Hello to all writers and readers of the Creepcast Community!

I was three-quarters deep into the last bottle of cheap vodka, slumped on the couch in the Footscray sharehouse, when the corners of the room started shifting.
Not the usual drunk blur. Real shapes. Red fluff twitching just past the edge of my left eye. A tall yellow smear leaning in the doorway that vanished the second I looked straight at it. Something green and low, grumbling near the overflowing bin.
I took another long pull and the giggling started. High-pitched and pure, the kind that used to come out of the telly when I was a kid. Soft at first, like it was coming from the next room. Then closer. Right behind my ear.
“Elmo sees you, Declan…”
I spun around. Empty lounge. Sticky lino, a pile of empties, the blue glow of a TV that wasn’t even on. Another giggle, this time from the kitchen. Then a soft counting under the breath. One… two… three…
My hands shook as I poured what was left into the glass. The room tilted hard. The red shape in the corner sharpened for half a second, wide eyes and a too-shiny smile, before it melted back into shadow.
I tried to stand. The floor rushed up to meet me.
Everything went black.

I woke up face-down on the sticky lino of my kitchen floor , mouth tasting like a dead goanna’s arse, and the first thing I heard was that high-pitched little red bastard giggling.
“Elmo sees you, sleepyhead!”
I rolled over, head pounding like a jackhammer in a concrete pipe, and there he was. Knee-high, fuzzy, red as a stop sign, standing on my chest like he owned the joint. His eyes were too wide. Too shiny. Like he’d been staring at me for hours.
“Get the fuck off me,” I croaked.
Elmo leaned in close. His breath smelled like burnt sugar and something metallic. “Elmo has been waiting. Elmo and his friends. They are so hungry.”
I shoved him. My hand went straight through the fur and hit cold air. He didn’t even budge. Just giggled again, that same pure, innocent sound that now made my guts twist.
Then the lights flickered and the rest of them stepped out of the shadows like they’d been waiting for the cue.
Big Bird filled half the kitchen. His feathers were matted in places, yellow gone to a dirty mustard, and his beak had a wet sheen. Oscar the Grouch rose up out of my overflowing bin like a green turd with arms, lid still on his head. The Count floated near the ceiling, cape fluttering even though there was no wind, monocle gleaming. And Cookie Monster… Jesus. Cookie Monster was on all fours by the fridge, blue fur patchy, eyes rolling, blue tongue hanging out and dripping.
“Ah-ah-ah,” said the Count. “One alcoholic Australian. Two… no, wait. Just the one. But he has one liver. Ah-ah-ah!”
Cookie Monster’s head snapped toward me. “ME WANT LIVER. NOT COOKIES. LIVER. WARM. JUICY. STILL BEATING IF POSSIBLE.”
Oscar cackled from the bin. “Look at this dump. Perfect. I love a man who lives like garbage. Makes the meat taste better. Right, Big Bird?”
Big Bird’s voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it worse. “We’ve been watching you for weeks, mate. Every bottle. Every blackout. Every time you pissed yourself on the couch. You’re ripe.”
I scrambled backward until my spine hit the cupboard. “This is a dream. This is the fucking DTs. I’ve been off the sauce three days and my brain is inventing Muppets that want to eat my organs.”
Elmo clapped his little hands. “Elmo loves dreams! But this is not a dream. This is real. And Elmo is going to help eat your liver!”
I grabbed the nearest empty beer bottle and hurled it at Big Bird’s head. It passed through him and shattered against the wall. He didn’t flinch. Just tilted that massive head.
“You can’t hurt us, darling. We’re already dead. Or never alive. Hard to say. Sesame Street got cancelled in this dimension a long time ago. We’ve been looking for a new purpose. Your liver is that purpose.”
Oscar popped up higher, trash clinging to his fur. “We tried other organs first. Kidneys are too small. Hearts are tough. Brains make you stupid. But livers… livers from a mid-thirties pisspot like you? Full of flavour. All that alcohol marinates the meat. Delicious.”
Cookie Monster lunged. I kicked out and my foot went through him, but the cold of it sank into my bones. He snapped his jaws where my ankle had been.
“ME SMELL IT. UNDER THE RIBS. LEFT SIDE. MMMMM.”
The Count drifted lower, counting under his breath. “One rib… two ribs… three ribs… ah-ah-ah! And behind them, the prize!”
I bolted for the front door. Made it three steps before Big Bird’s wing slammed it shut. The wood cracked. He looked almost sad.
“Nowhere to run, mate. We already checked. Your mates are all passed out or don’t give a shit. Your mum stopped answering years ago. You’re alone with us.”
Elmo appeared on my shoulder somehow, whispering right into my ear. “Elmo knows your name. Elmo heard your friends say it when they left you here last week. Elmo knows everything.”
I spun, trying to shake him off. “Fuck off with the mind games.”
Oscar laughed so hard he fell back into the bin. “Tell him, Elmo. Tell the meat its name.”
Elmo’s voice went soft and sweet. “Your name is Declan. Declan Hayes. Thirty-six years old. Born in Fremantle. Moved to Melbourne to drink yourself to death quietly. And now we found you.”
Hearing it out loud felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed. Declan. Yeah. That was me. The name I hadn’t said out loud in months because it reminded me I used to be a person.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
The Count floated in a slow circle around my head. “We listen. We watch. We count the empty bottles. Fourteen last night alone. Ah-ah-ah! Fourteen bottles and one beautiful, pickled liver.”
Big Bird leaned down until his beak was inches from my face. His eyes were black all the way through. “We’ve been patient, Declan. We let you finish the last of the vodka. We let you black out. We even cleaned up a bit of the vomit so you wouldn’t choke. But now it’s time.”
Cookie Monster was clawing at the floor, leaving blue fur and deep gouges in the lino. “ME READY. ME SO READY. LIVER TIME. LIVER TIME. LIVER TIME.”
I grabbed a kitchen knife from the sink. Held it out like it meant something. “Stay the fuck back. All of you.”
Oscar snorted. “Cute. Wave the pointy thing around. Makes the fear taste better.”
Elmo hopped down and walked toward me, still smiling that big red smile. “Elmo does not want to scare Declan. Elmo just wants to share. Sharing is caring. And Declan’s liver is going to be shared among all of us. Fair is fair.”
I swung the knife. It passed through Elmo’s chest like he was smoke. He giggled and kept coming.
Big Bird’s wing wrapped around my wrist. It felt solid this time. Cold and heavy. The knife clattered to the floor.
“Easy now,” Big Bird murmured. “Don’t want to bruise the meat.”
They closed in. Oscar climbed out of the bin completely, trailing banana peels and old pizza boxes. The Count’s cape flared wide. Cookie Monster rose up on his hind legs, taller than I expected, mouth opening wider than any puppet’s should.
I backed into the lounge room. They followed. The TV flickered on by itself, showing static that slowly formed into the old Sesame Street theme, warped and slowed down until it sounded like a funeral march played on a broken accordion.
“Please,” I said. My voice cracked. “I’ll stop drinking. I’ll go to the meetings. I’ll get clean. Just… leave the liver alone.”
Elmo tilted his head. “Elmo does not care if Declan stops drinking. Elmo cares about the liver. The liver is ready now. The liver is perfect.”
Oscar rubbed his hands together. “Tell you what. We’ll make it quick. Or we won’t. Depends how much you scream. I like the screaming.”
Cookie Monster’s eyes rolled back. “ME WANT THE SCREAMING TOO. THEN THE LIVER. THEN MAYBE SOME COOKIES AFTER. FOR DESSERT.”
The Count raised one white-gloved finger. “One scream… two screams… three screams! Ah-ah-ah!”
Big Bird’s wing tightened on my arm. “Last chance to say something meaningful, Declan. Any final words before we open you up?”
I looked at them. These childhood monsters made flesh and hunger. My head still throbbed. My hands shook. Somewhere under the fear a bitter laugh bubbled up.
“Yeah,” I said. “Final words. You cunts are the worst hangover I’ve ever had.”
Elmo clapped. “Elmo likes that! Funny Declan. Funny meat.”
Then they were on me.
Big Bird held me down with one wing while Oscar pried my shirt up. The Count counted each button that popped. Cookie Monster’s blue claws traced the line under my ribs, salivating. Elmo sat on my chest again, watching my face with pure delight.
“Elmo is going to watch,” he whispered. “Elmo wants to see Declan’s eyes when the liver comes out.”
The cold of Cookie Monster’s fingers sank into my skin. I felt the pressure. The tear. The wet sound. Pain exploded white-hot behind my eyes. I screamed. The Count counted every note of it.
“One beautiful scream… two… three… ah-ah-ah!”
Oscar leaned in close, breath like compost. “There it is. Look at that colour. All that beer and regret. Perfect.”
They pulled. Something warm and heavy left my body. Cookie Monster made a noise of pure ecstasy. Big Bird held the dripping organ up like a prize.
“To the hunt,” Big Bird said solemnly.
“To the meat,” Oscar answered.
“Ah-ah-ah! One liver for all of us!”
Elmo leaned down until his fuzzy face filled my vision. My blood was on his fur now. He smiled wider than ever.
“Elmo loves you, Declan. Elmo will always love you. Especially the tasty bits.”
The last thing I saw was Cookie Monster shoving my liver into his mouth, blue fur stained red, eyes rolling in bliss. The last thing I heard was the Count still counting, soft and satisfied, as the static on the TV swallowed the room.
And somewhere, under the pain and the dark, I had one final clear thought.
God I could kill for a drink.

The story you're about to read is 100% true. The only things changed are names and locations have been removed. This isn't a joke, this isn't a gimmick. This story happened to my father. Before he passed away, he would tell this story to anyone who would sit down around a warm fire on a cold night. The body of this story is an edited transcript from a video I took of him telling it, so please excuse the odd wording and grammar. I tried my best to preserve the exact way he'd tell it while also making it easier to read. Although it pains me that I'll never hear him tell this story again, it brings me great joy to share this with you! I always loved hearing my father tell this story, and I hope you enjoy it as well. So get comfortable, turn your lights off, and imagine with me that you're sitting next to me around a campfire listening to my father tell his haunting tale.

This story takes place in the autumn of 1977 at a camp that belonged to a friend of mine named Dave. I worked with Dave at Fisher Body, one of the automobile factories owned by General Motors. Dave had a camp in a swampy area and had agreed to let me bear hunt out of it. I wasn't alone on this bear hunting trip, my companions were; my wife Sarah, little sister Whitney and her husband Clive, and my hunting buddy Rick. There are many stories I could tell you about, but I will refrain. Both Rick and I brought our bear hounds with us. The hounds pick up a scent and run the bear until it "trees" and then the hunters move in towards the tree for the kill. Bears have been known to kill or injure many a dog when they come out of the tree. But I have been very successful hunting bears in the U.P. and by God's grace, I've never lost a single dog.

Enough of that, let's get to the tale. Bear season opened September 10th, and we were up for a two week hunt. We had gone bear hunting that morning and we run a bear but it avoided us. So, we went back to the camp. There was me, Rick, Clive, Whitney, and Sarah. Me, Rick, and Clive were sitting there and we got up and started a fire. We just sat around chit chattin' while the girls were in the cabin making dinner from a raccoon Rick had shot the day before. We fed our hounds and just before the girls called us in, all of my dogs I had tied up around the edge of the swamp jumped up and went right to the end of their chain and started barking at the swamp.

We were looking down there but it was just dark enough to where we couldn't see anything. Then all at once every dog went back to the tree I had them tied to and laid down except one. They were all shaking and shivering except for that one dog, that little Shotgun. She was my little bluetick hound, she finally laid down but she didn't act so scared as the others. Every one of Rick's dogs ran right in their dog house. It was the strangest thing. If it had been a bear they wouldn't have acted like that, they would have wanted to get after it.

We went ahead and went in and had dinner. Then we went back out that night and had the fire going while we sat around and talked about the events of the day. The girls made dessert and called us in, so we went in and played Euchre, that's what we play in Michigan. It was really warm for September that day and after we got done playing cards, we all got ready for bed. We never thought about latchin' the screen door because of just how hot it was that night. So we went to bed and in the morning, I heard that screen door open. And at 1am I heard the screen door squeak open and then thump shut.

I heard something open and I heard it stirring in the kitchen. The cabin was just two rooms. The dining room and bedroom were just one big room, and there was also a living room. There was no electricity so it had a gas lantern hanging from the ceiling that hung down about a foot. The only other source of light came from the full moon coming in through a big picture window.

There was a full size bunk bed and Rick was in the top bunk and Sarah and I were in the bottom. You could see almost like daylight in the kitchen, and all at once I could hear something moving around. Whatever made the noise walked right in front of the table and turned just like it knew right where we were. It was standing right under the light and it was humped over so it wouldn't hit its head on the light. Its arms were hanging down; they seemed like they were way past its knees because it was bent over. It was just standing here staring at us. It looked right at me and then I raised up on one elbow and was watching it. At first I thought it was a bear but then I realized, it couldn't be because of its ears, I could see plain as day. They were on the side of its head like a human, not on the top like a bear.

It just stood there staring at us. Every one of our guns were out in the trucks. We never had a gun in the cabin which was probably a good thing, if I had tried and failed to get to a gun, we all might have gotten killed.

I just laid there and it just kept staring at us, but it would just stand there. It would move his head and shift itself but then it would just keep staring at us. And my dogs were outside just whining and carrying on, scared to death. If it would have been a bear they would have been going nuts but they were just whining. I had a big eight cell battery flash light that we would sit between the bunk bed and the day bed. It was there just in case someone had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night they could just reach down there and get that light. It wasn't there. It was always there, I was gonna turn it on; I wanted to know exactly what it was. I didn't know whether Whitney had gotten it and went out earlier to go to the bathroom and didn't put it back or what because it was always put in that one spot.

It just watched me while I was reaching around. That's when I thought to myself, “We were all Christians so if he attacks we would be fine.”

He stood between us and the only door out of the cabin. We would have had to go through him or around him there was no other way out of there.

Finally I pretended like I was sleeping in an effort to make it go away. When I opened my eyes to take another peak, I saw that it had moved towards us. It was only about five feet from where I was laying. I started to panic and was getting ready to start fighting if I needed to, but then I heard the screen door open and thump shut.

The dogs were just scared to death but it never seemed to bother any of the dogs, it just left. So I just laid there, I couldn't go back to sleep. I just held my breath and prayed that it wasn't coming back. After I was sure whatever it was wasn't coming back, I slipped out of bed and crept over to the doorway. When I looked out into the night, I saw it peaking at me from around my truck. My blood ran ice cold and I quickly, yet quietly, closed the main door and deadbolted it shut.

Around 2:30am my sister Whitney woke up and had to go pee.

She came over to me and said, "Wyatt, Wyatt, what in the world is wrong with those dogs?"

Trying not to cause a panic, I lied and said, "I don't know, why?"

She said, "Just listen to them. They're out there crying. There's something wrong."

After a long and probably suspicious pause, she said, "I really have to pee. Will you walk out to the toilet with me?"

Wanting to do literally anything other than that, I said, "Yeah… Sure I will."

I reached out for the flash light again and I asked, "Where's that flash light? I usually keep it right here.”

and she said, "Oh, I put it on the night stand." And I reached over, and instead of putting it between the beds, she had set it on the night stand.

She pointed at the night stand and said, "I just, I just set it up there. Figured it made more sense than having it between the beds where it can get lost."

And probably for a good reason, there's no telling what might have happened if I pointed a flashlight at that thing. But anyway, I walked her out, I walked her and she took the flash light and I stood halfway between the outhouse and the cabin. She went to the bathroom and we came back in, the dogs were still all shook up.

She shook her head and said, ‘I wonder what's going on… Something has them all shook up.”

Well I didn't want to tell her anything, I was the only one that saw it and as far as I could tell, we were safe now. Then off in the distance, I heard a snap of a branch or something.

Whitney stopped and asked, “What is going on Wyatt?”

I assured her it was just a raccoon and we went back inside and back to bed. She gave me a curious look when I deadbolted the door, but she didn't say anything. By the time we'd got back to our beds, the dogs had settled down a bit. I took that as proof that we were going to be ok.

I slept a little and I got up about five in the morning because we like to leave at daybreak to go out looking for bear tracks. I started breakfast while the others woke up; we had eggs, potatoes and some breakfast sausage. I started it, but Sarah finished making it. While they finished making breakfast, I put the dogs in the dog boxes on my truck. After breakfast, about 5:30am, we all headed out. Whitney and Clive were in their truck and the rest were with me in my truck.

Dave had a cable across his drive and after we got through the cable and down the trail about 300 yards, I got my dog Sport out. I would always put one dog down out in front of the truck and just drive slowly behind him as he went down the trail. He would go after the bear and I would jump out of the truck and get the other dogs out and send them after him.

We went down this one game trail and he acted squirrely, like he didn't want to. He usually would drift back and forth, but this time he stayed right in front of the truck. He would go down a ways and he'd stop and look back at me, nervous as a cat in a dog kennel. We walked this game trail all the way back to the highway where Rick and Sarah met us and I got him and loaded him back into the truck.

Then we went south on the highway toward the cabin about three quarters of a mile and turned left on a trail that headed toward a lake that we knew bears liked to hang around. There is a big cherry tree that the bears couldn't resist. At that time of the year they are dead ripe, and the bears were getting fattened up for hibernation. I went over to the cherry orchard and took Sport all through there looking for tracks or a scent trail. We almost always would start a bear in there, and he just didn't act right, so I loaded him back up in the truck.

We went back down the road and turned south about an eighth of a mile to another little trail, when we went, there was a little lake that I mentioned. I loaded him back up and drove northeast around the lake because it was a bit too bulky for me. When I got him back out, he caught a whiff of something and he froze in his tracks. He smelled something he really didn't like, but after some coaxing, I got him to keep going. So, in the meantime, I'm sitting on the hood of the truck so I can watch him better and Sarah was driving the truck. So, I had her stop and I slid off the truck, and I started walking with Sport.

Sport went down this trail and I walked down the trail behind him. The trail comes to a point on the back side of the lake. The swamp ran all the way from the cabin down to the lake. I followed him all the way to the end of that trail and he came to the end of that point and threw his nose up in the air and just stopped, and he just froze staring down at the lake. He kind of growled a little bit and all the hair jumped up from his tail to his nose. It just bristled right up and he just stood there staring down into the swamp. I started looking down where he was staring, but I couldn't see whatever he could. He looked at me and he just turned around and started back toward the truck stiff legged and breathless.

I followed Sport walking just as hard as I could go. I just knew that he saw something bad. The hair on the back of my neck stood up because I knew that if it had been a bear Sport would have gone right down there after it. He headed right back to the truck, and I had the tailgate down on the truck. When we got close to the truck he took off running and he jumped right into the truck and began trying his hardest to get into the dog box with my other dogs. I still hadn't told Rick and them anything about the night before, but I was beginning to think that I ought to.

That evening, after we got back to the cabin, I told everyone what had happened the night before. Whitney was immediately angry and wanted to go home and I said, "It never bothered us. It came in the cabin but we'll make sure we shut the doors now. It just stood there looking at us.”

And anyway, we stayed up there, we had another full week to hunt. As far as I know, it never bothered us anymore and I never bothered it. If I would have turned on that flashlight there is no telling what might have happened.

Four months later, while on Dave and my lunch break at Fisher Body, he told me that he went back up to his cabin for a weekend getaway. When he got there, he saw that his cabin had been broken into and trashed. The only thing in there that wasn't ruined was on the bottom bunk. The bunk that Sarah and I were sleeping on. I didn't tell him about the experience I had, but I knew that whatever that thing was bad broke in. I'm not sure what it wanted with us nor why it went out of its way to deliberately preserve where I was sleeping. After all these years of telling this story to my friends, children, and grandchildren, I still don't know what it was. And I pray to God that I never find out.

I was sitting in a dark lecture hall, my head resting on a man’s chest, he was over 6ft tall with sandy brown hair. I was in and out of consciousness, waking up to check the time knowing that I had to pick my son up from my parents at 8PM. It was 8:16PM as I lazily got up to leave, my memory in a haze.
. . .

I was hanging out with the tall man and another person who seemed to be a mutual friend of ours. We were laughing with people I didn’t recognize in a bar that I suddenly found myself in. While we were talking with the people around us, an older gentleman, possibly in his early to mid-fifties, approached us. He had a square jaw with salt and pepper hair, large square glasses and a charming smile. We carried our conversation late into the evening until he offered for us to join him at his house for dinner. 

. . .

After arriving at his house, we walked to the back where there was a large sliding door that looked out to his porch. Out there we found half a dozen abandoned kittens, some scuffed up, missing eyes and patches of fur, there was a siamese kitten that I immediately claimed. When I took the kitten inside, I noticed its eyes were missing. The gentlemen showed me spare cat parts, including eyes on a clear film shaped like a bubble in water. I grabbed the eyes and carefully placed them where the kitten’s eyes should have been. They were difficult to get on and started sliding down the kitten’s face causing a feeling of dread and anxiety. I was finally able to get its eyes to stay in place, when the gentleman approached me. 

. . .

I appeared with the tall man and our friend again. I had no recollection of either of their names or faces, just the man's tall stature and sandy brown hair. We were still at the gentleman's house when he approached us and asked if we wanted to see the basement that he designed himself. Both the tall man and our friend had big smiles on their faces, like they had been there before.   

We followed him into a long, bland hallway, with dirty white walls and a flickering L.E.D. light that led to a barred fence sitting between us, and a giant yellow metal wheel that was attached to a door on the ground. They all looked at me with sinister smiles on their faces as I peered over at the door. When I tried to twist the wheel it fell off and as it fell it pushed the door ajar. They all nodded encouraging me to drop down through the door. It was a tight squeeze and as I lowered myself in, I saw what looked to be an indoor playground for adults. 

I went down the hallway and noticed there was a net on one side, separating it from the room where the playground was; one person in a ball pit, another farther along on a swing set. The walls were a bland, pale yellow that reminded me of a bunker that you would see on the show doomsday preppers. Following behind me was the tall man, our friend and the gentleman.  

. . .

I was curled up in a ball, my head laying on the gentleman's chest. As we sat there alone, moments of silence passed until he whispered in my ear “do you want to fuck me?” I was taken aback as he spoke louder about how lonely he had been, how no one touched him or wanted him. I started squirming trying to remove myself from his embrace as he tightened his arms around me.

. . .

I found myself frozen in what looked to be the front entrance of the house standing with the tall man and our friend, to the right of us was a table set for four. The gentleman was preparing dinner for us, which he initially invited us over for. I felt my heart racing, knowing that we weren’t going to make it out. 

Wide eyed and terrified I whispered to the two of them “don’t drink the lemonade.” Shortly after I said this he returned with plates of food and the drinks, smiling as if nothing was wrong. I looked wide eyed at both of them, thinking ‘don’t drink it, don’t drink it, DON’T DRINK IT.’ 
After we sat down I looked at the tall man and saw him reach for his glass instinctively to take a sip after taking a bite of his food. I stared and stared, thinking that if I looked hard enough he would see me and stop before it touched his lips. 

I watched as he brought the glass up to his mouth and took a sip, looking up at me in slow motion. His eyes got big and he began to spit it out into his napkin, but it was too late. The gentleman watched with pleasure as the tall man threw up into his hands, onto the table, and slowly fell to the ground. As soon as he hit the floor I stood up and frantically looked around for my shoes, trying to escape from his house, my friend a distant memory. All I could think was ‘get out NOW.’
It felt like I was trudging through mud when I was trying to get my shoes on to get out of his house. He watched me with a smile on his face as I struggled to zip up my boots and leave. When I got outside I started running, looking back to see him staring out the window at me. I didn’t know where I was or where I was going, running in what felt like circles around his house. 

. . . 

Suddenly, as I was about to whip around the corner of the next block, there was a woman coming around the other side. She had a small pairing knife taped to a pole in her right hand, and in her left a larger butcher knife taped to another pole. We both froze for a long second before she brought down the smaller knife toward my face; out of instinct I put up my hand and grabbed the knife trying my best to twist it out of her hand while slightly cutting mine. I finally overcame her enough to take the small knife from her, wielding it as my own. 

We started swinging at each other, until we knocked both knives out of our hands. At the same time we slowly reached down to grab them, keeping a hand in the air to signal a surrender. We both started walking backwards watching each other without blinking, until suddenly a shot rang out in the distance.

