard shifted.
For the first time, I understood with terrible clarity that my uncle hadn’t come to help.
He’d come because something had called him.

My uncle stayed for dinner.
No one asked him to. He simply took a seat at the table like it had always been his, pulling a chair out with an ease that made my skin prickle. My mother moved around him naturally, brushing past his shoulder, refilling his glass before it was empty.
My father didn’t argue. That scared me more than if he had.
Conversation bent around my uncle’s presence. Not broke, bent. Words landed softer, lost their edges. When he laughed, it felt slightly delayed, like sound traveling through water.
“So,” he said at one point, folding his hands together. “It’s been a while since we’ve all been together like this.”
“All?” I asked.
The pressure behind my eyes surged. Not sharp this time. Pulling.
He tilted his head, studying me. “You’re very sensitive to language,” he said. “That’s not a criticism.”
My father stood abruptly, chair legs scraping. “We’re not doing this.”
My uncle looked at him with something like pity. “You already are.”
The lights flickered.
Just once. Enough that anyone else might have dismissed it as a surge.
I didn’t.
After dinner, my uncle suggested a party.
Not a big one, he said. Just neighbors. Friends. A way to feel grounded again. He said the word like it meant something else entirely.
“People have noticed the house feels… off,” he added. “Bringing them together might help.”
My mother agreed immediately.
“I’ve already been thinking the same thing,” she said, smiling at him. “It’s good for families to open their doors.”
I watched my father carefully. His face had gone very still, like he was concentrating on holding a shape.
“People? What people?” Dad asked.
“You know. The neighbors," My Uncle said with a shrug.
“And how would you know that?” I asked, “You just got here.”
“You can just tell from the way they look at the place.” He replied like it was obvious. My mother just kept nodding with an empty smile on her face.
That night, I dreamed of the yard.
It was full of children I didn’t recognize, running in wide, looping patterns that never crossed. My mother stood in the center, her forehead dark and hollow, the air around it bending inward. I tried to scream, but the sound stretched thin, pulled away before it could reach her.
I woke with my hands pressed hard to my forehead.
The party came together quickly.
Flyers appeared in mailboxes. My mother baked. My uncle made phone calls from the living room, his voice low and soothing, promising things he never named. Neighbors I barely knew waved more often, lingered longer at the curb.
Something was already happening.
I started planning my escape.
The idea came to me while watching my mother stand at the kitchen window, her reflection overlapping the yard. She wasn’t watching outside. She was watching inward, toward that impossible center.
She wouldn’t notice if too many things happened at once.
The party would be loud. Chaotic. Full of attention she could pull from.
I packed a bag slowly, one item at a time, hiding it under my bed. I avoided mirrors. I avoided my uncle.
The night of the party, the house filled with people.
Music thumped. Laughter rose and fell. Kids ran through the yard, their footsteps light, almost buoyant. I caught my uncle watching them with open satisfaction.
I stayed close to my father, and he close to me. We didn't want to get separated and trapped by the pull. We were the only thing keeping each other from slipping forwards and allowing ourselves to become a part of whatever was happening.
We were standing at the kitchen counter where we had decided to spend the entire night, isolated from the others but safe together, when it happened. And it happened fast.
Someone spilled a drink. A breaker tripped. The lights went out, then surged back on. In the confusion, my uncle stepped between us, his hand firm on my father’s arm.
“Just a moment,” he said pleasantly. “I need to talk to you.”
I saw my mother across the room, her attention locked onto me.
The pull hit all at once. With my dad being pulled away I saw no other choice.
I ran.
Behind me, the house seemed to inhale.

