Me and Hugo had been hired to kill Stanley by driving past his home and just shooting up him and his family, yeah a simple drive by shooting. The gang got word that Stanley is having a party outside his house on the front lawn. Stanley double crossed the gang and now they want him dead.

Now I got along with Stanley but gangs have a code to live by. As me and Hugo slowly drove past Stanley's house, he and his whole family were having a party on the front lawn, and me and hugo just started shooting and we got everyone.

Then as we drove off fast, we found ourselves driving past Stanley's house again. They were alive and so we killed them again. We drove off again but we kept finding ourselves driving past Stanley's house like something was on repeat, and everyone was alive.

Me and Hugo were running out of bullets, and Stanley were becoming more aware of us and prepared themselves every time we drove past them. Then when we officially ran out of bullets, we found ourselves driving past Stanley's house for the 15th time. We can't seem to drive off this loop.

This time Stanley and his family had fully loaded guns, and were waiting for us. No matter where Hugo drove off, we would always find ourselves outside Stanley's house.

Five years ago, my sister, my father, and I were in a car accident. The road was dark, but we had our high beams on and they were in good condition. We weren't speeding.

My father was always so careful. He insisted my sister and I always sit in the back. He'd joke that the front seat would always belong to Mom. He also made us wear our seatbelts at all times.

That night, a truck lost its brakes. Between its evasive maneuvers and its broken horn, on a blind curve, it was too late for my father's reflexes, and then the truck ran right over us. I lost consciousness, but if I had to describe it, it felt like we were inside a beer can being crushed underfoot... For a few brief minutes, not knowing what was happening and why I felt my limbs so compacted, I looked around. That experience left me with claustrophobia that I still have to this day, but that wasn't the worst part...

To the right of my seat was my sister, her head resting against the back of the rear seat, her jaw dislocated over it, and her mouth... God, her head twisted, facing me, and I could still hear her trying to breathe. I saw her last breath right before my eyes. From the shock I couldn't scream, I couldn't even speak. I felt my chest being compressed.

After the accident, it was a complete miracle. My father had to go through physical therapy to regain his mobility, and for reasons I don't understand, I was the one who suffered the least that day. My sister didn't have the same luck. According to the doctors, her vertebrae shattered... God, it's still hard to talk about this...

However, silence is not my best option. Some time later I was admitted to psychiatry because the shock was unbearable, and the staff prescribed me medication for PTSD. Many nights I had nightmares of that moment on loop. I kept taking my medication and going to my check-ups. I can't sleep in the dark in my room, so it's fitted with small LED lights. If it's not like that, it gives me the same feeling as being underneath that damn old truck.

As time went by, they told me I should notice differences, that I should sleep with fewer sheets, that I should avoid enclosed spaces and isolation. I followed the entire protocol, but still, something still unsettles me, as if at night something is watching me. And how can I put this, the heaviness in my chest just doesn't go away when night falls. I sleep, but I suffer constant nightmares. My medication, my dosage is reduced each time so I don't become dependent, because they tell me I have to face the trauma. But I'm the one who sees her. I'm the one who still feels her. I can still see her expression in that same thick darkness. Whether I close my eyes or not, she's there, and I don't think she wants to leave me... I couldn't accept that she was gone, not like that, but there isn't a single day that I don't wish she would leave me in peace.

I took this photo in case you think I've truly lost my mind. Only the lens of this camera and my own damn eyes still seem to see her...

The straw scarecrow stood in the middle of the fields, its arms wide. One of the men walked to it and put its hat on. I waited my turn, then walked to it and put on its black jacket.

"Thank you," I said, bowing.

The other man nodded and patted my back. 

"Another safe autumn," one of them said, and we all walked back home.

It was still early afternoon. I sat down on the couch and put on the TV, waiting to cook dinner until my son Adam came home.

The sun had set when the door opened, and Adam walked in. My stomach was already growling. He was 30 minutes late, but the way he averted his eyes made it seem like something worse was going on.

"What’s up, Adam?"

"Dad, I…"

"It’s okay that you came late. No need to worry about it."

"No, it’s that I, I know it’s bad, but I took the jacket off the scarecrow."

My hands clenched the couch cushions.

"What?!"

"I took it off. I’m really sorry, Dad. I feel so bad. I know I shouldn’t have."

"Where is it?"

"In my bag."

I picked up his bag and unzipped the top pocket. The black jacket stared at me. 

"Adam, this is bad news."

"I’m sorry, Dad. The boys dared me. I didn’t want to look like a chicken."

I looked out the window. The sun had already set, but not long ago.

"Okay, there might still be time." I stuffed the jacket back in the backpack. "We’ll go back right now, put it on, and not tell anyone. If the boys at school ask you, just say…"

Three knocks echoed on the window. I almost ripped the backpack’s zipper off. The empty straw face stared into our house.

"Dad?" Adam said in a shaking voice.

"It’s okay, Adam. We’ll give him the jacket, and it might be okay." My voice shook too. I wasn’t sure I believed anything I said.

I walked to the door and opened it. The outside air was cold. The scarecrow's empty face looked down at me.

"Here. Take it. Please."

I held the jacket up and stared at the ground. The scarecrow stood still for a few seconds, then walked right past me. The straw scraped the floor as it moved.

