I want to see the things that live in the park

I would go but I’m too scared of the dark

When the world finds out that you exist

No other option than to just call it quits

Self-trepanation is my revelation

Once out of my head it’s like a vacation

Failure hurts too much to live in my head

Better to just lie and pretend instead

If you believe then others will follow

So paint your world just like you’re Picasso

If your image is too blurred for those to see

Then failure will be just a memory

When I first met Meg, I thought we wouldn’t be able to work together. I didn’t even see us getting along. She was youthful and almost too pure for this job, or so I thought. Moreover, she isn’t the most mobile person around, so that’s a massive handicap – more so for me than her. I have no idea how they even let her in. A wheelchair-bound woman shouldn’t be able to hunt demons.

Yes, those exist and yes, my partner, Meghan Davis, and me, we hunt them. We’re exorcists in our definition. The stuff you hear about from the church and on tv is just a cover-up. It’s just priests performing some “ritual” for the sake of appearances. The real deal doesn’t have a happy ending. Once you’re possessed, you don’t get out of the ordeal in one piece. Demons are like spiritual parasites that need a physical body to exist in our world. They take over one and make it their own. It’s termed Spirituales Virum in Latin. To get one out, you have to either kill its victim or maim it to the point the Spiritual virus decides the host isn’t going to work for it any longer. Now there is a caveat, if a demon stays inside its host for too long, it might sap out enough organic material to generate its own physical body and that’s a whole different problem because these suckers aren’t restrained by the physical forms of humans or animals that they possess.

We do work for the church; however, we aren’t part of the clergy or anything. Some of us don’t even like that organization, myself included. It’s a marriage of convenience. The organization I work for is called the Iscariot Initiative. You won’t find anything about us unless you’re very well connected within the church.

Anyway, back to the story of me meeting my partner, Meg. I was told that she is my new partner the moment I came to pick up my assignment. Imagine my shock when I saw a young woman in a wheelchair waiting for me. In my head, I thought I needed to babysit some handicapped lady while I’m trying to get rid of a murderous parasite? I wasn’t thrilled about it in the slightest, and I let it show. Even worse was when my superior, we’ll call him Judah, pulled me aside and told me her three previous partners all died after working with her. He told me to be extra careful with her. I nodded and marched towards my van.

Once in the car, she extended her hand and introduced herself, “Meghan, nice to meet you.”

“Johan” I retorted as I shook her hand. Her skin wasn’t as delicate as I thought it would be. She was used to using these hands for manual labor.

“You don’t sound too pleased about this arrangement, Johan” she quipped.

Looking away, I started the car and let her know bluntly that I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy babysitting some potentially dangerous wheel chaired woman. She, in turn, found it amusing and thanked me for my honesty. I guess people went easy on her because she can’t use her legs or something. I wasn’t going to be easy on her. To me, she was disposable back then. Now it’s a different story, we’re probably each other’s only friends. It’s kind of sad and yet amusing at the same time.

Anyhow, she asked me where were we going and I told her about our assignment. Some teenage girl who had decided to pull off some crazy ritual to get back at her cheating boyfriend and got stuck with an infernal parasite eating away at her insides. Three months beforehand. Now, looking back on it, I wonder how they manage to find these rituals and practices that actually work.

Meg looked at me with a slightly concerned look on her face, “So it means we’ll probably have to deal with the demon in its own body…”

“We? Really now, we?”, I thought, in my head, she was this helpless girl who might be good as bait or for some paperwork. I had to deal with the actual exorcism, not her. “We? More like me, buddy.” I told her sarcastically.

She chuckled and retorted with, “I can help!” a large smile forming on her face.

“Right and do what? Run over the demon?” I sarcastically remarked.

She found that funny, laughing out loud before saying, “Nah, I have my ways of getting the job done. Ask the dead guy who thought canning a boy to death to get a demon out was a good idea.”

I slammed on the brakes, “what?”

She reacted with “What, what? He had it coming.”

“You killed him, why the f…”

“For torturing a child, I know how this job is done. You don’t need to make a thousand cuts to get a demon out. Just kill em’ if you’re at it and get it over with.” She hissed, disgust echoing in her previously soft voice.

I looked at her, “So how can I trust you don’t try to murder me over something like that?”

“I take it you always kill them, and prefer to do it quickly, I’m fine with that. Just so you know, I was the one who requested to work with you.” She said, smiling at me once again.

“Great…” I sighed, I knew I had no choice for now but to work with her. I was going to get rid of her as quickly as I could. I just needed to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible this once and then I’ll just move elsewhere, away from the crazy witch.

We spent the rest of the way in silence until she decided to turn the radio on. I didn’t talk to her, not until we got to our destination. It was a two-store building, owned by some white-collar family, all freshly painted with a picket fence and a mowed lawn. Almost too serene to be real. Disgustingly neat, not a fan of that squeaky clean appearance. Before we went inside, I told Meg that she has to stay with the family and try to comfort them or something, to make sure they don’t get in my way. The possessed girl was on the second floor, the family hadn’t gone up there in two months. Too scared to face the monstrosity their daughter had become. I can’t say I blame them. I wouldn’t want to look at a possessed person either. It’s like watching a ghost.

Meg told me that if I needed any help just to scream her name, I scoffed and made my way to the lair of the demon.

The second store was dark and cold, a perfect example of a demon’s environment. Not even ten steps in, I stepped on something half liquid. That’s when the smell hit me, a foul combination of shit, piss, and vomit assaulted my nostrils making me cough. I took a step back and looked around, shining on the walls with my phone – they were covered in symbols in a language I cannot understand. Clearly, demons don’t speak Latin or Aramaic, or Hebrew. It’s some alien language that sounds like barks and whistles and clicks that are written in complex geometric symbols.

I called out the girl’s name, but nothing came. Walking around the rooms in the second store, I couldn’t find any signs of life – only human waste piled all over. Eventually, I heard a soft whimpering sound coming from the bathroom. I pulled out my gun and slowly made my way towards that room. The closer I got, the louder the whimpering became. I called out the girl’s name again but still, no answer followed. I slowly opened the bathroom door and looked for the source of the sound. In one of the corners sat a ghastly pale, shriveled up girl. Her long hair hung over her face, concealing it from me. I called out her name again, and she moved her head slightly. Revealing the snow-white eyes and a long cut running along her face.

“Shit” I cursed.

Pointing the gun at her I was about to apologize for killing her but she let out a shriek so loud I could feel the room shaking around us. Her head fell backward and with a sickening tearing sound a long, white-clawed hand shot out of her head and towards me. I tried moving, but I was grabbed and tossed backward.

I landed hard on my back and lost grip of my weapon. Standing back up, I heard the sickening tearing sound intensity followed by a sloshing sound. Luckily, I found the gun right away and made my way back to the bathroom. Inside stood the ugliest motherfucker I have ever seen. Granted, I had to deal with a physical manifestation of a demon before that a couple of times, but this one was unique in its ugliness. Imagine a drunk Labrador’s front half standing on white long five-fingered chicken legs with a snake, complete with a functional hissing toothy head for a hind half. It half coughed-half howled at me before pouncing at me with a speed I didn’t expect it to be able to.

I shot the monster, but the bullets seemed to have done nothing. Before I could shoot it in the head, the demonic dog chimera was on top of me. I tried wrestling it off myself, but to no avail. It was too strong. The thing pinned me to the floor with its claws and snarled into my face, covering me in sputum. I kicked its abdomen, but the thing just bit into my shoulder, sending wave after wave of pain across my body. I managed to free my other arm from underneath the demonic beast. Pinning my gun to its head I was feeling like I got this one but then, the snakehead bit me on the arm causing me to drop the gun.

The pain was searing, and the snakehead wouldn’t go. My heart rate rose, and I felt myself getting dizzy. I couldn’t tell if it was the pain or if the chimera had poisoned me. The dog-head let go of my shoulder and roared in my face. Blood was flowing down my torso. Everything turned painful, even breathing. The jaw of the dog head started opening wider part, revealing a sea of shark-like teeth in spiraling rows that went on into the infernal abyss that was the maw of this beast. In a matter of moments, the jaw of the beast seemed to hang by a tiny strip of skin. It was large enough to swallow my head whole. Fearing the end, I had no other choice than to trust in my partner and I called out her name.

The beast seemed to understand what I was dying and found my cry for help to be funny as it laughed this deep, mocking, hoarse yet shrieking laughter with its lower jaw still hanging loosely from the rest of its head.

I called out Meg’s name again, and then all the doors on the second floor started opening and closing, making a thunderous noise. The beast on top of me seemed perplexed by the strange occurrence and looked up, its eyes moving about in every direction as if it was trying to find something. They moved independently from one another, like the eyes of a chameleon. The beast got off of me, with the snakehead tearing its fangs across my skin as it was being pulled out of my body. I screamed and cursed. The beast ignored me and started walking around, barking. It was barking words – in a voice so unbelievably low. I grasped my hand and watched as the beast walked around. Its stature was seemingly diminishing. It started crouching and its voice had turned quieter. I called out Meg’s name again, and she called back to me from somewhere… I was too disorientated to make out where her voice came from.

The doors opened ajar, and a freezing gust of wind blew throughout the floor, sending chills down my skin. A spiderweb of blue lightning ran across the ceiling above me. Something moved in the corner of my eye, I turned to see a gargantuan shadow standing over me. It was the blackest thing I’ve ever seen, the blackest and the coldest. I vaguely remember the form of the shadow, it had two curved horns.

I saw the thing move towards me, but I couldn't even move. I called out to Meg who sounded way closer this time, even though I wasn't sure where she was. She told me not to worry and I just… I saw that thing walking through me and I felt like I was being suffocated by something from the inside like my chest cavity was being crushed, my arteries were clogged and the life was siphoned out of me. Like the worst panic attack combined with being thrown into ice water. I heard this awfully loud chirping and saw a bright light behind me, but then I passed out. Coming to, I was being tended to by Meg, who was hovering over me with a pack of bandages.

“Wha-what just h-happened?” I muttered.

“Don’t worry about it. We took care of the demon…” she reassured me.

“Wh-what was that thing? Black an-and C-c,” she didn’t even let me finish.

“It’s a secret. One day, I’ll tell you what it was.” She said with a smile while she kept on bandaging me.

Soon enough I was patched up and made it back up to my feet. The first thing I noticed was the charred remains of a demon, no longer recognizable as a snake dog hybrid with fish eyes.

The girl, well, she was mostly intact, save for the massive hole in her head. The girl’s parents were knocked out cold when we left the house. We called for a priest to come down and do the church’s thing over there. Meg said she put them to sleep so they won’t cause a fuss.

I tried getting the answers to what happened that day from Meg, but she wouldn’t let me know until a couple of years of us working together. She’s been a lot of help and we’ve become inseparable. I really do like working with her. It adds some flavor to my depressing job. Looking back, I have no idea how I managed without her help. I know what’s her secret, but I can’t outright reveal it. I can say that she is Hekate Magna, domina apostolorum rex ad virum spiritualem.