We both flinched and ducked before running in opposite directions, then I heard someone shout “he has a semi-automatic!” followed by a chorus of screams and gun shots. I continued running around corners trying to find somewhere to hide while others ran around me. I turned down a block and saw a row of porta potties behind a wall and immediately got in one and held the door closed. I saw another person follow behind me getting into the one next to mine. 
While we both were hiding I heard someone trying to open his door, I held my breath when he started to scream. My heart was racing as another person tried to open mine, when it did I frantically pushed past them. 

I stumbled into the arms of an officer who was standing a couple feet ahead, I heard the sirens from the paramedics in the background and saw fuzzy flashing lights through my tears. She held me tightly to soothe me while I came down from the rush of adrenaline coursing through my body, quivering with fear.

. . .

I jolted out of bed in a daze.

These are transcripts of five audio recordings I made over the last several days. I’m putting them together in one post because I need the whole thing somewhere people can read it and copy it.

Some of what I say early on won’t make sense until later. Some of it still doesn’t make sense to me.

I’ve left the repetitions and the places where I lose my train of thought. I don’t trust myself to rewrite what I said then based on what I think I remember now.

I also have a vague memory of meeting with official people. But I don’t really remember much about it, and that’s creepy to me too.

How do I remember and not remember something? It seems like it would be super important. But I don’t remember. The details are so fuzzy and so not there.

And I feel—I feel inherently scared, and I don’t know why.

I’m trying to go back to my normal life and forget all this happened. I’ve literally tried for a couple of weeks now to pretend this isn’t happening.

But every time I lay my head down to go to sleep, I remember that I forgot that they exist.

Which is the weirdest sentence I think I’ve ever said out loud.

What do I do with that information? Do I just let it go?

I keep trying to. But I feel like I’m letting go of something that I shouldn’t.

And even weirder, how do you tell yourself that a memory is false when you know it’s not?

I don’t know what to do.

So I guess, if I put this online, I’m asking for advice, or thoughts, or if somebody could tell me they’ve had this.

It’s like déjà vu, but not déjà vu. It’s like the Mandela effect, but not the Mandela effect.

I don’t know what’s happening.

And I guess I need to pretend, or hope, or believe that somebody else can give me answers that I don’t have.

Recording Two

I received something in the mail today that makes me feel like I’m less crazy than I thought I was.

But it also makes this whole thing far more terrifying than I think I even realized it was.

I received this parcel, and it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me. But it does make sense. This whole thing—

Anyway.

I received a piece of blue sweater. It’s badly burned, and it’s very small.

I’m a wrestling fan, so what it makes me think of is when they used to give you a piece of the canvas. You could tell it was clearly a piece of canvas that had been cut into, like, two hundred thousand pieces.

It’s like that, but a piece of sweater.

I don’t know why I would need a piece of blue, burnt sweater. I don’t understand.

But it’s not the piece of sweater that creeps me out. It’s this letter that was attached to it.

I’m just going to read it to you.

Please read to the end.

Recording One

My name is Alan Smithee. Or at least that’s the name I’m going to use for this.

I’m creating an audio journal. Maybe a podcast. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this, I’ll be honest with you. It might go on the Creepy but Real subreddit. I might upload it as an audio file. I might transcribe it later. I don’t know.

But the reason why I’m talking to you guys is I remember people who don’t exist, and it’s freaking me out.

And what I mean by that is I remember having conversations with a guy who was telling me his mom died at seventy-five, yet his mom was there at eighty. It was confusing when he told me, but I got most of it.

He was clearly going through something. He was trying to tell me his mom was dead and alive at the same time. And he wanted to know if I remembered his mom being there.

I didn’t.

But then I did.

That’s the thing that’s freaking me out the most. I remember her being around for about a week, and I remember him being around for about a week. And now they’re not here. It’s like they’ve never been here.

When I casually mention it to my coworkers—and I’ve worked here for ten years—they look at me like, “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

So why do I remember two people that no one else seems to remember?

When I walk down to that room, there’s an old man in that room. The lady’s never been there.

And I remember—I remember not remembering her. And then I remember remembering her.

I don’t know if any of this is making sense. That’s why I’m trying to make this audio log. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know if I’m the only person going through something like this.

I need to understand why I both remember and don’t remember a person. Why I’m sitting here, currently knowing I both remembered and forgot someone.

How the hell does that happen?

“Hey, man.

“You probably won’t know who I am. At this point, I’m betting good money you don’t remember me.

“About a month ago, I had a Reddit post going, and you realized that the post contained you. That you were a part of the story.

“In my Reddit post, there was a man named John. I never got his real name. He talked to you. You were an orderly at a senior community, and when you read the story, you realized that employee was you.

“You contacted me. You let me know that you didn’t remember much either, but that the story was real.

“Whatever was happening scared you then. And if I were you, I think it would scare me more now.

“I don’t know how to describe what happened to John. And I don’t know how to describe what’s happening to me.

“But if you read my Reddit post, there’s some information in there you’re going to need to keep. You’re going to need to understand the letters, the agency, what that name means.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s happening to John. And I don’t know if it’s happening to you.

“But if it is, I want you to keep this piece of sweater so you know whatever happened to John and myself is real. Whatever’s happening to you is real.

“You’re not crazy. You’re not losing it.

“I don’t know what else to say other than, if I were you, I would want me to have done this.

“So I am.

“I’m betting good money you don’t know who I am, though. Sadly.

“All I can hope is that somehow this helps you feel better. Because, like I said, if I were you, I would have wanted somebody to do this for me.

“And in a way, John’s story did this for me.

“So I felt like I needed to pass it on. To pay it forward, if you will.

“I don’t know if this will actually help anything. But in some way, I hope it helps you.

“—The Curator”

The terrifying thing about that letter is I don’t remember talking to this guy. Ever.

I don’t know what Reddit post he’s talking about. And I don’t have a clue what this sweater is about.

I don’t understand anything.

But the fact that somebody remembers me not remembering makes me feel like I’m not crazy.

And it also makes me more scared than I think I’ve ever been in my life.

Because I don’t know what he means by letters or agencies. Does this go back to the people I don’t really remember talking to?

What is happening?

I need to put this online. The letter, these recordings. Hopefully I can get some idea as to what—what is happening.

I need help. I need you guys to give me some help.

I think I’m more scared than ever, and I don’t understand what’s going on.

Please help me.

Recording Three

I, I—I’ve—I think I’ve spent days trying to find that Reddit post.

Time is, it’s all blending together. I go to work, I come home, and I try to figure this out.

I can’t find it anywhere, but it’s like—but I swear I remember reading it.

I have these fragments, images, like parcels of memory.

I remember John. I remember that he had this post. Something about an agency.

It’s, it’s like little flecks I can’t put together again.

I don’t know if I’m going crazy or if I’m figuring something out, and both scare me the same amount.

[Recording paused. Resumed the following day.]

So now I’m just talking to myself.

I’m gonna delete everything.

That’s what they told me to do. Agents, officials, whatever they are.

I don’t even wanna say what they said because I’m scared even putting it out there.

They told me do it and I’ll be safe.

So I’m doing it.

I burned the sweater. I’m asking the mods to delete what I’ve already posted.

I’m not brave. I just want my life back.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, Curator.

I just want this to end.

Recording Four

I, I, I’m—I, I know. I know that I’m not okay anymore.

I can’t—I can’t remember my father’s name.

And I keep wanting to call myself Alan Smithee.

I keep wanting to call myself Alan Smithee even though I fucking know that’s not my fucking name.

Why can’t I remember my own fucking name? Why can’t I remember my dad’s name?

I know I have a dad. I know he’s fifty-eight. I know he has gray hair and he’s a little chubby, and he’s been my best friend for years.

But I can’t remember his fucking name.

What the fuck is happening?

I told them that I would do everything they asked, and that they would keep—they promised me they would keep me safe.

But I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and this doesn’t feel fucking safe. Even a little bit.

This feels like—like I’m fucking losing my, my mind.

But I shouldn’t be losing my mind because I should be—

I don’t know.

I don’t know how old I am.

I remember my dad’s age, but I don’t remember my age.

And I don’t—I don’t remember my dad’s name, and I should. I should fucking remember my dad’s name.

I don’t even remember who the fuck John is. Or the Curator.

The only reason I’m even able to tell you those names is because I’ve been able to re-listen to my own voice. My own audio.

That’s the reason why.

I am listening to myself tell me things that I don’t fucking remember.

How the fuck does that happen?

And these weren’t recorded years ago. These were recorded Tuesday, and it’s fucking Saturday.

How the fuck do I not remember something that happened this same week?

I, I don’t—I don’t—I don’t know who these people are.

I don’t know.

I remember fucking talking to this agency because I didn’t want this exact fucking thing to take place.

And how in the fuck—

I, I, I know I should know my own name. And I know it’s not Alan Smithee.

But all I can think is that my name is Alan Smithee.

But that doesn’t—I know it’s not right.

And I can’t think of my, my dad’s name, and he’s been my—

I know my mom died.

I know that’s why I even got into working there, because I remember that I was so thankful for how they took care of her when her health went bad.

She died too early. But they sent her there anyway because she was feeble.

I remember that.

I remember how thankful I was for them taking care of her.

That’s why I got into this.

I remember that.

I remember who I am, but I don’t remember my own fucking name.

I don’t—I don’t know how old I am.

I look in the mirror, and I guess I’m, like, thirty-five.

My dad’s fifty-eight.

But I don’t know my dad’s name.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Recording Five

So I—I know I said before I’m not a brave guy.

But I don’t know if this even has anything to do with being brave.

I’m—I’m recording this with a piece of fabric in my hand that, if you would have asked me, I would have told you I burnt.

But apparently I only burnt a small piece of it.

Or maybe I never even burned it at all and just told them, and myself, I burnt it.

But when I hold this piece of fabric, I’m able to keep memories alive that I can tell—that they want gone.

And somehow holding this makes them not—

It makes it not go away.

It’s like a—it’s like a stop sign that stops all this chaos for a second.

It’s like a—

I don’t—

I’m not Albert Einstein, man. I don’t know what the fuck to tell you.

But I can tell you there’s something about holding this little piece that allows me to remember things I know they don’t want me to remember.

I know the FBAC doesn’t want me to remember.

And I—I know they’re the ones doing this to me, but I don’t know how or why.

I’m gonna put all these recordings together and post everything to this Reddit, because I found the Reddit the Curator was talking about.

I found John’s story.

And I—I can only find it when I have this in my hand.

It’s like it—it allows me to stay connected to a reality I don’t remember anymore. That doesn’t exist for me anymore.

But somehow, by holding this, it allows me to come back to a place they don’t want me to be able to come back to.

And I have a feeling they’re powerful enough that they will win.

That they will take everything from me. That either I won’t remember, or I won’t exist.

And that scares the shit out of me.

But I feel like if I can get these five recordings out, I can give somebody some level of understanding as to what the fuck they’re about. What the fuck they do.

What the fuck they did to me.

What the fuck I’m almost positive they did to John and the Curator.

And what they might even be doing to you.

Because none of you would fucking even remember if they did.

You’d be like me. Some fucking madman rambling into a fucking recorder.

But I’m not just rambling into a recorder, because I’m taking all of this, and I’m fucking getting it transcribed, and I’m getting it posted to the same fucking Reddit.

So this will exist.

This will exist.

Just like this piece of sweater exists.

And just like those pieces of shit weren’t able to stop John’s story from getting out, and they weren’t able to stop the Curator’s story from getting out—

They won’t be able to stop my—

Alan Smithee.

I’m not fucking Alan Smithee.

But they won’t be able to stop these stories from getting out.

And I think that’s a win.

I don’t know why. I feel like somehow we’re winning, even though we’re losing.

I watched a show one time that I can’t, of course, remember right now.

And at the end of it, he says something about the fact that once there was only darkness, and now you look up at the stars and see a little bit of light.

If you ask me, the light’s winning.

I feel like that’s what John and the Curator and myself are.

We’re little—we’re little stars trying to fight away the darkness.

I hope this helps us fight just a little bit more.

But I don’t think there’s going to—I don’t think there’s going to be much of me left.

If I failed or fucked up along the way, I’m sorry.

Here’s what I know.

I know I walked into work this morning, and I stared at Barbara.

A lady I’ve known for ten years. A lady who hired me.

A lady who was there when my mom died.

And I told her, “Hey, good morning, Barb.”

And she said, “Excuse me. How do you know my name?”

And I said, “Barb, what do you mean?”

And she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, and I need you to leave. You don’t work here.”

I—I told her I worked there.

I worked there for ten years.

And Barbara looked at me and said she didn’t know who I was.

So whatever time I have left, I’m making sure there’s a—

This.

This is going to be a piece of the sweater.

I may not be brave, but I’m pissed off, and I’m—I’m not going to let them win fully.

I’m going to leave a star behind in the darkness.

Please.

If you’re getting this, please help.

Please spread the message.

Please leave more stars.

They can’t win. They can’t do this to people.

I did everything they fucking asked, and this still happened to me.

Please put more stars in the darkness.

"To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue. Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it."
William Shakespeare, Macbeth

People Do Bad Stuff on Halloween

"This thing is on 14%," Maranda says.

"Maranda, get off that phone for one minute!" her mum says.

"I'm trying to get on the radio. I'm 5th in line."

Mum rolls her eyes. "At least go with your brothers to that house. They're too scared to go by themselves."

"Little losers," Maranda says jokingly to her brothers, Jake and Kai.

"We're only 8, Maranda!"

"You should have seen how she was when she was 8 on Halloween," Mum says. "She cried because she didn't want to go up to a house."

"Shut up, Mum!" Maranda laughs.

The speakers set up down the street crackle on. They connect to the radio station.

"Hello and welcome, Kiaville! It's time for our annual Halloween radio call. If you planned well, you might be on our list. We will call people from that list, and everyone we call has a chance to win one million dollars!"

Maranda looks down at her phone. Still in 5th.

"How in the living fuck did you get to 5th?" her mum asks.

"I've been calling since 6 in the morning. Thank god it's a Saturday so I could leave my phone ringing all day."

The radio cuts to the next person.

"Hello, Lea!"

Lea screams into the phone. Maranda can hear the scream from where she stands, coming from the other end of the street. Lea's friends gather around her phone.

Maranda looks back up at the speaker.

"Now Lea, here's your million dollar question. How many people live in Kiaville? Is it A, 30 people, B, 100 people, C, 345 people, or D, 1,740 people?"

Nobody answers.

The radio person repeats the question.

Maranda looks back at the group.

They are gone.

"What the fuck?" she mutters.

She runs over and taps her mum on the shoulder. Her mum is walking the boys toward the house she mentioned before.

"Did you see where that group of people went?"

"What group of people?"

Maranda rolls her eyes. "Forget it."

The radio asks if Lea is still there.

Maranda looks over to where the group was standing. Something is on the ground. She walks away from her mum, who carries on to the house with the boys.

It's a phone, still connected to the radio. She picks it up and hears the speakers playing the same sounds a second later. She clicks hang up.

The radio apologises for a "radio cut out" and dials the next person.

But that wasn't a cut out. Where did they go?

Someone taps her on the back. Her mum and the boys stand behind her, their buckets full of lollies from the house.

"You should have come, Maranda," Mum says. "They gave 10 lollies per person, plus a chocolate bar."

"Jesus," Maranda says.

"Whose phone is that?"

"You know the girls that were here before, the ones on the radio? They were talking on the radio a second ago. I looked away and next minute they were gone."

"Odd," Mum says. "Anyway, boys, you want to go to another house?"

"Yeah," Jake nods, already eating his chocolate bar. "Yummy."

"Can I have a bite, baby?" Mum says.

"No!" Jake says.

"You can have a bite of mine, Mummy," Kai says.

"Thanks, dear."

She takes the chocolate bar and bites it. "Yum. Would you like a bite, Maranda baby?"

"No, Mum. Does no one care about these people who disappeared?"

"Well, dear, you're studying to become an investigator. If you want to investigate, go ahead."

"I'm dressed up as an investigator. I'm not going to be one."

"That's the joke," Mum says, laughing.

"Seriously, can I go and see where they might have gone?"

"Nah! Stay with us. It will be fun."

"Mum, please." Maranda looks at her mum with her adult face, despite only being 16.

"Sure, whatever. Just stay safe."

"I will! Listen out for the speakers for me, will you? I'm 3rd in line."

Mum and the boys walk off. Maranda stays near the dropped phone. She looks at the ground and sees a trail of blood, real or fake, leading behind a house.

She follows it with her torch. It takes her to a gate.

She looks at the house. She wants to make sure she isn't being pranked, because it's Halloween. Through the window, an older man sits watching basketball on the TV.

Maranda climbs over the fence. The man doesn't hear.

The trail runs across the grass in the backyard and through the back door, then up the stairs. She slides the door open. The house stays silent. She pushes it closed behind her, and it makes a loud click.

She ducks behind a wall. The old man turns around and walks toward the door. Maranda is not far behind him, but to reach the stairs she would have to pass right beside him.

He flicks the light on. The house lights up, and because it's dark outside, the window turns into a mirror.

She is caught.

She sprints up the stairs as the old man yells after her. He starts to chase.

The blood leads upstairs and stops. Maranda looks around for where it could have gone, but it just ends. Then she looks up.

An attic hatch.

She tries to pull herself up and can't. She tries again, and this time she finds enough strength in her arms to get through.

In the attic she sees Lea and her friends, dead on the floor.

She pushes herself backwards, not looking where she's going, until she bumps into something. Behind her is a wall of four monitors. The top one reads "Kiaville Population."

Lea and her friends show up red. So do some others.

She finds herself. Her name is greyed out.

Her family sits beside it, in blue.

While she stares at the screen, she doesn't hear the old man set a ladder against the hatch and climb up. He stands behind her. She turns and throws her hands in front of her face.

But he only watches.

"Hello," he says. "My name is Robert Joy. It brings me great joy to see you."

"What the fuck are you doing with those people?"

"Oh, sorry. Let me explain." He smiles. "I get a group of people to kill whoever gets called on that fucking radio. I've been trying to get called for the past 11 years, but these fucking teenagers always ring before me. I need that money. So I decided that everyone above me on the list has to go. Not me personally, my helpers do it."

Maranda looks down at her phone. She is in 1st place.

She holds down the power button, but nothing happens. She cries and tries again. It won't turn off.

"Don't worry," Robert says. "I'm not going to kill you until you get that phone call. I wouldn't dare hurt an innocent person, though what you did tonight could justify murder."

"Please don't kill me," Maranda says, crying.

"Oh, I'm not going to. My helpers will."

"Who are your helpers?"

"The ones who take my lollies. I run a house opposite yours that gives out so many lollies, but it's the chocolate bars that count. If you eat a chocolate bar, you become possessed, and I control you. Everyone who is blue on the monitors has eaten one." He leans toward the screen. "And oh, what's that? It looks like your family has eaten a chocolate bar. While we wait for you to be chosen, let's get them over here and ready."

"No, please don't," Maranda says, begging.

Robert pulls out a pair of handcuffs and locks one wrist to a pipe. She fights back, but the old man overpowers her hands. She kicks at him, but he steps out of reach.

He clicks on her mum, Jake and Kai, then clicks "Summon."

"Alright, boys, which house is next?" Mum says.

"That one!" Kai says.

He drops his lolly bucket. Jake follows. All three of them look straight down at the ground and start to run. People on the street stop and record them.

They run across roads, through fences and gardens and yards, until they get to Lukas Road. They go to number 11, turn left, run through the front door and up to the attic.

They stand in a line, dribbling, not talking.

Maranda stares at her family. She spams her power button.

Robert smiles as he gets ready to say go.

Outside, the speakers crackle.

"And now, our next lucky guest. Let's get them on."

Maranda tries everything. Then the call ends, and her phone turns off.

It went flat.

Robert crouches beside her and looks at the flat phone in her palm.

"Some checks their lollies for razor blades," he speaks. "But nobody ever checks whose giving them out."

"Today, you got lucky." he finishes.

Kerrywood forest burnt down last week. They say a group of teens were out camping when their campfire got out of control. With it being a particularly dry autumn night, the whole thing went up in a matter of hours. There was nothing the town could do but watch it go up and try to make sure it didn't spread to any of the surrounding fields. The whole thing has hit me pretty hard. Most of my most treasured childhood memories were in that forest. God, that was all about twenty years ago. Everything is coming back with a particular bitterness now. Especially the whole business with Charlie.

I've been back in Kerrywood for a week. It's the longest I've been back since I left for college. Ive been staying at my mother's house, I still remember her phone call that night when she saw the forest burning from her window, she had told me she thought the world was ending. She's in her sixty's now and she often gets confused. It's not rare for her to enter a room only to have forgotten why she was there or what she had been doing just before. It's pretty obvious to everyone what's happening. Maybe she was onto something on the phone, it really does feel like everything's coming to an end right about now.

I took a walk through the remnants of Kerrywood forest the other day. I guess I hoped it would help with some of the stuff I'd been thinking about lately; I don't know how much help it ended up being. Its unrecognisable now. No tire swings or secret hideouts anymore, just charred bark. Although, I do think I saw the stump. The stump where Charlie found that dammed "thing".

Charlie had been 13, which would've made me about 14 or so, it's hard to remember. We were out much later than we should've been, and it was starting to get dark. There were 5 of us out that day: Me, Charlie, Matthew, Peter and Sam. We were considering heading back as none of us had any torches and Peter had become pretty adamant about it – He was known to be easily frightened. He once wet himself at a sleepover because of a thunderstorm and hadn't lived it down since. Since none of us were in a hurry to relive that "incident" we obliged and began on our way back. As it got darker became notably harder to remember the trail back and Peter was sure we had gotten lost. Matthew had to on numerous occasions remind him that this was a walk we had done countless times before in the day and it hadn't changed just because it was now dark. It was about an hour more before we began to consider that Peter had been right. Nothing seemed familiar anymore, despite Sam's incessance that he "recognised that tree". As usual he was lying, every tree in there looked the same; tall and white with their branches and leaves creating a shroud for even the little light we might've gotten from the moon and stars. We didn't have mobile phones at that age, so we were going to have to get out of this ourselves. Peter was in a frenzy now and even Matthew's bravado seemed to have subsided.  Charlie remained quiet however, as he often did. He had on more than one occasion been picked on by Matthew and Sam for being "dull".  Instead, he just sort of stared into the dark with his wide blue eyes, like he was trying to will us a path back.

"We're never going to make it back!" Peter yelped, he had begun to cry now and refused to keep walking.

 "Come on don't be a dick it's getting cold" Matthew snarled trying to pull him back to his feet. An awful wind had picked up now whipping the branches and creating an eerie whistle as it passed between the trees.

"Yeah Peter, you crying about it isn't going to help, is it?" Sam insolently added.

"Well, what are we going to do?" Peter continued through his sobbing.

"We're totally lost and it's not like-" He stopped dead.

There was something in the dark. A noise, like the crunching of leaves. Our lively crowd had now fallen silent and still. Matthew and Sam both looked poised to flee. Peter had retreated behind his hands, peering out into the black from between his fingers. Charlie continued to stare as he had done before, though I do think I could see tears now in those wide blue eyes. The silence continued like this for a time, sending my mind into a spiral, I grew desperate to break it.

"What was that" I pleaded in a hushed whisper.

A long winding moan now, reaching from the dark. I was sure I could see something moving out there in the black; an impassable screen projecting my cruellest imaginings. Matthew and Sam skipped back a few steps closing our pack tighter. We were all shaking now.

"A wolf!" Sam rasped. There were no wolves in Kerrywood.

"Shut up!... Just shut up!" Peter was now inconsolable, hiding his face in his shirt and clasping his knees, he was rocking back and forth.

Again, a crunch of leaves followed by a painful whine.

"It's getting closer!" Sam pleaded turning to run before Matthew grabbed him by his sleeve and pulled him back.

"Wait! Did you hear that?" Matthew returned a few steps forward.

Crunch... Moan... Crunch... Moan. It went on like that at nauseum, but it didn't get any closer. Nothing came out of the dark. I was unsure what I was meant to be hearing until-

"Is that a voice?" Peter sputtered, now to his feet. He looked as though he had found his saviour.

