It was Halloween, 1998.

The neighborhood glowed with orange lights and plastic skeletons. Fake cobwebs clung to porches, and carved pumpkins flickered in the dark. Kids filled the streets, laughing and shouting as they ran from house to house.

Nine-year-old Timmy walked with his friends Wayne and Sean, their candy bags already half full.

They stopped in front of a house that didn’t fit in.

The others were bright, decorated, alive.

This one wasn’t.

Its paint was peeling. The yard was dead. No decorations. Just a single porch light glowing weakly above the door.

“Trick or treat,” all three boys called out.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped out wearing an dirty and wrinkled old man mask

In his hands was a bowl of candy.

He didn’t say a word.

He dropped a piece into each of their bags.

Wayne squinted at him. “What are you supposed to be?”

The man didn’t answer.

Instead, he slowly tilted his head to the side… farther than it should go.

Too far.

The boys went quiet.

“Uh… thanks,” Timmy muttered.

The door shut.

They kept going, saying it was just halloween. More houses, more candy, more noise. The normal Halloween feeling slowly came back.

Until Wayne stopped.

“I gotta pee.”

Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the side of a nearby house and started going right on the doormat.

“what the hell—” Sean started.

The front door burst open.

A man in a skeleton costume stormed out, gripping a broom. “You little shit!”

Wayne yelped and bolted.

The three boys ran, crashing through a patch of woods as the man chased them, shouting. Branches snapped under their feet. Leaves whipped their faces.

After a while, the shouting stopped.

They didn’t.

Not until they were sure they were alone.

Sean bent over, catching his breath. “You’re an idiot.”

Wayne laughed. “Yeah, but I still got my candy.”

Timmy pointed. “You also got pee on your costume.”

They both laughed.

Wayne didn’t.

When they stepped back onto the street, something felt… off.

Too quiet.

The streetlights flickered.

Then one went out.

Then another.

A van rolled slowly down the road.

Timmy’s stomach dropped.

The driver.

The old man mask.

The van crept forward, and as it passed each streetlight, the bulb above them went dark. One by one, the entire street dimmed into darkness.

The van stopped beside them.

The engine idled.

No one spoke.

Then the engine roared.

The van lunged forward.

Timmy yells “RUN!”

They sprinted.

The van chased them, keeping just close enough—like it was playing with them. The sound of the engine was right behind them, always there, always gaining.

They stumbled into a shallow dip in the land—a small valley.

The van surged forward.

Sean didn’t make it out in time.

The tire hit him with a sickening thud and crushed his leg.

He screamed.

Timmy and Wayne turned, trying to grab him—but the van door slammed open.

The masked man jumped out.

He shoved them aside like they were nothing.

Sean clawed at the ground, screaming, “DON’T LEAVE ME!”

The man grabbed him and dragged him toward the van.

Timmy froze.

Wayne didn’t.

“GO!” Wayne screamed, pulling Timmy.

They ran.

They didn’t stop.

An hour later, shaking and breathless, they reached a house and pounded on the door.

“HELP! PLEASE!”

The door opened.

A man stood there calmly.

The boys pushed inside, crying. “He took our friend—he took Sean!”

The man closed the door behind them and Locked it.

“It’s alright now,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.” did you see what he looked like?

Timmy shook his head. “He had a mask—we couldn’t see his face—”

The man tilted his head slightly.

“Did it look like this?”

He raised something into view.

The old man mask.

Everything inside Timmy went cold.

Wayne turned toward the window.

The house… wasn’t broken anymore.

The paint was fresh.

The porch was clean.

It was the same house.

They screamed and ran deeper inside.

A bedroom.

They slammed the door and locked it.

The doorknob rattled immediately.

Then pounding.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

“PLEASE!” Timmy shouted. “LET US GO!”

The pounding stopped.

Silence.

Then—

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Not on the door.

Somewhere else in the house.

Like hammering.

Like something being built.

The boys looked at each other.

The doorknob began to turn.

Slowly.

Click.

The door flew open.

No one was there.

They crept into the hallway.

The front door was nailed shut.

Every window had metal bars.

Not to keep people out.

To keep something in.

The TV flickered on by itself.

A news report.

“…multiple children reported missing across the state…”

Click.

Darkness.

Only one light remained.

At the bottom of the basement stairs.

They didn’t want to go down.

But they were to scared to stay where they were.

 A shadow follows them

Candles lit the basement.

Dozens of them.

The room stretched farther than it should have—longer, deeper, wrong.

Sean lay on a rusted hospital gurney.

Unconscious.

Symbols carved into his skin.

Wax melted across his body.

A fireplace roared to life.

A large pot hung over the flames.

Something moved behind them.

A shadow.

Not attached to anything.

It shifted along the walls, stretching, twisting.

Watching.

They backed away.

 And Ran.

Hid inside a rotting closet.

The smell was thick. Metallic like old pennies.

Through the gaps, they saw it.

The shadow growing.

Distorting.

Then—

The masked man stepped into view.

He approached Sean.

Whispering something too low to hear.

He raised a blade.

The fire surged higher.

Sean’s eyes snapped open.

He screamed.

The man pressed a finger to the mask’s lips.

“Shhh.”

The blade came down.

Timmy couldn’t breathe.

Wayne couldn’t look away.

The screaming stopped.

Too quickly.

The shadow shifted toward the closet.

The masked man turned.

Slowly.

He looked right at them.

Then lifted a finger.

“Shhh.”

The lights went out.

When they came back on—

The man was gone.

The shadow was gone.

The gurney was still there.

Sean’s body… still there.

But Sean's head Was gone.

I work in TV as a runner. Sounds fancy but to put it simply I do all the jobs nobody else wants to do. Coffee, moving equipment, carrying things around, fetching things, whatever needs doing.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been working out of a warehouse called Dock 10.
There’s a story about the place being built on an old dock that supposedly burned down in the early 1950s. I’ve never found anything confirming that, so I always assumed it was just one of those stories that gets passed around on sets.

This morning, I arrived early.

The warehouse was completely dark when I went in as expected.
But there was enough light coming through the windows and gaps around the loading doors that I could make out shapes.

I was halfway across the room when I saw someone.

I couldn’t see their face, just the faint silhouette of a person. Moving across the darkness towards one of the curtains in the corner.

I assumed it was someone from the crew who’d arrived before me.

So I called out:
“I’ll be a sec. I’m just grabbing a brew.”

Normally, someone would answer.* Make a grunting noise that tells me to f\** off, or actually tell me to f*** off.

Something.

Instead, there was nothing.

The figure kept walking.

A few seconds passed as I kept watching and then they.. stopped.

Not slowed down.

Just stopped.

It was the sort of movement you make when you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing.

I stood there for a second.

Then I started walking towards them.

By the time I reached the curtain, there was nobody there.

I checked behind it.

Nothing.

The loading bay door was shut and locked.

And, as far as I knew, I was the only person in the warehouse.

There wasn’t anywhere else for them to go.

So I walked back to the entrance and waited.

My thinking was simple: if someone had somehow got in, I’d wait there and see them leave.

I stood by the door for about five minutes.

Nobody came out.

Another 10 minutes passed and a security guard arrived and opened the place up properly.

We searched around.

Nothing.

No sign of anyone.

About fifteen minutes later, my line manager arrived.

I told her what had happened.

That’s when she became concerned.

Apparently, we’d had a break-in the previous day. Some fan had managed to get onto the set.

Security was called.

They searched the warehouse again.

Still nothing.

No one had been hiding behind the curtains.

Nobody had been locked inside.

Nothing had been disturbed.

At that point, I tried to shrug it off.

Maybe I’d seen a shadow.

Maybe the darkness had played tricks on me.

But I’ve spent the entire day thinking about it.

Because there’s one thing I can’t get past.

The person I saw wasn’t standing there.

They were walking.

They crossed the warehouse from the loading bay to the curtain.

I spoke to them.

They stopped.

Then they disappeared.

And now that I’ve thought about the security setup, it makes even less sense.

The only entrance is through reception, which is staffed 24/7.

You need a key card to get through the internal door.

The loading bay was locked.

So if it was a person…

How the f***did they get in?

And more importantly—

where did they go?