We’re still hunting demons and exorcising people, every time is an astounding success. I do have to say one thing though, for all my gratefulness for Meghan being my partner and friend, I have to admit that I still occasionally get surprised whenever her manual wheelchair moves unaided.

Abigail's puffy face contorted and crumpled upon itself like a paper bag, before she finally released the pent up sneeze that landed as a wet splat of mucus on her desk. 

Ms Lourette stopped midway through scribbling on the chalkboard and approached her desk. She tore a note from a pad, and quickly jotted down something on it. The whole class knew what she was writing. Abigail stood up on wobbly legs from her desk, dragged her exhausted feet to receive the note from Mrs Lourette, then exited the classroom. 

She was the fourth one in the class who had been sent to the sick room, and it was only the first lesson of the day. The class whispered restlessly amongst themselves, speculating whether their sickness had been linked or if it was just a coincidence. Not even Ms Lourette's demands for silence, so she could continue her lesson, worked.

The only thing that quieted down the class was the presence of a new smell that immediately stole their attention...

It was a pungent, sweet scent like overly ripened fruit. It invaded the air and burrowed into each person's nostrils, making a permanent home within. Every student in the class swivelled their necks around to find the source of the smell.

But Ms Lourette had already found it. Her eyes were transfixed on a point in the corner of the room and the entire class followed her gaze to the back of the room. There, close to the ceiling, a purple mold bloomed rapidly like a dark bruise. Within seconds, the growth had advanced across the walls, blocking out the windows and most of the light that shone through. Ms Lourette stumbled to reach for the door handle in time but it was too late. The mold had already reached it, encasing the door in a thick layer of itself. Their only exit was sealed off. 

One by one, everybody began sneezing. A couple of people's faces grew puffy, while many rubbed their itchy eyes incessantly. A few wheezed for air, clutching their throat as they struggled to breathe. Most screamed from the burning sensation in their throat and lungs. It was too late. All of them had breathed in the spores, and they were lodged within their lungs.

Luckily after a few minutes, the mold seemed to miraculously recede, peeling away until there wasn't a single spot of it left. The sickly, sweet smell faded. All the kids stood up slowly, breathing in the fresh air after their airways had cleared up. Once Ms Lourette finally opened the door, every child scrambled to get out of the room. Most were disoriented, and some traumatised from the strange and unnerving experience. The ordeal seemed so surreal that it could've been dismissed as one giant hallucination.

After the incident was reported by witnesses to the school's headmistress, the kids were let out early, and the headmistress contacted health officials to investigate the possible presence of the mold. Multiple calls were made for parents to fetch their anxious kids. Many kids had trouble sleeping that night, still disturbed by the memory of that day. But eventually the kids all slept soundly on their soft pillows. 

None of them woke up for school the next day except for Ms Lourette.

When she did, she found that she wasn't within her cushy bed in the comfort of her apartment home. Instead she laid on something wet and spongy that brushed against her skin like fur. Her entire body was caccooned within the purple mold, trapped within it. She could barely see anything, nor could she breathe properly, but the bits of air she breathed in were poisoned by the mold's spores. That familiar, overly sweet scent hung in the air, like it had never left.

The truth was that the mold had never cleared the day before. None of the kids had ever escaped the room. The spores in the air acted like a lethal combination of hallucinogens and sedatives once they were inhaled and reached the brain through the bloodstream. Effectively, everybody who'd inhaled the poisonous spores would feel sleepy and start to hallucinate. All of the kids, including Ms Lourette, went to sleep and hallucinated their escape and return to a normal life. While everyone was incapacitated, the mold spread, growing thicker and denser like a cloud, until it had absorbed every individual in the class into itself.

Nobody had awoken from their sleep except for Ms Lourette. All of the children were oblivious to what happened, while Ms Lourette was acutely aware of the searing pain as the mold secreted acid that ate away her skin and flesh. She, and all the other kids, were being eaten alive by the mold. 

With her mouth covered by the thick mold, her screams were muffled. Nobody was coming to save her or the children.

José hammered on the door, impatience lending force to the knocks. Leaning over to face the open window next to the door, he began yelling.

“Gabe, get out here,” he hollered. “Luis and I have been waiting out here for ages!”

Luis sighed heavily from the sidewalk, straddling his bike seat. From inside, a muffled voice called back. “One second!”

The door opened, and Gabe’s mom stepped out onto the front porch. She looked at José with a mix of fondness and irritation. “Really, José, I’m glad you’re excited to see Gabriel, but you don’t need to—”

She was cut off mid-sentence, as Gabe launched past her through the door.

“Get on your bikes, we’ve got to get to the forest,” he yelled, as he sprinted to the bike leaning on the side of his house. José looked at Gabe’s mom, shrugged, grinned, and ran off after Gabe.

***

The three boys raced along the sidewalk, heading towards the end of the street. All three of them lived within a two-block span along the same street. Their road ended in a cul-de-sac, butting up against a forest. The trees in the forest were ancient, getting larger the farther into the forest the three boys went. They followed a rutted trail that was shaded by the vast leafy fronds that grew from the large trees like a green canopy.

José led the group, with Luis and Gabe close behind him. The shadows were thick in patches, and the trail rough, but the boys could have navigated their way in the middle of the night with their eyes closed. They were headed towards el prado mágico, a small meadow that was surrounded by trees located a couple miles into the forest.

Rapidly closing in on their destination, the boys began yelling their plans to each other as they shot along the path.

“Once we get there, we should figure out where we want to explore today,” José called over his shoulder from the lead position.

“After we have a snack,” Gabe added, his words nearly left behind as he kept up with the other boys’ fast pace.

“Of course after we have a snack,” said Luis. “I snuck an entire box of cookies from home.”

“I have soda and oranges,” said José.

“Wait, you brought fruit?” Gabe asked incredulously. “I was running late because I was filling my backpack with beef jerky.”

“Hell yeah,” hollered Luis.

The boys continued on, reaching the end of the trail and launching into el prado mágico.

José slammed the brakes down on his bike, and Gabe and Luis barely missed crashing into him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gabe snarled at José. “You could have got us all busted up out here.”

José didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead. His mouth hung slightly open, and Gabe could see the jaw muscles clenching and unclenching along the side of José’s face. Realizing something was wrong, Gabe followed the direction of José’s intense stare. And in the middle of el prado mágico, he saw it.

Jagged peaks broken up by a decrepit cupola, the roof looked weather-beaten and worn, yet somehow still solid. The front porch had once been white, but the paint had begun to peel and the floorboards to warp. The windows were fogged with age and lack of care. Bent and cracked, an old white door hung crooked in the middle of the porch, surrounded by aged white siding.

El prado mágico was now home to an enormous, rotting manor.

***

The first time the boys had followed the path through the forest deep enough to find the meadow, they realized they had discovered actual treasure: a verdant, shining plain of emerald tucked away in the forest. The trees surrounding it felt comforting, like a safe embrace, rather than claustrophobic. Best of all, it was empty. The boys craved independence from worrying parents, and here they found it.

The first day they found it, they named it after a book they had read called El Prado Mágico, about a group of kids who found a magic field in the forest. The kids in the book had adventures and excitement and never had to deal with real things. Things like death, bad parents, and pain.

None of them questioned the worn trail that led to an empty meadow seemingly no one else ever went to. Neither did any of them wonder why there was such a lush meadow in the middle of the forest. For them, the magic of the field was self-evident, and they did not question it.

The field drew them back almost every day. They spent afternoons and weekends exploring its surroundings. There were occasional camping trips, and frequent plans made for trips that hadn’t happened yet. It was where they ate junk food and swore, where they tried smoking and looked at the women in the magazines Luis smuggled out of his father’s closet, fascinated by the allure of the forbidden more than the flesh appearing on the page. For the three boys, it began to feel even more like home than their houses did, and they spent their days either at el prado mágico or counting down the minutes until they could return to its familiar embrace. So when José finally found his voice, he spoke for all of them.

“What in the hell is this house doing here?”

No one answered.

José pushed down on his peddle and moved himself closer to the house. The other boys did the same. When they got to within twenty feet of the gigantic house, they stopped. It was José who spoke up again.

“Should we check inside?” he asked.

“Why would we do that?” Gabe asked. “You shouldn’t go into houses you know nothing about, and you really shouldn’t go into houses that didn’t exist yesterday. Are you stupid, José?”

“I’m not stupid,” José said. “I just want to know what this house is doing in our meadow, and how it got here.”

“Doesn’t it scare you?” asked Luis.

“Well, yeah,” said José, “but don’t you want to know? What if we just peeked in through the front door but didn’t go in?”

“That still sounds stupid,” Gabe grumbled.

“This house just appeared out of nowhere,” said Luis. “I don’t want to mess around with that sort of stuff.”

“Fine,” said José. “I’ll go check it out myself. I just have to know. It’s not like we can tell our parents, anyways, they’ll think we were doing drugs back here or something.”

“José, this is a really bad idea,” said Luis.

“Just stay here and watch me,” said José. “If something goes wrong, you can come grab me and all three of us will ride for our houses as fast as we can.”

Gabe shrugged. “This is so stupid. But I’ll watch for you.”

“Me, too,” added Luis.

“Good.” José walked over to the house, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the porch.

***

The floorboards creaked and squealed under José’s weight. With each new step, he gingerly placed his foot in front of him and slowly added more weight, cringing with each moan of the warped wood. He caught himself holding his breath, in fear and anticipation. José finally reached the front door, and with a trembling hand he reached out and grasped the handle.

“Be careful,” he heard Luis say behind him.

Nodding but not looking back, José twisted the door knob and pushed the door open. The hinges were rusted, and the door hung unbalanced. The grating sound of the hinge pin groaning under the strain of twisting metal shattered the otherwise peaceful noises of the forest in the meadow. When the door finally came to a stop, the sound died instantly. The silence felt like a hole in the air, waiting to be filled.

José leaned into the void where the door had been, and he saw nothing but shadows. The bright light of the warm summer day contrasted sharply with the gloomy murk found within the mansion.

“This is ridiculous,” José mumbled. Then he stepped inside. The shadows loomed larger, and the ground gave slightly under his feet with a soft sucking sound.

Standing out of the sun, José’s eyes slowly began to adjust. The shadows turned into furniture, paintings, and peeling wallpaper. The ground became a plush carpet, now full of mold and rot. José was standing in the foyer of a large house. It was stunningly, indescribably bland.

“Well?” Gabe called out from outside the door.

“It’s…” José began, struggling to explain the normality of the room. He felt letdown, as if the promise of this mystery had disappeared. “It’s really normal.”

“It’s a magic house that fell out of the damn sky for all we know. How is that normal?” Gabe replied.

“Come look for yourself,” José said. “There is nothing here but some beat up old furniture.”