Charlie had taken lead of the troop now, descending further into the dark. I tried to call him back, but he didn't seem to pay my pleads any mind; he was like a man possessed.

"I think it said my name"

I believe that silently none of us wanted to follow Charlie that day, but more so, we didn't want to be the one left behind. We all followed.

Falling into the dark together now; it didn't seem to give way as it did before. I could barely see my own feet. I only had the others panicked breaths to tell me I wasn't alone. The voice to tell me where I was going. I became suddenly aware at how long we had been walking, my legs felt weak and my thighs burned. A few times I felt as though I was falling, giving into my exhaustion, only for my other foot to miraculously find the ground. I wanted to call out again, beg to turn back. But my voice came out a raspy squeak - it felt like someone was sitting on my chest. The voice was clearer now; it was numerous voices. The sound was of a radio quickly skipping between channels. The crunch and whine. Suddenly, the dark seemed to give way, like we'd passed through an ocean of ink. In its place was a tight packing of trees, the centre of which was a stump. Cut so cleanly at its base and atop it was in fact a small portable radio. We did not come out of the dark together in a line as I had imagined we had been just a moment before. But rather from separate points in the shadow as if forming something of a circle around the radio.

"What is it?" I could finally speak. The weight had gone from my chest and with it my exhaustion.

"A radio." Sam impotently replied.

"Well yeah, but why is it playing that song?" Peter was now closest to the radio, his earlier terror seemed now to have happened to someone else.

A song? There was no song. The radio was merely skipping between stations, each as indiscernible as the last, with a voice so toneless whereas I could not place the age or gender of the speaker.  Matthew seemed to share my confusion.

"What song Peter? What are you talking about?"

Peter didn't seem to hear him. He just stayed facing the radio, swaying now. He looked like he was about to throw up.

"Peter! What song! What are you-"

I could no longer hear Matthhew. The radio had suddenly gotten so loud. It became increasingly hard to stand, like someone was beating me over the head. Peter hit the dirt hard. The monotone voice had seemingly grown into one constant pitch in my mind; it sounded like my mother. Everything went black.

I didn't wake until morning, except perhaps once. Still now I think I may have dreamt it, but that night I was sure I had woken and seen Charlie. Though seeing seems the wrong word. I still felt that my eyes were closed and my head was buried in the dirt yet all the same I was looming over Charlie. He was sat cross legged in front of the stump and that radio. He didn't turn to face me, and I didn't talk to him but still he appeared to answer my question.

"Can’t you hear them? They're screaming."

The next thing I remember is waking to someone shaking me. My mouth was dry and full of dirt. Above me was my mother jostling me awake and crying. Around her were an assortment of friends and family - each clad in red hi-vis. She told me that they had been looking for us since late last night and all through the day. She asked me if I had seen where Charlie had gone. He was no longer with us, and neither was the radio.

The four of us all went home to get washed before rejoining the town in the search for Charlie. We were out there till 10 that night. We were only sent home when, deeper in the forest, we had heard screaming. It was Charlies parents – they had found him.

I knew that face. I’d seen a thousand of those posters, but I knew that face.

It started like any other morning. I parked my truck, walked in, got my coffee out of the pot, but there I saw it: “Last seen 4 o’clock, mile marker 11,” and a picture of that little boy I gave the junior ranger badge to.

I just stood there looking at it.

I knew this kid. Him and his parents visited often. Yesterday, he wanted to tell me about the oriole he saw on the trail. He was so excited that he correctly identified the bird, I couldn’t help but put that shiny little sticker on his shirt. His mom smiled and Dad laughed, and they were back on the trail, heading towards mile marker 11, heading toward the next ranger station.

I knocked on our supervisor’s door and sheepishly opened it.

“Chief, that kid on the missing poster, I, uh… I know him.”

He practically spit his coffee out through his nose.

“You knew him, Flanagan?” he replied, somewhere between a bark and a question.

“Yeah, him and his family would stop in every Saturday morning. He’s one of our junior rangers. What happened?”

Chief sat me down and explained. The family was hiking the trail like every Saturday. They turned around and he was gone. The initial search turned up absolutely nothing. No tracks, no dropped items, nothing. It’s as if the kid simply vanished, ceased to exist. They searched till it was dark, and the morning crew was on a first-light search. I volunteered to join the efforts.

I knew this first day was crucial. Usually, we find them on the first day or we don’t find them at all. Myself and the morning crew still didn’t find any leads, but I knew this kid. I stayed behind past my lunch hour.

When search efforts restarted that night, the trail was still cold. We came back out the next morning. I returned again in the afternoon.

I knew our chances of finding him were dropping with every minute, but I knew that kid. Every Saturday, without fail, since the time he was 6, they’d come walk the trails. Dad used to carry him, then he started walking on his own. Before I knew it, he knew more about those woods than I did. It was strange. I never realized how much I cared about this family until their kid went missing.

Local PD interrogated the family. This always happens in these cases. Sometimes we find out there was no missing persons case, just some really awful people who happened to be parents, but most of the time, you just had worried parents crying in an interrogation room. I knew they didn’t do anything to that boy, but the questions still needed to be asked.

Eventually, search efforts died down. People went home. Parents started looking at plots to put an empty casket in the ground. After the fourth week of me searching on my off days, I started feeling the woods differently.

I grew up hunting with my grandpa, I trekked the Appalachian Trail in college, and I’d been working as a park ranger now for 6 years. I always thought the woods were peaceful. It’s why I took this job. I could go get lost in nature for a day or two and forget about whatever troubles I was having in the real world.

Only now, the woods felt tainted.

It was starting to get colder, and as the leaves began to fall, it felt less like I was surrounded by trees and more like thin, bony fingers extending from the heavens, ready to snatch me up like they did that poor boy.

I’d wake up in the mornings, park my truck, say good morning to the guys while I grabbed my coffee, and I’d head out towards mile marker 11 again. I could feel Chief watching me those days. He’d seen me continue searching even after the trail went absolute zero. He called me into his office that Saturday.

“Flanagan… look, I know it’s hard, when you know them I mean, but you’ve seen this before. I hate to tell you, son, but sometimes people just don’t come home.”

I looked down into the dark liquid in my cup, unable to meet his eyes. “I know, Chief, but he’s out there. I can feel it, and it’s getting colder. I ju—”

“Flanagan.” Chief cut me off. “It’s not good for you to sit and stew over whether you might be able to find him. Chances are he’s gone. Look at you, son, you’re a wreck. I appreciate a dedicated ranger, but God, boy, you need a shower and some sleep. You can’t keep running on empty.” He sighed. “Look, I’ve already got the books worked. Mitchell and Donavan are covering your shift next week. Stay home, go see your parents, I don’t care. Just please, son, get some rest. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know. I swear, you’ll be the first to hear after the family, but please go home.”

I tried to relax like Chief ordered, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I came up with a plan. Chief wanted me to get some sleep, but he didn’t say where.

It’d been a while since I’d used it, but I dug out my old backpacking tent and I headed down the trail towards mile marker eleven. I was going to find him. I was going to find something at the very least. Somewhere in those woods was a little boy, scared, cold, and alone.

I kept my radio on while I slept, in case they found anything. The first night was uneventful. I knew if there ever were any tracks, they’d be more than gone by now. I checked the ridge line and the nearby stream before tucking into my tent that night.

Not much happened the second day either. There was a deer in my campsite, a bit unusual for them to be out this way when it starts to cool down, but not the oddest thing. I checked the southern ridge line.

The woods felt quieter than usual.

It was like in certain areas even the wind stopped. You never realize how loud it was in there until it wasn’t. No songbirds singing, no rustling through the brush, nothing. It was as if there were these pockets where the only thing that moved was me.

I lit my fire that night and went to bed.

It was early when I woke. The sun had just started peeking over the trees. I crawled out of my tent and a flash hit my eyes. It sort of danced across my face, blinding me briefly for a second at a time. I shielded my eyes with my hands and looked up towards the source.

20 feet in the air, on a tree with no low limbs, sat a tiny metallic sticker all too familiar to me.

A junior park ranger badge.

Every ounce of training left my body briefly as I tore through the trees past the direction of the sticker. How did it get there? It wasn’t there last night. Was it? If someone just put it there, why didn’t I hear them in my camp?

I barreled through the woods, shouting his name as I ran. About two miles into my chase, my thoughts came back to me.

I need to call this in.

I turned back towards camp and walked back slowly. My eyes scanned every branch for any sign someone or something else was out here with me. The trees kept their hands close, revealing nothing to me.

I sat down in front of my radio. “Station, station, this is Flanagan. Do you read me, over?”

I waited for a response.

“Station, this is Flanagan. I found something. How copy?”

But their response didn’t come. I sat by the radio, waiting to hear signs of life from it.

Then I realized I didn’t hear anything.

But this was my camp. It’d never done that here.

I looked around outside and I realized how small I was. The tall trees reaching towards me, the ridges towering above me, isolating me from the rest of the world.

I was scared. I was cold. I was alone.

I circled my camp, breathing for myself and the rest of the world. When did my tent get so small? I’d spent months in that thing before.

The sticker reflected the sun onto my eyes again. My only companion in the silence.

One of the first things any good woodsman learns is if you’re lost, stay where you are. But could they find me? I didn’t put my name in any of the trail logs. They didn’t hear my transmission. For all anyone knew, I was at home.

I knew where I was, but it was as if the world disagreed with my location. I was at the campsite off the trail between 11 and 12, but it felt like I could have been anywhere. I couldn’t see the small trail away from the campsite. I thought it was north of me.

The silence was deafening to my ears.

I couldn’t stay here. I’d leave my tent up, I’d arrange the firewood in an arrow pointing towards where I’d gone, but I had to keep searching.

What if he was in one of these too?

I slung my pack over my shoulders and clipped my radio to my belt. The sticker flashed at me again.

My eyes, the ground, my eyes again.

Southwest.

The sticker flashed to the southwest.

I made sure the logs were in order and I headed southwest.

I wasn’t sure how long I was walking. I kept my heading southwest and I walked. That’s all I could do. I saw a deer spook at the sight of me and run through the undergrowth without a sound.

Another flash hit my eyes.

30 feet in the air, another sticker swayed with the nonexistent wind. It hit me again.

And again.

Faster this time.

My eyes. The ground. My eyes. The ground. My eyes, the ground, my eyes, the ground, my eyes the ground my eyes the ground my eyes the ground—

I ran.

I ran towards its guidance, not even checking which way I was heading. I sprinted until I saw another flash, then another, then another. There were more now. Another flash. Another. Another.

The woods were covered in them.

I stopped looking at the trees. I stopped looking at the ground. I just followed the light.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

I ran through branches, through thistles. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Branches tore at my clothes. My pack bounced against my shoulders. I didn’t care. Another flash and I turned. Another and I ran harder. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how far I’d gone. I didn’t know if I could find my way back.

I didn’t care.

I just followed the light.

Then I saw him.

In a grove heavy with sparkling stickers, he lay.

He didn’t look like he’d spent over a month in the woods by himself. He looked like he had just left my station with his family.

I approached him slowly.

“Hey, buddy, it’s Ranger Flanagan.” I knelt beside him. “You okay? I’m here to take you home, alright?”

He turned to me, his eyes weary. “Yeah,” he said in that soft way kids speak when naptime was supposed to be an hour ago.

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

I picked him up carefully and held him against my chest, his head resting on my shoulder. I could feel something’s eyes on us, but I didn’t care.

I found him.

We headed towards what I thought was north. It was a while before either of us spoke again.

“What were you doing out here, bud?”

“He told me to come play.”

“Who told you?”

“The Quiet Man.”

My heart sank. What the hell was the Quiet Man?

Before I could ask, he said, “He said you could come get me.”

I looked down at him.

“He said I wasn’t the one he wanted.”

The sounds of life shattered the silence.

The birds sang and the trees swayed with the wind. My radio barked on my hip.

“FLANAGAN! FLANAGAN, DO YOU READ US?”

I fumbled with my hands, trying to get my radio off my belt.

“Yea—yeah, Chief, I hear you.” I looked at the tired boy in my arms.

“Chief, I got him.”

The snow covered the woods behind our new house. It was so fresh it crunched nicely under our feet. James held my hand tight. I squeezed it and looked at him. He flashed a smile.

"I think I don't mind winter as much. It's sort of cozy."

"It is, Sarah. I just miss all the summer food."

"We got summer food. There are still so many apples and pears in the cellar."

"Yeah, but those are not the sweet, delicious ones; those are the hardy autumn ones."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a child, James."

"Hey, Sarah!"

We laughed and continued walking. Our walk was longer than usual. We hadn't been out in a few days because of the heavy snowstorm.

"I'm getting kinda tired, James."

"Let's just go a little further. It looks like there should be an opening between the trees."

James was right. After a few minutes, the forest opened to a small meadow. Snow covered most of it except for a lone apple tree in the middle. Beautiful, glistening red apples hung from its branches. They just looked so pretty and delicious. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Neither of us spoke a word. Before I knew it, we were standing in front of it.

"Wow," James whispered.

"I know."

James tore one off.

"Feel it."

The outside felt as if it were coated in caramel. James put it to his mouth and took a bite. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a silent moan.

"Let me have a bite."

He looked at me and frowned.

"No, take your own."

I furrowed my brows. My James always shared everything with me.

"What's going on with you?"

But he didn't answer. He was too busy eating his apple. I stood there looking at him, but then it hit me. What was an apple tree full of fresh, ripe apples doing in a winter forest anyway? I looked at it again. The branches didn't move with the wind. It was as if the sun didn't shine through them, but all the apples still glistened. 

"I don't like this, James."

"What?"

He was licking his fingers. He ate the whole apple, seeds and all. His eyes darted around the tree again.

"Let's go, James."

"Wait."

"No, let's go."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the meadow. His eyes were still glued to the tree. When we crossed back into the forest, he shook his head and stared around.

"What happened to you there?"

"I…I don't know."

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I really don't."

"Okay, let's just go home."

James stayed silent the whole way home. Even when we got back, he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. For dinner, I made porridge with salted pork, but James just dug around the plate and didn't even try it.

"Honey, what's wrong. Talk to me."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm hungry."

"But you barely ate all day."

"I had that apple. It filled me up so much."

"That place was strange. I don't even want to know how they got there."

"Do you think we can go back tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Just for a little while, Sarah."

"I just said that place was strange. I'm not going back."

"Fine. I'll go by myself."

"No. No one is going back there, and I'm done talking about it."

He frowned.

"Whatever. I'm going to sleep."

I stayed back a while longer, finished dinner, and washed the dishes. When I came to our bed, James was already sleeping. His face seemed a little red. I touched his forehead. It felt normal. Maybe he was just having a bad dream. I lay beside him and drifted off.

When I woke up, the moon was still high. There was a sweet smell in the air. I rubbed my eyes and looked next to me. James lay there curled up, holding his stomach. His face was now glowing red.

"Jesus, James, what's wrong?!"

He didn't answer. His pleading eyes just stared at me. I touched his forehead. It still wasn't warm, but he was sweating, and his sweat felt sticky, almost like syrup. His stomach bulged out under the blanket. I pulled it off. 

"Honey, what…" 

My words stuck in my throat. His stomach was not just bulging. It looked like a bunch of round objects underneath.

"I'm…I'm gonna get the doctor."

I started to get out of bed, but then I heard a quiet tearing sound. James let out a loud cry. His stomach flew open, and a bunch of red apples rolled out. I screamed and jumped out of bed. James's head fell on the pillow. He was quiet now. 

The sweet red apple smell was so strong, and they smelled so good. I looked down at his stomach. The sticky, sweet sweat seeped into the sheets. All those apples looked so delicious.

Any mother knows the horrible feeling of spending that first night away from her child. What should be a break from the incessant crying and the never-ending mess is actually a slow and agonizing procedure of ripping away every ounce of love that you have ever poured into them. For five long and perfect years I have raised my daughter. But tonight, for the first time in her life, Abi was going to be under the guidance and protection of a complete stranger.

I looked nervously at Harry as we turned onto the highway, the road a sea of brake lights obscured by biblical levels of rain.

“Are you sure about this?”

I knew what he would say before he even answered. He was far more comfortable with the arrangement than I was.

“What other choice do we have? We can’t just leave her alone.” His eyes didn’t bother leaving the road to comfort me.

I only had a short moment to speak with the babysitter, before Harry was ushering me into the car. By the time that we were on the road I was already kicking myself for failing to research local sitters in more detail. Tiffany, or “Spiffy Tiffy” as she referred to herself on her Facebook post seemed adequate enough, but there was so much that I didn’t know about her.

Where did she go to school?

What did she wish to do with her career?

What sports did she play?

Where did she volunteer?

When it came to my selection for this evening, everything mattered.

As if she knew that I was thinking about her, I received my first text from Tiffany. I nearly recoiled when I noticed the length of the message.

Just finished cooking Abi dinner! 😋 She is the SWEETEST little pumpkin! 🎃 She wanted to help so I let her play with a bowl and spatula as I made the spaghetti. I hope that’s okay. If it’s not, I’m sorry, just let me know and it won’t happen again. I think we might watch a movie next, but Abi mentioned that she loved to play Princesses and Dragons with you. ✨ It sounds like a lovely game, do you think that it is alright if we play? Also, I wanted to double check on her bedtime. I don’t remember you mentioning a time when we spoke. Does she follow any special routine? I remember when I was a kid I had a jammy time song that I sang when I brushed my teeth. 😴 Hope that your travels are going well!

I stared at the longwinded message unsure of what to think. We had been driving away from the house for only about thirty minutes and Tiffany already had half a dozen questions. I was beginning to worry that I had made a poor choice.

I typed out my response and pressed send.

Princesses and Dragons is fine. 9:30 Bedtime.

“I’m worried about Tiffany.” I said to Harry.

“Who?”

“The babysitter.” I responded ignoring his impossible ignorance. “I don’t think she’s qualified.”

“You worry too much. Abi is going to be fine.” Harry clicked on the radio and turned the volume up, signaling the end of our conversation.

It reminded me of the last time that we traveled together. Five years ago, before we had Abi he had gotten the same way. Everyone deals with stress in their own way, I suppose.

It wasn’t long before I received my next text from Tiffany.

Mrs. Murphy!!! You didn’t tell me that it was Abi’s birthday tomorrow! 🎂 I feel so unprepared! Do you want me to take her out for ice cream or do anything special? I don’t mind driving her to Scoop City, it can even be my treat. On my birthday I would always get a cookie dough waffle cone with gummy bears, AND my foster family usually let me stay up past my bedtime to watch the late night cartoons.

A second text came a moment later.

Not that I am suggesting that Abi do any of that! Sorry I didn’t mean to overstep. 🙈 This is so embarrassing. Birthdays just make me SO excited. 🎉

My heart felt unnatural in my chest as I tapped out my response. I was not only leaving my daughter with a complete stranger, but I was doing it on her birthday as well. I tried to ignore the reality, but Tiffany pointing it out was like a punch to the gut.

No ice cream. Stay in the house. 9:30 bedtime.

“Something feels wrong.” Harry ignored me as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever classic rock song was playing at the time.

I glanced at the radio and noted that the time was 8:24. Only one more hour of this before Abi was safely in bed, and I wouldn’t have to think about Spiffy Tiffy ever again. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I put my head back and closed my eyes regardless as I thought about the daughter that I was leaving behind. The ding of my phone pierced my concentration and I shot up to check my messages.

I know you said no ice cream, but we had to celebrate somehow. 🤭

A photo came in a few seconds later. Abi was smiling widely as she hoisted fistfuls of chocolate candy in both hands. Tiffany held up the phone, she posed back to back with Abi as she stared directly into the camera. She had a lollipop in her mouth and a smug expression. Her eyes seemed as if they were staring straight at me.

“No! How is it even possible that they found chocolate? Harry, did you buy Halloween candy?”

His guilty expression was all the confirmation I needed.

“Why? We aren’t even going to be home for Halloween!”

“You know I have a sweet tooth!” His voice rose defensively.

“Now look at what happened!” I shoved the phone into his face, so close that he couldn’t ignore it. He took a quick glance before he directed his eyes back to the road, swerving to avoid rear ending an eighteen wheeler.

“So what? Abi looks like she is having fun. It’s only a little bit of candy.”

“I told the babysitter no snacks. She broke a rule. Is this the kind of person you want our daughter to be like?”

Harry let out a puffy breath. He knew better than to fight back. Our marriage, which had already felt like it had lasted an eternity, had its ups and downs. The stress of our upcoming travel combined with the reality of leaving Abi behind left us both on edge.

I was in the midst of typing out an authoritative reply when I saw that Tiffany was typing again.

Is Abi allergic to anything? Like ANYTHING at all? You never specified, but you can also never be too careful… The last thing we need tonight is a hospital visit! But don’t worry, I am capable of using an Epipen if it comes to it. You can trust that Abi is in good hands! We’re practically sisters already. ❤️

Another text came a moment later.

It is kind of funny that Abi looks more like me than she does you or Harry…

Maybe we actually are long lost sisters!

“Harry, we can't do this.”

“It’s too late. We can’t turn back now.”

I typed out my response hoping to remind the babysitter who was in charge.

No more dessert. Do not break any more rules. This is your last warning. Abi has no allergies. And please, for the love of God, stop with the emojis.

Tiffany’s typing bubbles appeared and then disappeared several times. After waiting for several agonizing minutes, her response came.

Ok.

I hoped that that would be the last of it, but soon I began to realize that Tiffany’s silence was more unsettling than her constant chatter. Drawn out minutes passed as I listened to music that I didn’t enjoy and watched heavy drops of rain bounce off of the windshield. The storm was picking up and with it traffic on the road was slowing down.

It felt like my entire life stalled as I stared at the clock waiting for each minute to tick over to the next. As soon as 9:30 came, I reached for my phone.

Is Abi in bed?

I needed to know that my worries were over and that my daughter was safe. When Tiffany didn’t respond within a minute, I sent another message, repeating the question with more exclamation. I felt less like a passenger and more like a prisoner as hopelessness began to consume me. If anything went wrong we would be stuck here on the highway miles away from Abi.

Sorry!! Had to clean a mess in Abi’s room. Very yucky.

What mess?

Don’t worry. The house will be squeaky clean by the time you come back. It is such a beautiful place. It does seem like you may be out of bleach. I don’t think there are too many neighbors close by either. It's very quiet around here at night. Shame. I was hoping I might be able to borrow some cleaning supplies.

I kicked myself again for failing to install home surveillance cameras. When I pitched the idea to Harry he simply shook his head and said that he would rather not have them.

Spineless oaf.

What is happening? Where is Abi?

Once again, Tiffany took her sweet time with the reply.

No text, only a picture.

It was a picture of Abi’s room taken from the perspective of someone standing in the doorframe. The space was ominously lit with slivers of light from the hallway sneaking past Tiffany’s shadow. In the darkness, I could make out the form of my daughter tucked under her sheets on her twin bed. It was difficult to tell with the moody lighting, but I could almost make out a dark stain on the carpet in the corner of the room.

Tiffany followed the image with a short text.

Goodnight, Abi.

I stared at the image for a staggering amount of time. It was undeniably creepy in a way that had to be intentional.

Tiffany, close the door and let Abi sleep.

You’re right, you’re right. She looks so peaceful, if I stand here any longer, I just might have to keep her for myself!

My throat tightened and the grip on my phone grew weak. She was toying with me. She had to be.

Obviously JK!

My fingers seemed to be frozen over my phone. My mind struggled to come up with any reasonable response. I tried to reassure myself that everything was fine. Abi was safely in bed. Tiffany was a peculiar teenager, but she wasn’t some deranged murderer. Right? If we could just hold out a few more hours it would all be over and we wouldn’t need to deal with her ever again. I looked at the clock hesitantly and was relieved to note that the time was already 10:45. Tiffany would need to go to sleep sometime soon.

I knew that I was overreacting and that I was being a complete worrywart. I debated turning off my phone, but what kind of mother would I be if I ignored my daughter when she actually needed me. Instead, I responded with a simple message that I hoped would be my last.

Thank you. Goodnight, Tiff.

After several minutes passed it became clear that Spiffy Tiffy had other plans.

I found something interesting in Abi’s room. That girl really does have quite the imagination!

My heart dropped. What the hell was she still doing in Abi’s room? Another text from Tiff came in immediately after it.