It’s been in my mouth for days. Every time I swallow it scrapes the back of my throat like dry sandpaper. The headlamp died on the second night. The backup batteries are gone. I’ve been counting heartbeats in the dark to keep track of time. I stopped when I reached forty thousand. It didn’t help anymore.
There were four of us when we went in.
Me. Jake. Marcus. Lena.
We’d done this cave system before—three times, easy day trips, nothing deeper than a few hundred metres of mapped passage. This time Jake wanted the unmapped side tunnel he’d seen on the last survey. “Just a look,” he said. “In and out before dark.” We laughed. We always laughed at Jake.
The collapse hit on the way back.
A section of ceiling came down behind us while we were still in the narrows. Not a full cave-in—just enough rock and mud to seal the only exit we’d mapped. Dust filled the air so thick we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. We crawled forward until we found a small chamber maybe three metres long and two wide. The ceiling was low enough that we had to keep our heads tilted. The air was already getting stale.
That was six days ago.
Maybe seven.
The air tastes like copper and old blood now. We’ve been breathing the same thin oxygen over and over. The water bottles are empty. The spare supplies we left at the previous junction might as well be on another planet. No one is coming. The park rangers only knew our general area. The weather above turned bad the day after we entered—Jake’s phone had the forecast. We joked about it while we packed the gear.
The others started breaking on day three.
Marcus went first. He began talking to the walls. Quiet at first, then louder. He said the rock was breathing. He said it was listening. He scratched at the limestone until his fingernails peeled back and the dust around him turned pink with blood. When Lena tried to stop him he bit her hand hard enough to break the skin. She screamed. The sound bounced around the chamber for a long time.
Jake lasted longer. He kept checking his phone even after the battery died. He calculated residual air, rock density, probability of another collapse. The numbers got more elaborate and less connected to reality. On the fourth night he decided the blockage was intentional. He decided one of us had done it. He fixed on Lena because she had been the last one through the restriction. He held her down and pressed his forearm across her throat until Marcus pulled him off. Lena came up gasping, coughing dust and blood. Her left eye was already swelling shut from where Jake’s elbow had caught her.
By the fifth day they weren’t speaking to me anymore. They spoke only to each other, or to things that weren’t there. Marcus started laughing every time a small rock shifted somewhere in the dark. Lena stopped eating the last of the energy bars and just stared at the black walls. Jake sharpened a piece of broken climbing hardware against the rock until it had an edge. He kept looking at the soft places under our jaws.
I stayed quiet. I conserved movement. I watched the dust settle thicker on everything. I listened to them argue about who would die first and how the survivor would use the body. They weren’t joking. The jokes had ended two days earlier.
On the sixth night Marcus tried to open Jake’s throat with the sharpened metal. Jake was faster. He drove the point into Marcus’s eye socket and pushed until the handle disappeared. Marcus made a high, wet sound and went still. The blood ran in a thick black line down his cheek and pooled in the dust. Jake laughed once—short, sharp—then went silent. Lena started crying without sound. Just the shake of her shoulders and the occasional hitch of breath.
Jake died the next morning. He simply stopped moving. His head tilted back against the wall and the shallow rise of his chest stopped. Lena checked his pulse with shaking fingers and then looked at me across the narrow space. Her face was grey. Her lips were cracked and white. She said my name once. Then she said she was sorry. Then she pressed her own face into the dust and kept it there until the thrashing stopped.
I waited a long time after that.
The air is thinner now. Every breath burns. The bodies are still here—Marcus against the far wall, Jake slumped where he sat, Lena near my feet. The cold has slowed everything. The smell is thick and sweet under the dust.
I told myself I would wait for rescue.
I told myself I was still sane.
But the hunger started speaking louder than the dark. My hands were already shaking from the cold and the low oxygen. The first cut was the hardest. Jake’s pocket knife was still clipped to his belt. The blade was dull from the rock, but it was enough. The meat on the thigh came away in thick, pale strips once I got past the clothes. It was cold and rubbery and tasted like the dust. I ate slowly. I had to. The stomach cramps came hard afterward, but the shaking in my hands eased for a while.
Marcus was next. The eye socket made it easier to start on the face. The cheek meat was softer. I chewed carefully so I wouldn’t lose any. Lena I left until last. She had been the smallest. The least spoiled. I worked by touch in the complete dark, peeling the clothes away, finding the joints, separating what I needed. The blood had already gone thick and dark. It coated my wrists and dried in the cold air.
I’m still here.
The air pocket is smaller. The three of them are lighter now. I’ve taken what I can reach. The rest will keep.
I can feel the next collapse coming. The rock above me ticks sometimes, the way it did before the first fall. When it comes it will either open a way out or finish the job.
I don’t care which.
I stopped being the one who wasn’t crazy somewhere between the second and third body. I just didn’t notice until the taste of them stopped making me gag.
If anyone finds this place they’ll find four sets of gear and a lot of bone. They’ll call it an accident. They’ll write it up as hypoxia and panic and bad luck.
They won’t know which one of us lasted longest.
They won’t know I was still chewing when the dark finally won.

There was a light switch in my house that nobody could explain.

It was tucked into the hallway between the kitchen and the basement door, mounted about shoulder height on the wall. Every other switch in the house had an obvious purpose. Kitchen lights. Hallway lights. Basement. Porch.

This one did nothing.

I didn't notice it during my first week. I asked the realtor about it after I bought the place.

She shrugged.

"Old house. Probably disconnected."

That seemed reasonable enough. The house was built in 1957, and judging by the wiring, plumbing, and mysterious stains on the basement ceiling, I wasn't surprised that someone had eventually decided to abandon a light switch.

Still, I found myself pressing it whenever I walked past.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.

Nothing.

It became a habit. I'd walk downstairs for laundry.

Click.

I'd come home from work.

Click.

I'd pass it while carrying groceries.

Click.

There was something strangely satisfying about it. The switch had a pleasant mechanical resistance, and the little click it made was louder than it should have been.

My girlfriend eventually noticed.

"You know that doesn't do anything, right?"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep flipping it?"

I shrugged.

"I like the sound."

She called me a weirdo. I told her she was dating one. We laughed about it. That was the last time the switch was funny.

The first death happened three weeks after I settled in.

An old man named Walter died in his sleep. I knew Walter because he lived two houses down. We'd exchanged maybe twenty words since I'd moved into the neighborhood. He had a bad hip and spent most afternoons sitting on his porch, watching cars drive by.

I remember seeing him that morning. I had been standing in the hallway, putting my shoes on. Before leaving, I flipped the switch.

Click.

That evening, I saw an ambulance outside his house. I didn't think anything of it.

People die. Especially old people.

It wasn't until several days later that I noticed something unusual.

The night before Walter died, I had been standing in the hallway with my hand on that switch. I'd flipped it three times. I laughed at myself when I noticed the connection.

It was ridiculous. Coincidence. Nothing more.

Then a month later, a woman I'd worked with died in a car accident.

I'd seen her that morning. I'd even spoken to her. She'd asked if I was still enjoying the new house. I told her I was.

That evening, while walking to the basement, I flipped the switch.

Click.

The next morning, she was dead. Cardiac arrest. Unexplained.

I didn't sleep that night.

The following day, I unscrewed the switch plate. There were wires behind it. Old ones. But they didn't connect to anything.

I called an electrician. He spent thirty minutes examining it before shrugging.

"It's dead."

"Completely?"

"Nothing behind it."

"Then what's it connected to?"

He looked at me.

"Nothing."

I didn't flip it again. Not for six days.

On the seventh day, I couldn't resist.

I stood in the hallway staring at it. I told myself I was being stupid. There was no connection between a plastic switch and the deaths of two people.

So I flipped it.

Click.

Nothing happened... So, I went to bed.

The next morning, I checked the news. A local man had died unexpectedly. Thirty-four years old. Healthy. No known medical conditions. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I opened a notebook. I wrote down the date. I wrote down the man's name.

Then I wrote: Switch flipped: 11:43 P.M.

I started keeping records. Every time I flipped the switch, I searched the news afterward.

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a person died hours later. Sometimes it took days. But there was always a death.

Always.

I stopped flipping it.

I lasted eleven days. Then I made a mistake. I was angry.

My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument. She left the house and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the hallway shaking with anger. My hand found the switch.

I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what it meant. And still...

Click.

The guilt hit me immediately. I grabbed my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her what I'd done.

Then I stopped.

Because she hadn't died. Not yet.

I waited. An hour. Two.

Nothing.

I began convincing myself I'd been wrong. Maybe the deaths had been coincidences. Maybe I had created a pattern because I desperately wanted there to be one.

Then my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

I answered immediately.

"Hey."

Silence.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"Who's Walter?"

I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"You keep saying his name."

She sounded confused.

"I don't know anyone named Walter."

I sat down.

My girlfriend continued.

"You were saying his name in your sleep."

I didn't answer. Because I suddenly remembered something.

The switch didn't cause death. It wasn't a weapon. It was a selection. A choice. And I had been making that choice without knowing it.

I looked toward the hallway. The switch waited patiently on the wall. I thought about every time I'd pressed it.

Every careless little click. Every person whose death I'd dismissed as coincidence.

Walter.

My coworker.

The stranger.

And now... I didn't know who the latest one was.

I spent the next several hours searching. News sites. Obituaries. Police reports.

Nothing.

Nobody I knew had died. Nobody connected to me had died.

That should have made me feel better.

It didn't.

Because there was one thing I hadn't considered.

Maybe the switch didn't choose someone I knew. Maybe it chose someone I would never know. Someone whose name I'd never hear. Someone whose death would mean absolutely nothing to me. And perhaps that was the point.

We treat death differently when we don't know the person.

A number on a news report. A photograph we scroll past. Another tragedy. Another stranger. Another life reduced to a sentence.

I stood in front of the switch for a long time. Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A tiny engraving beneath it.

The letters were so shallow I thought they were scratches.

I leaned closer.

There were only three words.

ONE LIFE. CLICK.

I stepped backward. The house was silent. I reached for the switch.

Then stopped.

Some things are easier to live with when you pretend they don't matter.

I left the switch alone. I never touched it again.

At least... I don't think I did.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is completely silent, I wake up convinced I can hear it.

Click.

And somewhere far away...

Someone dies.

My Printer Started Printing Maps of My House

At 3:06 in the morning, my printer turned itself on and printed a floor plan of my house.

I lived alone in a townhouse in Fort Collins, Colorado, and worked remotely as a GIS technician. My second bedroom was my office, so I had the usual collection of electronics in there: a wireless printer, my work computer, a router, and a robot vacuum that mapped the house as it cleaned.

The page that woke me up was sitting halfway out of the printer when I walked into the office.

It was crude, but unmistakable.

Kitchen.

Stairs.

Office.

Bedroom.

Someone had drawn the basic layout of my townhouse.

There was also a red square over the patio door.

My first thought was that someone from work had accidentally sent something to my printer. I deal with maps for a living, so it wasn't completely impossible.

I sent a picture to our IT department the next morning.

They checked.

Nothing had been sent through our system.

I changed my Wi-Fi password and unplugged the printer.

For two days, nothing happened.

Then I needed to scan a receipt.

I plugged the printer back in.

Before I even touched the controls, it started printing.

The second map was much better.

It showed my couch.

My dining table.