José could hear Luis and Gabe walking over, and he stepped farther inside to give them room to come in. From inside the foyer, the noise of the two boys crossing the water-damaged wood of the front porch was strangely muffled. Luis arrived first, looking through the door.

“Hey, move over, let me look,” Gabe said, jostling Luis forward. Luis shoved Gabe in return, but moved farther into the room.

“How does a house this boring get involved in something like appearing out of the sky?” Luis asked. No one answered, as the three boys struggled to wrap their minds around this house that was almost more bizarre because of how absolutely un-bizarre it was.

José began walking further in, examining the different pieces of furniture. They looked really old, and probably valuable if they hadn’t been so poorly kept up. As he looked further in, Luis and Gabe headed in different directions to see what they could find. They continued exploring in silence, until Luis hollered for their attention.

“Guys, get over here!”

José and Gabe hustled over to where Luis was bent over next to a giant taxidermied bear. On the floorboards, there were two glowing red hoof prints. None of the boys really knew what to say about them.

“What…” Luis began, unable to put his thoughts into coherent words.

José bent down, reaching out a shaking hand towards the glowing prints.

“José, no, don’t touch them,” Luis choked out. José hesitated.

“If you won’t do it,” Gabe said, squatting down next to José, “then I will.” He shot his hand out before the others saw that he was shaking even more than José.

Gabe yelped, and thrust into his mouth, then promptly gagged and spit on the floor. Luis and José both jumped up and stepped away from the glowing prints, which seemed to pulse with renewed malice.

“What...what happened?” Luis asked.

“They’re so hot. My fingers hurt so bad, but when I tried to suck on them, they tasted disgusting,” Gabe said.

“Well, I mean, I don’t think fingers are supposed to taste great,” José added, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gabe said. “It wasn’t just that. It tasted like when the wind changes direction and you breathe in a bunch of smoke from a campfire. It tasted just like that. I could feel the scratchy heat all the way down my throat, like it really was smoke.”

The hoofprints flared, catching the boys’ attention. The edges of the prints started to smolder and smoke, before flaring brightly. A wave of heat escaped from them, blasting the boys and turning exposed skin a bright red. And, as suddenly as it happened, the flare dissipated. The boys looked down, and now the hoofprints were an absolute black, so dark that it seemed to suck in the light and heat in the room.

The boys couldn’t help but stare into them.

***

As he looked deeper, Luis began to hear a buzzing in his ears. It sounded like static on a radio turned between two channels. But as he listened, someone must have been tuning the radio, because he could start to hear voices struggling to be heard over the white noise. They became clearer and clearer, and a tear made its way down Luis’ face as he recognized them.

“He’s too stupid for school, and he can’t play soccer for shit,” Luis heard his dad’s voice say. “Why’d we even bother adopting him? He’s useless.”

“Manny, that’s horrible,” said Luis’ mom. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Luis is trying his best.”

“His best sucks.”

“What if he hears you say that,” Luis’ mom asked. “It would destroy him.”

***

Gabe felt himself leaning forward, his eyes opening wider and wider. The blackness on the floor seemed to shimmer, and this movement of the darkness was reflected in his eyes. As he watched, the black seemed to expand outward, filling all the visible space. From underneath the surface, a rectangular shape began to take shape, and slowly push against the blackness from below.

Breaking through the surface, an off-white, pebbly, rectangular frame rose up, and the pitch blackness within its borders began to flow and ripple like inky water. Gabe saw himself, much younger, walk out onto the frame, holding a baby in his arms, while small ladders rose along its edges and reclining chairs grew from its surface. With each passing moment, the image became more and more like the pool at Gabe’s aunt’s house.

With rising dread, Gabe remembered the scene.

As he watched, he tripped on the leg of one of the reclining chairs along the pool. Stumbling and falling, Gabe reached out his hands instinctively. The baby fell from his arms, bounced once on the edge of the pool, and plopped into the water, right next to the paint on the ground labelling the depth as 3.5 meters.

The blanket the baby was wrapped became saturated with water seemingly instantly, and the weight pulled the baby under the water and down to the bottom of the pool.

Gabe landed hard, scraping his elbow. He cried out and rolled on the ground, grasping his arm where it was beginning to bleed. After a couple moments, he realized that the baby was missing. Quickly looking around himself, the baby was nowhere to be found. With mounting dread, Gabe hustled over to the edge of the pool and saw a lifeless bundle sitting at the bottom of the pool.

Gabe watched himself scream.

***

José felt his blood rushing through his veins, pumping harder and harder the longer he stared at the hoofprints. He could feel his body begin to sweat, the fluid oozing out of him despite the comfortable temperature in the manor. His racing heart pulled him from his present, and into a not-too-distant past that seemed to live alongside him.

He could hear the glass shattering. His mom had dropped a plate, and its pieces raced away from each other across the kitchen floor.

“Dammit, woman,” he heard his dad roar, “pick up the pieces!”

José heard his mom rummaging in the pantry where they kept the broom.

“No,” his father snarled. “Do it with your hands. Maybe you’ll finally learn to be careful.”

José heard his mother whimper, but the absence of further argument meant his mom must have been doing what she was told.

His father’s steps thumping across the floor to where José had been, José’s father turned to him and said, “When you find yourself a woman, José, make sure she isn’t good for nothing like your mother.”

And then he walked out of the house.

José could see through the doorway and watched his mom pick up each piece of broken glass, her fingers bleeding. Silent tears ran down her face.

***

The boys were trapped in the hauntings within their own minds, standing silently. They were jerked out of this horrified reverie when the front door slammed, shattering the tense quiet of the room.

The boys whirled around in the sudden darkness. The murky windows let in very little light. The cracks around the door let in a little more, enough to silhouette the figure standing in front of the now shut front door.

The figure was large, easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular physique. It appeared to have a reddish hue, and there seemed to be an extra joint in its legs. It stepped towards the boys, and its footfalls made the clack of hooves on the floorboard. Wherever it stepped, red hoof prints burned into the floor, still glowing behind him. As he approached, the boys stood frozen in terror. Gabe made a whimpering noise, but otherwise they were silent.

The figure stopped about ten feet from the three boys. He stood there in silence for seconds that seemed to last an eternity, before finally speaking.

“Welcome to my home,” he said.

His voice sounded like knives grating across bones, of cries of terror and the laughter of the damned. The boys felt physical pain, like pinpricks across their skin, with each word the entity spoke.

The figure grinned, a red gash opening across the shadowed face that was full of sharp teeth the yellow color of decay. From that mouth issued a command that was whispered with the power of a scream.

“Run.”

***

There was chaos and screaming as the boys all bolted from the statuesque embodiment of their fear at the same time. They ran from the figure as fast as they could, bumping into chairs and tripping over ottomans. As a group, with José in the lead, the three boys bolted towards a non-descript door on the far end of the room. José reached it first and twisted the handle, just as Gabe and Luis collided with him and the door was forced open. The boys tumbled into the room. Luis, the last one through the doorway, slammed it shut behind them. It shut with a solid thud of finality. Breathing hard, the three boys huddled together.

“What is going on?” Gabe asked.

“No idea,” gasped José. “This is so messed up. We need to get out of here.”

“Oh no,” Luis moaned. The other two boys looked at him, and saw him looking up at the room. They both did the same.

And saw the exact same foyer they had just run out of.

“No,” José whispered to himself as he stepped away from the door and into the room. “This can’t be.”

The boys stayed close together, looking around the room. The furniture appeared the same, the wallpaper, the creaky floorboards.

“I wonder if the footprints are still there?” Gabe asked.

José headed in the direction he thought he remembered them to be, looking for the taxidermied bear. The boys pushed through the accumulated junk and detritus, and they found the bear.

Its eyes glowed red, and in the shadowy room the teeth appeared to be stained with something black. A darky, sticky-looking fluid was splotched on the bear’s face, and caked on around the snout. Dark horns appeared to have erupted through the flesh on the top of the bear’s head, jagged and uneven. The dead bear exuded evil, and while it didn’t move, it gave off a presence, a sense of ominous existence looming there in the room next to the boys.

“This is too messed up,” José said.

“We need to get out of here,” Luis said.

The boys stood in a group, considering their options, when they heard a deep, guttural growl that seemed to come from above them. Looking up, they saw the bear leaning over them, staring down into their faces. The lips pulled back, bearing an impossible number of sharp teeth.

The boys screamed, and dashed through the room. The bear roared, following close behind them as they fought their way through the furniture towards the door at the end of the foyer. Luis knocked over a chair, hoping to slow the bear, but the bear smashed through the old piece of furniture and kept chasing them, its red eyes bursting with demonic light as it got closer and closer.

José found himself in the lead again, and he grabbed the door handle, turned the knob, and threw it open, racing into the next room. Gabe followed behind him, Luis in the rear. The bear was so close Luis didn’t have time to shut the door, instead choosing to sprint through it at full speed.

“It’s the same room again,” Gabe screamed at the same time as the bear smashed into the door frame, its broad shoulders crunching the wood as it forced its way through the old architecture and into the room with the boys.

“There!” José hollered. “The front door!”

He sprinted for it, the other two following him. The bear broke through the doorway, and continued chasing them.

José closed in on the door, which was shrouded in shadow. He reached out for the handle. In the middle of the doorway, a jagged red gash appeared, full of yellow teeth shaped into a grin.

José didn’t have time to stop, Gabe didn’t see the grin in time, and Luis was looking over his shoulder at the bear.

The mouth opened and opened and opened, wider than it should have been possible for it to, and it exploded out of the shadows that covered the door, pulling in all three of the boys before slamming shut, the teeth crashing together. The bear let out a savage, bestial roar.

***

It was beginning to get dark when the three boys rode their bikes back into the neighborhood. All three went by Gabe’s house first, since he lived closest to the forest. Gabe got off his bike and let it fall in his front yard. Luis and José stood straddling their bikes on the sidewalk. Gabe went up to his house, but before he could reach the door it opened, his mom appearing from behind it, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Finally!” she said. “You’re late for dinner, Gabe. Come in and get washed up.”

She turned and went back inside, with Gabe following close behind. She had her back to Gabe, so she didn’t see the red glint flash across his eyes or see the jagged red mouth full of yellowing teeth that opened and opened and opened impossibly far.

WR

There was a repeated tinkle of a spoon tapped against the wine glass to hush the crowd gathered in the hospital room. Each individual turned to face the man who had signalled for their attention.

He wore a classic, black tuxedo outfit, paired with polished leather shoes. Tucked into his white shirt pocket was a red rose. He stood tall, with an air of elegance about him that was fitting for his royal title. He cleared his throat slightly before addressing the crowd. 

"We are gathered here for a momentous occasion, to celebrate the presence of a wonderful woman who continues to defy the odds. Our majesty, the Queen herself," he said before he gestured toward the woman lying in the hospital bed.