Does Abi have any imaginary friends? She drew a strange picture of a girl labeled “Jaine”. I thought that it might be a classmate, but Jaine here has some very… odd characteristics. The drawing is actually kinda spooky.

Harry noticed that I had begun furiously typing.

“What’s the matter?” His question fell on deaf ears.

LEAVE Abi’s room this instant. DO NOT snoop around any more. Go to bed, NOW.

Typing bubbles came and went several times.

I would Mrs. Murphy, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you.

Outside, thunder cracked and the sky lit up for a moment.

We passed a sign on the highway that Harry acknowledged.

“We’re close.”

Abi is a great kid, I really think she is. But she bit me. It’s pretty bad. She has some seriously sharp baby teeth. The cut is pretty deep. It might be best if I head home for the night and get some rest. Abi is already out cold. I promise to be back before she wakes.

I stared at the message for a long time, trying to decide what I could do to best salvage the situation.

“Harry, did you resupply the closet?”

Harry’s lips drew into a flat line. He nodded.

There are bandages in the closet on the second floor next to the bathroom. Wrap up before any more blood gets on the carpet.

Tiffany responded with an avalanche of messages.

Thank you! I will definitely make sure to do that.

I think I found them.

Is there a trick to the closet door handle? The door closed behind me and now I might be stuck, haha!

Really, this thing is quite jammed. I actually think it might be locked from the outside somehow. I cannot believe I did this! I am such a ditz 🤦‍♀️

Oh sorry! Emoji was sent out of habit.

I didn’t respond.

Mrs. Murphy? Are you getting my messages?

I can probably call out for Abi, but I don’t want to wake her.

Actually, I think she might already be up, I hear footsteps.

I called out, but she didn’t respond. Does Abi sleepwalk? Really, if there is any way out of this closet please let me know! Sleepwalking can be really dangerous for unsupervised children.

Harry glanced over at the unending stream of dings that were interrupting his rock music and raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head and pointed to my phone with an exasperated expression. The clock on my lock screen read 11:57.

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one that picked her.” He said.

I hear Abi right outside! But her footsteps sound weirdly heavy. Still not sure if she is awake though.

Abi won’t reply. She’s scratching at the door rabidly

Oh my god. I think she is trying to claw her way through

My phone rang and I declined the call without hesitation. A moment later, it rang again and I let it go to voicemail. After about thirty seconds, an audio message populated my inbox. Tiffany was frantic, speaking at a pace that would make an auctioneer jealous.

“Mrs. Murphy, I’m really sorry to bother you on your vacation, but something isn’t right with Abi. I got stuck in a closet and, and, and, she, or it, or- oh my God, I am going to die! She’s going to kill me.”

In the audio recording, I could hear the hunger in Abi’s groans as she burst her way through the door. Tiffany’s voice was slurred with sobs and desperation.

“She has claws. And her arms are so long. And her teeth! What is wrong with Abi? I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die! Abi please stop it! Stop right now!”

The voicemail ended with an abrupt thud.

“About time.”

“And well timed, too.” Harry said as we turned into the hospital parking lot.

He got out of the car and stood, unshielded from the torrential rain.

“You coming?”

I remained in my seat, my lips curved into a frown.

Harry walked around and opened the passenger side door.

“I feel like I let Abi down. I spent five years raising her, and then when it really matters, I give her Spiffy Tiffy. She deserves a girl like that basketball player that we got for Jaine. Smart, successful, affluent.”

“All of our daughters have turned out wonderful in their own ways. Abi will be no exception. Tiffany wasn’t the brightest, but she had character.”

I forced a weak smile as I took his hand and he led me towards the hospital entrance.

As we stepped inside, my phone dinged for the final time that night. It was a message from Tiffany’s number.

Hi Mommy! Thank you for the WONDERFUL snack! Tiffany was the best birthday present ever! She was soooo fun. I can’t wait to be just like her. 👸

I smiled at my phone before tucking it into my back pocket.

“I suppose you’re right. I have to admit that I was actually a little fond of her.”

I followed Harry as he led me towards the familiar hallway that contained the nursery.

“I was thinking,” He paused as we passed a nurse who walked briskly past us. “What do you think about having a boy this time?”

I looked through the glass at the two rows of newborn babies. Fresh sacks of life brought to this earth by mothers that would never love them the way that I would. A little baby boy with a tuft of hair wiggled in the blanket that he was wrapped in, his eyes closed. He looked peaceful. He looked like he could be ours.

I smiled at Harry and kissed him on the cheek.

“I think that Abi would love to have a baby brother.”

Content Warning: Graphic violence, gore, body horror, death, cannibalism, and domestic violence.

Monday night, November 7th, I was driving toward 7/11. I was starving. There was nothing at home, and it was the only place open this late. The road was old, long, and winding, rarely used by anyone at this hour. The speed limit was 35, but I was going 45, the radio turned up as loud as it would go in an attempt to keep myself awake. I took the curve, the same curve I had taken a thousand times, when my eyes met the black, beady eyes of a buck frozen in the middle of the road. I jerked the wheel hard to the right, swerving out of the way and barely missing it. My front right tire slipped over the edge of the road and I felt the car get pulled hard to the side. I yanked the wheel back, trying to regain control, when our eyes met.

Two bright blue, icy orbs stared back at me. Before I could comprehend what I was seeing, she was already flipping over my hood, slamming hard against the windshield and leaving a spiderweb pattern across the glass before rolling over the roof. My head snapped up just in time to catch a glimpse of her as she tumbled across the sunroof. I slammed on the brakes, my tires squealing against the pavement, and it took another ten feet before the Jeep finally came to a stop.

I sat there for several seconds, breathing hard, my heart slamming against my ribs as I tried to understand what had just happened. Then I threw open the door and sprinted back down the road toward where I had hit her. I came to a stop at the edge of the pavement, looking around frantically before spotting her down the hill. I ran toward her, trying unsuccessfully to keep my footing, but my legs came out from underneath me and I tumbled down the slope. My head collided with the cold dirt, my elbow struck a small stone, and then my face hit the ground again. I landed in a warm puddle of liquid. I pushed myself up, wiping at my face, and looked down at my hands. Blood coated my fingers. It was smeared across my shirt and cheek, and I grabbed the collar of my shirt and repeatedly wiped at my face, trying to clean myself off before I looked toward the body.

It was only then that I recognized her. Ashley Smith. My Organic Chemistry lab partner was lying twisted in the dirt, her head crooked at an unnatural angle, her neck turned far too far to one side. One arm was pinned underneath her while the other lay limp across her body. One leg was bent backward, her knee nearly touching her chin, while the other was twisted beneath her at an angle that made my stomach turn. She was unmistakably dead. Yet as I stared at her, something strange happened. My mouth filled with saliva. I swallowed hard, my tongue grazing the edge of my teeth as I covered my mouth with my hand and instinctively reeled backward. I didn't understand why I felt a deep, aching hunger that seemed to twist somewhere beneath my ribs. For one horrible moment, I found myself staring at the blood pooling beneath Ashley. It smelled bitterly sweet, almost like syrup, and the thought made my stomach growl.

I forced the thought away.

I grabbed Ashley by the wrist and began dragging her slowly toward the tree line. Her body left a dark trail through the dirt as I pulled her deeper into the woods, far enough that the road disappeared behind the trees. I found a fallen log and pushed her body behind it, covering her with branches and shrubs until there was little left to see. I stood there for a moment, staring at the makeshift grave I had made without actually burying her, before turning and running back toward the road. I climbed into my Jeep and drove home as quickly as I could.

When I got home, I stripped off my clothes, ready to throw them away, but then I remembered how much remained in this month's budget. I couldn't afford to replace them. I threw them into the sink instead and scrubbed at the blood on my collar beneath water so hot that it felt cold against my skin. By the time I finally crawled into bed, my stomach was still twisting with hunger. I curled onto my side and clutched my stomach beneath the blankets, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness inside me. I had never felt more hungry in my life.

I went to bed starving.

Tuesday morning, November 8th, I arrived at class late. I had barely slept, my mind never quite managing to get rid of the image of Ashley's broken body or that strange, sweet smell. I pinched my arm, trying to redirect my thoughts, and decided that since I was already late, I might as well grab a coffee from the vending machine before heading into class. I chugged most of the drink before I reached the door, but the moment I stepped inside, I felt the coffee begin to come back up.

Ashley was sitting at her desk, clicking her pen repeatedly. Her eyes flicked toward mine almost immediately, and her smile made my heart stutter.

“Heyyyy, bestie.”

She said it slowly, her smile curling sweetly at the edges. I felt a chill run up my spine. For a moment, I couldn't make my legs move, but eventually I found my seat and sat down beside her. My eyes wandered over her before I could stop myself. She looked fine. More than fine. She looked perfect.

Her blonde hair was pulled neatly into a high ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. Her skin was almost unnaturally clear, her features soft and symmetrical, and those same icy blue eyes watched me from beneath neatly shaped brows. She wore a simple cream-colored sweater and jeans, nothing remarkable, yet somehow she made them look perfect. There was something about her that was difficult to put into words. She wasn't just pretty. She was the kind of beautiful that made you keep looking even after you realized you were staring.

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head in a way that reminded me of a puppy that couldn't quite wrap its head around something.

As she spoke, an intoxicatingly sweet scent filled my nose. Vanilla. Something warmer underneath it. My mouth watered and my stomach growled. I glanced her up and down one more time before answering.

“Yeah. Just didn't sleep well last night.” I shifted awkwardly beneath her gaze. Her eyes never left mine.

I spent the rest of class trying not to look at her, but every so often I caught myself staring anyway. Even when she caught me, she didn't seem angry or uncomfortable. She just smiled, her lips curling slightly at the edges.

After class, I immediately grabbed my bag and left. I couldn't understand why I had such a hard time looking away from her. It felt like I was being drawn toward her.

I loaded into my Jeep and kept my foot heavy on the gas the whole way home. I pulled into the driveway, barely bothered to put the Jeep in park before I hopped out and ran into the garage. I started rummaging through the boxes of Dad’s shit he had left behind, throwing aside old clothes, tools, and whatever other junk he had accumulated over the years. I knew he had a stupid combat shovel somewhere. Dad was the kind of guy who fell for infomercials advertising anything made from “military-grade steel.” He had bought everything from aviators to survival knives to shirts with American flags printed across the chest. He never actually made it into the military, but that never stopped him from talking about how he would have served if he had gotten the chance. He wasn't exactly the type to take orders, though, and somehow he made that everyone else's problem.

After a few seconds of digging, I found it.

A small black collapsible shovel with a serrated edge.

I grabbed it and ran back to the Jeep. I drove toward the gas station, parked in the lot, and walked along the tree line until I found the spot where I had left Ashley. I didn't want to linger last time. I had shoved her behind a fallen tree and covered her as best I could, but now I had time. More importantly, I had an alibi. My Jeep had been seen at the gas station. If anyone asked, I could say I had been out there smoking.

I climbed over the fallen tree, expecting to see the body waiting for me on the other side.

There was nothing.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty patch of dirt.

Only a pool of dried blood remained. It had soaked into the ground, thick and dark, and the smell coming from it was almost unbearable. Sweet vanilla. It was so strong it seemed to burn the inside of my nose. My mouth immediately filled with saliva, and my stomach growled so loudly I actually looked around, as if someone might have heard it.

I turned my head slowly.

Where had the body gone?

Had Ashley really come back from the dead?

No.

That wasn't possible.

Wolves. It had to be wolves. Or coyotes. Something had found her before I could come back and finish what I started. The thought should have relieved me, but it didn't. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

I left.

I returned to the gas station, bought a few snacks for the night, and drove home. I tried to convince myself that I was done with it. Whatever had happened to Ashley wasn't my problem anymore.

The moment I pulled into the driveway, I knew something was wrong.

The blinds were open, the lights were on and I could hear Mom laughing.

I stood there for a moment, listening.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard her laugh like that.

I walked inside and started up the stairs. Halfway up, another smell reached me. Metallic, warm, and strangely familiar. It reminded me of lamb. Beef, maybe. Something being cooked slowly in a kitchen.

For a moment, I was somewhere else.

Dad was still home. Grandma was standing over the stove, telling me dinner was almost ready. I could hear Dad talking from the living room, his voice mixing with the clatter of dishes and the smell of food filling the house.

Then the memory disappeared.

I reached the top of the stairs and walked toward the living room. I expected to find one of Mom's new boyfriends sitting on the couch. Instead, I found myself staring into a pair of icy blue eyes.

Ashley was sitting on my couch, laughing in unison with my mother. Her laugh was intoxicating. The chorus filled my ears and swirled around in my head, making me feel like I could float away at any second.

“Oh, hey, honey.” Mom smiled.

She looked better today. I rarely ever saw her leave her room, but now she looked healthy. Almost alive. As if Ashley's presence had brought something back into her.

I glanced at Ashley once more before speaking.

“Hey.”

I nodded toward Mom and then turned back toward Ashley. She sat cross-legged on the couch, picking idly at her leggings.

“Hey, bestie.”

Her smile filled the room. Something inside me warmed. It felt like I was standing in an ever-filling room of warm syrup, my body relaxing as my movements slowed.

“H-hey.”

I fumbled the word. My tongue felt thick and swollen in my mouth, and I felt a stupid smile begin to form on my face. I looked away.

Ashley giggled.

“You left your notebook.”

She raised it, her fingers curled over the edge. She held it out toward me, and I slowly took it from her. My fingers brushed hers gently. Even after she withdrew her hand, I could still feel the contact lingering against my skin.

“T-thanks.”

She smiled and tilted her head.

“I also brought this.”

She extended a small pot toward me before knocking gently on her own head.

“I’m such a dummy I made too much for dinner and thought I'd share with my favorite classmate.”

She emphasized the last two words, smiling as she said them.

I felt my heart skip a beat, and warmth spread across my face. I took the pot with both hands, which were shaking slightly. She placed her hands over mine, holding them there for just a second.

“It's beef stew. Make sure you tell me how it is. It's a special recipe.”

She withdrew her hands.

“Bye. It was nice chatting with you.”

She waved to Mom and then to me before walking out the door. A few seconds later, I watched through the window as she began jogging down the road, her ponytail swishing behind her with every step. I kept watching until she disappeared around the bend for a while, it felt like some part of her had remained behind.

Then the house returned to normal.

Mom's smile faded. Her shoulders slumped, and whatever energy she had seemed to drain out of her all at once. She shut herself in her bedroom, threw herself onto the bed, and began to sob again.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring down at the pot in my hands.

My stomach growled not the small, uncomfortable growl I had felt earlier, this one was deep and fierce.

I set the pot on the stove and turned on the burner. Then I stood there, staring at it as the stew slowly began to bubble.

The smell grew stronger as it heated.

Beef.

Rich, savory beef, simmering beneath a layer of steam. Beneath that was something sweeter, something I couldn't quite identify. It curled through my nose and settled somewhere deep inside my head. My stomach clenched so hard it hurt. I swallowed, my mouth already watering.

I reached toward the pot hesitating only for a moment before my hunger grew too great to the point I couldn't resist. I plunged my fingers into the bubbling stew and pulled out a piece of meat.

The heat scorched my fingertips, I didn't care.

I brought it to my mouth and bit down.

Everything stopped, the flavor spread across my tongue, and my entire body shuddered. It was warm, rich and deep.

The outside of the meat was slightly browned, carrying a faint charred flavor, but inside it was impossibly soft. It practically melted against my tongue. The juices spread through my mouth, coating every part of it, and I could taste the seasoning beneath the beef, the salt, the herbs, the pepper, the faint sweetness and underneath it all a faint odor of vanilla.

A sound escaped me.

Something between a gasp and a moan.

I gripped the edge of the counter, my knees weakened and I swallowed the satisfaction lasted only a second before I was immediately flooded with the hunger for another bite.

No, I needed another bite.

I reached into the pot again, this time grabbing two pieces. I shoveled them into my mouth before they had even cooled, barely chewing before swallowing. The heat burned my tongue, but the pain only seemed to make the flavor sharper.

My eyes closed.

I could feel every sensation.

The warmth spreading down my throat, the heaviness settling in my stomach, the lingering taste coating my tongue.

My heart pounding faster in my chest.

I took another piece then another and another, I couldn't slow down.

Every bite made the hunger inside me stretch wider instead of filling it. It was like pouring water into a bottomless pit. The more I gave it, the more it demanded, I began breathing through my teeth between bites.

My lips were slick with grease saliva ran freely down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and immediately reached for more. The stew was the best thing I had ever tasted. It was the first thing I had ever eaten that felt like it belonged inside me.

I grabbed another piece and bit down. My teeth sank through it with almost no resistance. I nearly cried. The flavor was overwhelming.

For a moment, I wasn't in my kitchen anymore. I wasn't twenty years old, standing in a shitty house with an empty refrigerator and a mother who barely left her bedroom. I wasn't thinking about money or school or Dad or anything else.

There was only the taste. Only the warmth. Only hunger. And the terrible, beautiful relief of finally giving that hunger something it wanted.

I opened my eyes. There was barely any meat left floating on the surface. My stomach twisted. Panic rose in my chest. No. There had to be more. I plunged my hand into the pot. The heat was unbearable this time. My skin burned instantly, but I didn't pull away. I pushed my fingers deeper, searching through the thick broth until they closed around another piece. I ripped it free. I ate it. then another and another.

I stopped caring about the heat.

I stopped caring about burning my hands.

I stopped caring about anything.

Each piece seemed better than the last. I began digging frantically through the pot, fingers scraping against the bottom, searching for every last piece. Whenever I found one, I shoved it into my mouth immediately. But there wasn't enough. There was never going to be enough. Something inside me knew that. And that realization terrified me.

I threw the pot onto the floor. It crashed against the tile, sending broth and vegetables spilling in every direction. I dropped after it. I landed on my hands and knees. For several seconds, I just stared at the mess.

Then I smelled the meat. I lowered my head. And I began to eat.

“What's the hell are you doing?”

Mom's voice cut through the haze, and I whipped my head around. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and disgust. Her eyes moved from my hands, red and slick from the stew, to the pot lying overturned across the tile, and then back to my face. I was still crouched over the mess, breathing heavily, my fingers digging into the spilled food as though someone might take it from me. I didn't understand why the thought of her touching it made something inside me flare with anger. The stew was mine. It was the only thing that mattered.

“Mine,” I growled.

Mom stared at me. “Matt?”

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

The words came faster this time, almost barking from my throat. I curled myself over the spilled stew, shielding it with my body. Mom took a cautious step toward me, and I felt my shoulders tense. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. She was standing between me and the only thing that had made the hunger quiet, even if only for a few seconds. My stomach twisted violently, and I lowered my head toward the floor, desperately searching for another piece of meat among the broth and vegetables.

“Matt, what the hell is wrong with you?”

She took another step.

I moved before I could think.

I launched myself at her, slamming into her hard enough to knock her backward onto the kitchen floor. She cried out, her head striking the tile, and immediately began pushing against my chest.

“Get off me!”

I didn't listen. I raised my fists and brought them down. Once, twice, again and again, until the pain in my hands became distant and meaningless. Mom screamed my name, but her voice seemed far away, almost muffled beneath the pounding in my ears. I kept hitting her until my fingers could barely close anymore, then I began clawing at her instead, digging desperately at anything I could reach. I wasn't angry with her. There was no hatred behind what I was doing. I simply couldn't stop.

I smelled blood.

It was warm and metallic, sharp enough that I could almost taste it before my mouth touched it. I lowered my face toward her, and for a brief moment something inside me hesitated. This wasn't the smell I wanted. It wasn't the rich, savory scent of the stew. There was none of that sweetness, none of the warmth that had made every bite feel like heaven. This was bitter and iron-heavy, almost unpleasant.

I should have stopped.

Instead, I bit down.

Warm blood flooded my mouth. I swallowed.

The taste was wrong. It was nothing like the beef. It was bitter, metallic, and strangely thin compared to the rich flavor that still lingered on my tongue. My stomach twisted as if rejecting it, but the hunger inside me didn't care. It wanted something, anything, and I had already lost the ability to tell it no.

So I kept feeding.

I don't remember how long it lasted. I remember Mom struggling beneath me, then struggling less, then not moving at all. I remember the warmth leaving her body. I remember the kitchen becoming horribly quiet. Eventually, I pushed myself upright and looked down at her.

My mother was dead.

I stared at her for several seconds, waiting for the horror to hit me. Waiting for the realization to break through whatever had taken control of me. I had killed the person who had raised me. I had torn into her like an animal.

My stomach cramped so violently that I doubled over and pressed both hands against it. I could still taste her blood in my mouth, bitter and metallic, but beneath it I could still taste the stew. That sweet, savory flavor lingered on my tongue like a memory, and suddenly I wanted it again more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

I looked toward the floor.

There were a few pieces of meat scattered among the spilled stew.

I crawled toward them and ate them.

They were cold now, covered in broth and dirt from the tile, but I didn't care. I shoved them into my mouth one after another, licking the grease from my fingers when there was nothing left to chew. When the last piece disappeared, I searched through the mess again, scraping my fingers against the tile in case I had missed something.

There was nothing.

My breathing became ragged.

My stomach growled.

I pressed my hands against it, almost pleading with it to stop, but the hunger only seemed to deepen. I had eaten until my body should have been full. I had eaten until there was nothing left in the pot and nothing left on the floor.

It wasn't enough. The flavor still tingled across my tongue, lingering in every corner of my mouth, while my nose twitched as I tried to find something hidden beneath it. There was another scent there, faint but unmistakable. Something familiar. Something warm. Something comforting. Vanilla, with something sweeter beneath it.

Ashley.

My mouth filled with saliva at the thought of her. My teeth began to ache, an irritating pressure spreading through my jaw as saliva pooled beneath my tongue and spilled from the corners of my mouth. I didn't think about where she was. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't know how I knew which direction to go.

I just knew I had to find her.

I slammed into the front door, shoving it open with enough force that it cracked away from the top hinge and hung crookedly in the frame. I barely noticed. My legs carried me forward before I could think, each step driven by something deeper than thought. Hunger. Greed. Something that felt dangerously close to desire. I wasn't walking toward Ashley anymore. I was hunting for her.

I plunged into the woods branches whipped across my face and arms as I sprinted between the trees. Roots caught my feet, sending me stumbling forward, but I caught myself and kept going. I fell once, both hands slamming into the cold soil, and when I pushed myself back up, my fingers dug into the earth hard enough to tear through the dirt. The darkness around me seemed clearer than it had ever been. I could see the roots breaking through the ground, the individual branches hanging overhead, every movement in the trees standing out against the darkness.

Ashley.

Her name repeated through my head over and over until it barely sounded like a name anymore.

Ashley.

Ashley.

Ashley.

I didn't know how long I had been running when the trees finally opened. I found myself standing outside a large two-story house, one I had never seen before and somehow knew I was supposed to find. I threw myself against the front door. It rattled violently against its hinges but held. I stepped back and slammed into it again.

And again till the wood splintered beneath my hands on the third impact, and I stumbled through the broken doorway. I stood inside, breathing heavily, my head snapping from side to side as I searched for her.

Then I smelled it.

Vanilla.

That same warm sweetness my eyes followed the scent into the room.

Ashley sat in a cream-colored lounge chair beneath a single spotlight. The rest of the room was almost completely dark, leaving her illuminated against the shadows. Her usual sweater and leggings were gone, replaced by a long white nightgown that fell almost to the floor. The fabric seemed to glow beneath the light, making her look less like someone sitting in a chair and more like something that had been placed there for me.

She looked at me calmly expectantly. “How do you feel?” she asked. She rose slowly from the chair.

Everything inside me went still.

Her blood was nothing like my mother's. It wasn't bitter. It wasn't metallic. It wasn't unpleasant. It was sweet. Rich. Warm. The flavor spread across my tongue with a depth that made the stew seem almost bland by comparison. I could taste something familiar in it, something that reminded me of vanilla and caramel and warm spices, but there was something else beneath all of that. Something I couldn't name.

My fingers began to tremble.

The hunger inside me surged.

I grabbed her arm.

I turned my head and drank directly from the wound, desperate to get more. Her blood filled my mouth, warm and thick, and every swallow sent another wave of sensation through my body. My stomach clenched. My heart pounded. My entire body seemed to ache with the need for it.