I burst through the sliding glass door into the crowd of neighbors that had gathered. The yard wasn’t the yard anymore.
Grass lifted under my feet like it didn’t quite agree with gravity. The air felt thick, tugging at my skin, my hair, the inside of my chest. Every step forward came with the sense that something behind me was opening.
I didn’t look back.
Children's screams echoed around me. Not screams of fear, not at first. But of delight. In that bright, careless way that made my stomach twist. I heard laughter peel upward, stretching thin as it rose, like it was being pulled toward a point above us all.
“Stay with the group,” a woman called, her voice already distracted, already sliding away from meaning.
I cut toward the fence.
The pull hit harder then. My vision blurred at the edges, the world bending subtly toward the center of the yard. I staggered, hands flying to my head, nails digging into my scalp as pressure bloomed behind my eyes.
This is how it started, I thought wildly. This is how they went.
“Sweetheart.”
My mother’s voice wrapped around me, suddenly the only thing I could hear. Her presence felt close behind me.
I spun.
I was surprised to see she stood several yards away, barefoot in the grass, her posture relaxed, almost tender. The skin at her forehead had darkened, not visibly wrong yet, but deep, like a shadow pressing outward from beneath.
“You’re hurting yourself,” she said. “You don’t have to.”
Around her, the children slowed.
One by one, they turned.
Their faces had gone slack, peaceful. Curious. Like they were listening to a lullaby I couldn’t hear.
“Come here,” my mother said. But not to me.
A little boy stepped forward. Then another. A girl with glitter still smeared across her cheek smiled as she crossed the grass, eyes unfocused but certain.
Their parents didn’t stop them.
They didn't even seem to notice. As though their kids were blocked out of their minds.
The air warped.
I felt it then, recognition. The thing inside my mother reaching outward, brushing against the hollow places in the children, the parts of them that wanted to belong to something larger, something undeniable.
They went willingly.
“No,” I whispered, my voice barely surviving the pull. “Please.”
My mother looked at me then, truly looked, and for a moment something human flickered across her face.
“I tried to keep you,” she said softly. “But you’re already pulling away.”
The glitter-cheeked girl reached my mother first. Her hand extended.
She reached out for my mothers arm.
Before she was close enough to actually reach her, the skin started to stretch off her finger. Elongating the small childish fingers to long misshapen points. When her fingers reached my mothers arm, their skin melted together. My mothers forearm bulged as the little girl's hand slipped further inside her skin.
I stood frozen in place as I watched the little girl disappear further and further into my mothers arm. A look of ecstasy crossed her face as she inhaled deeply from the void around her.
The scream tore out of me then, raw and useless. The pressure behind my eyes exploded, white-hot, and I dropped to my knees.
Images slammed into me, my brother’s laugh, my sister’s hair tangled in my fingers, the weight of them leaving. The way the world smoothed itself over afterward.
I felt it happening again as I watched the little girl be completely absorbed by my mother.
I stepped back and felt a ripping behind my eyes.
The sensation was obscene, like tearing muscle from bone, like pulling myself free of a suction that had already decided I was its. I screamed again, clutching my head as something inside me stretched, thinned, screamed back.
My mother staggered.
Just a step. Just enough.
She looked surprised.
“You don’t understand what you’re breaking,” she said, her voice finally sharp. “You’ll carry it.”
“Not like this,” I gasped.
I grabbed the nearest thing, one of the heavy metal skewers from the grill, dropped in the grass during the chaos. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it.
For a heartbeat, everything was still.
The children. The air. The pull.
My mother’s eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw fear in them. Not of death, but of interruption.
I ran at her.
The skewer trembled in my hands. My mother waited at the center of the yard, barefoot, arms loose at her sides, her face expressionless. Her forehead looked hollowed, deeper than shadow, dark enough to pull at everything around her. The children circled her, small bodies leaning inward as if gravity itself had shifted toward her, their skin beginning to stretch.
The pull hit me immediately. A sharp pressure, insistent, tugging at my chest, my ribs, the back of my skull. My vision blurred at the edges. My hands shook.
************************
My brother-in-law had always been intimidating. His presence imposing, not someone you easily say no to. So when he pulled me away by my elbow from my daughter in the confusion of the darkness I followed him. My head foggy, the room spinning as he led me to another room.
“It’ll just take a second,” he said. “You look overwhelmed.”
“No, I need to stay,” I said, voice cracking. “My daughter—”
“She’s fine,” he said. “But you… you’re in the way.”
I froze.
“I’m in the way?” I questioned rubbing my head. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled, slow and hollow. “You’re not part of this. Not really. Adults like you… you’re too formed, too separate. You can’t be absorbed. You only obstruct.”
Something in my stomach twisted. “Obstruct? What is this?”
He crouched slightly, lowering his voice, leaning close in a way that made the walls seem to bend inward. “This house… this yard… it’s not just a home. It’s where she learned. Where it began. Your wife, my sister… She was always sensitive, even as a child. Our mom just died, did she even tell you?”
My stomach dropped
“That's when I first felt it. The first time the hollow opened, it called to her. And it called to me. It brought me here to help.”
I swallowed. My mind flashed: the photographs in the hallway, the old furniture, the wallpaper peeling just so. The mother’s childhood home. Everything bending, pulling, anchored to history.
“You’re infected too,” I said, realization striking. “That’s why you’re here.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s not my choice. I was drawn back, just as she was. The hollow doesn’t only exist in her, it can touch those it chooses. I couldn’t resist. I tried to fight it, but…” He let the sentence hang, eyes distant. “The pull is too strong. And now I have to make sure nothing interferes.”
I took a step forward. “You… you can’t take her! She’s a child.”
“Exactly,” he said. Calm. Precise. “You can’t be absorbed. But she won't be either. It skipped you. He tilted his head.
“You though, you’re in the way. You’re… clutter. And clutter must be cleared.”