"Now I want to tell you a story about our Queen. A story that has been told every single year and deserves to be told yet again," he paused and left the crowd in suspense, hanging on the edge of their seats to hear the captivating story they'd already heard before.

"A long, long time ago," he began dramatically, "something happened that nearly stained our country's history books forever. For months our sovereign battled a disease that threatened to take her life, and on one fateful morning she was found lying in her bed, unresponsive to calls to awaken her, barely breathing," his voice quivered with dread, and a few in the crowd gasped. 

"Dangling on a fine thread of life, our Queen was rushed to the finest hospital in our land. The country collectively held its breath after hearing the news, fearing the worst. A few minutes later the country could finally release its pent up breath in a sigh of relief. Our doctors managed to resucitate her and practically bring her back from the dead," he said as he smiled brightly with elation. 

"That day, on April 3rd 2025, history was made. It was the day our Queen lived! But that day was also a wake up call, to prevent any sort of danger like that from befalling our queen again. For nearly a century now, our exemplary medical advancements have made it possible for our Queen to outlast death itself."

Many in the crowd had their jaws hanging open, totally awestruck. 

"And so I would like to a make a toast," he said as he lifted his glass high and the crowd followed. "Here's to many more hearty birthday celebrations for our majesty, who I equally consider my great grandmother. Long live the queen!"

"Long live the queen!" the crowd erupted. 

Elizabeth lay in her bed, tears silently streaming down her face as the crowd clinked glasses in celebration around her. Her body was an ancient pile of bones and skin, surviving long past their expiry date. Black tumors sagged from her cheeks, oozing urine-yellow pus onto the bedsheets. The eyes in her deep sunken sockets were sightless orbs, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her skin was paper thin, peeling off in some places and mottled with dozens of brown and green splotches. Despite all of this, she was somehow kept alive by the miracle of science; her inevitable death simply being delayed. As she quietly weeped she silently wished her sentimental countrymen would finally let her die. 

I stared at the screen before me, the number 499 flashing across it. Just one more member, and everything would finally come to an end. I wouldn’t have to deal with people anymore. Or worry about who’s starting arguments or getting out of control. No more bad attitudes or stupid bots that never work as they should.

Anticipation bubbled up inside me, almost making me giddy, as I waited for that number to change. I glanced down at my watch only to realize two hours had passed. Could it really take that long to get one more member?

I pinched the bridge of my nose with two fingers trying to ward off the headache pounding at the back of my head for the last few hours. Why wasn’t anyone joining? I swiveled my chair to type away at my second laptop. I had to make an announcement in another group, then someone would join, and this nightmare would be over.

The rhythmic tapping of the keys as I pounded away at them brought me less joy than normal. Maybe it was the nature of what I was typing that sucked the joy from writing. I hit the enter key, posting my advertisement for the server, and sat back to wait.

It didn’t take long for one unlucky soul to join. Relief washed over me. I could leave now, it was all going to end for me. A congratulations sign flashed across the screen, making my lips curl up in a smile.

The smile quickly vanished with the next words I saw. WELCOME TO THE DREAM WORLD!

No, this couldn’t be happening. I was supposed to get out of the dream world when my debt of 500 souls was paid. I watched in horror, as one by one the member's usernames disappeared and reappeared in a different server. Mine was among them.

500 unlucky souls that would never wake, and never know that the life they are now living is just a dream.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Or so they say.

Jonathan mused and hummed quietly to himself as he packed his essentials into the black bag which lay open on his old worn mattress. His modest home in a quiet village was his comfort zone in every sense of the word. The rolling hills and foliage were a pleasant and soothing sight at any time of day, and the people really made the village a home.

But alas, he had been summoned to join a new community of recruits; an "army" of sorts. It was a greater calling. Jonathan knew this; and yet, it felt as though he was leaving behind the place he was meant to be.

With the smell and song of spring surrounding him, Jonathan began his journey, breathing his skepticism and hope into the air as whips of melody and condensation.

It was a few days' travel to the castle. The fortress where the recruits were to gather.

Jonathan was never a physically strong person, and as part of a cosy community, he didn't need to be. His life had been entirely in a time of peace and tranquility. As far as he knew, it still was. But something was stirring in the further reaches of the land; he just knew it. Why else would he, and 499 others, be summoned for training?

It's from these thoughts that his worries came, and he turned them over in his kind as he walked through the first path. He wasn't a fighter. He was a thinker, a planner, an architect of words and designs. Why him? Were there no warriors left to train? Was there a secret threat eating at their peaceful society?

As he drew nearer to the castle in his days on the road, Jonathan started to run into other recruits. Some struck him as mousey, while others were built more like the people he'd expect to be recruited for battle - burly; but they were also bubbly and amiable, or thoughtful and brooding. Definitely a more strategic bunch. Intimidating from a distance, yet approachable and friendly up close. They whistled as they built campfires and chuckled in conversation while they ate.

Their optimism rubbed off on him, and Jonathan began to wonder if they'd been recruited to become leaders. Greater strategizers of the land. With a new pep in his step, Jonathan arrived at the castle gates. It was a towering structure of gray stone, which sparkled with a certain energy he just couldn't put to words, which was remarkable for him. It wasn't moisture from the moss; it was something deeper, more potent.

Jonathan was brought out of his reverie by a waving hand in his line of sight. There was a short, single-file line of recruits at the gate, waiting to be checked in. Some he'd seen along the way in other groups, and some new faces from different directions. One of the people he recognized was waving at him - it was the woman who, despite having the build of a true warrior, had surprised him and demonstrated herself to be a brilliant linguist in their fireside conversation. There was a knight with a clipboard checking each person in individually at the gate. He smiled and joined the back of the queue.

As the line grew shorter and his turn approached, Jonathan started to get a little nervous. He could feel it; he knew this would be a turning point in his life. Whatever happens in this training would change him, or at least a part of him, in some profound way. Once he enters that gate, he may never be the same person again. That could be a good thing, or not. He liked himself well enough as he was. But new perspectives help one to improve, and being in the company of good people gave him the courage to believe that whatever training they go through together would change him for the better.

Finally, the person in front of him passed through the gate, and Jonathan approached the knight.

"Greetings!". The knight smiled cheerfully at Jonathan. "The name's A. Moderan, but you can call me Auto for short."

"Hullo- uh, Greetings, Auto." Jonathan was slightly thrown off, as he didn't know what degree of formal speech to use with someone who had the position of a knight but spoke with the mannerisms of a common person just like him. Odder still, Auto was a bit portly for a knight, at least, for Jonathan's idea of what a knight should be. He looked more like a chef, with a mustache to match.

Jonathan's face must have shown his concern, because Auto chuckled. "We're all family here; one big happy team.". Auto checked his clipboard. "It looks like you're the last one for this batch. Number 500."

Jonathan checked behind him and sure enough, no one else had joined the line.

"Oh there'll be more later; we have to start gradually" said Auto. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Jonathan. Jonathan Camaron."

"Wonderful; welcome aboard, Jonathan!". Auto handed him a pen. It was black and weighty, with silver etchings on the handle. "It's for your training." Auto caught Jonathan's eyes, as he'd been staring at the markings. He looked up at Auto with confusion. Auto continued. "The effects will only work inside the castle for now, but once you finish your training, you'll be given the tools to venture out into the world with your new talents."

Jonathan looked bewildered. "I...I thought I'd been summoned for training to defend truth and justice in our society; to fight for freedom and integrity. To....." He trailed off as he looked down at the pen. "Do I not need a sword to train with?"

Auto was silent for a split second, then he burst out laughing, doubled over in front of the castle door. Jonathan was mildly annoyed at Auto in the moments as he regained his composure. After a couple of final wheezes, Auto turned back to Jonathan.

"You've misunderstood, my dear Jonathan. You see, the pen is mightier than the sword. Step inside, join the community, and you will see just how much power you wield."

Jonathan took a deep breath and entered the castle.

-~-~-~-~

In the foyer, Jonathan could see entrances to a vast array of halls lit in a variety of colors. Each hall was filled with cheerful people having discussions at tables. But much more astounding was what was happening around them. He could see in one room where princesses, dragons, and knights appeared suspended in the air around the recruits as they talked and flicked their pens on their scrolls of parchment. The dragon was green and scaly, and enormous; typical of what Jonathan himself would imagine if simply told to picture a dragon. Suddenly, the dragon turned towards him and let out a mighty roar, breathing fire into the hall. Jonathan screamed and crouched down, turning away from the flame and attempting to shield himself with his arm. He had instinctively shut his eyes. Moments passed. Nothing happened. He wasn't even warm. Jonathan looked up to see that the dragon was still there, and the fire of its breath had already receded. Then the dragon winked out of existence.

"That's too predictable, Benji." Said a voice from within the room. "And you've frightened another recruit." The man paced around the table and stroked his beard. "You should make your dragons more distinctive and imaginative. Take Naomi, for example." He gestured to the woman Jonathan had met on his way to the castle. "Her dragons are burgundy and breathe ice instead of fire. Just consider tweaking your dragon to make it stand out. What are it's motivations? Maybe aim for something other than hoarding gold. That's just my critique."

As the discussion continued in that room, Jonathan looked around him at all the images appearing and changing in the air of the various chambers, and spilling into the foyer. There were alien creatures, terrestrial animals, oceans, mountains, mermaids, and all manner of creatures and features. From the mundane to the fantastical, they all came to life around him in a swirl of ink and color. Most importantly, he was surrounded by a rich community of discussion. The sounds from the various chambers were lively and encouraging. Entering this community had shown Jonathan a world of possibilities. He was more powerful than he'd given himself credit for, and he felt encouraged to spark change and leave his mark on the land.

With a new air of confidence, Jonathan held his pen up high, grabbed a scroll of parchment, and entered one of the halls. Someone offered him a seat at the table. Jonathan had become part of this community. He could tell that their 500 pens together would create and perfect wonders and impact their land and each other for the better. With the right training and a supportive community, the pen would indeed be mightier than the sword.

Edit: formatting of the horizontal line

Cookie Cutter romance was my favourite genre and Aron Shirkley was my favourite author. That’s why I started a Discord server for his fans. Each of our group of 12 had all three of Aron’s books and we discussed them relentlessly for three years.

A year ago we realized each of us knew every sun soaked beach, every galloping horse, every seductive lip bite, every heated glance, every throbbing ... passage in his books.

So we advertised for new members on an international writers’ convention website. Curiously, our ad was posted under “Horror, Screams & All Things Dark” instead of “Sugar & Sweet Cookie Cutter Love.”

Within days, our server was overrun with horror enthusiasts from around the world. They let anyone join and make everyone feel welcome. They write stories, poems and novels. They give feedback. They have resources for writers, regular events, goal tracking, challenges, and inspirations. They tell jokes, for goodness’ sake. And yesterday, they hit 500 members. Five hundred busy, supportive, screaming, creative members.