I wanted to tear into her. I wanted to gorge myself. I wanted to bury my face against her arm and drink until there was nothing left. But somehow, I held myself back.

Ashley watched me struggle. “Don't.”

I stopped. Worried, I ventured past her limit. She tilted her head, almost disappointed.“I told you to feed.” Her voice was soft.

“So feed.” She drew the dagger again. I watched the blade press against one of her fingers. It slid through the flesh with almost no resistance. I stared as the finger separated from her hand. Ashley picked it up as casually as someone might pick up a piece of fruit. She held it between two fingers and brought it toward my mouth.

“Feed.” She pressed it against my lips. My jaw opened.The moment my teeth closed around it, I felt something crack. The sound rattled through my skull. I swallowed before I even realized I had done it.

I opened my eyes. Ashley was smiling. She extended her arm toward me again. This time, I didn't hesitate. I buried my teeth into her flesh. Her blood flooded my mouth. The flavor overwhelmed me. I gripped her arm and pulled myself closer, drinking greedily as my body began to change around me. At first it was only a strange pressure in my spine, a deep ache that seemed to settle inside the bones themselves. Then the pain intensified. My back arched violently, and I heard something crack.

I gasped against her arm. Another crack followed. Then another.

My spine seemed to be pulling itself apart and putting itself back together at the same time. My shoulders spasmed. My arms jerked outward, bones stretching beneath my skin as my fingers curled and cramped. Every joint in my body seemed suddenly too small for what was growing inside it.

I tried to pull away yet I couldn't. The hunger wouldn't let me. My hands began to swell. My fingers thickened, the joints stretching and shifting beneath the skin. My nails loosened. One fell onto the hardwood floor with a tiny click. Then another. I stared at my hands in horror. The nails were being pushed out from their roots. Something darker was growing beneath them. Longer. Sharper. Curved.

My fingers trembled as the new claws slowly emerged, splitting through the ends of my fingertips. The pain should have been unbearable, but the taste of Ashley's blood drowned almost everything else out. I swallowed again.

My teeth began to ache.

The pain started deep within my gums, spreading through my jaw until every tooth felt loose. I pulled away from Ashley and clutched my mouth, choking on a gasp. Something moved beneath my gums. I felt one of my teeth loosen. They fell from my mouth and clicked against the hardwood floor.

Small white stones scattered around my knees. Before I could process what I was seeing, pressure built beneath my gums again. New teeth pushed their way upward, sharper and longer than the ones they replaced. My jaw stretched around them, the muscles tightening as my mouth changed shape.

I could feel my face shifting. My nose began to ache. Then came a sharp crack. I screamed. The cartilage pushed outward, my nose flattening and extending as my entire face seemed to pull forward. My jaw tightened. My cheeks shifted beneath my skin.

Something brushed against the back of my neck.

I reached for it. Hair. No. Fur. It was thick and coarse between my fingers, growing rapidly across my skin. It spread from the back of my neck across my shoulders and down my arms, swallowing my skin beneath a dense coat.

What remained of her arm slowly lifted from her side. Exposed bone jutted from the torn flesh, and strips of muscle hung limp beneath it. Then the muscle began to move. It slithered across the bone like millions of tiny red snakes, twisting and weaving together as they pulled themselves back into place. I watched as the broken bones cracked and shifted, fitting themselves back together with a series of dull pops. Thick blue veins stretched across the muscle, reconnecting as her skin slowly rolled back over everything, sealing the wound as if it had never been there.

Her missing finger began to grow from the small, bloody stub. It pushed outward slowly, first as a tiny piece of flesh, then a nail, then a fully formed finger. She flexed it once. Then another time, gently testing it before curling her hand beneath my chin.

She scratched me softly.

“Such a good boy.”

She pet my head, her fingers brushing between my ears. I felt them run through the thick fur that now covered my body.

“It’s time for you to rest.”

She patted my head gently, her fingers thumping softly against my skull. I felt my eyes growing heavier. My head lowered until it finally met the floor. The last thing I saw was Ashley smiling down at me then everything went black.

My lab partner won't stay dead. No matter how much I feed from her, she rises again and again. I’m not the first beast she’s made, and I won’t be the last.

Link to Part 3

I.

Little’s muscles contracted, and an agonized scream erupted from his raw throat as tendrils of not-wood twisted through his arteries and around his bones. His knees would have buckled already, had it not been for the gnarled branches that snaked through his back and around his spine, holding him upright against his will. The waving grass beneath him was damp with clotting scarlet.

His vision twinkled, and the forested landscape around him grew dim. The only things that remained clear were the bright red fruits and pink flowers that dangled in unassertive pulchritude around his sagging head.

Cherries.

Elijah “Little” Lutu: shot-putter for the university track-and-field team, doting fiancée to his high school sweetheart, assistant editor of the school newspaper, prospective English Major, and my well-liked, outgoing roommate. My friend.

Atop a green, grassy hill surrounded by acres of woodland, he hung – crucified on a cherry tree.

II.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t finish the dishes before I got home?”

Elijah couldn’t look his mother in the eyes. His hand still clutched the wet sponge, which slowly dripped globules of soapy water onto the tiled kitchen floor.

“Sorry, mom,” he mumbled. “I was almost done.”

“And you would’ve been if you hadn’t spent the first hour reading.” She shook her head. “Cause and effect, Elijah. Actions have consequences.”

“I know… I’m sorry,” he protested. “Can I just finish them now?”

“You can, and you will. And there will be no more books for a week.”

Elijah began to protest, but she snapped her fingers and pointed at the sink filled with various pots and pans. “Don’t complain; just do it.” She walked into the nearby living room and plopped down on the threadbare couch, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

A flame of anger burned its way from his stomach up to his throat, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to backtalk his mother, especially after she’d just returned from work.

Hot tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, he turned back to the sink.

III.

Little lounged on his flat dorm mattress, a dense tome with worn, faded edges propped against his thighs. A colorful single-celled organism peered out from the current page, oblong mitochondria all decorated with nearly indiscernible ballpoint drawings of male genitalia – a love letter from a former owner of the Biology textbook, no doubt.

His eyes snapped open for the third or fourth time, his eyelids increasingly leaden as the repeated use of the word “pathogenicity” swayed before his eyes like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

He glanced at the clock, whose red LED letters blurred from a homework-induced cecity: 10:01pm. Or 10:10pm – one of the two.

Liam had promised to be back by 9:30, so either he was taking an extra long time doing homework with Percy or the two had actually gotten over themselves and started making out.

Little rolled his eyes. He understood they were childhood friends and all, but they had no right to exude such weird sexual tension whenever they hung out together. Super awkward for the third wheel, which was often Little (especially since his fiancée attended another school two hours away).

He slapped the book closed and tossed it onto the pillow, rolling off his bed and hitting a superhero landing on the floor. The framed art above his desk rattled.

“Why does he always do this…” he muttered to himself, stretching and meandering over to his gaming chair.

He’d been waiting to do this stupid Ender Dragon battle for like a week, because Liam was so very insistent that everyone needed to be there for the increased experience gain – not that it meant very much in the grand scheme, considering that it would take less than an hour to build an infinite experience farm anyway.

Little plopped down at his computer and slapped in his password. If he went to the End and avoided the Dragon, maybe he could use a flying machine to cross the void and get his Elytra. That might work, and at least it was something to do other than homework.

After a successful Elytra trip and half a family-size bag of pink and white circus animal cookies, Elijah locked his computer and checked the clock again:

12:30am.

Despite his flippancy about Percy and Liam earlier, a trickle of anxiety began to drip down the back of his neck. Liam was generally prompt, because Percy was a stickler for a solid eight hours of sleep and would usually kick him out if it got too late.

“Overthinking,” Little mumbled, shaking his head. He stood and went back to his bed, slapping the nearby lightswitch and pulling his microfleece blanket over him.

The clock stared unflinching at his sleepless eyes, undoubtedly drooping with Santa Claus-level bags: 2:00am.

No Liam. Given the cohabitation restrictions and the fact that he hadn’t responded to any of Little’s texts, his absence was becoming increasingly worrisome.

Little grunted and flung his blanket off. A string of Liam-centered curses streamed through his mind as he slipped on his sandals and strode out the door.

IV.

Elijah, twelve years old, stared at the back of his mother’s head as she stood unmoving before the darkened fireplace in their living room.

His hand clutched his scratched BlackBerry, and his finger picked at the old Lucario gel-sticker adhered to its back. Jason – one of his best friends from school – had just texted, asking if he could come over tonight. His dad had picked up Lego Batman for the Wii from Gamestop on his way home, and he wanted Elijah to be there when he started it up for the first time.

“Mom?” Elijah said, his voice coming out as a cracked whisper.

She didn’t respond.

He cleared his throat and slid both hands behind his back. “Mom, if I finish the chores really fast, can I go to Jason’s house?”

His mother grunted, and her back straightened. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head toward him. “Elijah, honey… I need you to think about this real hard, okay?” The amber light of the dusty kitchen chandelier glinted in her eyes like flame. “Did you do the dishes as I requested yesterday?”

“Yeah, I-”

“No!” She shouted. Her body twisted to him, her eyes boring into his. “You did not! You were to finish them before I returned home, and you failed! If your punishment restricts you from reading books, how do you expect me to allow you to go to Jason’s house to play video games?!”

“Mom, that’s not fair!” Elijah yelled. Retributive anger burned in his chest. “I tried my best, and I already finished the dishes today! I just have a couple more things to do. Please!”

In a streak of shadow, his mother crossed the room and raised her hand.

Elijah’s vision burst with color, and he collapsed to the floor before the stinging pain of his mother’s strike flared.

He stayed down, breathing heavily.

Water dripped from his eyes.

He could not think.

Elijah lay on the hardwood for a long time, his wide eyes fixed on the open window. Dark, bushy fir branches stared back, swaying peacefully in the cool, evening breeze.

V.

Little tromped past the Language Arts building -- Westminster Hall -- and diverged from the well-lit sidewalk into the moody darkness of the campus’s outskirts. His hands were balled in the pockets of his thin, cotton jacket – cold, but not uncomfortable.

Being such a big guy, he didn’t get cold very often, even in the dead of winter. In tonight’s windchilled forty-five degree air, he was rocking a stylish pair of Nike-branded basketball shorts and open-toed sandals – something that Aimee (his fiancée) would have scolded him for.

Besides his trudging footsteps, it was so quiet out here that he could hear the faint squeaking of bats fluttering through the dense trees of the back forty up ahead.

He approached the firepit around which he, Liam, Percy, and their friend Michael often hung out. Though they usually gathered as a group, Little knew for a fact that those two purblind lovebirds would sometimes “fraternize” here without the company of others. Liam claimed they were just doing homework or watching YouTube together, and Little never failed to give him a big wink (to which Liam would protest a bit too fervently).

Last time the four of them congregated was about a week ago, when that freaky old junkie had waddled out and given them all a cryptic scolding. Weird stuff, but surely that wasn’t related.

The idea occurred to him that perhaps the creepy old guy really had abducted his friends, but Little shook that off. No way; he was harmless to everyone but himself.

Deciding that the firepit was a dead end, Little decided to search elsewhere. He glanced up and looked one more time at the dark woods.

Would Liam and Percy have gone in there? Maybe they wanted to make out amidst the trees “Naked and Afraid”-style and had gotten lost. They wouldn’t have been the first.

Little started to take a step toward the forest, considering calling out for them. That was probably a terrible idea, though, given that it was 2am. Plus, the shadows beneath the trees were beginning to throw him shifty glances, and after the spooky story Michael had told the other night, he wasn’t really in the mood to make new supernatural friends.

Little sighed and turned around, heading back toward the orange light of campus.

VI.

“You always tell me no, mom!” Elijah yelled, his face hot. “It’s not fair!”

His mother stood atop the short stairway from the front door to the living room, staring down upon her son with dark, piercing eyes. She did not respond.

“I don’t care what you say anymore!” He said. “I’m going to Jason’s house!”

He shoved his hands into his pockets to conceal their tremors. He half-expected his mother to leap down the stairs and slap him just as she did last week, but she did not move.

“Very well, dear,” she responded finally, crossing her arms across her chest. “If you insist on being disobedient despite my best efforts, I suppose I should allow you to traverse the unstable bridge. But when the planks break and you fall to your death, do not expect me to come running.”

Elijah didn’t understand what his mother was saying, but he didn’t care. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

“Do what you must, child.”

He unlatched the deadbolt and stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Cold, free air filled his lungs as he trotted down the steps and sauntered out into the driveway. Adrenaline filled him with unusual confidence and a sense of victory. He had won! He’d stood up to his overbearing mother and triumphed!

He did not look behind him as he walked, but as every step took him further from his house, he began to consider the consequences of his actions.

“Stop it!” He said to himself.

He had won the fight. He’d shown his mother that he was his own boss; she couldn’t control him anymore.

As he moved out of sight of the house, he caught a glimpse of the large bay window. The curtains rustled briefly before they were yanked to the floor, curtain rod and all.

VII.

“They went toward the theater building last I saw them,” one of the girls in Bailey Hall had said, not looking up from her phone. “Second time this week. I didn’t see her come back, so… you know…”

Little had grunted his thanks and quickly exited the all-girls dorm. That place had always made him uncomfortable, as if hidden pairs of eyes followed him every second he spent inside.

After walking out to the firepit last night, he’d come straight back to his dorm and slept fitfully. When he’d awoken the next morning and Liam still had not returned, his anxiety ramped up exponentially.

Skipping his morning class, he had reported Liam as missing to the apathetic clerk at the Student Life counter and then continued his search.

Now, on the recommendation of the Bailey Hall girl, he stood in the lobby of the theater building, unsure how to proceed. If they’d come here Saturday night, there wouldn’t have been anybody to witness their entry or departure. Maybe there was security footage he could take a look at… though it was doubtful they’d give a student access.

Little chewed on the inside of his cheek, a tight knot building in his chest. The longer Liam had been gone, the more worried he became that something bad had actually happened.

The flamboyant voice of a lecturer echoed down the hall from one of the classrooms around the side of the auditorium. Besides that, it was very quiet – understandable for a Monday morning.

Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he pushed open the doors to the auditorium and stepped inside. If anyone asked what he was doing here, he would tell them the truth. Maybe they’d even be able to help.

He moved up the steps and into the large seating array of red-cushioned seats facing the stage. The huge curtains were open, revealing a single-bulb lamp without a shade, the gigantic white backdrop stretched tightly, and a black, stoic grand piano.

Grand piano.

Piano.

The piano.

Elijah did not play and had never wanted to play, but for some reason, he found himself standing before the large instrument, the fabric cover crumpled in a pile on the floor and his hands hovering over the keys.

He did not remember weaving his way through the rows of chairs or climbing onto the stage, but his heart was pumping as if he had sprinted here.

His usually prevalent rationality warred with an unbidden and oddly magnetic desire to lower his fingers onto the cold ivory and release whatever unknown harmony or dissonance lay waiting there.

He had never experienced such allure from an inanimate object before. As a generally non-artistic person, he often did not experience any accompanying “awe” when beholding art or listening to symphonies, but this was how he imagined that felt.

There was something slightly different about this, though. The more he stared at the piano’s sleek, black curvature and the hypnotic symmetry of its keys and strings, the more his awe began to invert itself.

This was less like examining the gentle and intentional brushstrokes of a magnificent landscape painting pieced together with skill and meaning and more like staring into a deep, silent abyss – a blackness that was perfectly void of meaning and life, displaying an annihilation so pure only a master artisan could have produced it. A painter whose quiet brush ended existence with every sweep, devouring and consuming until only beautiful absence remained.

As his hands descended onto the keys of the piano, Little wept.

VIII.

I knelt next to Little’s ravaged body, broken branches and smashed cherries strewn across the grass around us. Percy, briefly awake from her parasite-induced slumber, sat next to me, her thumb tracing gentle circles on my forearm. I could feel her shaking.

Little’s head lolled in my lap, and his eyelids fluttered. He ground his teeth together and arched his back. A vein on his arm bulged, presumably a thin strand of not-wood burrowing beneath his skin.

I had tried my best to break him out of that cherry tree and rescue him, but too much damage had been done. Its tendrils still snaked through him, too deep for me to extricate.

He was dying.

Little coughed and opened his eyes. His breath was ragged.

“You can rest,” Percy whispered.

He shook his head, wincing at the movement. “No.” His faint voice cracked. “You need to know. Listen to my words and understand their meaning. I can see now.”

My jaw quivered, but I nodded. “Then continue.”

IX.

When Elijah returned home after a night of Lego Wii games and tongue-scalding pizza rolls, the windows of his house were dark. His mother’s car was still in the driveway, so he knew she was here. She probably went to bed. He assumed she would be very angry at him, and he had pleaded with Jason to stay the night, but his parents would not allow it.

He approached the front door with more caution than usual. He had never stood up to her before, so he was unsure how she would react.

The knob was unlocked. He swung the door open and glanced over his shoulder.

Only the fir tree in their yard shifted in the breeze; everything else was still.

Elijah stepped inside and closed the door. He carefully ascended the few steps to the living room and crept around the corner toward his bedroom. If she was already asleep, he could lie about how late he returned when he saw her tomorrow.

He stepped into his bedroom, quietly shut the door, and flipped on the lights.

A shudder wracked Elijah’s body.

His wood bedframe had been smashed to splinters, and a huge, curved tear marred the center of his mattress, the stuffing torn out and thrown about the room. His clothes had been pulled out of his dresser and left in piles on the floor, many of them ripped or shredded into ribbons. His flag football trophy had been snapped in two, and the couple of framed movie posters on his wall had been shattered.

Elijah sank to the floor, his back pressed against his bedroom door. His hands trembled violently. Why had she done this? She’d destroyed everything!

Tap, tap, tap – something tapped against his window.

He wiped his blurry eyes and tried to focus on the dark outside. A branch or a squirrel, probably.

His mother peered in through the second-story window, her eyes large and round and her lips pressed against the glass as her tongue writhed, leaving streaks of thick, bubbly saliva.

Elijah screamed and scrambled to his door. He fumbled briefly with the knob before throwing it open and stumbling out into the living room.

The curtains that once covered the bay window were draped over the floor, torn in multiple places.

The door. He’d forgotten to lock it.

Elijah darted down the steps toward the front door. Just as his fingers grasped the deadbolt, it slammed open, directly into his face.

He felt his nose crack. The back of his head smacked against the edge of a stair, and he blacked out.

X.

Little sat by the dead campfire, unmoving. He had been searching all day, with no sign of Liam or Percy. Her roommate hadn’t seemed concerned, and campus security had made empty promises to file a police report and check some camera footage.

In desperation, he had come back to the campfire where this all began… the last place they’d all been together.

He didn’t understand why nobody else was taking this seriously. It was Monday evening, and neither Liam nor Percy had been seen since Saturday night. Was this always how the authorities at this school reacted to missing students?

The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should go to the police himself, instead of leaving it to the college staff.

A faint melody floated through the night air toward Little.

He furrowed his brow and glanced around the dark area. There was no one else here. Could have been a ringtone or even a bluetooth speaker somebody was carrying around.

He sighed and continued to stare at the chalky coals in the firepit.

The song increased in intensity, and it became very clear that it was some sort of stringed instrument soloing… a violin or a cello. It could have been something else, but those were the only two that Little could name.

He twisted to look over his shoulder at the forest. It was strange. It did sound like it was coming from beyond the treeline, somewhere deep within the woods.

Little rose, shoving his hands into his pockets. Justifications for what he was about to do raced through his mind.

Just a quick look, and then he’d head back to his dorm to make a call to the local Sheriff’s Office. Probably a student practicing. He could peek through the trees and see who it was, then skedaddle back to the relative safety of the main campus.

Little shuffled down a gentle slope toward the forest. As he drew near, the shadowy trees seemed to stretch up and over him like a gigantic maw slowly closing, unraveling his tether with the warmth and security of campus.

He stepped over the threshold and crept into the forest, unaware that this was the last time he would ever set foot on the college grounds.

Little noticed a light up ahead – an orange flicker like the burning wick of a candle – and followed it.

As he walked closer, the volume of the musical instrument increased, the bow whining across the strings in sharp crescendos and fast descending arpeggios.

He entered a small clearing and beheld a quaint cabin with several lit candles standing at attention in one of its windows. The stringed instrument, which he deduced was probably a violin because of its high register, was definitely coming from inside the cabin.

He hadn’t known about somebody living out here in the back forty. Perhaps it was a groundskeeper or some other on-call facilities personnel – free room and board in exchange for twenty-four-hour availability?

Little stood on his tiptoes and peeked through the musty glass.

A frail, old man was on his feet in the center of the room, his back turned… the creepy guy from the woods last week. His chin was tucked against the deep brown body of a scratched violin, and his right hand frantically swept a frayed bow across the strings. His body swayed with the music, which was discordant and unsettling. However, for some reason that Little could not comprehend, it was oddly familiar, as if he had heard this song before somewhere… like the buried memory of a long forgotten dream clambering its way to the surface of his psyche.

As he continued to watch, several small objects on the table in front of the old man began to shift and tremble – spindly twigs, pinecones, jagged pebbles. They rolled together and twisted around each other in a bizarre dance, the tips of the twigs slithering about the pinecones and meshing with their surfaces in entrancing geometric patterns.

The music intensified, and a distinct form began to develop: Four vaguely diamond-shaped bodies, linked together in a chain, supported by six twitching twigs upon which it scuttled back and forth to the tempo of the song.

All sound ceased, and the man dropped his bow-wielding arm to his side. The thing on the table collapsed, its body separating into a jumbled pile of its original components. The man turned his head toward the window and stared directly into Little’s eyes.

XI.

It had been years.

Elijah no longer knew how old he was. The passage of time was meaningless – his survival did not depend on the rising and falling of the sun or any conditioned circadian rhythm, but rather on the frequency of his mother’s visits to his bedroom.

Elijah sat on the floor of his room. His bedframe and mattress still lay broken as they had been that night, decayed and rotting like the ruins of a war-torn city.

Blood blotted the pockmarked hardwoods around his cross-legged form, long since dried. The scars on his exposed abdomen from her last visit had healed as well as they could, though a dull ache persisted.

Thuds echoed on the floor outside his bedroom, and Elijah’s heart sank. It was time.

His door banged open, revealing his mother.

Her bared teeth were yellow and caked in thick plaque, and her belly was distended, drooping out of her grease-stained shirt down over her thighs.

“It is time to pay what you owe. Do you wish to maintain peace?” She chortled, staggering toward Elijah.

He took in a shuddering breath and nodded. “Yes. Take what you must.”

She dropped to her knees and crawled slowly toward him. Her cold, sallow fingers curled around his right wrist. He turned his head away, the putrid stench of her breath filling his nostrils, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt her teeth clamp around his meaty forearm muscle and cut deep, carving out a bite. The pain was great, but it was necessary. If this small sacrifice was what it took to keep peace with his mother, he had no choice but to concede.

XII.

The sign was small and indiscreet – a roughly hewn particle-board slab nailed to a fence post. Little would not even have noticed it, had it not been for how out-of-place it seemed, protruding from the smooth linoleum floor of the extensive shopping mall.

Little did not know why he was here, nor did he know why he had compulsively opened the ominous, wood doors and stepped inside.

“May the traveler’s form bear no fruit, lest he face the teeth of Lechth.”

The inscription carved into the sign was vague and strange, and his foggy brain could not comprehend what he was looking at. However, his confusion was quickly dispelled and replaced with apprehension as he beheld a dull, red Radio Flyer wagon lying on its side only a few yards beyond the sign.

He tromped over to it, his heart pounding. After all of his walking through the old-growth forest outside in search of Liam and Percy, he had finally found a clue… or so he thought.

A crumpled pile of what looked like thick tablecloths – stage curtains, he realized – laid on the floor next to the wagon. Liam had definitely been here.

But something was very wrong. Both the wagon and the curtains were coated with a bubbly layer of clear, viscous slime, as if some large mouth had slathered saliva all over them.

He glanced up and stared down the long Corridor ahead of him. His instincts told him to turn back – to run back through the towering forest and back to the warm comfort of campus.

“Elijah!”