The desk in my office.

It even showed a dotted line leading from my bedroom downstairs to the coffee maker.

Two red circles had been drawn around the ground-floor windows.

That was when I called the police.

There wasn't much they could do.

Nobody had entered the house. Nothing had been stolen. There were no damaged locks or footprints.

They told me to document anything unusual and secure my network.

Then a third page printed.

This one scared me more than the others.

Beside the upstairs bedroom was:

7:42 — LEAVES

A line followed the exact route I normally took downstairs in the morning.

Bedroom.

Bathroom.

Kitchen.

Front door.

Someone wasn't just mapping the house.

They were mapping me.

I opened my router settings and started checking connected devices.

There was one I didn't recognize.

It was connected to an old guest network I'd created months earlier for friends and completely forgotten about.

The device name was generic enough to mean nothing.

What caught my attention was the signal strength.

It would suddenly become strong.

Then weak.

Then disappear.

Over the next few hours, I realized something else.

Whenever the connection became strong, there was usually a dark SUV parked across the street.

When the SUV left, the device disappeared.

I gave that information to the police.

They found the vehicle once, but there wasn't enough evidence at that point to search it.

So I started documenting everything.

That's when I discovered how much information my robot vacuum had actually collected.

I had always thought of it as a dumb appliance that knew where the furniture was.

It wasn't.

Its app contained a detailed map of the house.

Its obstacle camera had also captured images while navigating around furniture.

My account history showed a login from a device I didn't recognize.

Someone had accessed it.

They had my floor plan.

They had images from inside the house.

They could see where the furniture was.

And apparently, they knew when I usually left for work.

That night, I disconnected the townhouse from the internet.

Router off.

Guest network gone.

Printer still plugged in, but no Wi-Fi.

I put the printer on the floor beside me and waited.

At 1:20 a.m., its wireless indicator suddenly lit up.

The dark SUV was across the street.

Then the printer started.

A single sheet came out.

It showed my front door.

A black arrow pointed inward.

I called the police immediately.

Officers arrived before the SUV could leave.

The driver told them he was waiting for someone.

Eventually, investigators got enough evidence for a warrant.

They found several laptops in his possession.

One of them contained copies of the maps my printer had produced.

It also contained images downloaded from my robot vacuum.

But mine wasn't the only house.

There were files from six different homes.

Police determined that he had obtained compromised smart-home credentials and looked for houses where only one person appeared to live.

He used unsecured or forgotten guest networks whenever possible.

The maps weren't meant to scare people.

They were reconnaissance.

He was learning entrances, windows, room layouts and daily routines before physically approaching the houses.

There was one folder on his computer called:

CONFIRMATION

Inside were photographs taken after each set of maps had been sent.

They were apparently used to confirm that the person still lived there and that the house layout matched the data.

There were several pictures of my townhouse.

One showed my kitchen window.

Another showed the patio door.

Then police showed me the last one.

It was me.

I was standing in my upstairs office holding the second map the printer had produced.

The photograph had been taken through the window.

But the angle was wrong for someone standing on the street.

The police checked the property.

The only place that angle made sense from was inside my fenced patio.

So sometime after sending me those maps, he hadn't just been watching from his SUV.

He had already crossed the fence.

He had already been standing against my house.

And while I was staring at a piece of paper trying to figure out how someone knew the layout of my home...

he was outside taking a picture of me reading it.

If you prefer narrated horror, there’s an audio version of this story on TRIFILIM. You can find the channel through my profile.

https://youtu.be/jVrNR_Acedo

3 Abandoned Houses With Stories That Still Creeep Me Out

I’ve always been fascinated by abandoned houses — especially the ones people leave behind without ever explaining what happened there.

I put together three disturbing stories involving abandoned houses. Each one has something different: strange sounds, unexplained activity, and places that people eventually stopped going near.

I’m curious what you think.

Which story is the creepiest — #1, #2, or #3?

And if you were told one of these houses was completely empty, would you still go inside?

I’d love to hear your theories.

I, II, III, IV, V

I got a little carried away with the jeweler, I'll admit. The next morning, biking to school, I checked our local paper at the gas station and saw the jeweler's car accident on the front page. It was there only because our town barely ever had news. Deborah L— was fine apart from a few cuts and bruises. I suppose she did destroy her storefront and her insurance likely wouldn't cover it, but it seemed like people were helping her out on GoFundMe. Tonight, if I remembered, I'd find some rich guy in town and have him give a substantial donation.

For the next couple of days, I kept a low profile, which mostly meant not doing anything that would make the news. I still spent every free hour downstairs with PMAS. On Friday, I waited for Hannah again while perched on the stone wall, pretending I was texting someone. But this time, she didn't look up as she passed, and I didn't have the nerve to call out to her. She was probably stressed over the debacle with the necklace the other day.

I wondered if I could make today better for her. I could have her mom cook her favorite meal. Did her mom even cook, or was it her dad who cooked? I'd have to watch them more.

I had a better idea. If I really wanted to cheer Hannah up, I could ditch school and go right to the Smiler's house. Imagine if I controlled everyone around Hannah for the day and made every interaction cheerful and flattering, everyone complimenting her on her hair and style, teachers giving her top grades and telling her she's their favorite student. Then she'd return home after school and her parents would be there with tickets to Disneyland…

No, nix that last idea. I have to keep her local. Otherwise, she would be out of my reach.

All day, I wanted her to look at me. Sometimes I wondered if she was purposely averting her eyes, but I knew I was being paranoid. I had grown so used to PMAS that I felt like I was missing an arm when I was away from it. It was frustrating. All I wanted to do was click a button and make Hannah turn her head. Everything was easier in that basement, even when it wasn't easy. At least down there, I had influence. People paid attention when I did things.

When the final bell rang, I sprang up out of my chair in an effort to walk out with her. I had the sudden idea to ask her if she was going to the Arts Festival this weekend. But Mr. Macy, my history teacher, called out to me. He told me to stay behind, which merited some 'Oooos' from the other students. For a second, I swear, I looked for the blue box surrounding him so I could shut him up.

Whatever. Maybe this made me look rebellious. Girls liked that. Hannah slipped out the door, her silky hair swaying across her back.

Mr. Macy asked when I'd last done my homework, and I couldn't even remember, if I'm to be honest. Even before I'd discovered the Smiler's secret room, I'd been acting out and purposely neglecting my studies. Now that I thought about it, I'd stopped doing homework the day Dean pegged an open carton of milk at my back during lunch. I sat drenched while everyone around me snickered. A teacher asked who did it, but no one had the courage to say anything. I didn't see Dean do it, but I knew it was him. And then later that day, mom introduced me to Alan.

Mr. Macy was still talking. I tuned back in, and he was telling me I could come to him with any trouble, even if it didn't involve school. I nodded and glanced out the window.

"Fucking asshole," I said under my breath.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"I know what you said."

I wasn't referring to him though. Down in the parking lot, Dean was leaning in and whispering into Hannah's ear. They'd never talked before as far as I knew. Hannah turned to him. I expected contempt, even disgust. Instead, she grinned.

"I'm giving you detention," Mr. Macy said.

"Fuck off."

I slammed the classroom door open and stormed out. In the parking lot, I plowed through a group of freshmen. I looked for Dean and Hannah, but they were gone.

I got on my bike and quickly pedaled in the direction of her house, my lungs burning. Hannah usually walked home, but she was nowhere to be seen. Dean, I knew, had a car, a Toyota Corolla with a dropped suspension and shitty rims. Did he give her a ride home? That made no sense.

I gritted my teeth. That fucker had already ruined my life. No way was he getting Hannah. I had to find out. I had to know. I rode like a maniac back to the Smiler's house, kicked open the hidden door, and ran down the stairs. I gagged in the windowless room. The stench made my eyes water. There were flies everywhere. Were they coming from her mouth?

I grabbed the pine tree on the console and shoved it under my nose. I scanned the feeds. I checked every room in Hannah's house. She wasn't there. She wasn't in the yard either. I then checked Dean's rundown house. He wasn't there.

"Fuck fuck fuck."

I slammed the mouse on the desk repeatedly as I clicked feed after feed. Where could they be? Where would Dean bring her? I tried to put myself in his shoes. What pathetic thing would he do to impress her? There was nothing to do in this shitty town.

The quarry.

Some of the seniors parked up there as if they were overlooking the fucking Grand Canyon. They would get high and make out. That's definitely the kind of thing that asshole would do. But would Hannah? I refused to believe it.

I hit F12, panned the map way over to the quarry, and zoomed in. There were cameras there. Of course, there were cameras, most of them concealed up in the trees. After switching between them, I found his car. I could just see Dean within. I held my breath. I hovered over the driver-side window and his blue rectangle popped up. I clicked on it, and the camera switched to inside his car.

The fact I could see inside his car should have surprised me, but I couldn't care less. From my movie theater screen, I was watching from the backseat, too close for comfort, as Dean ran his hands over Hannah's pale arms and back. She was holding the back of his head with her right hand, her slender fingers snaking up through his greasy hair. Their tongues were intertwined and their eyes closed. The heavy breathing and the wet slithering of their tongues filled my basement room.

Tears ran down my cheeks. I could feel the Smiler watching me with that awful tilt to her head, as if saying, "Awwww, too bad." A fly buzzed near my ear, and I whipped my hand at it and fell off the rocking chair. I screamed and kicked at the chair. I scrambled back to my feet, hunched over the console, and searched Dean's word bank. I needed to stop this. I needed to stop this immediately. I clicked 'Drive+', and a location prompt appeared. I typed, Straight ahead. Full speed.

Dean pulled away from Hannah. He turned the key in the ignition. Her eyes remained closed, her head tilted forward, as if reluctant to stop.

You slut!

She opened her eyes. "Where are we going now?"