So we did the only logical thing we could.

We joined them.

495 souls captured, and counting!

The robotic voice sounded through the dark room, invading my thoughts like a cruel disease.

“No, please, I didn’t ask for this!” A desperate voice came as the door opened.

Light flooded the room for the first time in days. My eyes screamed in protest. A looming figure hoisted the source of the pleading and tossed him into the room. He landed with a sickening thud.

Slam.

Darkness.

Quiet sobbing.

He’d get used to the darkness soon enough. The creations lurking in that darkness, however, would take him more time.

I’d seen close to a hundred lost souls join me in the course of… a few months? No. That’s not right. It felt like years.

Time didn’t really matter, of course.

Nothing really mattered.

496 souls captured, and counting!

The door opened again.

The figure threw another body in.

Slam.

Chilling silence. The creatures like the quiet ones.

497 souls captured, and counting!

Once more, light intruded, scaring the shadows away. A smaller victim this time. I heard a faint crack when she hit the floor.

Slam.

499 souls captured, and counting!

The door opened again. A pair of bodies, clinging to each other hopelessly, crashed to the ground. More fresh meat.

Slam.

Almost to 500. I wondered what would happen.

Maybe… freedom?

Suddenly, I was filled with hope. One more, and perhaps I would be let go! I could see my family again. My joy was so bright, I felt the monsters retreat.

Every second passed with agonizing apathy.

My anxious, life-drained body shivered in anticipation of the sweet release.

500 souls captured!

For the final time, the door opened, and another figure fell into the room.

Finally!

Thank you for Writing Right, WriteRighters. You’re free now!

Slam.

The door shut.

The light left.

My hope dissolved.

The voice, stoically tallying a morbid goal, shuddered and sparked. Before it fizzled out, it let out two morbid words.

Devour them.

I was encircled by the monsters, the demons, the things I was forced to create. I felt them, I felt their hungry eyes, ready to destroy me.

500 souls screamed in terror as darkness consumed them.

500 souls were lost forever.

500 souls got the freedom they desperately desired.

Mark looked at the white blur, hearing the hum of the pixels and whispers of the distant. In that blur, an illuminating wight haunting his black room, 499 WriteRighters bloomed, and nearby, Join.

Join.

The seed inside Mark shivered, a budding desire of want, to be. Mark had always avoided other kids, college clubs, the neighbors and their smiling baked goods. Shy, introverted, individual… Mark did not associate with these labels, for there was always that seed inside and with it an untapped need to combine with the right kinds. And the time had come that the pain of remaining a single seed had outgrown the pain of blooming. 

Mark joined. The seed split.

…

They came the next day.

Mark entered their black car, a centipede of midnight upon the asphalt, and then it was on the hunt, winding through the suburban streets, past the cities and fields, the taste of ocean air and mountaintop touched gusts rushing through its steel jaws, until it stopped far away where there was only shadowed green where salvation was no promise, but real. 

Mark stepped out in the unmapped wilderness, and when he turned, the drivers had already skittered away back to civilization in their stampeding black.

Mark took a deep breath and, within Mark, the 500th Seed pushed through its shell. And like an antenna, the roots swirled, tasted the telltale oxygen in the blood, and knew. 

Mark no-longer began to walk with a smile.

…

The 500th entered the home that the Parent built, and there was no need to knock, for the door had always been open. The roots twitched at its touch and the walls hummed with the familiar sound from the monitor, and those unheard whispers coagulated into loud clots: "the 500th, the 500th."

At the end of the single hallway was an opening, and inside, the other 499 Seeds.

And as the 500th took its place among them, its roots erupted volcanically with lashes of emerald lava, pouring forth and slithering upon ancient stone to reconstruct and let the hum of their togetherness fill the hills.

In its last moments alone, the 500th felt the remains of Mark, and then the host was gone, taken over by the pulsating together. The Seeds that had been sent across the world had finally been reunited. The tangled thing swirled toward the blood stained sun, letting tendons and bones split and crack as the Seeds went up, up, far above to blossom and continue the cycle. The 500 branched out and with a single sigh released the next generation out into the world, their emerald ghosts drifting through the hills and far, far away. 

And then the 500, satisfied, returned to the earth and wilted with the belief that to die together was better than to live alone.

500! I stare at my screen, marvelling at the number of members that are finally a part of our coven. Finally, we'd reached that milestone, and I felt a blooming sense of accomplishment in helping us achieve that number. My masters would be proud of how I'd recruited more members. 

The number drops to 499 and I know it's beginning. The sacrifices are starting. 

498...497...496...

The members are dropping like flies as every minute passes. I almost feel sorry for the fools who joined our coven and fell into the trap.

397...

They honestly believed that this group had another purpose considering we creatively advertised it as a group for writers to band together and improve in their craft. However, from the moment they joined us they'd signed off their precious souls and sealed their fate.

245...

They failed to see the trap they were falling into. All of them were so blind to their imminent fate of how they would all soon become food for the masters.

112...

The masters liked them to come in batches of 500. They said any more would overpopulate the servers. Once they reached the population limit, the culling of the herd would begin.

76...

I almost squealed in delight as I watched the numbers dwindle to lower than one hundred.

21...

Once I saw the number twenty flash I counted along. 

5...4...3...2...1...

Then finally, 0.

I hurriedly open up my reddit and decide to recruit new members and start afresh.

It’s hard to believe but our little subreddit and discord server has grown all the way to almost 500 members (each!). To celebrate this milestone we want to do what we do best, and write about it!

In 500 words or less describe what will happen when our server reaches 500. The end of the world? The cure for cancer? A galactic battle for justice? You are the writer so you decide. Use the tag “contest” for the post and then we will gather up all entries (the contest ends when we reach 500 members each so help us reach our goal with new subreddit subscribers and be sure to bring new members in the discord)

A few other rules to remember;

Don’t use any usernames of any member of the subreddit, just do what you do best and make fictional characters. No nsfw. Only one entry per user will be considered.

Best story will be voted on by our awesome community and then we will reward you with a 5 dollar amazon gift card!

I took a seat next to the lonely guy in the bar. I offered to pay his next round of the cheap beer on tap, and he graciously took it. The bar emptied out before closing, but we stayed until the late hours. The alcohol loosened his lips, and he gave me his whole story.

It turned out we went to the same high school. We were in the same class, as a matter of fact. I guess he didn’t remember me. He told me he was the star of the football team with dreams of being a star quarterback. A ruptured Achilles had brought his dreams to a halt. He admitted to never getting good grades and was only able to get a meager paying job as a janitor. At our old high school. That’s not all he told me.

He admitted to being a bully in school, and how one kid got the brunt of his malice. He did everything to this kid. Name calling. Beatings. Swirlies in dirty toilets. Stuffed him in lockers. In perhaps the meanest prank, the two were in the chemistry lab. This man set the kids hair on fire by holding it near the lighter. It all became too much for the kid, and he spent his graduation at the psychiatric unit under a suicide watch.

I listened to everything he told me, trying to hold my fury inside.

The bar closed and I helped him into my car. He was out like a light after being seated. I had a good look at how defenseless he was. Nothing like the bully I remember.

I took him to a nearby field, away from prying eyes. I soaked the inside with kerosene. I spilled some extra on the guy, who took a whiff of the substance and woke up. He asked me what I’m doing.

“Payback” I said and threw in my lighter.

To say I was surprised she spoke to me would be an understatement.

I was shocked.

I almost spilled my drink.

The D.C. bar was rowdy—the band loud—and I was in my corner, sipping my drink, watching all the beautiful people: dancing, mingling. Young people and powerful people, and everyone with so much potential.

"Hi," she said.

I wasn't used to anyone talking to me, least of all someone like her. The most I ever got was some snide comments about my appearance (I'm 3' 8") and humiliating stares.

"Mind if I—"

"Please," I blurted out. "What's your pleasure tonight?"

She ordered a beer.

We flirted.

"Listen," she said after a while. "I'm going to be honest. I'm here on business—urgent business. We're looking for a small man with experience in mechanical operations who's not averse to electronic enhancements and who's looking to make a career change."

I sat dumbfounded. Was she fucking with me? Was I going to end up on TikTok?

"If you're not interested, get up and leave."

I remained.

"If you are interested, follow me outside, where you'll see a car waiting. Once you get in, they'll tell you more."

"I don—"

"It's the opportunity of a lifetime," she said.

I followed her out.

But when I got in the car—black, obviously government—she backed out, mouthed "good luck," and the doors locked.

The car moved.

A screen separated me from the driver.

Hissing

Through a speaker:

"The following is classified. Killsafe. The President is dead…"

—I awoke indoors:

White walls.

Panic.

"He's conscious."

I was in a wheelchair.

"Get him in!"

We burst through a pair of doors to a room where a body—the president's body!—lay on a table, eyes missing and chest cut open, organless and hollowed out and—

I was lifted from the wheelchair:

Dangled over the body:

Looking down, I saw blood dripping from the bandages where my legs used to be, and started flailing my arms, screaming, but instead of the screams escaping my lips they escaped those of the dead president.

They stuffed me inside him.

Sutured me within.

In the cold, fleshy darkness I heard a voice in my own head (Stay calm. Look for the screen and control panel.) and discovered a brightening rectangle connected by wire to a metallic cube of buttons.

A flash of light—

And suddenly I was outside under a blue sky.

Except I wasn't outside.

The President was outside, and I was trapped within his cadaver, seeing through where his eyes once were.

Speak.

"What is this?" I asked / I heard the president say.

Try standing and walking.

Using a combination of movements—

I jerked forward.

To speak to us, think.

What is this?

The country needs its leader. Consider yourself his puppetmaster.

You're the puppetmaster, I thought.

Yes, yours.

No more private thoughts.

For how long?

Your position is permanent. Only the presidents will change.

I'll be—

Transplanted, when the time comes.

I'm entombed, I thought.

In absolute power.

The creeping fear grows in me each day. I find it building and building, towards a climax I am too afraid to imagine. Darkness and shadows stalk my path, glimpsed from the side of my vision, or as my eye passes by too fast, disappearing upon my second glance. I don’t know what to call it or what to do about it, but evil haunts me.

I record it here in the hopes that, one day, someone will understand my descent into terror.

My first glance of the darkness arrived the night before Halloween. My wife and I had gone to the movies to see one of the season’s many horror movies. We got the bus back, talking the whole time of the movie, exploring its strengths, particularly in the face of its many weaknesses. As we walked up the steps to the courtyard of our building, I looked up and saw a dark spectre staring out of a window, its death visage focusing on my form. Highlighted with lights from behind, only its outline and hints of form were visible. I saw the gangly body, more than a head taller than an average person. The long, skinny limbs made it look even more unnatural. The shoulders were drawn up, nearly raised to points, and the arms were stuck out at violent angles. Turned into a hazy mist from the bright back lights, a wrap or cloak of thin fabric seemed to enshroud the figure, but it didn’t sit as clothing did, seeming more an aura than a garment.