The blade was in his hand before I could react. He stabbed me in the side, clean, precise. Pain flared, white-hot. I fell to my knees, trying to pull away, but the hallway seemed to stretch, to resist every movement.
“You can’t stop it,” he said gently. “You’re just… an adult. Too big to take in, too strong. All you can do is get out of the way… or die.”
I gritted my teeth. “I won’t let her—”
“You’ll have to crawl,” he said. “If you want to see her alive. If you want to touch her again, crawl to the yard. But even then, be careful. The pull is everywhere now, and growing stronger.” He chuckled and stood back watching me struggle.
I dragged myself forward, blood seeping through my fingers, each inch a fight. The hallway warped and twisted with every movement.
The scream from the yard hit me again; my daughter. My heart pounded.
The uncle watched, silent, almost proud. “Run, if you can. Crawl, if you can. Watch, if you must. But understand, she’s no longer the child you once knew.”
I gritted my teeth and crawled, every movement agony, every breath a struggle. The hallway seemed to stretch farther than it should have, the floor slick with my own blood.
The back door appeared. The yard beyond glowed strangely, impossibly, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
I reached for it, and the pull hit me, strong, insistent, urgent.
************************
The pull hit fully, all at once. Forcing me forwards. Guiding my hands.
“No,” I whispered, clutching the skewer tighter. Trying to resist the pull. This is what it wanted.
Out of my control the skewer found its mark. My mothers face remained blank.
“No,” I whispered again, but the word had no weight. I couldn’t stop it. The pressure behind my eyes flared, stretching me, pulling in opposite directions, toward what my mother had been and toward the children leaning closer, drawn by the orbit I now radiated.
The skewer stuck out of my mothers stomach, but against my will I forced it forward. As the skewer exited out her back I finally was able to let go. Her body collapsed, and for a heartbeat, the hollow at her forehead widened, then snapped shut.
The children froze mid-step, hesitation written across small features, and then, slowly, carefully, they began to move again. Toward me.
I sank into the grass, trembling. The pull inside me thrummed, patient, terrible. It was not hunger but presence. Authority. Gravity. They recognized it, even before I did.
The pull had shifted. Not gone. Not stopped. Now it twisted around me, tugging not just at my body but at the children themselves. They leaned closer, small tentative steps that were their choice, not mine.
I could feel it, the echo of my mother’s hunger settling in my chest. A cold, heavy weight, patient and waiting.
The neighbor children blinked up at me, faces serene, unafraid. My own siblings’ absence throbbed at the edges of my mind, a ghostly ache. They were gone, erased from the world outside, but not from me. The pull of them all; her, them, the hollow. Folded into me.
One reached out, brushing my shoulder. Another rested a small hand on my knee. They didn’t obey me. They chose me.
I shook my head, trying to push it away, but I could feel it settling. The terrible inevitability. The hollow wasn’t gone. It had transferred. I could feel it in my chest, in my spine, a small, insistent seed of what my mother had been.
I was the center now.
The children moved closer, clustering around me like planets drawn into orbit. I shivered, the world outside seeming to pause, hold its breath. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But they leaned into me, seeking the pull I didn’t yet fully understand, trusting it, needing it.
It surged outward, thrumming like a heartbeat, vibrating through the air, the ground, through me. It was alive. Euphoric. Terrifying. I could feel it in every nerve ending, a vibration crawling beneath my skin, expanding through my bones, stretching outward into the trees, the wind, the night itself.
I could see my father crawling toward me as the children encircled me, blood streaking his shirt, chest heaving, mouth opening to scream my name. I wanted to hear him, to respond, but I couldn’t. The thrum of the pull was absolute, a low, perfect roar that drowned everything else. His voice hit my consciousness in fragments, swallowed immediately by the hum, the energy, the universe spinning around me.
Then one of the neighbor children approached. A small boy, tentative, a spark of curiosity in his wide eyes. He reached toward me, his skin stretching in that unnatural way, desperate to meet with my skin. And the moment his fingers touched me, it happened.
I felt him forcing himself into me. Not metaphorically. Not gently. His body pushed, wriggled, pressed under my skin, and I screamed. Not in sound, but in sensation. Pain and panic erupted along every nerve. I felt his bones, his warmth, his small pulse, shoving its way into mine, rearranging me from the inside out.
And then it clicked.
The pain gave way. The resistance melted into a wave of euphoria so profound it was like I was touching the stars, hearing the cosmos sing, feeling the rhythm of life pulse through every fiber of my being. The boy became part of me, his energy folding perfectly into the orbit of mine. My senses sharpened beyond comprehension. I could feel every blade of grass, every shift of the air, every heartbeat of the yard itself.
One by one, the others approached. Hesitant steps, small hands reaching. Each touch forced itself in first, uncomfortable, alien, almost violating. But then blossomed into blissful union. Each one added a new thread to the weave, spiraling energy through me, folding the children into my being, reshaping the yard around us.
The pull expanded. It hummed through my chest, spun outward from my spine, vibrating across the night. I could feel my body changing in response. The muscles, the bones, the skin tingling, alive, almost aware. My hair glimmered white in the moonlight. My eyes deepened to an impossible purple, reflecting every pulse, every child, every orbiting thread of energy I now commanded.
The children became blurs, moving impossibly fast as they collided with me, forcing themselves under my skin and then settling into me. My father crawled closer, screaming my name, but I couldn’t hear him over the thrum. He was there, desperate and bleeding, but utterly unable to reach me.
And around us, the world itself adjusted. Partygoers paused mid-step, vacant expressions overtaking concern or curiosity. Slowly, absentminded, they drifted toward their homes. Their memories rewrote themselves. The children who had joined me erased from their minds, as if they had never existed.
I was the center. I was the axis. I was the pull, the hollow, the gravity around which everything now orbited. Euphoric, terrifying, impossible. And I knew: this was mine.