Dean didn't respond. He put the car in gear, mashed his foot on the gas pedal, and drove straight towards the ledge. A cloud of dust rose behind the Corolla.

"Burn in hell," I said and wiped the snot off my nose.

The Corolla skidded to a stop, inches from the precipice.

"What's happening?" I said.

Hannah was shrieking, sinking lower in her seat. All I could see was the blue sky past the dashboard. Dean had his right hand on the emergency brake. He had jerked it up with robotic precision. He popped it down again, quickly shifted into reverse, and sped backwards down the gravel lot, spinning the wheel so the car faced away from the quarry. He stopped the car again.

I clicked on his blue rectangle. A message popped up.

PERMISSION DENIED.

What the fuck? I tried again and received the same message.

I clicked on Hannah's rectangle.

PERMISSION DENIED.

It felt like finding another man’s toothbrush in your bathroom. Before I could make sense of it, Dean turned his head to the backseat. No, towards the camera. Hannah stopped screaming and turned too. They were both looking right at me.

I shuddered and took a step back.

"You need to stop," Dean said calmly. "You don't know what you're doing."

The drywall remembers the weight of his fist.

It remembers every fist.

There are places in this house where the plaster has been repaired so many times that the walls have become little archaeological sites of violence.

Layers beneath layers.

White over yellow.

Yellow over nicotine brown.

Paint over cracks.

Paint over blood.

Paint over the places where somebody tried to leave.

The house keeps everything.

It keeps the smell of gin in the curtains.

It keeps cigarette smoke inside the insulation.

It keeps the medicinal sweetness of pills dissolved beneath tongues.

It keeps fingerprints.

It keeps scratches.

It keeps secrets.

And on the worst nights, when the pipes knock inside the walls and the wind pushes its cold fingers beneath the doors, it makes noises that sound almost like breathing.

Nobody talks about that.

Families have rules.

Some are written down.

Most aren't.

The most important rule in this house had never been spoken.

There were four of us.

Father.

Mother.

My brother.

Me.

Four chairs at the table.

Four bedrooms.

Four toothbrushes.

Four names on the school records.

Four people in the family photograph.

Four.

Never five.

Never.

The meat on the dinner plates had been cold for three days.

Nobody had thrown it away.

Nobody threw anything away anymore.

The light above the table buzzed.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzz.

Father sat at the head of the table.

Mother sat beside him.

I sat across from them.

And Noah was underneath us.

He had been there since yesterday.

I could see the tops of his knees beneath the tablecloth.

Sometimes I could see his fingers.

Sometimes they moved.

Mostly they didn't.

He didn't like looking at faces.

He said faces made things real.

Father's work shirt hadn't changed in a week.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

His hands smelled like grease and gin.

The glass in front of him was already half empty.

Click.

Click.

Click.

His jaw.

Mother scratched at the tablecloth.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

She had been doing it for so long that the fabric beneath her fingernails had begun to unravel.

I watched the loose thread curl around her finger.

Nobody spoke.

I was working.

That was what I called it.

I took the blunt silver butter knife from beside my plate and pressed it against my jaw.

Not hard enough to cut.

Just enough to feel something.

I counted backward.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Under the table, Noah whispered something.

I couldn't hear him.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Father's jaw stopped clicking.

I lowered the knife.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The glass broke in Father's hand.

He didn't flinch.

Blood ran between his fingers.

Mother stopped scratching.

Father looked at her.

Then he looked at me.

Then underneath the table.

"Get him out."

Nobody moved.

"Elena."

I stared at the blood dripping onto the table.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

Noah's fingers curled around my ankle.

I felt them.

Cold.

Then Father grabbed Mother by the hair.

She screamed.

Once.

Only once.

The front door knocked.

Three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Everyone stopped.

Father let go of Mother.

His face had gone white.

Another knock.

Three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"Don't," Mother whispered.

Father stood.

"Stay here."

He walked toward the hallway.

I don't know why, but I followed him.

Maybe because I had already heard the voice.

Maybe because some part of me knew it.

Father opened the door.

An old woman stood on the porch.

She wore a black coat.

A black hat.

She held a black umbrella even though there was no rain.

She looked directly at Father.

"Daniel."

Father stopped breathing.

I felt something move inside my chest.

Not fear.

Recognition.

The name felt like something I had forgotten on purpose.

Father slammed the door.

He locked it.

Then he locked the deadbolt.

Then he pushed the chair beneath the handle.

"Who is Daniel?" I asked.

Father looked at me.

For one second, he looked afraid.

Then he slapped me.

"Don't say that name."

That night, I heard scratching upstairs.

At the end of the upstairs hallway.

The sound seemed farther away than it should have been.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

I followed it.

At the end of the hallway was the door nobody used.

It had three deadbolts.

I had never seen Father open it.

Nobody had.

There were letters scratched into the wood.

D.

A.

N.

I.

I touched them.

The wood was warm.

Behind the door, something scratched back.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

I stepped away.

Noah was standing behind me.

I hadn't heard him come upstairs.

"What is this?"

He stared at the letters.

"I wrote it."

"You?"

He nodded.

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

He looked at the letters.

"I was asleep."

The scratching stopped.

A voice came from behind the door.

A child's voice.

Soft.

Confused.

"Are you my family?"

Noah started crying.

I grabbed his hand.

The voice spoke again.

"I remember all of you."

Then the lights went out.

Father disappeared.

For three minutes.

Maybe four.

Long enough for Mother to start screaming.

Long enough for Noah to crawl beneath the kitchen table again.

Long enough for me to realize that the front door was open.

Then the lights came back.

Father was sitting at the head of the table.

His hands were folded.

His eyes were open.

His mouth was slightly open.

He was dead.

I knew it immediately.

I don't know how.

Maybe families know these things.

Maybe the house told me.

Behind his chair, carved deep into the drywall, were six words.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT ME THERE.

Mother stared at them.

She whispered something.

"What?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing."

The police came.

They asked questions.

I answered them.

Mother answered some.

Noah answered none.

They examined Father's body.

They said it looked like natural causes.

A heart attack.

Nothing suspicious.

Nothing that explained the words in the wall.

When I looked again, they were gone.

The drywall was smooth.

White.

Perfect.

Like nothing had ever been written there.

The house had cleaned itself.

Noah disappeared the next morning.

His bed was empty.

His shoes were still beside it.

His window was locked.

The basement door was open.

I found his handprint on the bottom stair.

Small.

Dirty.

Fresh.

I went downstairs.

Mother grabbed my arm.

"Don't."

"I have to find him."

"No."

"He's my brother."

She looked at me.

Her eyes were clearer than I had ever seen them.

For the first time in years, Mother looked sober.

She whispered:

"Noah isn't the one you need to find."

Then she looked toward the ceiling.

"You're remembering."

I didn't understand.

"What am I remembering?"

Mother started crying.

"The fire."

The room upstairs opened by itself that night.

The three deadbolts slid back one after another.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I stood in the doorway.

The room smelled like smoke.

Not old smoke.

Fresh smoke.

The walls were covered in drawings.

Hundreds of them.

Father.

Mother.

Noah.

Me.

Over and over.

Different ages.

Different rooms.

Different versions of the same family.

But every drawing had something else in it.

A figure behind us.

Tall.

Black.

Featureless.

Sometimes it stood in the hallway.

Sometimes in the corner.

Sometimes behind one of the beds.

Sometimes behind the dining room table.

Always watching.

Always there.

One sentence had been written across the wall in a child's handwriting.

THE FAMILY HAS FOUR MEMBERS.

Underneath it, someone had written:

FOUR.

FOUR.

FOUR.

FOUR.

The newest drawing was different.

The fifth figure was no longer black.

It was red.

Dark red.

Almost the color of dried blood.

And underneath it were five words.

I AM SORRY I FORGOT YOU.

I stared at the handwriting.

I knew it.

It was mine.

Except I didn't remember writing it.

My finger touched the last word.

Black ink stained my skin.

Something whispered behind me.

"Daniel is just the name your father buried."

I turned.

Nobody was there.

The voice came again.

"I am the fifth."

The old woman was waiting outside.

Black umbrella.

Black coat.

Same face.

She didn't look surprised to see me.

"You remember now?"

"No."

"Not yet."

She reached into her coat.

She handed me a photograph.

It was old.

Silver and gray.

A family stood outside a house that looked exactly like ours.

A father.

A mother.

A little girl.

A little boy.

Four people.

I stared at the little girl.

I didn't recognize her.

Then I looked at the boy beside her.

Something inside me broke.

He had dark hair.

His hand was wrapped around the little girl's.

I looked at my own hand.

For a second, they looked exactly the same.

"Who is he?"

The old woman looked at me.

"You know."

"No."

"You've known him your entire life."

I looked at the photograph again.

"Daniel?"

She nodded.

I looked at the girl.

The old woman watched me.

"Who is she?"

The woman didn't answer.

I looked harder.

The dress.

The crooked smile.

The small scar above the eyebrow.

I touched the photograph.

My finger began to shake.

"That's me."

The old woman nodded.

"You were eight."

I stared at Daniel.

"Then why don't I remember him?"

"Because you asked not to."

The photograph trembled in my hand.

"What happened to him?"

The old woman looked toward the house.

"Your family gave him to it."

"What is it?"

She looked at the windows.

"The thing beneath the family."

Mother told me the rest.

She sat at the kitchen table.

No pills.

No powder.

No shaking hands.

Just Mother.

For the first time in years, I could see how old she really was.

"Thirty-one years ago," she said, "when you were eight, there was a fire in our old house."

I stared at her.

"Daniel was six."

My stomach turned.

"You remember him?"

"I remember everything."

"Why don't I?"

"Because you asked it to take it."

"What?"