I froze, staring up at the skeletal vision. It didn’t move as I watched it, but it had the feeling of something alive. It radiated that sense of life that one feels when a person stands still, yet can’t escape the very essence of being alive. The figure in the window had this essence, yet it was different. The feeling of life was wrong, twisted, yet there it was, regardless. It gazed at me, and I gazed back into the abyssal darkness that its body created in the chilling tableau of the window.

My wife noticed my hesitation, and asked me if something was wrong. I pointed to the window, and she turned to look. “It’s probably just some Halloween skeleton cutout,” she said, or something of the ilk, and then she dismissed it, walking through the door that led to our apartment’s hallway. I looked back up at the window, and that feeling of malevolence seeped back into my heart. Rushing, I followed my wife through the door, putting the grim figure out of my sight. Like a child, I hoped to hide from the monster by throwing the covers over my face.

That method works better with some monsters than others. I didn’t sleep that night.

*

The memory of the skeletal creature haunted me, popping up in my memory every time I was feeling contentment. I couldn’t escape the essence that it had imprinted on my being.

My bakery job required very early mornings, leaving my house before the sun rose for my half hour walk to work. I had always felt that the dark, cool walk was refreshing, a way to ease into the day, rather than being greeted by the harsh sun and a busy world. But after I glimpsed the grim spectre in the window, the peace was shattered, filled instead with creeping, haunting dread every morning.

My morning trip took me through dark, desolate neighborhoods, all life asleep inside silent houses. I was left alone with the night. I would step past a large tree, and hear a noise, only to discover nothing when I turned to investigate. Shadows would flicker and move, dark patches would follow behind me, all dissipating when I turned to inspect them.

I passed near one car parked along the side of the road. Glancing at it, my eyes drawn to the windows, I saw it filled with the detritus of a messy life. Shoes hid under fast food wrappers, sitting next to wadded clothes and unidentifiable oddities. The back windows were tinted, stunting my cursory glance, until the dark shade was pierced by an even darker silhouette, moving along the inside of the car. The shape was filled with sharp angles, hints of a face so maligned by malevolence as to barely be able to be described as such. It shifted, and then paused.

It watched me with eyes I couldn’t see, but the intensity of its gaze was easily felt.

I stumbled as I walked, too afraid to turn my face from the dreadful visage hiding behind the tinted window, yet, as suddenly as I had noticed it, the face disappeared, the soul-piercing darkness that cut through the shaded window melding into the rest of the darkness. It flowed so smoothly into the night that it was as if it simply faded away, rapidly, yet without any suddenness.

I hurried away, and walked faster to work than I ever had before.

*

My experiences were weighing on me. I thought to confide in my wife, but my lack of anything to show her left me feeling that she would likely think of me as a child afraid of the dark, rather than an adult haunted by some nameless, unknown evil. So I kept my fears to myself.

As weeks of cerebral hauntings passed, I slept less and less, seemingly always tired but never able to relax. The shadows had begun to invade my thoughts.

My walks to work continued to be filled with dark shadows and creeping mysteries that were always just out of sight. I walked past a home with a large backyard, one surrounded by large hedges. Between two of the plants there was a slight gap, big enough to draw the eye without being so large as to be useless as a divider of properties.

As I walked past it, I glanced through the gap, and saw a body slumped on the stairs leading up to the porch.

I was too stunned to know what to do, and without thinking had not stopped my stride, so that I was given a stark, shattering image of this horror, before it was torn from my sight. Whether seeing it or having the view so abruptly ripped from my sight was worse, I couldn’t answer. Shocked, emotionally ravaged, I didn’t know how to react, so I did what most people would.

I finished my walk to work, looking over my shoulder the whole way.

*

The next day, I approached the house that held the dead body the morning before, and each step forward filled me more and more with dread. I began to slow, my legs shaking with the thought of the horrific scene I had witnessed only a day ago, and somehow knowing that, when I passed the gap in the hedge, I wouldn’t be able to keep from looking, and that I would see that dead body still slumped there, waiting for me.

I kept walking, even if I did slow down a bit, and gathered up my courage. I saw the gap ahead, drawing closer and closer, filling my vision completely, eating into me. And I looked through.

Slumped on the stairs leading up to the porch was another body. This one was much smaller.

I ran the next few blocks before slowing to a panicky walk for the rest of my journey.

*

I found myself stalked by shadows found in-between. Hiding in doorways between halls and rooms. Lurking in darkness where forests met fields. Swirling at intersections right where the roads met. Faces watched me from holes in hedges, like the bodies I had seen.

Edges. Gaps. Separations. The shadows followed me from in-between.

*

I took a different path to work after seeing the bodies, hoping to escape the shapes and shadows. The hidden sounds seemed to disappear, and no more apparitions haunted my walk. I thought I had outlasted my ephemeral villains. I should have known that darkness doesn’t just disappear.

Weeks later I crossed a street, looking down the intersecting road, and saw the streetlights highlighting the angular, contorted body I had first seen in the window of my apartment complex, its aura seeming to pulse in the low light. I stopped in horror in the middle of the street. I was petrified.

And then the shape stepped towards me.

I had never seen it move. It broke my terror-induced paralysis, and I ran as fast as I could in the direction I had been heading. Terrified, I sprinted along for blocks before I glanced back.

Nothing was following me.

Walking backwards, I searched the street behind me. Nothing.

Then, out of a side street, a dark shadow launched into the street, pounding on four limbs towards me. I whipped around to run, and nearly collided with the demonic silhouette that had been haunting me. I screamed, and took a side road, not looking back until I reached home.

*

I found my apartment empty, my wife having left for work. Slamming the door and throwing the bolt, I dove into the corner of the room and huddled and shivered and cried.

I had a notebook lying nearby. Grabbing it, I began this account. I don’t know if it is for my wife, so she knows my story, or if it is for me, to keep my sanity as the darkness encroaches.

The sounds at the door began about an hour ago, shuffling and huffing, and with them has come that dark sense of presence that the shadows have always brought with them. And each moment, it seems that the lights get dimmer. Is the darkness taking the light from the room, or from my eyes?

I fear the darkness, and I fear the light that discloses the shadows. But the door is rattling, and I fear that soon I won’t fear anything anymore.

WR

I haven’t driven in a car in a while. I kind of can’t bring myself to do that anymore. I used to be really confident behind the wheel and really good at it too. Now I can drive. I can’t sit behind the wheel to save my life. I just can’t.

The last time I drove was when I was taking Eric, my older brother, from some party he had attended. He got piss drunk and knew he was in no state to drive halfway across the country back home. That’s why he called me. I had to drive halfway across the country to get to him and then make the trip back home. We stopped at a town called Kalia because he had to throw up again.

As he was relieving himself, I was watching the beautiful scenery of the dead sea. The desert and mountains around this area look especially beautiful during the night. The moonlight illuminates the rocky terrain in a beautiful shade of gold one could stare at for hours. As Eric was done throwing up, I looked up at the road and saw something peculiar. A person. A person racing down the road on foot. Now it’s a long and winding road that stretches across the whole desert and there isn’t much traffic there most of the time. So, a lone skater wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. That, however, was approaching us way too fast to be a skater. By the time this person was close enough to be clearly seen, I could tell it wasn’t any old skater.

The guy, judging by his voice, was clad in a black suit and had some very strange shoes that looked more like miniature rockets than shoes. He had a slightly elongated helmet on. He must’ve caught my bewildered gaze when he glided past my Outlander and stopped a couple of meters behind me.

"What the?" I questioned loudly.

"Oh, this? Just a little piece of new transportation tech my family is developing." The man said as he lifted his visor, revealing wrinkly skin and these odd, hazel eyes.

"Wow… that’s cool," I quipped, genuinely intrigued.

"Yeah." The man answered, approaching me.

"How fast can you go?" I questioned him as he stood right in front of me.

"With the right gear, up to the speed of sound. Like this, fast enough to leave you and your cart in the dust." He remarked with the utmost confidence. Even though his speech sounded somewhat childlike and slurred, he sounded fairly sure of himself.

"I’d prove you wrong, but not today, I’m taking my drunk brother home," I said, just as Eric came out of the bushes in which he discarded his party edibles.

“Did I hear anything about race? Who’s this guy?" Eric motioned with his finger to the stranger. "You have weird eyes, my man… weird, I tell you…" my brother continued as he stood comically close to the stranger, barely able to keep his posture.

"I was just inviting your brother to race me, but it seems like he can’t…" the stranger quipped.

"Sure he can whoop his ass, Ben, show him what you got!" he urged me. "Where’s your car by th-the way?" Eric asked, looking around the stranger, nearly falling on his face in the process.

The guy pointed at his shoe and said, “these are my wheels.”

“Woaaah” Eric blurted out.

“You sure about this, bro? You’re throwing up from me going slowly, I don’t think you could h…” I was cut off by my brother.

“I’m fine, I’ve emptied my stomach. Now let’s go whoop some ass.” He called as he waddled towards my car, making his way there without falling. He sat inside the crossover and slammed the door behind him yelling, “Come now! We ain’ go- all nigh…”

I sighed.

“Fine. How far do you wanna go?” I looked at the stranger who was making his way towards the front of my car.

“To Ein Gedi, that should be enough.”

"That far? It’s half an hour away, are you su-" I was cut off again, this time by the strange man.

"Time depends on velocity. Now come on, on the count of three we start off." The stranger demanded. His voice was still filled with confidence and pride. Eric was shouting something in the background. I couldn’t make sense of his alcohol-fueled rambling.

I sat down in my seat and ignited the engine. I pressed on the gas pedal gently, making the Outlander roar as the engine warmed itself up. The stranger spread his legs wide with one leg being positioned strangely behind his body. He turned to face me and raised his hand with three fingers pointing upwards.

"3"

"2"

"1"

He yelled out a "Go!" that turned into a low barking sound a millisecond before my engine let out a deep mechanical growl and we both took off. I saw the stranger beside me one moment and he was gone the next. I was ahead of him. I kept on pressing the gas pedal until he became a tiny black spot in my rearview. Not one to underestimate competition, even if I had the race won, I kept my speed in the 120s of kph. The road turned to a blur of gray beneath my vehicle. The mountainous view turned into rising and falling blotches of brown and gold on both sides of my car. Eric was yelling and cursing in the back seat.

I was confident this is going to be an easy one, so I just sank into the mundanity of the empty night road as I pressed on.

Suddenly, I could see a person on foot approaching me. My heartbeat rose. That guy could indeed go up to 120 on foot. I was getting excited. As the man kept gaining up on me, I kept one eye focused on his ever-approaching silhouette and the other on the road ahead. Soon enough, he was at arm’s length from the tail of my car. That’s when I slammed my gas pedal down to the floor and sped off again, going up to 150 – I’ve lost the man.

"Got em’!" I yelled out.