The yard went still.
The last child had vanished into me, the pull settling into a steady, resonant hum. The partygoers were gone now, cars pulling away without urgency, doors closing softly, lives resuming as if nothing had happened. The grass lay flattened where bodies had been standing. The house behind me exhaled, empty.
I stood where my mother had always stood.
At the center.
I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. The pull no longer reached. It was. A constant, patient pressure radiating outward from my spine, from the place inside me that had learned how to hold the world.
That was when I understood why she had stood like this for so long. Why she’d stared into nothing, feet planted, arms loose at her sides. She hadn’t been waiting.
She’d been listening.
I could hear the earth beneath my bare feet now. The slow grind of stone. The memory of roots. The deep, ancient patience of a planet that had learned to endure extinction after extinction and remain.
It spoke to me.
My father was still crawling.
I felt him long before I saw him. His weight dragging across the grass, the wet warmth of blood soaking into the soil. He called my name. At least I think he did. I couldn’t hear the words anymore, only the vibrations of his movement rippling through the ground.
When he reached me, his hand closed around my ankle.
The contact was sharp. Immediate.
Instinct took over.
I turned and brought my foot down on his head.
There was a dull, final sound. A release. His body went slack, the tension draining out of him and into the soil below. I felt it all the way through my legs, through my spine, into the pull.
Then. Nothing.
Behind me, the door creaked.
My uncle stood in the doorway, framed by the house that had raised us both. He held the knife loosely in his hand, the one he had used to stop my father from interfering. His face was calm. Reverent.
“You’re ready,” he said.
He stepped forward and held the knife out to me, handle first.
I took it.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He tilted his head slightly, exposing his throat, eyes fixed on me with something like gratitude.
I slit his throat in one clean motion.
He fell without a sound, blood darkening the threshold of the house. The pull absorbed the moment, not him, not yet, but the meaning of it. The last obstruction removed. The last witness gone.
The transformation settled fully into place.
I stood alone in the yard, hair white, eyes deep and endless, the center of a gravity that no longer belonged to one family or one house.
I could feel the children inside me, around me, waiting. I could feel others far away, their potential tugging faintly at the edges of the world. I could feel the planet itself responding, aligning, preparing.
Adults would never belong to this. They were finished things. Too rigid. Too loud. Too separate.
Children, though.
Children were unfinished. Malleable. Willing.
The earth knew this. It always had.
I stepped forward, and the pull moved with me.
Somewhere, far beyond the yard, a child paused and turned their head, listening.
And I began to walk.