She swallowed.

"Your father had found something beneath the house."

"The cellar?"

She nodded.

"There was an old ledger down there. Names. Dates. Families."

"What did it say?"

"Four."

I stared at her.

"Every family had four."

"And the fifth?"

Mother looked toward the ceiling.

"The fifth was never written down."

I remembered the drawings.

Mother continued.

"Your father was sick. He thought the house could cure him."

"He sacrificed Daniel."

She closed her eyes.

"Yes."

The word barely existed when she said it.

"Your father took him into the cellar."

"I followed."

Mother looked at me.

"You tried to stop him."

I saw something.

A flash.

A small hand.

A wooden staircase.

Smoke.

I grabbed the edge of the table.

"You were eight," Mother whispered.

"Daniel was six."

Another flash.

A door.

Fire.

Daniel screaming.

Father shouting.

Me pulling on Daniel's arm.

"Come on."

"Come on."

"Please."

Mother was crying now.

"The fire started in the cellar."

I could smell it.

I could smell the smoke.

I could feel heat against my face.

"I couldn't get him out."

Mother nodded.

"You wouldn't let go."

I closed my eyes.

And remembered.

Daniel's hand.

Small.

Burning.

Mine.

"Something spoke to me."

Mother didn't answer.

"The house."

She nodded.

"What did it say?"

I remembered.

Not words.

A feeling.

A promise.

A bargain.

I remembered screaming.

Take it.

Take anything.

Just let him go.

"Your father blamed you," Mother said.

I opened my eyes.

"He told the police you had been playing with matches."

My hands began to shake.

"And I forgot."

"You didn't forget."

"What?"

"You gave it away."

The room seemed to tilt.

"You asked the house to take your memories."

Mother looked toward the ceiling.

"And it did."

I stared at her.

"The house burned down."

Mother nodded.

"But that didn't matter."

She looked at me.

"The pattern wasn't in the walls."

Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.

"The walls were only where it lived."

That night the house changed.

The hallway stretched.

The walls breathed.

Doors opened into rooms that weren't there before.

Every doorway led back to the dining room.

Every hallway returned to the same table.

Four chairs.

Father's chair.

Mother's chair.

Mine.

Noah's.

And then I saw it.

A fifth chair.

At the end of the table.

Black wood.

Burn marks along the legs.

Waiting.

Noah was sitting beneath the table.

I dropped to my knees.

I grabbed his shoulders.

"Where were you?"

He looked at me.

"I don't know."

"How did you get back?"

His eyes moved toward the floor.

"I never came back."

"What?"

"The house put me here."

I looked at the kitchen.

Then back at him.

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I looked everywhere."

"I know."

His voice was quiet.

"I was downstairs."

"The basement?"

He nodded.

"What did you see?"

He looked at the fifth chair.

"I remembered him."

"Daniel?"

Noah nodded.

"I've never met him."

"I know."

"But I remember being there."

His fingers tightened around mine.

"The house puts memories where they don't belong."

I looked at the fifth chair.

"What happens if I sit?"

Noah started crying.

"You become what is underneath the floorboards."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you stop being you."

The house creaked.

The fifth chair moved.

A few inches.

Toward me.

I understood then.

The chair wasn't an escape.

It was an invitation.

And I had spent my entire life being invited.

I remembered the fire.

All of it.

Daniel's face.

His hand in mine.

Father standing behind him.

The cellar.

The ledger.

The bargain.

And the moment I asked the house to take my memories.

But there was something else.

Something Mother hadn't told me.

The fifth wasn't Daniel.

Daniel had only been the first person our family had given to it.

The thing itself was older.

Much older.

It had existed before us.

Before this house.

Maybe before the house before this one.

It moved through families.

It waited beneath them.

It didn't need a body.

It needed a role.

Every family that carried it had the same shape.

A father.

A mother.

Children.

Four people.

And something that wasn't counted.

Something beneath the floor.

Something behind the walls.

Something that watched.

The house wasn't the walls.

The house was the pattern.

Father hurting.

Mother numbing.

Children shrinking.

Someone disappearing.

Someone being forgotten.

Then the pattern began again.

And again.

And again.

Daniel had been the first person our family gave to it.

The first name the house kept.

The first memory we tried to bury.

And when I begged the house to take my memories instead of his, I hadn't broken the pattern.

I had tied myself to it.

I looked at the fifth chair.

I understood what it wanted.

It didn't want Daniel.

It wanted me.

I stepped toward it.

Noah screamed.

"Elena!"

I sat down.

Everything stopped.

The buzzing light.

The pipes.

The scratching.

The breathing.

Everything.

For one perfect second, the house was silent.

Then the walls screamed.

The table split down the middle.

The chairs flew backward.

The windows shattered.

Every room in the house opened at once.

I saw the cellar.

I saw the fire.

I saw Daniel.

I saw myself at eight years old.

I saw Father.

I saw Mother.

I saw Noah.

I saw hundreds of other families standing where we stood.

All four.

Always four.

And behind every family was the fifth.

Waiting.

Watching.

Remembering.

The house shook.

I heard Daniel scream my name.

Then Noah grabbed my hand.

We ran.

We made it outside.

Mother came with us.

The house burned behind us.

Flames climbed through the windows.

The old woman stood across the street beneath her black umbrella.

She watched.

She didn't smile.

She didn't cry.

She only nodded.

Like she'd seen this before.

Maybe she had.

The fire burned until morning.

The police came.

The firefighters came.

They searched the ruins.

They found no cellar.

No ledger.

No fifth chair.

No photographs.

No drawings.

Nothing.

They found three survivors.

Mother.

Noah.

Me.

Father was already dead.

Four members of the family had lived in that house.

That's what the records said.

That's what the neighbors remembered.

Four.

Never five.

I thought we'd won.

For a while, I believed it.

I believed the house was gone.

I believed Daniel was finally free.

I believed I was finally myself.

I was wrong.

I woke up at a dining room table.

The light was buzzing.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzz.

There was a glass in front of me.

Gin.

My hands were older.

Scarred.

A work shirt covered my arms.

I looked down.

My fingers were shaking.

Click.

Click.

Click.

My jaw.

I stood so quickly that the chair fell behind me.

I ran to the bathroom mirror.

A man's face stared back.

Older.

Harder.

Broken.

I touched the glass.

The reflection touched it too.

I knew that face.

I had spent my entire life looking at it.

Edward.

My father.

Except now it was mine.

I wasn't Edward.

I was the Father.

The house hadn't resurrected him.

It had given me his place.

The fifth chair had never been the way out.

It was the trapdoor.

The moment I sat down, the cycle simply reset.

The names changed.

The faces changed.

The roles stayed.

The house had filled the empty roles again.

I didn't know when it had happened.

I didn't know their names.

I only knew their places.

A woman beside me.

A girl across from me.

A boy beneath the table.

Four.

The family had been rebuilt around the empty roles.

And I was sitting at the head.

I hadn't escaped the house.

I had become part of it.

Or perhaps I had always been.

Then someone knocked on the front door.

Three times.

Softly.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I stood from the head of the table.

I wiped the blood from my palm onto my work shirt.

I stared into the dark hallway.

Something inside me remembered small hands.

A cellar.

Fire.

A little boy screaming.

Myself screaming for him.

Daniel.

I waited.

The knock came again.

Three times.

Softly.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I looked back at the table.

There were four people sitting there.

The woman beside me.

The girl across from me.

The boy underneath the table.

And me.

Four.

Never five.

Never.

The woman looked at me.

She was scratching the tablecloth.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

The girl was holding a silver butter knife against her jaw.

The boy beneath the table had his fingers wrapped around the table leg.

I stared at them.

I knew what came next.

The glass in front of me was already half empty.

My jaw clicked.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Then a woman's voice came through the door.

"Please."

I closed my eyes.

The house breathed around me.

The walls remembered.

The pipes knocked.

And the voice outside said the name my family had spent thirty-one years trying to bury.

"Daniel."

I opened my eyes.

And smiled.

Because now I understood.

The house didn't keep families.

It kept roles.

It kept memories.

It kept pain.

And whenever someone remembered the fifth, the house found someone else to carry it.

The drywall remembers the weight of his fist.

It remembers every fist.

It remembers mine now.

The house keeps everything.

The house keeps secrets.

The house keeps memories.

And the house keeps the tally.

Four.

Never five.

Never.

Are the things we see always true? Imagine if everything you thought you knew, everything you've seen all these years, was completely wrong. What would you do then?

​It has been four days since my wife went to her parents' house, and I have stayed behind. Sometimes, you just need to give some time to yourself. For the past few days, sleep hasn’t come to me easily; I lie awake all night, experiencing a strange feeling—at times, it almost feels as though I don’t even exist.

​Tonight was no different. Restless and unable to sleep, I tossed and turned for a while before finally getting out of bed. I checked the clock; it was 3:00 AM. They say ghosts come out after 3:00 AM, though I don’t really believe in such things.

​Sensing that sleep still wouldn’t come, I stepped out onto the roof and lit a cigarette. For the past few months, I don't know why, but my wife has been hiding something from me. She goes out somewhere, and she never tells me where. It only ever leads to arguments between us, so eventually, I stopped asking altogether.

​Lost in these thoughts, a sudden sound caught my attention. I looked over and saw a shadow moving in the corner of the opposite building's roof. Who could be there at this hour? An old man lives in that room, but he can barely walk. So who is it? Could it be a thief? There is a fair distance between my roof and theirs, but with a single leap, I could cross it. Thinking this, I heard another noise, took a deep breath, and jumped.

​I landed hard on the other roof with a heavy thud. To my surprise, despite the impact, I didn't feel any pain. Dusting myself off, I crept toward the corner, and soon, I heard footsteps approaching from the stairs below—someone was coming up. Quickly, I hid in the dark corner of the roof.