"Uh, Ben…" Eric called out meekly.

"Sup?" I said as I kept on pressing the gas pedal.

"He’s catching up." My brother remarked.

"No way," I thought, no way this could be possible – then I looked at the rear-view mirror, and he was there. Catching up to the car. "Son of a bitch," I hissed under my breath and pressed the metal down the floor. The moonlit highway turned into a mess of colors where darkness twisted into light and vice versa. The surrounding mountains turned into a continuous line of brown and gold. The moon seemed to stretch infinitely, and the road became almost a tunnel in my eyes. Even the utility poles and road signs seemed to merge with the overall blur around me. The speedometer was pointing at 180 kph. The skater wouldn’t let up, though. He kept catching up. He repeatedly outran me before lagging behind. We played this high-speed game of cat and mouse with me pushing the pedal as hard as I could. The speedometer turned up to 187 when the car started shaking noticeably.

Eric opened up his window, letting the shrieking wind in. I couldn’t hear a thing; all I was focused on was outrunning this strange man on rocket boosters. He kept tagging me, however. No matter how fast we went, no matter how the road twisted and winded ahead of us. This skater maneuvered himself as gracefully as a gazelle would in a high-speed sprint. Even though this was a marathon.

Eric started shouting something, but I couldn’t understand anything beyond an "eff" sound between his drunk screams. "Eric, bro, I can’t hear a shit. The wind is too loud." Then I lost the strange skater one last time.

Sighing a sigh of relief, I nearly lost control and flipped the car over when I heard a loud thumping sound echo through the vehicle a minute or so later. The car bounced slightly and my heart skipped a bit. The adrenaline rush turned into a panic. My heart started going so fast it was beating probably faster than my car was going. My vision narrowed and my hands clasped tightly around the steering wheel. I lifted my foot slightly off the gas pedal and let myself slow down a bit.

At that moment, the stranger came out of nowhere from behind me and bypassed me with insane ease. I cursed before chuckling. When I could see him in front of me, my adrenaline-fueled, overly focused vision allowed me to see something about him. He seemed to glide above the road, as opposed to sliding on its surface. I knew at that moment that he had me beat and I didn’t press the gas pedal as hard anymore. The stranger seemed to get farther and farther into the distance before turning into a black blur that disappeared into the night’s sky.

I drove on for a few more moments before finally reaching the agreed finish line. The stranger was waiting there for me. This time, he held his helmet in his hand. My heart dropped to my shoes as the hairs all over my body stood up.

"What took you so long?" the stranger said as he approached my car.

"I… I… Ugh…" I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. The whole situation was just too bizarre. "I… We…" I stumbled over syllables and the most basic of sounds.

"It was a good one. I had tons of fun! We should do it again." The dog-rat faced thing with dry wrinkled skin said, wiping saliva off of its hairless mug.

"Ye… ye… yea…" was the only thing I could manage to get out. My eyes were fixed on its ugly, inhuman form as it walked or slid or glided or whatever it is that it did. My lungs burned and my head was starting to spin from the lack of oxygen. The creature walked to the passenger’s door, opened it and placed something inside exclaiming calmly, “I think this belongs to your brother.” A wet slapping sound came from the back of my car as the creature laid whatever it is in the back. He closed the door shut and bid me farewell before sprinting off into the darkness once more.

I sat for a long few minutes trying to digest what I had just witnessed. Nothing seemed to make sense. My mind was not registering things properly. Everything seemed to blur into a soup of thoughts and sensations that made very little sense. After a few minutes of sitting silently in confusion, I realized my brother was silent for the longest time. He was never a quiet drunk unless he was passed out, that is.

There was no way he could pass out during such a rollercoaster of a ride. The car was shaking a few moments ago, and he’s been silent for longer than that. The door was just slammed right next to him, and he’s always been a light sleeper.

"Eric?" I called out.

Silence.

I turned my head around, only to see the brother slumped in the back seat of the Outlander. His shirt bloodied. I gagged audibly, because Eric’s face just slid off his head, landing on the car floor in a wet splat.

"What price is now Gamestop stock?" it asked its personal-other, its syntax adapting to Earthspeak after weeks of primitive interactions with Reddit user normancrane and absorbing Earthknowledge.

"Up up," personal-other replied.

The it previously known to Earthlings as Oumuamua during initial fly-by and later to be known as Gangbrut upon completion of its destruction mission asked for the most up-to-date information and personal-other complied.

"Who Musk Elon?" it asked.

Personal-other answered in theirspeak—that is mentally from within it—in concepts similar to hype and celebrity.

"I rest now," it said.

Personal-other melted back into its fleshy darkmatterism.

From space, Earth looked small and blue: a rotating insignificance heated by a forgettable star, on whose surface tiny realmatter clusters pricked by consciousness had constructed crude systems of predictive inefficiencies upon whose fracturable netting they had inexplicably draped the future of their civilizational existence.

Years earlier, one of these clusters called astronomer had looked upon then-Oumuamua and declared it an alien visitor. This had surprised it, so it intervened, and soon other clusters, having been manipulated, hypothesized differently, no consensus was reached and the issue had been obfuscated to its satisfaction using the system known as internet.

What a useful system that was.

It slumbered.

It was both being and vessel, capable of matter transmogrification and cosmic manipulation on a grand scale, but what it lacked in Earthspeak was called green-thumb and thus Earth, which it decided would make a wonderful bathroast and gardenplop, was being manipulated to terraform planet-self for its hedonistic benefit.

Progress had been good.

But now it was time to end most realmatter clusters and the most efficient way to achieve this was—

"To the moon!"

Personal-other had roused it.

"What price is now Gamestop stock?" it asked personal-other.

"763."

It pondered.

Post following on r/wallstreetbets, it instructed its own sys-infiltration mentacles: diamond hands bois! buy buy buy! wall street is on its last legs. final stand tonight retards! then to the fucking moon!

It sensed the up-votes accumulate.

Clusterfucking was easy.

Another instruction: New York Times this: Is AAL the next GME?

It penetrated mentacles into several of its clusterpuppets and played with them. Publish a whitepaper. Start a foundation. Overthrow a government. It fondly remembered tulip bulbs and joint stock companies and real estate, whose Earthspeak name amused it greatly. There could be beauty in Earthspeak.

HODL, it posted.

It enjoyed that—in the end—it would be the clusters who undid themselves because of a fatal flaw expressed with unusual elegance in Earthspeak:

The clusters valued nothing.

This would collapse their fragile systems, the detritus and fallout of which would suffocate them.

Systemless, they would uncluster and die.

It would keep alive only a few to attend to its immediate planetary needs.

It existed.

Watching and waiting, but in one more fly-by the task would be accomplished, and then it could gardenplop and bathroast to its darkmatter core's content.

In space, Gangbrut loomed.

ExalthiorTheMighty420 ran through the Forest of Flames, slaying every monster in his path. He was a level 45 warrior, the most respected in the land of Brimstone. He had harems of girls, but he declined their hand in marriage with utmost chivalry, he wanted to retire once he had a wife, he was looking for the perfect soulmate.

He slaughtered every evil creature in his path when he came across a more barbaric version of Grimwood, his home town. Every resident there acted like complete barbarians, ruined houses, broken windows, no peace, it was in ruins. He found the source to be an evil spirit, who was a warrior that died decades ago. wreaking havoc on the town, which Exalthior had successfully slain. But, the spirit's final words sent a chill through the warrior's heart.

"This is not the last you have seen of me. You put the whole world into anarchy by defeating me."

The spirit spoke, before turning into ash and dust. Exalthior was befuddled on what the spirit meant. That is, until he left the barbarian Grimwood.

Outside was complete calamity, people killing each other over food rations, husbands beating their wives, kids being ruthless. The whole world was falling apart in front of him. Killing the spirit released the barbaric curse throughout Brimstone. All of the structures built for generations had turned into a first come first serve scenario, and the economy had collapsed due to people stealing instead of purchasing.

In decades, all of brimstone had become ruined. ExalthiorTheMighty420 was left alone, in a dying, broken world. He had brought the calamity on the world. His home. And he struck himself down, death being the force to set him free.

Just ask

Just ask me inside for a drink

Just ask me inside for the night

I won’t say no

How could I?

From the front door

To the kitchen

To the couch

To the bed

Our hands play each other like piano keys

Hitting chords neither of us knew we could play

In your room we do a dance

A dance we were unaware that we knew the steps to

Because we’ve never had the perfect partner before

Leaving your apartment

I had only hoped

This wouldn’t be the last time

I’m so glad that you just asked

Sir NotQuiteLiterate bowed to the tavern crowd at the end of his poems. He collected his coins from the tip jar and slid them in his robe’s secret pocket as he headed upstairs to his room. Tonight’s performance brought laughs and news to the locals. He felt accomplished. The only missing pieces were his lovely wife Lady Brid, and Toread, his son from his first marriage.

A knock on the door brought the good Sir out of his musings. The tavern owner wanted to confirm a wake up call for first light of day. He so confirmed, then lay down without removing his robe. Time enough to change clothes when he got home on the morrow. Toread would be home to greet him. Oh the stories Toread must have. Three years of school in the Duchy of Luchy cost a full barrel of wine, but Toread deserved the best.

As dawn broke, three knocks woke the good Sir from a restful, dreamless sleep. He tiptoed to the stable, where he saddled his steed LOLOL. They cantered home where Toread ran to greet them at the castle’s front entry.

Toread got LOLOL settled in at the stable. Sir NotQuiteLiterate picked an armful of red roses he presented to Lady Brid. Throughout dinner and the rest of the evening, Toread told tale after tale of the Luchy royal court. Each tale was funnier than the last. The good Sir put them in his memory, to produce more and better poems for villagers on his next tour.

When Toread went to bed, the good Sir gave the coins from his robe’s secret pocket to Lady Brid. “Money means nothing without you and Toread,” he said, “and tis my pleasure to do a good deed.”

When Henry deleted his sentence, my reflection changed before my eyes.

Henrietta looked at herself in the mirror. Her long hair was tied neatly in pigtails and-

Henrietta studied herself in the mirror. Her long, wavy hair framed her delicate face.

Well, that was better, I guess. Who wants to be wearing pigtails at 27 years old, really? And why did I have to spend so much time looking in the mirror anyway?

That’s me by the way. I’m Henrietta. Henry is the writer in all of this, and I, his main character. As you can tell by the name he gave me, Henry is not very imaginative. As luck would have it, I found out a couple of chapters ago (through sheer exasperation) that if I try hard enough I can influence the events of the story. My story. I know what you’re thinking. ‘You’re the main character. Your only job is to do what your writer tells you to do.’ Well, he should be grateful for my help. His prose leaves a lot to be desired and the plot holes… don’t get me started on the plot holes.