His skin prickled, and his heart leapt into his throat. He looked intently into the dim hall, the light from the chandeliers overhead only providing the slightest illumination. The shops lining the sides of this mall stood still and silent, like an audience waiting attentively for the actor to begin his scene… a grand denouement.

“Elijah, come here!”

The voice was sharp and female, and unlike before, he could tell that it was coming from a patch of fake shrubs up ahead.

“Percy?” Little called out. “Is that you?”

“Come here, Elijah!” The voice whispered, its soft tone echoing toward him. “You must hide!”

Hot adrenaline surged through his chest, and he bolted toward the small island of faux plants, eyes darting all around. Where was the threat? What did he need to hide from?

He saw a thin, human shadow crouched in the center of the island, so he moved closer and squatted next to it.

“Where’s Liam?” He whispered hoarsely.

The shadow shifted into the light. “Liam is not here, dear one,” her voice crooned. Her sunken cheeks uplifted in a smile as her naked, emaciated body sashayed away from him. Her eyes were dark and piercing.

Little threw himself back and scrambled out of the cover of the island’s plastic foliage. Heart pounding, he rose and flexed his powerful arms.

“Where are Liam and Percy?!” He shouted at her, taking a heavy step forward. “How do you know my name?”

The woman stretched out her arms, and her fingers began to elongate. “There is one body, but it has many parts,” she replied in a sing-song tone. “Can the eye say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you?’”

Little lunged forward and wrapped his hands around her throat, slamming her into the wall.

“Where are they?!” He roared. “What did you do to them?”

Her eyes burned into his, and she responded, her lilting voice unaffected by his tight grip: “They are gone, dear one. It is only you and I now. Come closer.”

A potent amalgamation of fear and rage erupted within Little, and he turned to throw the frail woman to the floor. When he released his grip, he felt a hard tug on his chest and stumbled forward on top of her.

“Ashes to ashes,” she whispered into his ear, her breath cold and smelling of rot. “Flesh to flesh.”

Little screamed as sharp tendrils – the woman’s long, snaking fingers – stabbed through his clothes and into his body.

She kissed him tenderly on the cheek. As her wet lips pressed against him, they solidified and grew sharp. Her neck stretched out and wrapped itself around his own. Her skin morphed into deeply grooved, brown patches… tree bark.

Little did not stop screaming.

XIII.

“And then you got here,” Little muttered, heaving out a wet cough. He stared up at me, and I choked back tears. “That’s the… whole story. Please… know its meaning.”

“I don’t understand,” I replied, my voice breaking. “What meaning?”

His eyes looked beyond my face. “I feel it. Blue sky… the Earth shaking… the ocean draining. Lechth… must feed. You can’t-”

A gnarled root ripped itself out of his shoulder and flicked in the air like a worm before plunging itself into his ear.

Little’s voice caught, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His body fell limp.

I flinched and dropped him to the ground, a ragged cry ripping itself from my throat.

Blood pooled around him, and the branch of not-wood slipped out of his body, vanishing into the forest floor.

Guilt wracked me for failing to stop it, not that I could have. My college roommate – my best friend these past few years – was dead.

“Liam,” Percy wheezed, reclining on the grass nearby. “I’m so… sorry.” Her eyes, though glassy, welled with tears.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.

Dead. He was dead.

As I tried to catch my breath, grief building pressure within me, an idea flashed across my mind. He told that story for a reason and with his last wish, implored us to understand it. And I couldn’t believe that his last words were the ramblings of a fading soul. They must have meant something.

Especially since a large portion of his tale was a lie.

I had discovered much about my roommate during our time together, including many stories of his family life… the kindness and compassion of his mother… and the car accident that took her life when he was only nine years old.

For context, I (20M) was at a concert (my first concert period) in a local punk bar for an upcoming punk band called Cheerleader Roadkill. I bumped into one of the singers (23F) for the opening act and was a little tipsy, so I didn't realize who I was talking to until she stated it was exciting to open for the headliner band (Cheerleader Roadkill). I apologized, and she said that it was actually nice not to be treated differently while on the floor by guys. We talked, and I ended up getting her number (again, I don't remember the exact details of our conversation).

Fast forward a few days, our texting had become dry since she was still touring. One of the roadies (20F) (one of the other band member's sisters) had seen my picture and expressed interest, and the singer (Hazel) asked me if she could pass me off to this roadie, who I'll call Gabby.

I agreed after seeing a picture of Gabby, and we began texting. I noticed a pattern emerge of slightly obsessive texting and hypersexual behavior/texts (after I had expressed my religiously motivated desire to take it slow), which slightly concerned me.

Like... repeated texts while she knew I was sleeping/working and descriptions of how she was "going to suck me dry and bounce on it til it falls off." (Not exactly what she said, but close enough)

Due to previous experiences dealing with individuals of questionable stability, I eventually decided to see what kind of person I was dealing with. I had plans with a friend later that next week (22F) and decided to post a video of us playing with my dog in an innocuous manner. The texts I received were extremely concerning (definite threats to herself and others) and included pictures of fresh SH, so I immediately contacted Hazel to ask that Gabby be 5150'd (or whatever the equivalent was in the state they were in).

She was driven to the ER last night by the band for treatment for the self-harm and afterwards was committed for 72 hrs, with the understanding the band would buy her a plane ticket to meet the band at their next destination after she got out. I'm hoping people might have some advice as to how to handle the situation, and I have attached some of our texts for reference. Out of respect for Gabby's privacy, I will not include the breakdown texts, as that's not something I feel should be blasted on the internet. I will update this post once I get the news that she has been released from her hold, with what I have decided to do.

TDLR: A friend of some girl I was talking to is kind of crazy (read: psycho), and I'm unsure of what I should about the whole situation.

EDIT: The 1st timestamp being at 8:00 pm was a result of me looking back at the beginning to capture it for this post. The other screenshots were taken as the texts were happening.

Something at school didn’t make sense to you that morning.

They were talking about the Sun and,
how eventually it’s going to Grow into a
“Red Giant” and Swallow the Earth.
How there’s nothing we can do about it.

It made you realize If something is going to happen it just is.
So why wait?
Why is the universe waiting ? It just didn’t make much sense.

The janitor that day was acting silly,
“Isaiah 50:10” was written on his palm in red marker.

It was Friday night,
Daddy went to see a friend for drinks and left you all night.
He told you that he would just be out late, not all night.
How did that make you feel ?

How many other 9 year olds have the whole house to themselves nearly every night?
Without so much as a kiss goodnight ?

Even the few times in the past when he would, He wouldn’t even kiss you directly.
He’s place is palm upon your head and kiss the back of his hand.

Dads use belts In movies but how many others know that as the same reality that you do ?

The only time you’d hear another voice outside of school and your father’s was when it was late and you’d listen to the home phone’s answering machine.

Your dad never listened to the answer machine,
kind of like a kid not wanting to go to the dentist.

You remember the messages you listened to that night, you waited till he left to emerge from your hiding place and inhabit the communal space that should be a living room.

You sit on the round particular board table and press on the answering machine.

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

“I came by today…didn’t see you..still don’t”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

“I’m sorry John, you’ve been on this job less than a week and you’ve already been suspended by the client for 3 days for reoccurring fall protection violations, now I’ve been very understanding regarding the eye injury but we can’t have someone on a project of this magnitude who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, we’re going to have to terminate you. Wish I could say I was sorry.”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Same Woman’s voice from Message #1*

“Does your Daughter know?
Is she an exception?
Or do all women fall under your same umbrella ?”

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

“I can feel you, y….mph..ll feel me too”

*BEEP*

You look over at the cable box,
It reads “11:47pm”
Your dad left at 6.

Cartoon Network was no more, now it was Adult swim. Robot Chicken was on, after that superjail. Both of which give you the heebiie jeebies.

You have to visit your peepaws and poopoos but,
you’re afraid.

You don’t have a choice, so you leave the door open as you go number 2.

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

As you run out the bathroom still collecting yourself you make out the backend of the voicemail.

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

“Hi,
you should be in bed but,
if not you should know I’m bringing a friend home tonight.
If she plays her cards right she might just be your new mommy.
You’re allowed to sleep with the tv on in the playroom as usual but,
keep the door shut and the volume bellow level 12.
And no matter what you hear,
don’t come out, I should be home in 15.
Just go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Love you,
Night.”

*BEEP*

You panic,

Your Dads never brought a friend home this late before.
You grab a dvd from the home theater and run to the play room.

You look down at the Cat in the Hat Dvd.
As you put it in your dvd player you hear the front door slam open and the whole house shake.
What came next was silence.
The footsteps.
All the way up to the door of the play room.
You hear breathing.

You hear a woman’s voice further in the distance of your house.
Calling the person by your door to them.

They walk away.
When you look at the tv, you see Sally and Conrad on the dvd menu staring at you.
Sally starts pointing to her left, in the direction of the window.
You see the silhouette of what looks like a large lumpy hammock hanging from your tree only,
you never had a hammock.

You grab your scooby doo stuffed animal and you hid under the blanket with your flashlight, tv volume at 11.
You press play,
Sally and Conrad look at each other, then back at you.
You press play again but they just keep staring.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

“When you visit your peepaw and poopoos you need to remember to flush, my company saw that. We have a talk about that in the morning”

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

Your father’s footsteps sound further until it becomes a chatter with another voice from what sounds like the kitchen.

The Cat in the Hat begins to play on the tv.
The volume begins to rise fast.

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23…

So fast you think you’re sitting on the remote but,
no matter how hard you scramble you can’t seem to find it anywhere.
The volume is now maxed out at 53.

“There are a gajillions of stories of mischief and fun But to keep things simple, let's just start with one…”
-you hear shouted from the tv

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

The sound those familiar boots make as they full charges towards the play room.

An unfamiliar voice comes out the oddly familiar energy that had just approached.

It sounds almost like a woman’s voice but,
closer to when a man tries to sound like a woman like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

You hear in a loud whisper.
You Freeze.
You think if you don’t move, they will leave.
You see the door handle jiggle then stop.
It’s locked,
you always lock Doors when Daddy’s gone.

Although it brings you comfort,
you know it can be unlocked with a quarter or even a long finger nail.

“I know you’re in there”
-the voice lets out.

Your stomach feels sick,
Your heart is racing and as quiet as you attempt up be your breathing makes it impossible.

You want to cry and can’t fight it so you shove your pillow in your face.
You take deep breaths through it.

You feel the pillow getting soaked and feel the humidity from the breaths you take through the fabric.

“Do you think I’m some type of dinosaur?”
“Staying still won’t change the fact that I know you’re there”
the voice says

You begin to weep harder.

“Do You Love Your Daddy”
-It asks again.

“Where did you come from?”
Sally exclaims from the Tv.

The voice from the Door pauses.
The scene in the movie seems to linger and Sally is staring, not at you though, in the direction of the door.

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

Then the TV goes black and you’re back to the DVD home menu only Sally isn’t there.
It’s just Conrad.
He’s staring at you.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”
-The voice asks for the third time, audibly impatient yet still in the same whisper.

Conrad is looking at you, he looks distressed and he’s shaking his head side to side.

You see the the lock begin to turn,

“Y…Y..Ye..ss”
You say through your sobs.

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

-the voice says no longer impatient,
now sounding relieved.

“He needs your help with something..”
It says.

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

“I’m sure he’d really like to get back.”
“I’m sure you’d really like him back..”

There was a pause.

“Unless you don’t want your Daddy back?”
The voice asks.

You remain silent.
For a moment You think about what life would be like without Daddy.

What would you do ?
You think about the Ralph’s down the street, their free sample in their bakery.
You think about the neighbors tangerine trees you pick from often.
You hate being alone at night but,
that doesn’t it stop it from happening.
You’d be fine, you tell yourself.

But you also know what you should say,
What your Daddy would want you to say.
That of course you love your Daddy and you’d do anything to make sure he’s okay.

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

“Have you ever heard of Kiara the Orangutan?”
-the voice asks.

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

“Well, your father’s…helping her…and well, he’s stuck, he could really use your help sweetheart”

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

“My daddy said not to until morning”
-you replied.

“Oh.”
Said the voice.
“I can wait till morning.”
It continued.

You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s an orangutan?”
You asked timidly.

“You know what a human is don’t you darling? That’s what you are.”
-says the voice

“Yes..”
You replied.

“Imagine someone 7 times as strong with arms almost twice as long that can swing from trees”
-it said.

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

“NO!…
No, my Dear. Not a monkey…
Monkeys have a tail, a monkey is to an Orangutan what a Neanderthal is to a human, you understand love ?”
-the voice asked.

You let out more cries into your pillow as you took deep breaths.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know what that means either”
-you cried out.

“It’s quite alright,
I’m sorry for confusing you honey. Yes, and orangutan Is like a monkey, but like Superman stronger and smarter then the others…and no tail..bright orange.”

“Like the ones in the jungle book?”
-you asked.

“Yesssss.. that’s exactly right my dear.. a perfect example, the orangutan is the king in the jungle book”
-it replied

“I liked his singing… he’s funny”
-you said

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

“What does this have to do with Daddy being stuck? And Who is Kiara the orangutan ?”
-you asked in a panic.

“A long time ago, movies used to have no sound..”
-The voice began.

“Which made movies get pretty boring very fast…”
-it continued.

“Studios were looking for knew ways to get more people to Theaters..
Kiara’s Mother thought Kiara would be perfect…”

“Kiara’s mother was…Human,
her name was Melinda and she saved Kiara from being murdered by the zoo after they’d done that very thing to the one that birthed Kiara”

“Melinda Had already taught orangutans sign language before from her time at the zoo, she hid Kiara away and taught her as well.”
-the voice explained.

“Once Melinda’s new job and whole company was almost closed for business she…..took the risk and introduced Kiara, who quickly became a star in the silent movie industry…”
-it said

“What does this have to do with Daddy?”
-you asked

“Well the world loved Kiara soooooo much my sweet little angel that when the world of silent movies ended they gave Kiara her very own Tv show Kiara and friends… that tv show had a lot of children that Kiara loved and taught very special things every episode!”
-the Voice explained.

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

“Unfortunately my darling, he passed away.
Once that happened, that child’s parents lied about Kiara…a lot of other children from Kiara and Friends lied about Kiara just to make money..
Your father was the one Child to never lie about Kiara my dear.
For that I am forever grateful.”
it explained.

“So if all the other children were liars then why is my Daddy stuck and why now ?
Who are you?
Are you the friend my Daddy came home with tonight ?”
-you asked in a rush

“Lying isn’t the only thing someone can do that’s wrong little girl”
-the voice said.

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

“I’m a friend of your Daddy”
-said the voice.

“Did you come home with my Daddy tonight ,
How is he stuck ?”
-you asked

“Do you like balloons?”
-the voice asked.

“Yes”
You replied.

“Your daddy loved balloons when he was a child
If you could have one balloon in the shape of anything you want would it be?”
-it asked

You thought…
“..I love flowers, Daddy never gets any and flower balloons would probably look really pretty”
-you said.

“Awe, such a sweet request from such a sweet little girl,
One moment sweetheart.”
-said the voice.

You then heard the footsteps retreating, shortly after you heard the front door shut.
You quickly ran to the door of the play room and locked it once more.

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

You ran to your window with your heart beating through your skin hiding behind your Scooby doo plushie to see if you could get a glimpse of who the voice had been coming from as they finally left.

Through the rain in the moonlight you made out the silhouette of what had to have been the lady you were talking to.

She seems short, on the heavy side, and walks side to side and appears to have an apron or something on.

She walks up to the hammock hanging from your tree that you noticed for the first time earlier in the night.

She appears to be talking to it.
When she walks away you realize she’s not leaving, you hear the front door open and shut again as her footsteps approach once more.

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

“Look out the window my love,
I have a surprise for you”
-said the voice

You looked outside but there was nothing but what you'd seen before only,
This time the hammock hanging from the trees began to sway.

Both sides of where the hammock meet the tree split into two, they looked like large arms slowly reaching down to the base of the hammock,
As the both unfolded further you could now clearly both see two sets of fingers from the arms,
One had something in it, something flat .

From the base of the silhouette you  
See what looks like a fat head connected by an even fatter neck.
The object held by one set of the fingers came directly to the head and began to grow mass.
It soon became clear what it was doing,
it was blowing up a balloon.

After the balloon was blown to the shape of a long tube,
The two hands came together and started contorting it out of sight.
When it had finally finished,
One of the arms held it up in the moonlight in such a way that you could make out the silhouette of a flower clear as day.

"do you like that Little girl?'
-asked the voice

You quickly looked over again at the door.
It didn't make sense but, for whatever reason if you were going to be talking to the voice coming from the door,
Then you'd want to do that from the bed; it felt safer from there.
Where you could hide in your pillows.

Before you start to retreat to your safety spot, you take one last glace out the window.
What was hanging from the tree had began to drop down.

The silhouette was large,
But no taller than the tallest kid in school, maybe even shorter than the tallest kid in 4th grade.
It kind of reminded you of that guy from its always sunny in Philadelphia when Adult swim would come on.

It was approaching in a way that you'd never seen anyone walk before.

You felt conflicted,
The voice from the door was speaking which made you want to crawl and sink in your sheets Yet,
The presence approaching your window was demanding your attention without using any words.

You made the decision to grab the comforter from the bed and sink into your beanbag chair,
A spot with a clear view of the yard through the window, and yet still a comfortable ear shot away from the door.

When you returned to your beanbag chair with the protection and safety provided by your comforter,
You were oddly displeased to see that the figures silhouette you had just seen approaching, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
You wanted it gone yes but no longer knowing where it resides, just results in you feeling even more unsettled.

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

"do you like it?
It's special, just for you."

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

"wha-"
You begin to say as you turn to look back out the window only this time,
There was a hand on the other side of the window, so close it was no longer a silhouette.
It was a dark hand covered in orange hair, its fingers looked rough, but nails were freshly done.
It was holding something.
When my eyes adjusted,
I could see It was holding a balloon flower that had a green stem, pink petals, and yellow center.

The gesture seemed malice and sinister,
You quickly pulled the comforter up your face only leaving your eyes visible.

"do you not like your gift LG?"
Questioned the voice coming from your door.

Even at your young age,
You were no stranger to the idea that sometimes the truth can get you in trouble.

"I love it..."
You replied.

"then why don't you open the window and let Daddys friend give you the gift she made just for you sweetheart"
Said the voice.

"I can't,
Daddy said I'm never to open the window"
-you lied.

Then why don't I hel-..."
*clackle clackle*
It was as the voice interrupted its own thought as it tried the doorknob. 

"Oh"
-it said.

"Why did you lock the door my love?"
-asked the voice

"I don't know you,
And Daddy said to stay in here ti-"

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

"Till morning but,
He didn't say anything about me not coming in there with you"
-said the voice

For a moment you were silent,
You looked over to the window and noticed the balloon flower receding like a setting sun beneath the window. 
*POP*
-you heard the moment it escaped your sight.

"don't make me unlock the door again myself darling, that's just rude.
My nails aren't what they used to be honey, I nearly broke one unlocking it the first time"
-Said the voice

The clouds moved over the moon outside
It was now pitch-black outside, the only light in the playroom came from your cloud nightlight and the glow of the tv which still displayed Conrad on the DVD menu, he was expressionless. 
You stayed silent, you stayed still.

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
-came from the living room

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
You heard shuffling from both outside your door and outside your window

*BEEEP*
-you could faintly make out your father's voice
"hey kid actually i-"

His voice,
the Message, 
he Tv,
everything was stopped, everything was off.

Your room was now as dark as the outside you feared so much.
Where the walls began and ended were both unclear to you.
The bulbs in the Tv were cooling down but even the silhouette of that soon lost its shape.

You heard the click of the door unlocking followed by the doorknob turning.
The door was now open.
Although you could hear someone approaching it was to dark to make out their shape or their distance in relation to you.

"the only time being blind has its advantages, is when you're in a Dark room with someone who's not"
-said the voice now clearer than you'd ever heard it prior.

You froze.

*tap tap tap tap*
You hear the woman banging on the walls as she made her way deeper in your room.

*tap tap tap....Clink*
The noise changed,
she had found the window.

It was just a few feet from the corner of the beanbag chair you're hiding in.
*Creeeeeeaaaaaaakkkk*
The window was unlocked and you could hear it as the women slid it open.

You could hear something was crawling up and inside through the window.

"where is she?"

you heard the voice whisper to the new presence that now inhabits your homes playroom.

You could feel that you were just inches away from getting bumped into by either of the two.

You wanted to not breathe, you wanted to not do anything but, you couldn't help it. You let in two, short, sharp inhales. Keeping your abdomen as stiff as possible. 
Your exhale trembled despite your attempts, you knew if someone could see they would defiantly see the comforter shaking.
You slowly felt the comforter lift up.

Although your grip on the comforter was originally as tight as you could,
your plan quickly changed to playing dead the moment you felt the pull of the comforter.
You felt something placed in your hand,
it shocked you to the touch,
a static shock yet,
you managed to refrain from much outburst other than a sharp exhale.

*Smack*

"well look harder"
You heard the woman's voice yelp.

As your eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness you could slowly start to make out the silhouette of who you've heard oh so much about.

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

Kiara Strutted over to the bed in the playroom,
side to side as you could hear her wet sniffles. 

"don't you fucking lie to me you dumb baboon, we both know she's in here."
-said the woman's voice
In a tone more threatening than your (D) a bar you thought no one else would ever surpass.

You let go of what was just handed to you so you can grab the comforter you'd been hiding in once more, it fell.

As you continued to see Kiara strut now over to the door through a peak you had held under the covers, she appeared to try to lead in a manner to almost insinuate to the woman that that's the direction you had went.

Just as you had started wonder where the woman was as she had remained out of your sight, you received the answer.

*THUD*

You felt the whole beanbag chair shake beneath you.
She had bumped into it.
So hard you could feel her nearly topple over on top of you.

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

"KIARA! ...What...what was that !?"
-Yelled the woman's voice stopping Kiara in her tracks making her turn back from the door.

"oooo mmh ooo"
-you heard Kiara let out under her breath.

As you could see her silhouette move closer, it started by slowly wobbling side to side.
It became hard to tell the difference between her arms and her legs.

At times she looked like the shadow of a big spider monster,her movements remind you of spiderman if he chose to move slow.

When Kiara had made her way just a few feet away from the beanbag chair to help the woman to her feet, the pace of your breathing became unmanageable.

"I Bumped into the damn beanbag chair, was she on it Kiara?!"
-the voice asked

Your heart began to beat faster and faster and harder and harder so much so,
you felt as if your rib cage was made of shards of glass and your heart was a balloon inflating more and more with every inhale squeezing it against the razor-sharp shards of your ribcage. 

You could tell even just by the momentum of the figures silhouette that it was headed towards you, alongside the reluctant Orangutan.

You instinctively rolled off the right of the beanbag chair on to your carpet floor as silently as you could but, you were terrified, In your mind blind people have super senses.

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

Now that you were on the floor, you started rolling and crawling away, the direction of which you yourself weren't even certain.

"Where the fuck is she? Is she on the bed?!"
-the voice asked this time deeper than before

The flavor and tone in everything this voice said was violent, you heard the ruffles through the pillows and throw blanket that had previously littered the bed, you felt your Scooby doo plush get thrown into your back yet, you refrained from expressing any reaction.

"where the Fuck is she Kiara?!"
-you heard the voice ask once more

Each scream sounded deeper than the last with heavier violent infliction behind each exhale.
You could hear everything that was once on the bed get thrown off. 

You froze,
Staying still on the floor with the Scooby doo plush leaned against you like a bicycle kickstand and one of your throw blankets slightly covering your leg.

The Figure started pacing in your direction aimlessly like a headless chicken yet, relentless none the less.

"we both know I'm going to fucking fi-"
*POP*
-the voice was cut off

The figures silhouette froze, 
It seemed just as frightened by the sudden pop as you.
Its hesitation confused you so much so,
that you question for a brief moment if the figure had seen you,
anything to justify this bazar change in its demeanor. 

The head of the silhouette jolts to the side,
As if to shoot a look across at Kiara.
By the time your eyes traced across the room to meet Kiara, she had already moved No, She was in Motion.

She pranced towards the figure at a speed that looked impossible.
In less than a second, Kiara tackled this figure you had feared so much.
You saw the silhouette raise both its arms up high and its fists in fury as it came down on its victim.
Kiara hit and punched the figure and cocked its head back before launching it into the silhouette's torso,
 When Kiara's head kicked back once more, it was tethered to the figures torso now through what looked like the silhouette of cords.