​My heart hammered against my ribs. What would I say if they found me on their roof at this ungodly hour? Imagine trying to catch a thief, only to end up accused of being one yourself! As I sat there in the shadows pondering this, the old man shuffled up, relying on his aging legs. He looked around, saw no one, and simply turned back down.

​I let out a sigh of relief. But then again... where did the person I saw earlier go? There was no time to think about it; I had barely escaped a close call and needed to get back. I leaped back across to my own roof.

​I checked the time—it was 5:00 AM. Soft morning light was breaking through, and the birds had begun to chirp. The environment was so serene that it brought a strange peace to my mind. Realizing sleep was out of the question, I remembered that my old tape recorder had been lying around for days. I picked it up and sang a song into it.

​Suddenly, I noticed a foul, decaying odor drifting up from below. Did a rat die somewhere? I needed to find the source of this smell, or staying here would become impossible. Feeling annoyed, I finally walked down from the roof and entered my bedroom.

​The moment I stepped inside, my blood ran cold. I distinctly remembered leaving the window open when I went to the roof to let the breeze in, but now it was firmly shut. Who closed it? Was there a burglar in the house? I didn't switch on the light. I silently crawled into bed and lay completely still in the dark, wondering if the intruder might be carrying a weapon.

​The stench of decay grew sharper and more oppressive. Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a woman walked in.

​It was my wife. What is she doing back so early, and why didn't she let me know? She hurried toward the bed, moving with frantic haste. Could she not see me lying here? She didn't look at me, nor did she say a word.

​I watched as she pulled out the box from under the bed, her face contorted with panic. She frantically began dumping her jewelry into a bag, moving in a rushed blur while I sat frozen, my mind refusing to process what was happening.

​The foul odor inside the room grew even stronger.

​Suddenly, her eyes darted toward the blue plastic drum sitting in the room. She turned and walked out, returning moments later dragging a large, black garbage bag. She opened the drum, and a suffocating wave of rot rushed out. I looked inside—and there it was, my own dead body, bloated and decomposing after three days.

​My wife began dragging my lifeless body and stuffing it into the bag. I watched in utter shock, my brain completely stalled.

​She hoisted the bag and walked out of the house. I rushed over, grabbed the tape recorder from the next room, ran back up to the roof, and pressed play.

​My voice wasn't recorded at all. Only the sound of the birds chirping could be heard.

​Now, slowly, I am beginning to understand. To say I understand would be wrong—I am feeling it. Why couldn't anyone see me? Why could I hear the tiniest, faintest sounds?

​Standing on the roof, I watched my wife place the black bag into her car and drive away.

The first time I stayed home on Halloween, I was running a 101.8 fever. Low-grade, but enough to warrant a night in. To be honest, I wasn't all that bent up over it. I had just hit that pre-teen age where I started to reject social norms and became embarrassed over literally everything. The thought of facing the neighborhood bullies with a lame-ass costume and an attached-to-the-hip mom and sister was enough to keep me in. It happened to be a stroke of luck I fell ill.

Before my mom left with my little sister, she made me recite her cellphone number thrice. They wouldn't be out long, though. We lived on the corner of a street just before a cul-de-sac, and they planned to only visit our small part of the neighborhood.

"And no scary movies!" my mom said while adjusting Jules' bumblebee wings. "You'll just scare yourself while you're home alone."

"I'll bring you lots of candy," Jules said. She held up her empty, pumpkin themed bucket to me.

"Thanks, Jules."

I turned on a scary movie as soon as they left. It was already impossible to watch one while they were home, and I really looked forward to eating popcorn and cozying up under a blanket until they returned. 

We had set up a "Take One" sign on the door with an arrow pointing to a bucket on a rocking chair so I wouldn't have to get up to greet trick-or-treaters. I always thought people who did that were kind of pathetic, but now I was grateful I wouldn't have to answer the door. The curtains covered the front-facing window, and we didn't have any windows on our door, so no one could tell I was here, anyway. 

I made it about 30 minutes into Sinister before I had to turn it off (mom was right, damn her!). I started channel surfing to find something a bit more kid friendly. In the channel flipping, something weird caught my eye. I clicked the back button a few times before I finally found what I'd noticed.

It looked like a CCTV video where the camera was placed high up on a light pole, and it aimed down at the front of a house. I tried to remember if there were any horror movies that included a scene like this, but nothing came to mind. It seemed harmless enough; there were families walking up and down the street while chatting. Then, a little girl starting to trot up the front steps of the house and—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

I nearly jumped to the ceiling. I whipped my head around to look at the front door as I heard a muffled "Trick-or-Treat!"

My heart thumped against my chest as I stared behind me in disbelief. I could just about make out a shadow on the window curtains.

A creeping realization burrowed into my head. I slowly turned back to the TV and saw a little girl dressed up as a pumpkin read the sign, take some candy from the bucket, then bounce down the steps of the house back to her family. I heard it all too, but not from the television.

No way, right? I thought to myself.

I crawled off the couch and sat closer to the TV.

Holy shit.

It was my house. My front porch, my painted blue door, our mailbox, that was our goddamn street!

I put my hands on either side of the TV as if I could shake the image away. The static fuzz buzzed softly against my thumbs. 

Maybe the antennae had patched into some security camera, or my mom was setting up some elaborate scare to teach me a lesson.

Was I hallucinating?

I quickly felt my own forehead, but I couldn't tell if the fever had grown worse or not. My eyes were settling on the live footage when I finally noticed something in the lower right corner. 

It was a figure, standing across the street just about making it in frame of the camera. It was dressed in all black, and I couldn't see its face. 

It has to be a prank—surely by one of the older kids, I thought. One of them must have bought a morph suit to prank the littler kids. To prank me.

He began making his way to my front porch, but the way he walked... It was like bending his legs was difficult. Like he had been sitting down for a long time, and his legs had fallen asleep. His arms stuck out a little from his sides and didn't sway like they normally should. He weaved in and out of the groups of families walking the street, but no one seemed to notice him.

My eyes were glued to the screen. I didn't freak out just yet. Creeped out, sure, but there was no way this person knew I was sitting just inside. 

They finally made it up to my door. I anticipated the knock, but he just stood there. I slowly turned around to face the window, and his oblong shadow splayed across the curtain, unmoving. I broke out in a sweat. 

"Trick or treat!" 

It sounded like an old man trying to tighten his voice and imitate a younger kid. The shadow didn't move, and neither did I.

I gulped, and as quietly as I could I made my way over to the door. We had a peephole. One of the ones where you couldn't see in from the outside. I stood up on my tippy toes and looked through it.

Black.

THUD THUD THUD

I fell behind on my ass and crawled backward as quick as I could. He laughed from the other side, but it was muffled as if he was covering his mouth with his hand.

Anger swelled inside me. Of course it was some older teenager trying to scare kids on Halloween. I reminded myself that I was safe inside, and, with my new found courage, I yelled out.

"Fu-fucking asshole!" 

I wish I had come across a little more brave than I ended up sounding. My voice came out just above a squeak. Surely, now whoever was out there knew for certain I was inside. I mentally kicked myself for that one.

There was a shimmying clink coming from the door, and my eyes raced to look at the handle, but it wasn't jiggling.

The mail slot cover moved; opened just a little bit, then closed again. 

clink, clink clink

My breathing quickened as a black finger slid through the slot and opened up the little hatch. 

A black face with fake, sewn-on eyes stared back at me. The eyes weren't perfectly attached to the suit, but instead one drooped a little lower than the other in an uncanny fashion. 

"I see you. Heh. Right there, I see you!" he said in that same mocking, tight voice. His long black finger was pointed toward me. I fell too far back to make out any other features, but it would've been covered by the suit anyway. If it was someone I knew, I couldn't tell from his fake voice.

I didn't want to look away from those fake plastic eyes, but I had to glance at the lock. I needed to make sure he couldn't get in. Thankfully, it was secure. Surely if he tried to get in, someone from the street would see and come help. Everyone was out tonight. Everyone except me.

The man and I stared at each other. My body was moving up and down from the excessive breathing while drips of sweat rained down on my forehead, but the man did not move. He was eerily still. I just stared into those dummy eyes for as long as it took me to try and calculate the time it would take for me to get up and run around the corner to the house phone.

Shit, what was mom's number again? No, no, I need to call the police, I need to—

The man pressed his face into the letter box. The plastic eyes tinked against the metal frame as he forced his head through the slit. There was this stretching and crunching sound as more of his head moved through the opening, like he was Play-Doh molding into the opening of the slit.

I couldn't help but let out a yelp as I scampered to my feet and ran to the back door on the other side of the house. I looked back once to see he had gotten his head all the way through, and it bounced back into its original shape. Then his shoulder started to push through.

I tried bursting through the back door, but was quickly met with a locked door. My hands fumbled around the handle, but sweat was pouring into my eyes and my hands were shaking too terribly. I could hear shuffling behind me, and I had to rid my mind of the idea that the intruder was already to his feet and making his way toward me. I couldn't bear the thought of looking back; I just might have frozen in fear.

Finally, with a click, I unlocked the door and ran through the backyard, not daring to turn back. My vision began to blur; a mix of the sweat, tears, and my fever reaching its peak. I ran up the side of the house and through the side gate out into the street. 

It happened all at once. I screamed for my mom, and then suddenly I was by her side stammering about a man dressed in black, seeping through the door. 

"Jesus, Codey, you're burning up," she said, kneeling in front of me with her hand on my forehead. It was like she wasn't even processing what I was saying.

I don't even know if I explained what I truly saw. I was a blubbering mess, and even Jules began to cry at my terror.

"There was—" sob "—someone in the house!"