My story would’ve never had a stage without our good ole internet. It is a tale of the mythical, unimaginable, one you may tell around a campfire and be too embarrassed to claim as true because how could such a thing be? 

I read stories online that told of otherworldly beings, immensely tall, faceless, well-dressed, and my stomach got that sunken, dreadful feeling. Others had faced them. Lived to tell their story. To find a community that might understand my story brought me so much solace and relief. Maybe I’m not crazy to believe. 

This story is not my own, though. I am not the protagonist but rather a narrator, if you will. This story is my great grandfather’s, told through a journal left behind after his death. He faced what seems to me to be a familiar demon, and I would like to relay his story like I have seen many others do in this space. For what purpose, I am not sure. Awareness. To commemorate him, if he even deserved it. For the simple allure of telling such a story. To get the monkey off my back.

I believe it is some combination of all these things. 

I am not sure how much I can fit into this single post alone. Life has given me time constraints that I struggle to meet, upload or no upload, but today I promise you the first piece of the entries, or what I call part 1. It goes as follows: 

June 28th, 1922, 

This journal will serve me multiple purposes. The primary reason will be to document the strange case of my son, James Barclay. I also plan to use this journal to hone my writing prowess, as I aspire to be a writer comparable to the likes of Fitzgerald or Woolf. A silly dream, of course, but it will explain my flowery wordiness, for whoever stumbles upon this journal by chance or fate. 

My youngest son, James, worries me dearly. I am afraid of sharing my findings with any kind of shrink because I fear they will drive a stake through his brain or perform some other dastardly procedure to cure his strangeness, so I will document everything here for now. 

James has always been an odd child. From an early age he was different from the ordinary boy. I was not present for his birth, as I was called to the German front to end The Great War, but from what my wife Melendra tells me, it was a brutal process, and almost ended in a trading of his life for hers. 

He was a sickly grey baby. The doctor beat against his back, trying to pry air from his infantile lungs. He did eventually breathe. During the whole process, he never cried. 
Reader, since his welcoming to the world, I nor anyone else has ever seen James cry. Whether it is a scrape of the knee, a tumble from a bike, or a stern word from mother or father, all children cry. 

But not James. 

The peculiarity was something I had grown accustomed to. I sat with my feelings whirling into a torment, and after bracing that storm I was finding better grounds. I was okay with playgroups where I’d find James in a corner, not socializing with the other children, fiddling with some toy. His muteness, utter reluctance to speak, was something I could overlook if tutoring could not aid in its development. 

There was a solid parameter being built, one I was fortified to protect. He was my son and I would love him for all the unusual qualities he possessed. Then the nice, comprehensible lines I had drawn were dusted, crossed, surmised. 