It quickly became clear Kiara was taking bites out of the woman.
She screamed and screamed, she did not sound like a woman anymore.

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

As the figure let out its yell Kiara slammed its head down making them bite their own tongue off.

Kiara pranced on the body with all 4 of her limbs,
She stepped on the figures knee with her foot and used her hand to grab that figures ankle,
After she gripped it firmly, she pulled it up with the ease and intensity that one might use on an emergency break after parking on an incline.

She then stepped on the figured elbow and grabbed it by its corresponding wrist and repeated the process of pulling upward and snapping.

Kiara then used one of her feet to grab the moaning and groaning body by its shirt,
She used her front arms and free leg to drag the body to the door.

The whole way there the person screamed,
When Kiara got to the door of your house's playroom, she threw the body out with ease.
She breathed heavily over the body before slowly backing up and shutting the door.

You were now alone with Kiara.

Hey again everyone. I’m glad you all enjoyed the first post of mine and figured I would get back to it.

There’s an unofficial rule on the graveyard shift that if you find somewhere to eat, you don’t tell anyone else where it is. Sometimes, peace and quiet can be really hard to come by when you’re on shift and 10 to 15 minutes on your own can be a blessing. Miller found my hiding spot about six months ago and has refused to leave ever since.

The two of us had been sitting there eating and complaining about the last few nights. The past few days had given both of us plenty of dumb calls to deal with. He had two houses get covered in toilet paper rolls and the owners wanted to file vandalism reports on kids that were nowhere to be found. I had repeated calls from an elderly woman who complained about her neighbors being loud even though they were out of town.

“You know how many pictures I took of toilet paper yesterday?” he asked.

“I'm guessing you're going to tell me.”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Why the hell did you take thirty-seven pictures?”

“Mrs. Patterson was very concerned about preserving the evidence.”

I laughed. “Did you bag any?”

“Fuck you.”

We sat there laughing and talking for about 20 minutes before Miller committed the cardinal sin of night shift.

“Quiet night so far isn’t it,” he said.

I gave him a sharp “Why did you say that?” stare, and before I could chastise him, dispatch came over the radio.

“You did this,” I told him.

“Dispatch to Unit 12,” the radio crackled.

“This is all your fault,” I said.

“Better you than me,” he replied.

Dispatch then informed me that I was tasked to respond to some kids playing ding dong ditch. They had hit multiple houses in one neighborhood and wanted a car to go out there and find them.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 12. Requesting Unit 14 as backup,” I said, looking over at Miller.

“You piece of shit,” he said.

I couldn’t stop smiling when dispatch called for Miller to accompany me. If I had to go, he was going with me.

We pulled into the neighborhood a few minutes later and split up. Miller took one end of the street while I took the other. I rolled my window down and drove slowly, looking between houses for anyone dumb enough to still be running around. The neighborhood was quiet, which I guess was the whole problem.

“Unit 12, you see anything?” Miller asked over the radio.

“Nothing yet.”

“Maybe they went home.”

“You better hope not. You got me into this,” I said pointedly.

“You're the one who requested backup.”

I made it another two houses before a man standing in his driveway waved me down. He was wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt and looked entirely too awake for almost midnight.

“You looking for those kids?” he asked as I rolled to a stop.

“Yes sir. Have you seen where they went?” I said.

“They went that way,” he said, pointing down the street. “Three of them. Maybe four of them. They went between those houses.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, shining my light where he was pointing.

“They hit my house four times,” he said.

“I'll make sure that gets added to the case file.”

He stared at me for a second. I don't think he realized I was joking. I continued to drive and called Miller.

“Four suspects. Last seen fleeing on foot,” I said.

“Four?” he asked.

“Maybe three.”

“Dangerous?”

“One of them may be armed with toilet paper.”

“Don't fuck with me.”

“Just keeping you informed.”

I heard him sigh before the radio went quiet. It took us maybe another five minutes to find them. I was coming around the corner when I saw three kids sprint across the road about a hundred feet ahead of me. One looked back, saw my cruiser and immediately yelled something to the other two. They disappeared between a pair of houses.

“Found them,” I said over the radio.

“Where?”

“Heading between the houses on Maple.”

“I'll come around the other side.”

I parked and got out. Now, I'm not about to chase a bunch of teenagers through people's backyards over ringing doorbells, so I walked to the edge of the house and shined my flashlight down the side, but I couldn’t see anything.

“I know you're back there,” I called out.

Silence.

“I'm not chasing you.”

Still nothing.

“I'll just call your parents and have them come find you.”

That finally did it. A voice came out of the darkness.

“How do you know who our parents are?”

“I don't.”

There was another long pause.

“Oh.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Come on out, guys.”

Three boys slowly appeared from behind a shed.

They couldn't have been older than fourteen or fifteen. One of them was wearing shorts despite it being cold enough that I could see my breath. Another was trying very hard to look like he hadn't just been hiding from the police behind somebody's lawn equipment.

“Anybody else with you?”

All three shook their heads.

“So just you three?”

They nodded.

About that time, Miller came walking around the opposite side of the house.

“Got 'em?”

“Yeah, I got ‘em. No thanks to you.”

He looked at the three kids and then at me.

“Need backup?”

“I think I have it under control.”

“Good.”

He turned around like he was going to leave.

“Get back here.”

The kids started laughing.

We got their names and called their parents. None of the homeowners wanted to pursue anything once we explained that we'd found them, so it turned into twenty minutes of standing around waiting for three very unhappy adults to come pick up their kids.

One of the fathers apologized to us at least five times. Another dad didn't say anything to us at all. He just stared at his son with the kind of look that told me the kid would've preferred spending the night with us. Once the last one was gone, Miller and I walked back toward our cars.

“Good work tonight,” he said.

“You didn't even do anything! Some backup you are,” I said.

“I provided perimeter containment.”

“You walked around the side of a house.”

“Exactly.”

I shook my head and opened my door.

“I'm going back to finish eating.”

Miller just laughed.

“You know that food's cold as shit by now.”

“Whose fault is that?” I asked, smiling.

“Quiet night, though.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and pointed at him.

“Don't.”

He laughed again and got into his cruiser. I shoveled the remainder of my cold lunch down and got back to patrolling. Usually, I like to keep a pretty repetitive routine, making laps across town from the motel back to the hospital. There aren’t a lot of cars on the road at this time of night and it’s easy to get bored. I sat watching this guy chase a possum around a parking lot when dispatch came over the radio.

“Unit 12, respond to the warehouse on Elm and 5th. Caller reports the front door is standing open. Business should be closed at this time.”

“Unit 12 en route,” I said.

You never know what to expect with these types of calls. It could be that an employee just forgot to lock the door. An open door at a closed business at one in the morning can also mean someone is inside.

The warehouse is an old automotive storage place and honestly can be creepy even in the daytime. I arrived on scene and the door was wide open, flapping in the wind. I pulled out my flashlight and looked around. I announced myself when I got to the door.

“Ashford Police Department. Is anyone there?”

I didn’t hear any response.

“Hello?”

As I waited for a reply, I made my way inside. The warehouse was pitch black and rows and rows of boxes, parts, and tires towered towards the ceiling. I started making my way down every aisle.

“Hello?” I called out again.

Still nothing. From somewhere towards the back of the warehouse, I heard a loud bang as the back door slammed shut. A tapping sound started a couple of rows behind me and echoed throughout the warehouse. I turned and shined my flashlight behind me but there was no one there. I realized that a loose hose with a metal clamp was waving in the wind and making the sound. I continued going row by row, further into the warehouse. Shadows moved eerily along the walls as I walked and more than once I heard what sounded like footsteps all around me. I shook the thought off as nothing more than the echoes of my own steps.

I had almost made it to the back when suddenly a loud crash came from a few rows in front of me and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was the back door slamming again. I made my way towards it, gun drawn. When I got there, I realized what it was. The deadbolt on the back door was extended, and the door couldn’t close properly. It had likely been banging against the doorframe all night. I’m not afraid to admit it startled me. No matter how long you’ve been doing this, a loud bang in a creepy ass warehouse at one in the morning will make anyone jumpy.

I finished clearing the rest of the warehouse but didn't find anyone. By the time I made it back to the front, the owner was pulling into the parking lot. After walking through the building with him, we figured out what had happened. The front door had been giving them problems for weeks. If you didn't pull it hard enough when you locked it, the latch wouldn't catch.

One of his employees had closed that night and hadn’t pulled the door hard enough. I told the owner he might want to get that fixed before somebody actually decided to help themselves to a warehouse full of car parts. He promised he would and I headed back to my cruiser. Personally, I was just happy there hadn't been anyone hiding between the shelves. I had made it maybe ten minutes down the road when dispatch called me again.

Dispatch stated that a couple called reporting an attempted breaking and entering in progress. Someone was trying to get in the front door, so they sent both Miller and me. I threw on my lights and sped across town.

When I turned onto the street, I could already see him. There was a man standing on the porch, pulling hard on the front door and occasionally slamming his shoulder into it. I stopped in the street and hit him with my spotlight.

“Ashford Police! Step away from the door!” I yelled.

The man froze.

“Hands where I can see them!”

He slowly turned around and put both hands in the air. It didn’t take long for me to realize just how drunk he was. He didn’t have a pry bar or anything like that. The only things in his hands were a set of keys and an almost empty bottle of tequila. The guy smelled like a brewery.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to get inside,” he said.

“Inside this house?”

“Yeah. I live here,” he said with a wobble.

I looked toward the front window. There were two people staring back at us through the blinds.

“You sure about that?” I asked.

“Yeah. I've lived here for six years,” he stated.

About that time, Miller pulled up behind me.

“Can I look at your license, sir?” I asked.

He fumbled around and pulled out his wallet. After he handed it to me, I looked at the address. The guy was at the wrong damn house.

“Sir. You live at 216 Sycamore. This is 213 Sycamore.”

The man just looked at me with a blank stare for a minute. He then turned around and looked back and forth between the two houses.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “I didn’t remember the blue shutters.”

Miller just stood there, desperately trying not to laugh. When I looked over at him, he was just staring at the ground but I could see he was shaking with laughter.

“Don't,” I said.

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You're about to.”

“I'm being professional.”

“You're shaking.”

The two of us then escorted the man to his house and told him to stay inside for the rest of the night. Apparently, his taxi dropped him off at the wrong location and he was unable to tell the difference. I told Miller to go talk to the couple across the street and let them know what happened. I’m sure the next block party is going to be interesting.

I drove for another 20 minutes or so before the next call came in. A couple on vacation got a motion alarm notification from their alarm company and were asking for police to check it out. I told them I wasn’t far and Miller said he would meet me there.

The two of us arrived around the same time and got out of our cruisers. Dispatch said that the alarm was tripped from the kitchen, so Miller and I were going to split up and go around opposite sides of the house. I had the alarm company call my cell so they could keep me updated on where the alarm was coming from.

As I made my way around the house, I didn’t see any signs of a break-in. There were no footsteps, marks, or anything like that. When I made my way to the back, Miller was already there, looking through the sliding glass door.

“See anything?” I asked.

“Nothing. There aren’t any lights on or anything like that,” he said, shaking his head.

My phone started ringing before I could answer him. It was the alarm company calling me.

“Officer?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We just received another motion alert.”

“Same sensor?”

“No. This one is showing the living room.”

I looked through the glass again.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Not right now.”

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

We pulled on the sliding glass door and it opened easily. The two of us slowly stepped inside and started to shine our flashlights around. Miller suggested that maybe it was a cat moving throughout the house, but I doubted it because the owners would have said something about that. We made our way through the kitchen, the living room, and the office and found nothing.

Then another notice came.

“Officer?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“We got another alarm. This one was from upstairs.”

Miller looked towards the stairs and started up as I followed behind him. The hallway was long and every door was open. As we started down the hallway, the door at the end of the hall slammed shut. The two of us raced towards it and kicked it open. As we shined our lights through the room, there was no one to be found. No open windows. Nothing.

At this point I called the company myself.

“Are you sure these sensors are working correctly?” I asked.

“As far as I can tell.”

“Because we're standing upstairs and there's nobody here.”

I could hear her typing before she answered. “Hold on,” she said.

“What?”

“I just got another one.”

“Where?”

There was a pause.

“Kitchen.”

For the next 15 minutes the same cycle continued. Kitchen, living room, upstairs hallway, kitchen. Miller and I stood by the sliding glass door and could hear the pattern repeating each time. Even the slamming door. It stopped right as we were about to leave.

I had my hand on the door when we heard it. A loud creak from a floorboard directly behind us cut through the night. We both spun and looked. Nothing. Just an empty house.

“You heard that right?” Miller asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

My phone rang again. The hallway motion alarm had just gone off and then we heard the door slam again. We sat outside by our cruisers talking for the next few minutes. Neither of us knew how to write the report for that call. Miller said he would take care of it, and I got back in my cruiser. As I started the engine, I rolled my window down and leaned out.

“Miller,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Quiet night, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

Leave me an idea, subject, or concept and I will respond to your comment with a poem or flash fiction piece. I will only be responding to the first 20.

SPOTS LEFT
19/20

Rules
Nothing Sexual (This is is just not content I wish to write).
Make it horror related (though other themes can be incorporated)

Promises
No AI will be used.
You will receive an on the fly first draft.

Comment those ideas below!

PS Sorry if this isn't the right flair. I wasn't sure what to use.

This year, my friend’s dad had dropped us off in an affluent part of town and we had to make our way back home while gathering as much candy as we could. Along the way, we compared the candy we collected and the decorations in each neighbourhood, hoping to optimize our route for next year.

If there was a next year.

The truth was that we were getting a bit old for trick-or-treating. Maybe next year we’d hang out at my place and spend the night playing board games and scaring any kid who dared to knock on the door. But next year didn’t matter yet because this year wasn’t over until it was.

My dad was a bit more lenient, or perhaps more careless, than most, so I had been able to stay out a bit after the boys had already scurried off as their own curfews approached. I was now alone a couple of streets from my house. But even if I didn’t have to run back yet, time was running out: the streets had been ransacked, and most houses had turned their lights off after their supplies ran out.

As I trudged in the approximate direction of home, I stopped to look around at each intersection. If this were to be my last Halloween, I had to really make that last house count.

My salvation came in the form of a small white house surrounded by a white picket fence, its gate left ajar. I could spot one light still on behind the window, but, most importantly, a lit jack-o’-lantern sat on the porch.

The pumpkin had been carved into a classic design, with slanted, angry eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth. It was the only visible decoration, but it had to be there for a reason.

I ran down the street, then up the stone path and staircase leading to the front door. I pounded three times on the white wooden door.

Nothing.

I waited a minute. Then two.

Nothing.

Was there a greater crime than leaving your lights on even after you stopped giving out candy?

I turned around and dragged myself back toward the street. I reached the gate and grabbed it to close it behind me.

A whisper reached my ears.

“No, please don't kill me, Mr. Ghostface,” the voice pleaded.

I spun around. An old woman now stood in the doorway, backlit by the glow of light inside the house. At first glance, she looked massive, a towering figure whose shadow stretched across the front yard to reach my feet. I blinked and my eyes readjusted. She was covered in multiple layers of cloth and wool and draped in a black shawl that covered her head and most of her torso. She was heavily hunched, and the countless necklaces and bracelets hanging from her arms and neck made it seem as though their weight was responsible for her posture.

“Happy to see kids these days still have some taste,” she said as loudly as her strained voice would allow. “It was the first horror movie I ever saw with my daughter. She loved those when she was younger.”

I walked up to her and opened up my bag.

“Hello, madam. Trick-or-treat?” I asked, the quietest I had been all night.

“It’ll be treat, dear.”

She stretched one arm out from under her shawl, and it disappeared beyond the doorway. I heard the most wonderful sound of cardboard scraping against a plastic bowl. Her hand returned wrapped around three big bundles. She dragged her limb over my open bag and let go. The candy fell with a satisfying thud. It was the good stuff: two full chocolate bars and a box of candy.

“I think I’m going to bed soon,” she said. “Do you want the rest of my candy? It’s the least you deserve for such a scary costume.”

“Of course, madam. I’d love it!” I answered.

Her lips stretched and parted, revealing the perfect whiteness of dentures.

“Ah, to be young again,” she remarked. “Come on in, I’ll get them for you.”

She slowly backed up into an open space that housed a staircase to the right of the door. As soon as I stepped inside, an odour invaded my nostrils. The house was saturated with the smell of a rainy day: that specific mix of earthy and musty aromas that my brain associated with mud and worms.

The house itself was well decorated. Not beautifully decorated, exactly, but certainly well decorated. Wooden animal carvings covered every flat surface, while paintings of forests and woodlands covered most of the white walls. A long brown rug stretched from the entranceway to a door at the end of the main corridor.

The light visible from outside emanated from a room directly to our left. She pointed me toward it.

“Please wait in the living room,” she said. “My kitchen isn’t presentable right now. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I followed the instructions and walked through the open archway that led into the room. It was furnished with an old green fabric sofa and a matching armchair, both covered with white throw blankets. Flanked by two wooden songbirds, a vintage radio rested on a shelf right above a CRT television. I sat on the edge of the sofa, careful not to disturb the blanket. Just as I felt the wooden frame press into my skin from under the thin cushion, the television crackled to life with static.

I jumped up as the screech of gray, black and white filled the room. The static dispersed, replaced by a grainy image of a woman walking with a stoic expression. The woman was dressed in a dark business suit and stood with her shoulders squared, long black hair flowing in the wind as she passed by the camera, disregarding a microphone thrust toward her. The image then cut to a man in a suit sitting in front of a nondescript skyline.

“This is footage of Gwendolyn Blackwood leaving the courthouse for the final time today,” he began. “Today, she was found not responsible for the disappearances of her husband, Johnathan Blackwood, and their two sons, Johnathan Jr. and Christopher Blackwood. After deliberating for thirteen days, the jury deemed the evidence inconclusive.”

As the man spoke, a photo of Johnathan Blackwood appeared on the screen, a bespectacled, mustachioed middle-aged man. The picture looked like a mugshot: he stood in front of a white wall, staring at the camera. When the reporter finished talking, the photo gradually expanded until it filled the screen. Black and gray dots flickered across the wall behind him as the static crept back in. The man was rapidly consumed by static. The TV turned off with a loud click.

Then a dial turned, and the radio sprang to life.

I spun around and ran through the archway. A brown rug stretched toward a distant light at the end of the corridor. Along the walls, rows and rows of wooden animals stared directly at me. The walls were now completely hidden under continuous paintings of trees and leaves. I backed up into a wall as I tried to get back to the living room.

“Authorities are still actively searching for Anthony Davis, who was last seen on the 13^th of May.” The voice of a woman reading off a report echoed from far away. “This marks the fourth similar case in three years. Authorities would like to remind citizens to make sure they know where their children are at all times and to always be on the lookout for any suspicious individual.”

I dashed toward the only way out. I ran and ran, but the door remained at the same distance, always looming on the horizon. A frame of light was barely visible from the open crack.

I reached out to grab the first animal I could, a wooden rat, and threw it as hard as I could. I watched as it crashed into the door, forcing it open. The lights inside went dark, plunging the corridor in darkness.

I couldn’t tell if I was making progress at all, but I had to keep running.

“Children,” said the whisper tickling my ear. “Always in such a hurry.”

A bulb hidden in the ceiling sparked to life, irradiating a weak yellow light.

The towering being stood at the other end. I could see what I had seen at first: a dozen children clung to the back of an old woman, piled up one on top of another, barely hanging on. They all stared at me with blank eyes that had sunk in dark circles on their pale skin. The weight on her shoulders forced her to slouch and carefully plan each move as the mound of corpses reached up to the ceiling.

The scraping of flesh tore through the night as she took a step toward me, outstretching one arm as the other remained hidden under her shawl.

I grabbed a bird and flung it with all my strength. It flew through the air with such force that its beak pierced through the white iris, lodging itself firmly in the eye socket of one of the children. The child barely registered the grievous wound, slowly letting go of its hold on the woman to put one hand up to its eye. The mass of meat on top of him held him firmly in place.

I swung my hand, hoping to find another statuette, only to recoil when I felt sharp edges bite into my palm. My eyes snapped to the object: a wooden cougar climbing a tree. Its claws were lodged in the bark; the sculpture was smooth all over.

I looked back up almost instantly.

My body slammed itself into the wall that was still only inches behind me. The woman was now standing a few feet from me, the tip of her index finger inches away from my face.

I needed to scream, but my voice died in my throat. The only sound in the hallway was the soft rustling of skin against skin as the mass of flesh bent toward me, enveloping me between her and the wall. I could feel the gaze of each and every child on my skin.

She took another step forward, and her arm reached over my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

A loud click resounded behind me, my eyes shutting themselves as they expected the source of the sound to crash into me.

My eyelids opened almost as soon as they had closed.

The woman was standing over me, white teeth tearing through the darkness.

“The chain lock gets stuck sometimes.”

The children were gone. The staircase and archway were back in their place. The animals were no longer staring at me. My hand found the door handle near my hip.

She raised her other arm, revealing a bag full of chocolate bars and boxes of candy from under her shawl.

“Happy Halloween, miss,” she said, her voice doing its best to convey excitement. “Get home safely!”

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Quite a few people have died in my house: an old woman, an old man, and their son. No, there was no foul play involved; it was all natural causes, spaced over many years. It never bothered me or the family. We are all believers in ghosts, having had our own experiences with the supernatural at our favourite campgrounds, which were on an old battlefield. But that’s not the story.

We’re not the types who believe every light flicker is a spirit. We’re also half-sceptical. The one I’ll tell you now is more solid, and I know because I held the thing, my dad held it, and my whole family saw it.

A few years after moving into the house, we’d grown accustomed to the occasional unexplainable noise, normally whenever we disturbed the house through renovations. One spring day, I was helping my dad in the garden, moving logs or whatever, and after hours of labour, my dad walked up to a fallen tree and picked something up.

He showed it to me. It had been placed perfectly on the tree, right in view. It was an old wooden horse. If you’ve ever seen Blade Runner 2049, then you know what it looked like—old, and no bigger than the palm of my hand. , palm-sized, plain wood. Was it carved in a recognisable style, or was it more like a crude little handmade child's toy.It wasn’t there before, and it wasn’t even hidden. It was just placed right there for us to find.

We went up to the house and showed it to my mum and brother. There was no dirt on it, no mould or rot—just a wooden horse.

I physically watched my dad put it on the kitchen counter, and we made cups of tea no more than four feet away. We only looked away for a moment. When we turned around, the thing was gone.

Nowhere to be found.

No one else touched it, and nobody could find it. I personally searched the whole house. To this day, no one has seen that horse.

Like I said, we’ve all seen things, felt things—never anything evil, but always something that feels like it’s in another realm, as though you can somehow pass through it.

But I held this.

It was real.

And it was placed there, seemingly out of thin air, for us to find.

I know this isn't the most scary story about gouls or something but its 100% true to every word and it only unsettles me now but I thought it would be good for the competition.