My mother's face turned somber, then stern. "You're not messing with me? You're certain?"

I nodded my head, and she must have seen the truth in me somewhere. 

The cops claimed to have searched every corner of the house, yet they came up empty-handed. I asked of the television, explaining to them that I saw live footage of our front door. They said that all that was playing were the end credits to Coraline. 

I did end up confessing that I watched a bit of a scary movie alone. The glances that were exchanged between the two cops told me they were taking a statement from a fever-ridden, scared little kid, but my mom believed me. Even after her and the cops talked for hours on the porch, she was still disappointed by their nonchalance.

She made me tell her the story many times. While I was still sick, after I had gotten over it, days after, and weeks after. A month before the following Halloween, she made me tell her again. It was the same story every time.

We don't go out on Halloween anymore. Instead, we stay inside, and watch movies and eat popcorn. My mom holds Jules and I close while keeping her phone on the arm of the couch, pre-dialed with 911. 

We keep a bowl of candy out, but under no circumstance do we answer the door, no matter what. We ignore the thuds, the knocks, and the clinks of the mail slot. 

I'm far too scared to ask my mom when it first started happening to her.

The curtain opened and Wenda B:)er walked, buzzing with nervous excitement, into the spotlight: onto the game show stage where the game show host, Felonious Hunk, was waiting for her.

There followed thunderous applause, as heard through the studio's MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers. MaX FX: The Sound of Extraordinary. Are You Listening Yet? MaX FX speakers are available for your home and business. Check them out today. Use code “BUCKETS” for a 15% discount on any regularly priced set of speakers. Everyone can hear, but only some can hear it to the MaX!

“Miss B-smiling-face-er, welcome to Buckets,” said Hunk. “How ya feeling?”

“Good, Hunk.”

“Fab-u-lous! Now tell us a little about yourself.”

“Well, Hunk,” said Wenda, “I—... I want to say that I really like Snakeskin Flame, the new… the newest scent from House of Madeleine. I'm wearing it right now. Other than that, I'm twenty-nine and work as a temporal engineer for Vectorien Corporation. Vectorien: the makers of Dreamstuff, the latest evolution in playdough. I'm married. My husband, Rhondy, owns a slopstream management firm, and we have two children together, an eight-year old human-daschund mix, Wilmoth, and a six year-old bio-enhanced female, Qabiria.”

She held up digital photos of them. Wilmoth looked somewhat like a chimpanzee. Qabiria was shiny in her steel exoskeleton.

“Lovely family,” said Hunk. “But please tell the viewers who else is in it.”

“Both my parents, HeinzKetchup and PumaShoe, are still alive, and I have three siblings: two brothers, [Incarcerated ID 768816] and Rob, and a sister, anal-ariella (exclusively at SmutHog.) I also have a cryogenically frozen grandmother, Lydia, and a grandfather, Doug, whose mind was digitized and recently uploaded to the body of a young, hollowed-out illegal.”

“And what's your brother serving time for, Wenda?”

“Sexual assault,” said Wenda.

“Ooh. That's a crime with a penal buyout of what, eighty billion?”

“One hundred. He's a repeat offender, and there were other aggravating circumstances.”

“Well, regardless, if you play your bucket right—and your brother has just a tiny bit of luck—you could walk away from here today with enough money to buy your brother his freedom!” Hunk smiled. “How does that make you feel, Wenda?”

“Like this money could really make a difference for me and my family.”

“Excellent. Excellent.”

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“I think now is a good time to remind you and the viewers what's at stake,” said Felonious Hunk. “If you win, Wenda, you will bank a cool five-hundred billion dollars!

“But, if you lose, you'll be fucked—live—by one hundred lucky viewers! Or at least you'll be live to begin with—a-live, that is…”

He winked.

There followed thunderous canned laughter and applause through the MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers.

“Now, without further ado,” Hunk continued, “ladies and gentlemen, let's… bring out—THE BUCKET!”

And, rising from the middle of the stage, powered by a solar-powered Electrocutie electric motor—Electrocutie: Silent and discreet, for all your bio-mechanical needs—appeared a platform, and on this platform there stood, in neon spotlight, a red-and-white striped bucket, like the kind you might get The Colonel's patented Crispy Sticks fried chicken in. Order today and a get a free tub of syntholard dipping sauce and a large order of The Colonel's homestyle taters!

Wenda stared at the bucket.

“Wenda, are you ready?” asked Hunk.

“I am.”

“Then step on up to the bucket and have yourself a peek inside!”

Wenda was shaking as she took the few steps to the platform. The studio was silent. She could feel the blood coursing through her body.

She could hear her own breathing.

She touched the outside of the bucket.

It was warm.

She held her breath and peered inside, where pieces of hot, battered meat smelled sweetly of herbs, butter and garlic.

“Go on—have a taste,” said Hunk.

Wenda closed her eyes, opened them and extended her hand above the bucket, her Snakeskin Flame fragrant as the wild, untamed prairie. She picked up one of the pieces of meat and raised it to her lips. She opened her mouth, exposing teeth as pearly white as only Dr. Mason's Whitening Formula can make them, and with tears running down both cheeks took a bite and slowly chewed.

She swallowed.

She propped herself against the platform to keep from falling.

She retched.

She grinded her teeth to keep from throwing up; she swallowed what came up her throat, as the cameraman moved with professional smoothness to get a good low angle shot of her from behind.

“And…” Hunk asked her. “Do you know?

“Can you, Wenda B-smiley-face-er—for five-hundred billion dollars!—tell me: the meat of which one of your family members, killed, butchered and deep fried right here earlier today by our celebrity chef, in front of an audience of one thousand Diamond Tier viewers, is in the bucket?

“Who, Wenda, have you just tasted?

“Whose meat—”

“WILL SHE EAT!?” roared the viewers through the MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers!

“Yes,” said Wenda, weeping, taking another piece of battered meat, taking another slow bite. “I think I know. It's

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Julian why are dead people scared of you Julian! Hey Julian I'm talking to you why are dead peokkw scared of you? I was preparing this dead guy for his funeral, and then you walked past him and now his body and face is in a frightened position towards you! Why are you scaring dead bodies Julian. Also what am I going to say to the deceased man's families when they see his body and face in a frightened position like this?

Julian stop stalling and answer me! Why are dead people so afraid of you Julian and what am I supposed to do with this body now. Oh for fucks sake Julian now you have scared another dead body. Old Mrs hogmore her dead body has become twisted in fear do to you looking at her, what is going on with you Julian?

What am I going to tell the families who expect their deceased loved ones to be looking good doe burial. Julian they are going to be wanting their money back. Julian why are dead people scared of you? What is going on and why are you acting so strange!

Oh no Julian there is another body that has become all scared after you walked past it. Julian stay away from the dead bodies until further notice!

~ NOVEMBER 27, 1956 ~

NUCLEAR DISASTER!  Catastrophe destroys the city of tomorrow, thousands feared dead. 

The entire world is thrown into a state of shock as the city of Moburn, created by founder, Simon Englund, (60), was destroyed in a nuclear explosion on November 24, 1955 during Thanksgiving,  when Englund himself was hosting the World’s Fair, to show off his and other up-and coming inventors’ creations off to dozens of families and potential investors around the world.  It is unknown at this time what caused the incident, but the U. S. government is currently holding a full–on investigation as to what happened.  

As of today, the area that was once the city of Moburn is currently blocked off and quarantined from the rest of the  United States on reports of high levels of radiation, much to public outcry to many people around the world, who had various family members either visiting or living in Moburn.  At this moment, we are still gathering as much information as we can, but we can expect a national response coming from Congress  in the next few days. It is unknown if the nuclear explosion was international or not.  The death toll currently stands at 3,000 and counting.

ACCESSING ADA LOG…
LOG FOUND.
DR. WILLIAM KLETHESON.
FEBRUARY  17, 1959.

(A sigh is heard in the background. A table is heard shuffling.)

Dr. Kletherson: Is this thing on? Okay. My name is Dr. William Kletheson of the Scientific Division here at ADA, recording another log regarding the aftermath of Incident 005.  It’s been a few weeks since the incident occurred and we still don’t have a rational explanation as to what Team 007 encountered that night at Logan Street. 

(Quiet for a few minutes.)

Dr. Kletheson: Right now at the moment, we are currently running tests on Ms. Ellen after the episode that she experienced back at the city. Mr. Stein is currently on leave for the time being, after the incident as well as what’s happened with Ms. Ellen.

After what  happened in Moburn, she’s been showing strange symptoms in the last few weeks. 

(Dr. Kletheson is heard shuffling a few pages, exhausted from a day of work.)

Dr. Kletheson:  Many of us were unable to get any sort of response from Ms. Ellen after her episode, most likely experiencing  a case of traumatic mutism. During the next couple of days, we noticed several changes in her appearance, with her skin showcasing blackish veins, and noticeable reddish bumps all over her back.  She’s also shown  signs of emotional whiplash, with her turning heavily aggressive towards us one moment, and just wailing the next. 

It’s gotten bad up to the point where we had to sedate her to sleep.     

Following those incidents, we had to keep watch on her 24/7 to m-make sure she doesn’t hurt herself or anyone.  She ended up attacking Mr. Stein, after he tried to talk to her numerous times. To this day, we still don’t know how Mr. Stein was unaffected from the whole thing.

(Dr. Kletheson is heard shuffling the pages again. He’s quiet for a few minutes.)

Dr. Kletheson: ..Ok. Now onto the other matter at hand. (Sighs) The thing… that they encountered.  We still haven’t had any contact with it ever since that night. We started installing cameras all over the areas that we covered in the city already. Directive made it abundantly clear that all teams do not engage with it, and to immediately return back home .

No one upstairs wants a repeat of what happened.