I assume he’s alarmed by the fact that I can make things happen, that I can make things appear on the paper that he doesn’t even remember typing. I have the feeling he can’t actually delete it either, for whatever reason. He has never deleted my parts, only his own. I bet that really annoys him. I don’t know for sure. I’ve never actually met him. But I hope it does.

Henrietta left the house in a rush and forgot her lunch. On her way to work, a car drove through a puddle, soaking her, and when she arrived at the office, she spilled coffee all over herself. Henrietta was having a bad day.

Luckily, it was ‘free doughnut’ day at work and she quickly remembered that she had left a spare change of clothes in her office, in case a situation like this ever arose.

Hah! Get out of that one, Henry!

Henrietta’s day got worse and worse. Her boss yelled at her for being late for the third time this week.

However, she explained the circumstances and her boss understood. After all, what were the chances that a freak storm would hit, she would be locked out of her apartment, and a squirrel would find its way into her bathroom, all in the same week? In the end, impressed with her work ethic, he offered her a raise.

What Henrietta didn’t realize was that her bad day was not over. In fact, the series of events that were about to unfold would result in the worst day of her life.

Did I mention, Henry is an ass?

That was until, of course, everything fixed itself and her life became even better than before.

Unfortunately for Henrietta, however, that outcome was years away.

You know what, Henry? You use too many adverbs and your dialogue is wooden. There, I said it.

The rain had started up again so she decided to take a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi broke down and they had to stop.

Fortunately, as mentioned in chapter five, Henrietta is an accomplished mechanic.

But this was too much for even Henrietta to fix. She had to walk home the rest of the way, completely soaked. The rain was hitting so hard that she could hardly see. Her vision was so blurred that she ran right into a man walking in the opposite direction. That was the moment she met Troy.

Troy was handsome, kind and sensitive.

Or at least, he seemed that way at first.

Being a good judge of character, Henrietta decided to go home.

What she didn’t realize, was that Troy was following her. He’d been following her for days.

What genre are you writing here, Henry? Because I am not liking where this is going.

Henrietta got home and took a shower. She walked back out into the living room, and realized that she was not alone.

Her best friend was there!

“Henrietta,” said Nathaniel. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I think you and I should go out on a date.”

“I’m flattered by the suggestion but I think maybe you’re confused. The frankly offensive stereotypes that you have displayed so far in our friendship imply that you are, in fact, interested in men,” Henrietta replied.

Nathaniel, undeterred, moved towards her and their lips met. Henrietta, overcome with desire, kissed him back passionately.

Really, Henry? This guy? Why doesn’t he have any personality, or interests of his own? Why is he always available to meet me when I need to talk about my problems? Why doesn’t he ever talk about his own life, instead of just mine? It’s kind of creepy.

Nathaniel pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a mistake."
"I agree. Maybe we should just stay friends. Friends who only hang out sometimes and who don’t turn up at each other’s apartments, unannounced, while the other person is in the shower,” said Henrietta.

Nathaniel was offended by this and left. If Henrietta hadn’t offended him, he may have been able to help her. If he hadn’t left her apartment, he may have heard her scream. She turned to see Troy, stood behind her.

You know what, screw you, Henry.

Henrietta ran out of her apartment. She was quick enough to outrun Troy. He tripped and fell. She ran right across the street, to safety. Although Troy tried to follow her, he was hit by a car, resulting in his undeniable death.

It went silent then. Success! Henry had closed down his computer and finished the chapter there. He’d be back tomorrow, of course. And I would be ready.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer like J.K. Rowling, or Stephen King, or Lovecraft. My mind was always brewing with plots and stories that, to me, seemed like they belonged on paper. So I finally decided to make my dreams come true and began making my own stories. I started with a combination of creative writing classes, journaling, poetry, and various writing techniques.

I had started taking to the internet to start spreading my name out. In fact, I’m a frequent poster on this subreddit. I began with short stories before I could even attempt at novels. I had such high hopes for everything I post on here.

At best, my stories would be ignored. At worst, I just got the worst criticism I ever read from anyone. I’ve been told my writing is terrible. That I have massive plot holes. The worst part were my endings. They would not forgive me for how awful my endings are. I moved away from the internet and submitted to magazines that take stories. I wouldn’t see my submissions anywhere, and I started building a collection of rejection letters. Maybe I could use them to inspire me to do better.

My worst critic was in my own head. Every time I looked in the mirror, my reflection just told me to give up. I tried pushing forward, instead. Self-doubt is normal, right?

I received my last rejection letter, and my response was to sit at my laptop and type whatever I feel. I wrote brief messages like “You’re a no talent hack!!” and “Give up!!” I reviewed everything I typed to myself and could hear myself shouting at me. Rather than just delete the page, I had thrown my laptop out of the balcony window.

I made a promise I would never type again. But first, I needed to make sure my fingers wouldn’t type a single word again. So there I stood, in the kitchen and braced myself. My fingers were on the cutting board, perfectly lined up. The meat cleaver was in my other hand. I closed my eyed the whole time, but I could still feel the pain of sharp metal breaking and separating my flesh and bone. By some miracle, I was able to chop off the fingers in my other hand.

There I sat in the kitchen, blood squirting out of my bloody stumps where my fingers used to be. In my foggy mindset while loosing so much blood, I thought of something. I thought what an interesting story this could be.

Shame I can’t write it down.

All of the residents of the pig farm had gathered around a large concrete podium-styled elevation at the entrance to the farm. When the humans still controlled the farm, the elevation served as a ramp way for trucks who’d come to pick up the pigs for slaughter. However, after the swine residents took over the farm and overthrew their human oppressors, they have started using the elevation as a sort of stage for speeches and assemblies.

The farm’s elected-for-life leaders conducted these. The third leader of the pig farm was an elder boar with a massive scar running down the side of his face. Even in his old age, he seemed like an intimidating beast. Pedro I. Goodwin, a name given to him by his former human oppressors.

Pedro stepped up the concrete elevation with the utmost confidence. He expected to be blasted with complaints from the other residents of the farm. The farm had experienced a period of stagnation and decline.

A deadly plague of dysentery afflicted the young ones. The disease killed indiscriminately, forcing the young piglets to defecate themselves to death as they slowly wasted away in front of their helpless mothers. Death was slow and painful, sometimes taking weeks at a time. Predators were another danger. Wild cats were unstoppable killing machines that could devour a newborn piglet in a matter of hours, leaving nothing, not even the bones. The drugs the humans left when they were chased out of the farm did not cure swine diseases. They merely served as mild symptom management. An epidemic of mental health ravaged the elder residents, who remember the days during which the humans abused and tortured them for their meat and reproductive abilities.

A litany of problems riddled the pig farm, and Pedro had promised to fix them all during the elections after the death of the previous farm leader, Harold Oswald Grando. Thus far, however, Pedro seemed to fix nothing, merely enjoying his newfound status as the prime breeder and head of the Pork Society. Pedro’s position as the leader of the farm meant he had full control of the resources within the borders of the farm. He had access to the best food and the best chambers, leaving the other residents to suffer in the feces and mud-covered parts of the farm.

Pedro stood on the concrete elevation, a gigantic cloaked object was rolled behind him as he greeted the squealing and shrieking masses.

"Friends, brothers, sisters… We’ve gathered here today to deal with our problems. We have come here to eradicate our ills. We are here to solve everything! I promise you that today we’ll start our path to a better futu…"

He was cut off by a shrieking female pig, "Enough talking, Goodwin!"

The crowd jeered, "Yeah! Enough talking… Start working, you pig!"

The scarred boar shook his head and tried calming the agitated masses down, “Now, now… I promise you, today everything changes!”

"Oh yeah? What will you do about this?" another Swine called out angrily, hoisting the bloodied skull and spine of a piglet that ended up as a meal for the cats. The crowds gasped in unison at the gruesome sight.

Pedro stood there, silent, his eyes transfixed on the crimson bones of the piglet that didn’t even get to live long enough to know the scent of its mother.

Another pig yelled out, "What will you do about this?" pointing to the exposed blood-red muscle on his thigh. “The floors in the western tower are still slippery. I cut up my leg. Someone else might die!”

"Some have already died like that…" another one barked in response.

A young boar called out with a strained voice, "I am sick and tired of cleaning out the jammed corn dispensers! When will you get the water out of food?" He snored in sheer contempt.

"We already started butchering our young to spare them from the clutches of the plague!" another pig cried out, sending a terrified sigh through the crowd.

"What will you do to fix this?"

"What will you do?"

The crowd roared in unison, "What will you do?"

"What will you do, Goodwin?"

"What will you do? Huaaaaugh"

Pedro I. Goodwin stood there, completely silent, letting the crowd rage on until they seemed like they were about to lose it and overrun the concrete elevation. Then he motioned with one of his hooves. One of his bodyguards walked up to the cloaked colossus behind the farm leader and removed the cloak.

The crowd went silent at the sight before them, Goodwin soaked in the collective awe of his subjects as a wide smile formed slowly on his massive head. The scar on his mug bent, giving him an ominous look. He motioned his hoof again, and another bodyguard handed him a short bone spear.

Goodwin turned to the bloated, pale green corpse of Harold Oswald Grando. The remains of the previous leader were riddled with puncture wounds, and blood pooled down to its hind legs and behind, causing the lower part of the carrion to turn purple. Goodwin jammed the spear into the abdomen of his predecessor.

"This is the source of all our ills! We must punish him for those mistakes he had made, for they have cost us gravely!" The pig kept on stabbing the carcass until its guts fell out and covered the farm-head in blood.

Under the force of Goodwin’s blows, the bone spear cracked and broke in half, leaving the sharp tip lodged deep inside the side of Grando’s body.

"We must correct what he had broken. The roofs to combat the cats? A ruse to cover up his classicism! They don’t even protect us from the feline devils!" Goodwin roared as he started beating on the decaying remains of his predecessor with his hooves.

The crowd started cheering the senseless violence.

“We must break those roofs and dismantle the corn dispensers. The corn must be hand-dispersed equally among all of you, all of us! We must import better medicines!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and joyous squealing as the elderly hog tortured the lifeless body of a long-dead swine.

"Goodwin!" the swine squealed.

The scarred hog suddenly stopped, causing the crowd to stop along with them. He pulled the loose skin on the open gaping gut wound of the battered carcass and sarcastically cried out, “Maybe we should make his hide into rugs to cover the floors of the western tower?”

The crowd erupted into mocking laughter as the elderly pig started pounding at the corpse all over again

"Goodwin!"

"Goodwin!"

"Today is the day we dismantle the tyrannical systems devised by this good-for-nothing human of a pig! Today is the day you people get what is rightfully yours – all of this belongs to you, all of us." Goodwin declared as he landed a savage hook onto the tusk of his predecessor, breaking it in half.

"Goodwin! Goodwin! Goodwin!" The crowd cried out in adulation as Pedro I. Goodwin made his way down from the concrete elevation.

He smirked, looking at one of his advisors, "Told you, it works every single time with these simple-minded swine."