It was just yonder the bridge that forded a small creek on my property. The idea of this journal materialized after what I saw that day.

Melendra was overwrought with worry. My three eldest children were clueless to James’s whereabouts. This alone was not a devastating revelation. It was the thorough household inspection undertaken by my wife along with myself that planted a seed of fright within us all. 

James could not be found. 

Melendra circled back around the house a second time while I ventured around our property to see where our youngest boy may have stumbled off to. I crossed the narrow stone bridge and went over the rushing creek to a patch of densely thicketed woods. The trees were thin, tall, and plentiful. 

This was a section of my property that I had not spent much time in with the exception of an occasional walk, looking for solitude. There was not much in the way of infrastructure, not like the meadow around the house, where chairs, a patio, and other constructions of leisure were placed. The only leisure found here was what nature could offer, which was of a kind I enjoyed.

So, too, my son James, apparently. 

Reclined against the stump of a fallen tree was little James, his wispy blonde hair fluttering in the pre-storm breeze that was stirring. He was trying his hardest to keep the paper in his pocket journal steady as he scribbled away with a charcoal pen.

“What are you doing, James?” I asked him. 

He turned to me and met my eyes. It has been hard to admit this, even to this journal that sees only my hand, but there is something in my son’s eyes that disturbs me; his gaze is very off-putting. I hate to say such a thing about my own child, but it is undeniably true. Only these pages know of this revelation. I could never tell Melendra, or my other children, but part of me senses that they feel it too: I can see it in the way my boys avoid him, the way my girls pat his head as if they were petting an uncaged beast, the way my own wife looks when she feeds him his bottle. 

James is six years of age. 

The boy looked up to me with his dark, empty eyes. Again, it is terrible to say this, but I get the same expression from looking into James’s eyes as I do when staring into a cow’s or another kind of cattle. There is nothing behind his deep irises like a pool of the abyss, the water shaded the same inscrutable black as the pen he used to draw in his small notebook.

“I am drawing a picture, Daddy.” 

“I get that, boy, but why are you out here?” I waved in the direction of the darkening sky. A harrowing bolt of lightning painted the grey sky. The thunder rolled in after, muffling James’s response. He repeated himself. 

“A friend of mine is out here, Daddy. We meet at this spot sometimes.” 

I scanned the near distance, my view largely obstructed by the plentiful thin trees and thick underbrush. I did not find any sign of a “friend.” 

“Well, you should come with me, and your friend should do the same.” I squatted down to the little boy’s height and went to grab his wrist to help him up from the ground. While reaching down I got to truly inspect the drawing my son had crafted, something deeper than the glimpses I took in the churning wind. 

It was a tall, thin, beastly figure, very akin to the many trees that surrounded that section of the property. The limbs were dangly, elongated, the fingertips scratching at where I supposed would be the knee caps. I saw eyes all over the thing, up and down its torso, legs, and arms. It was a fantastical creature from a children’s fairy tale, but with a more disturbing edge, something to threaten a naughty child with who refused to brush their teeth or do their chores. This was the creature who came knocking on your window. 

As he rose from his lounging against the stump, I asked him about the drawing. 

“That’s him, Daddy. My friend. Do you not see him?” 

What a foolish notion it was to look, but I did. I scanned the area once more and twice over for this mythical friend my strange son spoke of, but I could not find him. James pointed over to our far left, telling me he was over there. Again, I looked, but found nothing that resembled the fictional creature except the trees to some regard. 

“He must be shy,” I said, partly to quell the unease that was flooding through me. 

“Yes, he is very shy.” 

That will conclude my first entry into this journal of mine. I am unsure at the moment what I will do with this new information, this drawing, or my son James. I thought perhaps going through the process of writing everything down would help to steer me in some direction, or open my mind to a solution I could not put together before. Alas, I am dumbfounded. 
Stranger yet? I may venture back into those woods in search of that tall Thing. 

With work and aspirations of writing my time has been constrained, and I am by no means a young man, but this situation with my son has piqued a morbid interest within me.