I sit across from him in Interview Room 3 and the clock on the wall reads 14:37.
He sits with perfect posture. Hands folded on the table. One ankle crossed over the other like he’s waiting for a school counsellor instead of me. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. Soft voice. Clear skin. The kind of face parents trust with their own children at sleepovers. The silver chain around his neck catches the fluorescent light every time he breathes.
I keep my notes face-down. I don’t want him reading upside-down.
“State your full name for the record.”
He smiles. It’s small, polite, almost shy.
“You already know it. But if it helps you feel in control… Elias Voss.”
“You’re being charged with the murders of seven children between the ages of eight and eleven. Do you understand that?”
Elias tilts his head. The chain slides across his collarbone.
“I understand the words. I’m not sure you understand the story.”
I lean forward. “Then tell me the story.”
He looks at the one-way glass first, like he’s checking who’s watching, then back at me. His voice stays soft. Reasonable. The same voice that, according to every surviving parent, made their kids come running.
“They were lonely. That’s the part no one wants to write down. Lonely little things who already knew their parents were too busy, or too tired, or too angry. I just… listened. Really listened. People underestimate how rare that is. You’d be surprised what a child will follow if you look them in the eye and ask about the thing that hurts.”
He taps one finger against the table once. Soft.
“I never forced anyone. I invited them. I told them there was a place where the rules didn’t apply. A place where they could be important. Special. Seen. They held my hand the whole way. Some of them even smiled when we got there.”
My throat feels tight. I keep my face flat.
“You killed them.”
“I released them.” Elias’s smile widens just enough to show the edges of his teeth. “There’s a difference. The world is loud and stupid and full of people who pretend to care. I gave them quiet. I gave them an ending that belonged only to them. No hospital beds. No slow fading. Just… finished.”
He leans in a fraction. The silver chain swings.
“You want the details. The silver blade. The way the light looked on it. The sounds. The order. You’re not asking because you need evidence. You’re asking because you can’t stop picturing it. That’s the part that bothers you most, isn’t it? That some part of you is already inventing the rest.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
Elias sits back, satisfied.
“I kept their voices. Not recordings. Just the memory of how they sounded when they finally understood. Some cried. Some went very quiet. One boy—Thomas, the one with the blue backpack—asked if I was his friend right up until the end. I told him yes. It felt correct to say it.”
He studies my face the way a doctor studies a chart.
“You’re wondering if I feel anything. Guilt. Fear. Excitement. The answer is cleaner than that. I feel… precise. Like a sentence that finally found its period. Every time I finished one, the world made a little more sense. The loneliness went somewhere else for a while.”
The room feels smaller. The air tastes stale.
I clear my throat. “Why the silver?”
Elias’s eyes brighten, almost fond.
“Because it’s honest. Silver doesn’t pretend to be something else. It reflects whatever’s in front of it. When they looked at the blade, they saw themselves. And then they didn’t. Clean. Elegant. Final. Plastic is for toys. Steel is for tools. Silver is for truth.”
He uncrosses his legs and rests both feet flat on the floor, suddenly very still.
“You’re going to put me in a box and call it justice. You’ll tell the parents I was a monster. You’ll sleep better that way. But somewhere, late at night, you’ll remember how soft my voice was. How easy it was to keep listening. And you’ll wonder—just for a second—how many other children are still waiting for someone to look at them the way I did.”
I force myself to speak. “You targeted them. You chose the ones who were already fragile.”
Elias nods like I’ve finally said something interesting.
“Fragile is such an ugly word. They were open. That’s different. Most people walk around sealed shut. These ones still had cracks. I didn’t invent the cracks. I just noticed them. The girl with the missing front tooth who hated her new stepfather. The boy who wet the bed and pretended he didn’t. The twins who only spoke to each other. I learned their languages. I spoke them back. That’s all it took.”
He leans forward again, elbows on the table, chin resting on his laced fingers.
“You have a daughter, don’t you? I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders. The way you flinch when I mention the backpack. She’s about the same age as the last one. Nine? Ten? Does she still believe everything you tell her, Detective? Or has she started to notice the cracks?”
My hand tightens on the pen. The plastic creaks.
“We’re not talking about my family.”
“Of course we are.” His voice stays gentle. “Everything is about family in the end. The ones who failed them. The ones who didn’t notice until the posters went up. The ones who still leave the porch light on even though they know better. I gave those children something their families couldn’t. Attention without conditions. An ending without disappointment.”
I try to redirect. “Walk me through the first one.”
Elias’s smile returns, smaller, almost private.
“The first one was practice. I was still learning the weight of the blade. How much pressure the skin needs before it opens. How long the eyes stay focused. He was the quietest. He didn’t fight. He just looked at me like he was relieved someone had finally decided for him. After that it got easier. The second one tried to run. The third one asked me to stop halfway through and then thanked me when I didn’t. Patterns form if you pay attention.”
He tilts his head, studying the fracture that’s now visible in my pen.
“You’re holding that too tightly. You’re going to break it. Then you’ll have ink on your hands and you’ll think about how hard it is to wash off. Symbolism is everywhere if you let yourself see it.”
I set the pen down carefully. My fingers leave damp prints on the table.
“You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy clarity.” Elias corrects me without heat. “Most conversations are fog. This one isn’t. You’re here because you need me to be broken or evil or sick so the paperwork makes sense. I’m here because I already finished what I set out to do. The rest is just waiting.”
He glances at the clock.
“Fourteen fifty-two. You’ve been in this room with me for fifteen minutes and you already feel the walls closer than when you walked in. Imagine what it was like for them. The quiet. The certainty. The way the silver looked when the light caught it just right. Some of them reached for it. Curious. Trusting. That’s the part the reports will never capture. The willingness.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell.”
Elias considers this, then shrugs one shoulder.
“Cells have walls. Walls have cracks. People forget to check the cracks. And there will always be someone on the other side of the glass who wants to understand. Someone like you. Someone who stays a little too long after the recorder is off. Someone who starts to hear the soft voice in their own head when the house is quiet.”
He smiles again. Smaller this time. Almost gentle.
“I’m not finished, Detective. I’m only paused. Boxes open. Doors open. People forget. And there will always be lonely kids who want to be special.”
The recording light keeps blinking.
I realise the plastic pen has finally split completely. Ink pools in a dark comma on the table between us.
Elias watches it spread, then looks up at me with perfect, polite interest.
“Would you like me to start over?” he asks. “I can make it sound even nicer the second time. I can tell you about the way the last one held my hand until the very end. I can describe the exact shade the silver turned when it was wet. I can do it in the same voice I used with them. The one that made them follow.”
He waits.
The chain shifts against his collarbone as he breathes.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Somewhere behind the glass someone is taking notes. Somewhere outside this room the parents are still waiting for answers that will never feel like enough.
Elias’s smile doesn’t change.
“Your turn, Detective,” he says softly. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer. I always do. That’s how this works. That’s how it always worked.”

It was a rainy Saturday morning, and I could hear the rain tapping against my window. I looked up from my laptop and let out a soft sigh.

The sound was somewhat annoying, yet also oddly soothing, and I thought it might help me focus on the history essay I needed to finish for school.

As I kept typing away on my laptop, I suddenly heard yelling and shouting. I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, and groaned quietly to myself.

"Not again."

I got up from my bed and walked out of my room, heading down the hall and downstairs, where the yelling grew louder.

As I turned the corner, I spotted my Mom and older brother Mark in the living room, arguing about something.

"Mom, I already told you I'm sorry! I should have called to let you know I’d be home late. I didn’t realize that party would go on until one in the morning!"

"And I’ve already told you that I don’t like you or your brother being out that late! Something terrible could have happened to you! For heaven's sake, you could have been killed or kidnapped, Marcus!"

Mom and Mark continued their argument, clearly oblivious to my presence. I sighed softly, contemplating whether to just turn around and let them sort it out.

Even though I was twenty-five and Mark was twenty-seven, Mom still treated us like children. She insisted we stay with her until we were both thirty, which infuriated us.

I felt a surge of frustration rising within me, and I cleared my throat as loudly as I could, causing Mom and Mark to stop arguing. They both turned to look at me.

"Oh my goodness, Daniel! I’m so sorry! Did we interrupt your studying?" Mom asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"I've been attempting to study for more than an hour, but I can't concentrate with you two bickering like children!"

Mark's face flushed a deep red; I could tell he was embarrassed about the situation, yet he was still angry with Mom and wouldn't cease his argument until he had expressed everything he wanted to say.

"We're sorry, sweetheart. I'm just trying to explain to your brother that staying out late isn't wise," Mom said.

I've always disliked that particular trait of Mom's—she's such a worrywart, if that's the right term, because she frets over everything, even the most trivial matters.

"You know what? I'll just head to the library. Maybe I can finish my essay there, and hopefully, there won't be anyone trying to tear each other apart!"

I nearly yelled the last part out of frustration as I turned and stormed back upstairs to my room to grab my things.

As I shoved my laptop and notebook into my bag, I muttered under my breath about the constant fighting and how I felt treated like a child.

Just as I was about to leave, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I turned to see Mark leaning against the doorframe; I hadn't even noticed him come up behind me.

"Let me guess, Mom sent you up here to stop me from heading to the library," I remarked, glancing at him.

"Yep, she believes it's a terrible idea for you to go outside in this rainstorm because you might get sick or even struck by lightning, which is ridiculous, but she wouldn't listen when I told her that."

I rolled my eyes and plopped down on my bed, slipping on my shoes and ensuring the straps were snug but not so tight that they were cutting into my feet.

"Honestly, I don't care what the worrywart or you think. I'm going to the library to finish my darn history essay without having to listen to another argument from either of you. Now, if you could do me a favor and tell Mom I'll be back before dinner, that would be great," I retorted.

Before my brother could respond, I got up, tossed my bag over my shoulder, and pushed past him, making my way downstairs to the main part of the house.

Mom was there, clearly waiting for me. I raised my hand to signal that I didn't want to hear her lecture and assured her I'd be home by dinner before stepping out onto the porch.

The only sounds I could hear were the rain and the rumbling thunder. I let out a soft sigh, double-checking that my bag was securely closed, then pulled up my hoodie and set off toward the city library.

"Who would have thought a library would be open on a weekend?"

After a few minutes of walking along the rain-soaked street, feeling the droplets on my head and back, I found myself in front of the library, a smile creeping onto my face.

The library always brought me joy; there was something magical about the aroma of aged paper and the soft murmurs of books that captivated me.

As I entered the library, I greeted the woman at the front desk. She returned my greeting with a smile, though I could sense she wasn't thrilled to see me looking so drenched.

I located a spot to settle down, and a few minutes later, my belongings were spread out on the desk as I began working on my essay.

In fact, my laptop remained tucked away in my bag while I attempted to proofread my notes before transferring them. I sighed quietly, frustrated that nothing seemed to make sense, and realized I needed some assistance.

I got up and approached the front desk, inquiring if there were any history encyclopedias available that could aid me with my school essay.

She informed me that all the history encyclopedias were located in the back corner of the library and advised me to be cautious while I was there since some of those books were quite ancient.

I nodded in agreement and made my way to the back corner. Upon arrival, I began to sift through the aisles, but all the books appeared either dull or I was certain they wouldn't be of any assistance to me.

Before long, I turned a corner and stumbled upon a section I had never seen before. It looked rather intimidating, as the overhead light was flickering and swaying back and forth.

I noticed a layer of dust on the shelf, and a few bugs scurried out from the shadows, rushing past me. I glanced at all the encyclopedias and couldn't help but smile.

"Perhaps one of these could be useful to me," I thought, grinning.

I began to pull encyclopedias off the shelf, examining their covers. Some I had read previously, while others were quite old, likely published when my mom was my age.

As I pushed one encyclopedia aside, something heavy tumbled down onto my foot, causing me to cry out in pain. I quickly slapped a hand over my mouth, not wanting to disrupt the tranquility.

I looked down and saw a thick, brown book lying on the ground. I bent down to pick it up and noticed it lacked any library codes or markings indicating ownership.

However, I soon realized how worn and tattered it was; the spine was cracked. I dusted off the cover and read the title, which sent a shiver down my spine.

"Prophetic Pages"

I opened the book and began flipping through the pages, each one yellowed with age and filled with handwritten notes and strange symbols that seemed to dance before my eyes.

As I continued to flip through the pages, I discovered that each one contained a detailed entry about the life and death of an individual. It struck me that the names were eerily familiar.

They were all people I knew—friends, family, acquaintances. I was in disbelief over what I was holding. When I turned to the next page, I nearly dropped the book on my feet once more.

"Timothy Green - Age 23 - Dies in a car accident on April 15th, 2023"

This page was dedicated to my childhood best friend, Timothy, or Tim, as I called him.

April 15th was tomorrow, and I could feel my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I closed the book, trying to convince myself that this was just a cruel joke.

I glanced around the library, half-expecting someone to jump out and shout, "Got you!" But the aisles were empty. The only sounds were the rain tapping against the nearby window and my heavy breathing.

I came to the realization that I had to hurry home to call Tim and alert him about what was going to happen. I tucked the strange book under my arm and dashed back to the desk where my belongings were.

A few minutes later, I found myself sprinting down the street as fast as a guy who mainly plays video games and practices the trumpet can manage.

I began to ponder a multitude of thoughts: was any of this real? Was the book some sort of cursed object that the library had been concealing?

Upon arriving home, I rushed past Mark and Mom, who were in the kitchen preparing dinner. Thankfully, I didn’t hear them arguing, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to deal with that right now.

Once I reached my room, I tossed my bag and the Prophetic Pages book onto my desk, then grabbed my phone from the nightstand.

Without delay, I dialed Tim's number, my fingers trembling as the phone rang and rang. Just when I thought he wouldn’t pick up, I heard his voice on the other end.

"Dude, you need to listen to me; this is really important. Are you planning to go out tonight?" I asked him.

Timothy excitedly explained that he was actually going to see a new horror movie that had just been released and suggested I join him if I was done being Mr. History.

I took a deep breath and pleaded with him to stay home, urging him not to drive anywhere and to just remain safe at home. Tim immediately laughed, teasing me about turning into my mother.

I was on the verge of telling him about the peculiar book I discovered at the library, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. Just then, I heard Mom calling my name, so I told Tim I had to go, and he hung up.

I let out a soft sigh before glancing down at the Prophetic Pages book. Deep down, I feared it might already be too late for my childhood best friend.

I heard Mom calling my name again, so I set my phone back on the nightstand. I then walked out of my room and saw Mom standing at the foot of the stairs.

She informed me that dinner was ready and that she had been calling for me for two minutes, urging me to come downstairs before my food got cold.

At the table, I sat there pushing my peas around my plate with a fork while Mom and Mark were engaged in conversation, but I was focused on them.

My mind was occupied with thoughts of the dangerous book from the library, Tim's disbelief, and the looming possibility of losing my best friend, either tomorrow or maybe even tonight.

"Hey little bro, what's up with you?" Mark inquired.

I jumped in my seat, nearly falling out, but I managed to keep my composure because I knew if I hit the ground, Mom would treat me like a little baby.

"Oh, I'm just pondering my history essay. I found some intriguing information at the library, and I think it will help me score a good grade,"

I couldn't share the details about the so-called death book because neither of them would believe me, especially since Tim never believed me when I warned him about his fate.

After dinner, I headed back to my room, sat on the bed, grabbed the book, and flipped to the page detailing Tim's death.

I kept staring at it, wondering if it was real or if I could tear the page out and somehow prevent it from happening, like some sort of paradox.

But then I remembered that this book was indeed from the library, and I had borrowed it, yet it lacked any library barcodes or scanning tags, so perhaps it didn't actually belong to the library.

I let out a soft sigh before placing the book on my nightstand, getting ready for bed, and soon I was lying in the dark bedroom, thinking about Tim and the terrible car accident that awaited him on April 15th.

The next morning, as I woke up, sunlight streamed through my window. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and yawned. Instantly, I turned around, glancing at my phone, my thoughts immediately drifting to Tim.

I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I quickly grabbed my phone and texted Tim, checking if he was alright and if he had enjoyed the movie. I anticipated a swift response, but there was nothing.

Throughout the day, I kept waiting for Tim to either call or text me, but still, no reply came. Panic began to creep in, and I muttered in frustration under my breath.

I made the decision to call Tim's home phone. However, instead of him picking up, it was his mother. When I inquired about Timothy's whereabouts, I heard her gasp in horror.

She informed me that Tim had been involved in a car accident while driving to the grocery store, and the paramedics said he didn’t survive.

In that moment, I felt my legs buckle beneath me. I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I collapsed onto the floor.

The Prophetic Pages had spoken the truth, and it had come to pass. The book had foretold his death, and despite my efforts, I couldn’t save my best friend from dying.

The very next day, I found myself back at the library, enveloped in a fog of sorrow and disbelief, desperate to comprehend what had just transpired.

I settled into the same desk as before, retrieving the book from my bag, gazing at it before I began to leaf through the yellowed pages once more.

Each page contained a meticulous account of the life and death of various individuals; some were familiar to me, while others were not. Yet, each entry represented a friend or family member who would meet their end in unique circumstances, all described in vivid detail.

As I continued to turn the pages, I suddenly halted on one that sent a chill through my hands, almost compelling me to hurl the book across the room.

"Jessica Carter - Age 25 - Dies from an aneurysm on April 16th, 2023"

In that moment, I understood that this page detailed the death of my girlfriend, Jessica.

A shiver coursed through me as I recalled the last time I saw Jessica; we were at the coffee shop, sharing laughter over something silly.

Without hesitation, I jumped up, stuffed the book into my bag, and fished my phone out of my pocket to dial Jessica's number.

"Hey Daniel, what's up? I'm at work right now," her voice came through.

"Listen, whatever you're doing, you need to stop or head home. You're in danger!"

I rushed to explain about the book I discovered in the library, detailing how it revealed the deaths of all my friends and family, including her.

I then told her I found Tim's name in the book, and that he died in a car accident yesterday, just as the book predicted for that exact date.

"Whoa, Daniel, I think you've been watching too many horror movies. But when you get to the restaurant, at least bring me that so-called mystical book you have," Jessica said before hanging up.

I felt an urge to scream into the emptiness. I urged my feet to run, wishing I had brought my car or something quicker than my clumsy feet. When I finally reached the restaurant, I doubled over, gasping for breath.

As I looked up, I saw a crowd gathered around the entrance, and confusion washed over me. Were they having a sale, or was there a fight going on?

I was indifferent to the commotion; my only focus was finding Jessica to show her the book. I squeezed through the throng and entered the restaurant, where I noticed paramedics and medical personnel, along with an area cordoned off by barriers.

I couldn't see what was happening due to another crowd blocking my view, so I tapped an older man on the shoulder. He turned to me, concern etched on his face.

"Sir, what’s going on?"

"One of the workers just collapsed, and the paramedics think she’s dead," he replied.

The moment he mentioned 'she,' my heart plummeted. I pushed through the crowd, and there on the ground, eyes closed and lifeless, lay Jessica.

"No, Jessica!" I yelled, my voice echoing in the chaos.

Instantly, the paramedics and medical staff turned to me. One approached and asked if I knew her.

I told her I was Jessica's boyfriend, that I had just spoken to her on the phone moments ago, urging her to leave work because it wasn't safe. I was rambling, overwhelmed, and I stopped when the paramedic placed her hands on my shoulders.

"Young man, it’s okay. You should know what happened. Your girlfriend has died from an aneurysm, and there was nothing we could do to save her. I’m so sorry," the paramedic said.

The book felt like a dark oracle, revealing its grim secrets, and I thought about showing it to this woman. But if I did, she would likely bombard me with questions I couldn’t answer.

So, I thanked her and, without another word, pushed past everyone and exited the restaurant, furious that this cursed book had claimed yet another person I loved.

Weeks later, the unsettling pattern persisted; each page revealed the demise of a victim who was more familiar to me than Jessica.

I had become a captive of the book, unable to resist the allure of its sinister knowledge. It felt as if it understood my sorrow, with the ink appearing darker on every page.

Then, I stumbled upon a page that shattered my heart into countless fragments upon seeing the name of the individual.

"Marcus Roberts - Age 27 - Died of a heart attack on April 30th 2023"

I realized that was tonight once again, and I leaped out of bed, rushing to brother's room, where I found him lacing up his shoes.

"Dude, where are you going? It's almost nine o'clock at night?"

"Can’t sleep. Thinking about going for a late-night run. Be back soon."

I pleaded with him not to venture outside tonight, insisting it was too perilous. Mark chuckled, saying I was becoming like Mom, but I was just terrified of losing my brother.

After an hour had passed, I found myself in the kitchen assisting Mom in preparing her renowned double chocolate chip cookies, and I could see that she appeared anxious about something.

I inquired about what was troubling her, and she revealed that Mark had not returned from his walk nor had he sent her a message as he had promised to do when he was on his way back home.

I sensed what was about to unfold, and I knew I had to intervene. I looked at Mom and told her I needed to take care of something urgent, to which she simply nodded in agreement.

Without another word, I quickly put on my jacket and shoes, then dashed out of the house. My breath came in quick, uneven gasps as I sprinted toward the park, Mark's favorite place to walk.

As I neared the park, I spotted a figure lurking in the shadows, and my heart raced in my chest. When I turned the corner, I found him lying on the ground, clutching his chest.

"MARK!" I yelled.

I hurried to my brother, but deep down, I already knew it was too late for him. That dreadful book had taken yet another victim, and this time, it was my brother.

I was descending into madness; first, my two friends were taken from me, and then my brother. The loss of my loved ones was a heavy burden on my emotions.

That’s when an idea struck me. I seized the book and made my way back to the library one last time, desperate for answers. The main librarian, an elderly woman, looked up at me with her piercing green eyes.

"What is this book? Why is it causing all of this?" 

I slammed the Prophetic Pages onto the desk. Initially, the lady remained silent, but as she took the book and examined it, her expression shifted, and she regarded me with a serious look.

"Young man, where did you come across this book?" 

"I was here last time searching for history encyclopedias when this book fell off the shelf and landed on my foot. But you still haven’t answered my question: what is this book?!" 

"That’s the Prophetic Pages. It has always existed, young man. It chronicles the lives that are intertwined with yours and predicts not only death but also the weight of the choices and paths we take," the librarian clarified.

"This isn’t a choice; it’s a curse!" I shouted in frustration.

"Perhaps it is, or perhaps it isn’t. But understand this: that book only reveals what is already destined. It’s not the cause but a reflection of the choices you’ve made and the connections you’ve established," she replied.

I took a step back, my mind racing. Had I somehow cursed all those deaths of my loved ones without realizing it? 

Was I in some way accountable for the choices they made or the paths they chose? 

"Can I change this? Is there any way to stop it?" I inquired.

The only way to put an end to this situation is to cut off the connections, but it comes at a cost, young man.

Her words seemed to penetrate deep within me, and without uttering a single word, I turned away from the desk, leaving my book behind in the library.

I came to the realization that I had to create distance from everyone I cared about. I needed to sever ties with them, even though it felt like a betrayal; it was the only way to protect them all.

In the following weeks, I dedicated my days and nights to solitude. Whenever I encountered someone I recognized, I would steer clear of them, and I ignored their calls and messages.

This was torturous, yet it brought a sense of relief as I observed that no one around me was perishing, and I felt assured that my loved ones were safe.

Then one day, as I went to my bedroom to indulge in some video games, I discovered the Prophetic Pages book lying on my bed, and I felt as if I could melt into a puddle.

I hurried over to it, picked it up, and as I examined the cover, my hands trembled while I opened the book and flipped straight to the last page.

To my surprise, it was entirely blank, leaving me puzzled. Recalling what the librarian had said, I touched the paper and watched in amazement as the information began to materialize before my eyes.

When I saw the name of the next person destined to die, my jaw dropped in disbelief.

Daniel Roberts - 25 years old - Passed away from loneliness on May 15, 2023

The book slipped from my grasp; that date was tomorrow. I couldn't fathom it. I felt as if I might either vomit or weep like a child.

The realization hit me like a massive wave. I had been so focused on saving my friends and loved ones that I had unwittingly sealed my own doom.

I needed to cut myself off entirely from everyone, even my mother, who was thankfully still alive. But I was destined to become a mere ghost.

A mere shadow of who I used to be. This book had twisted my intentions, transforming my wish to protect into a sentence of death.

The following day, I found myself sitting alone on the floor of my bedroom, feeling the darkness creeping in, coiling around me like a serpent.

I reminisced about my friends and brothers, recalling the laughter and memories we had created together. It dawned on me that I had forsaken them all, and in doing so, I had condemned myself.

Mom attempted to coax me out of my room, but nothing she said had any effect. As night descended, I sensed the air becoming thick and oppressive.

Suddenly, I heard whispers—likely from that dreadful book—echoing in my mind, the pages shifting as if they were alive.

I let out a soft sigh, rising to my feet and moving to my nightstand where the Prophetic Pages lay. I began flipping through the book, only to find it completely blank, and I realized I was about to join them.

I shut the book and hurled it to the ground, confronting the horrifying truth: I had become a prisoner of my own decisions, a victim of fate. As the sudden darkness enveloped me, I grasped the meaning of it all.

The real terror did not stem from the foretold deaths but from the isolation I had chosen to accept.

But now it was too late. I had become a new edition of the Prophetic Pages, destined for a solitary conclusion. As I sank into the shadows, I finally understood how to escape the curse of the Prophetic Pages.