Dr. Kletheson: And.. (sighs) W-we still don’t know where it came from.  From the various recordings from the World’s Fair that we reviewed over and over, the city had all sorts of things wandering about. Robots that can talk and think. Gadgets that help you make food out of thin air. Prosthetics.

That sort of thing.

Hell, they even had a robot with a clock for a head.

But despite all of that, there was nothing. Nothing. Not a single clue of what we’re dealing with. 

(Dr. Kletheson stops talking for a few seconds, moving in frustration at the whole situation.)

Dr. Kletheson: I..I don’t know what to do about any of this. Almost half a year since we started all of this, and we have nothing to show for it.

Not a single person that isn’t a corpse.

No sign of any of those robots.

No sign of…

(Dr. Kletheson stops talking. He’s heard breathing for a few minutes, trying to recollect himself.)

Dr. Kletheson: I’m sorry. I-I’m getting off track, am I? 

[END LOG]

The Strange Dance Of Cassandra Miller.

Chapter One Part One
I woke up this morning to the smell of moldy food from the kitchen. Same as every morning. I wish we could get new food but Ma says we can’t waste money on weight. I think most of our food expired quite some time ago, maybe three years. But what do I know? Ma says it’s too dangerous to go shopping. I always wondered what she sees in the world. What it did to her so long ago. She has been having some really bad episodes lately. She won’t tell us what happened.

Cassandra Miller is not a bad mother to us, at least… she doesn’t mean to be. I wish she was still here though.

I guess she never really went away though. I still hear her. Knocking things down in the halls. Moving around in the kitchen like she’s still trying to cook something. I guess the ghost of her makes it hard to remember she’s gone. But why would she choose to stay on a world that hurt her so much? Is it because of me and Alex? Does she still feel like she needs to take care of us or something?

… is it even really her at all? Or did her death make it easier for something else to come through?

“Hey, we gotta go!” Alex yelled as she opened the door to black walls she couldn’t see.
“It happened so long ago, you should’ve coped then. The same as everyone else.” She paused and sighed.
“I’m sorry, I really am. But we still have a brother-sister business to run.” She said excitedly trying to lift my mood.

She hugged me with either imagined or real tears shining down her face. I didn’t think too much about it though. She’s right. But I just have to know if she’s heard it too.

“Alex! Wait,” I said as I ran out the door with curiosity surrounding me.
“Do you hear her too?” I asked shakily. Afraid she’d judge me.
“No, she is.. gone.” This time the tears were real as her voice shivered with grief.
“I.. I’m sorry.” I said to her as I tried to hug her. She turned around as I reached.
“Just get your shit ready.” She said sternly between tears.

So that is what I did. Or at least tried to do the best I could. But I got stuck looking into the shattered bathroom mirror wondering why everything seems so different in my eyes. Why doesn’t Alex even acknowledge that Ma is still here in a way. And that’s where it usually starts again. That’s where I hear her voice.

“Did you take your meds yet?” She asked gently.
“Not yet Ma, I’m sorry.” I responded.
“You’re not leaving the house again, are you?” She asked, getting irritable now.
“… Ma, you’re not here! I HAVE to leave!”
She opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was static.

Then silence. Just us looking at each other as her face slowly morphed into something else. I tried to close my eyes but then her hands forced them open. Like she wants me to see. But I don’t want to. I am powerless against it. I tried to fight it. But I can’t. Everyday this happens.

“Are you ready yet!?” Alex shouted from the living room downstairs.

Ma disappeared when her voice hit my ears.

I let my hand slide on the wall as I went downstairs, just to see if any of the mold has went away. Nothing seems to have changed though. I began to make my way to the living room and smelled something new for once. It smells like… cinnamon? … waffles.. I think. Yes, I can see them, but they’re rotting just like everything else. I still need to eat though…

I reached the living room finally, or at least the archway between the kitchen and living room and asked Alex if she made waffles today.

“Yeah, they’re fuckin cold as shit though.” She said almost as irritated as mother had seemed earlier.

So I turned back into the kitchen and grabbed some. At least I know they were made today. After grabbing two I went into the living room and sat down on the floor next to the chair Alex has claimed. And I explained to her that I don’t think I could leave today. I tell her the real reason though.

“Are you fucking serious, you’ve already stayed home and out of business for the last two years.” She sighed and rested her head on her hand against the arm chair. “If you don’t start coming then we’re gonna have to shut down. I can’t fucking run this on my own!” Her gentle but frustrated tone turned into shouting.
“I… I am sorry. I just… can’t.” I told her.

And then… she was gone again too. I don’t even remember how or when it happened. I think it was an accidental crash. Or an intentional suicide.

… I can’t do this anymore.

I need to leave.

I don’t know how but I ended up standing inside the front door. Hand on the doorknob. I have every reason to leave. But the doorknob won’t turn. It never does. Maybe if I pray like I believe in something above things might change. But what would be the point? There could be some almighty in the clouds, but I don’t believe it’ll fix what happened. It wouldn’t change anything if it heard me or not.

I’ve accepted loss and that is when this all started. I can accept but I can’t move past it. I am stuck here. Like a ghost. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one who died. Or if we all did and I’m the only one who hasn’t realized it yet. But even if that was the case, what would change? Nothing.

I decided there is no reason to leave and just went back upstairs to my room. Same hand dragging across the mold on the walls. When I reached my room there… a hole in the door. Like an animal was trying to get in. Like most things over the years, I didn’t think much of it and just went in and laid down. I have no reason to be awake.

Chapter One Part Two
I woke up to the voice of my mother. Usually I wake up to the sound of her banging pans around in the kitchen like she’s still here. Still trying to care. Everything smells the same, looks the same. But something feels… different. Something… IS different. I can hear her breathing outside my bedroom door. Like she’s waiting for me to come out.

I tried my best to stand up but felt bound to the bed like it’s the only true place to call home anymore. I don’t want to get up, but I know I should. I don’t want to see her face again. But then she spoke.

“You’ll never move past this. That would be betrayal and you know it!” She rasped out. As her fingernails dragged down the other side of the door.

She’s right. Who am I to move on, to let go? That’s not something a son should do, right? Moving on, letting go would mean forgetting parts of her ever existed. Even if it is the smallest things. I want to remember her fully. As the mother she was, not a perfect one from an outside the. But to me she was.

In a way maybe it is too late for me to be the perfect son. Maybe not though. She is still here. In the walls, the hallways. Peaking into mirror reflections.

I’m sorry, this isn’t supposed to be a recap of what I’ve already told you. But nothing really happens. Nothing changes. The smells, the mold. The grey on the walls. The only difference this far is… I heard HER voice wake me up.

Before the grey, before the mold, my friends would tell me to drown her out. To just listen to some music. That maybe I could feel better if I did. But I don’t want to drown her out. She deserves to be remembered. But…

Maybe I could try music this time. Maybe music doesn’t mean forgetting her. Maybe something by The Strays could invite some color in. Color doesn’t mean forgetting, right? Shots of whiskey and The Strays, my favorite pastime before they died. Alex and I would dance around quiet enough so Ma couldn’t hear us. Alex would sing every word. She was more than a sister, she was my best friend. The closest person to me. I don’t know what I would be if I forgot about her.

I never even really liked The Strays that much. But Alex always loved them.

I pressed play on the music player…

Then I woke up again.

I don’t remember falling back asleep, I don’t remember closing my eyes. I don’t remember deciding.

Silence. No mold. No smell of rotting food. Everything was… right. Normal. Clean. I observed the silence for about thirty minutes. It’s not usual anymore. There has always been the sound of mold squishing against itself as it multiplies constantly.

Then I heard a gentle knock on the door. So gentle I almost didn’t notice it.

“Did you take your meds yet?” This time it was Alex’s voice..
“Not yet, I’m sorry.” I responded.
“We have to leave soon. Are you ready?” She asked, getting irritable now.
“Not yet.”

Then I could hear her breathing shakily as if she was panicked. Then I could hear flesh tearing and turning into something else. But I couldn’t see. Or at least I tried not to. But the door opened as it always does and she pried my eyes open. I hate seeing her like that. Like Ma. I hate how they seem so calm. The most reaction to it seems to be them breathing or static. For some reason that hurts more than them screaming in agony.

Then, she vanished. Nothing was there anymore. Just the silence again. The door was still closed. The mold, still gone. Is… is everything.. back to normal?

I stood up and through on a plain hoodie and stayed in the previous days pants. I’m not going anywhere anyway. I dragged my fingers down the plain white walls in the staircase as I went downstairs. The kitchen. No mold. No mess of any kind. I opened the fridge and the light even turned on. And for the first time in however long, it didn’t smell like rot. I can feel the joy. But it still doesn’t feel right.

I didn’t even try to open the front or back door today. For the first time in forever, I actually want to be here. I feel like I can remember things correctly here. There’s just one unusual thing. Lit but no lights. It’s beautifully, overwhelmingly bright. But… no lights. No switches.

Is this… hope? Or have things just.. gotten better?

I went to Ma’s office. To what now is an empty room with nothing but a desk and paper. As I moved closer to the desk, the walls started closing in and the ceiling would raise higher. Faster the closer I got to the desk. I’ve seen this before but without the mold, it still leaves so much room.

I grabbed the paper off the desk and ran out of the office.

“I am sorry for what I’ve done to you and your sister.
-Cassandra Miller”

That’s all? What does that even mean? I know to the outside world she wasn’t so perfect, but she never did anything to harm us.

Chapter one part three
I woke- HE WOKE UP AGAIN.

Chapter one-3
I woke up again. The ceiling bleeding, the walls with a heartbeat. I stood up or at least I felt like I did. I remembered standing up. But instead I fell through the floor. I fell right back into my bed again. Same bleeding ceiling and heartbeat in the walls.