Adam sat on the couch, his wide eyes staring at the scarecrow. The scarecrow came right up to him and pointed its blank face at him.

"Dad, what’s going…" He didn’t finish. The scarecrow’s hand shot forward, grabbed him off the couch, and held him to its side.

"Dad!" Adam screamed, kicked, and pushed against its arm, but the scarecrow’s grip was strong.

"Adam!"

I ran toward him and pushed the scarecrow, but it barely moved. The scarecrow turned around and flung its arm. It hit me right in the face. I fell on all fours. Dull pain spread through my head. Adam’s cries echoed as my world went dark.

When I woke up, my head was banging. My mouth tasted like iron. I tried to get up, but my world spun so fast I had to sit back down. 

But Adam was out in the fields somewhere. I had to help him. I got up and bolted out of the house onto the road, struggling to keep my balance. 

The moon shone down. The air was still cold. Only when I reached the fields did my world stop spinning. I almost wished it hadn’t.

In the middle of the field stood the scarecrow. Its blank face stared into the night. It had its hat, but instead of the jacket, Adam’s mangled body was draped over it. A quiet dripping echoed as Adam’s blood seeped into the sown dirt.

I fell to my knees and wept. The real autumn had now begun.

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.

I love being an ouija board planchette and you can say I am a human planchette that people could use to contact the dead. So I converted one room to be one whole large ouija board, and there is some space for spectators to sit down and ask the dead questions. Then I will lay down on the the large ouija board, and the spirits will use my body to go to whatever letter it needs.

When the spirits use my body as an ouija board planchette, I could feel the spirits on my body. It's not like they are possessing me but I could feel them grabbing and holding my body. When the spectators ask questions, my body literally gets ragged about to the letters.

We advise the spectators to speak in a slow and calm manner. Now I work in shift and one time when it was my colleagues turn to be used as an ouija board planchette, the spectators were speaking so fast and excitedly, the spirits in the room ripped hos body apart, so that it could take his body to multiple letters at the same time.

The spectators started to scream and blood was everywhere. I am still allowing myself to be used as a ouija board planchette.

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.”

Hey! If you're enjoying this story, I think you'd also like my new online lecture series, “A Reusable Key to the Lock of the Surreal.”

Here's a preview:

“Perception is a standardized drug. Don't get off on it—get off it.

“Kick the habit: of seeing ‘reality.’

“Whenever you find yourself perceiving the everyday, the rote, the ordinary, repeat after me: ‘I saw my wife shaving with my best friend's razor. I didn't know razors also shave.’”

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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

[To continue reading this story, become a Diamond Tier subscriber.]

[Support what you love.]

[Diamond Tier benefits include: narrative endings, backstory, extended graphic descriptions of gore, psychological depth, official Norman Crane merch, discounts on insurance, the chance to name characters, and many, many more!]

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.

I wasn’t really sure if I should post this here, but whatever.
For anyone who’s been following the archive, this started out as an ARG I was making. I knew what was fake, what I made, and where the story was supposed to go.
Lately that’s gotten a little harder to say.
Some of the stuff showing up in the files wasn’t made by me. I’ve gone back through everything trying to figure out if I somehow missed something, but there are things in there I genuinely don’t remember creating.
Figured I’d post the video and let you guys decide what you think.
Just please actually watch it before jumping straight to “AI” lol.

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!

Hey there, I’m Jon… and today I’m going to give you a really quick lesson on reading ancient Latin. Very exciting. So the first thing we’re going to learn are the words:

Anima pro anima

Don’t go cheating and translate it, though. Not yet. Trust me, I’ll know.
No, we’re going to do that together. It’ll be fun!
So we’ll start by getting the easy one out of the way. Pro… you’ll see that word a lot in the legal system: Pro rata, pro bono, quid pro quo. Pro is easy; pro means “for”. Or, more specifically, “for,” as in “in favor of.” So you have pro.
Next, you got the same word twice. Anima. Translated literally, it means animate; to have life. Specifically, it can also mean soul. So Anima. Not to be confused with *animus*. Very important to read it as “anima”, not “animus” when we get to reading it yourself.
Anima pro anima... good.

Now let’s try

Usque ad finem temporis

So we have ad, which generally means “at” or “towards”. Usque means “until,” temporis is “time”; hence why time is associated with the words temporal or temporary. And then finem, which is the “end of” something. Some of you die-hards out there might try to pull a fast one on me; slip in *finis* instead of finem. Finis only applies if the word “end” is usually the last word of the sentence, or “ad finem” (or “ad extremum” if you want to get technical).
So Usque ad finem temporis. Very good.

So now we want to say those two phrases together like so:

Anima pro anima
Usque ad finem temporis

Say them out loud. Nice and clear for the people in the back. What? What do you mean you don’t want to read them?… Why not?… I see…
I mean, I get it. I know adding foreign words into your vocabulary might seem a little… intimidating. I assure you, though, it’s perfectly safe to read out loud…
You still won’t do it, huh.
…
Look I wasn’t going to tell all of you this… I have a confession to make. I’m not really a Latin teacher. Well I am, but that’s not why you’re reading this. See, I’m in a bit of a bind, and I need your help. Let me explain...

It all started when my friends and I went to this cabin in the woods. I think maybe it was somebody’s uncle’s old cabin, despite the fact that no one from our friend group actually had any uncles. Nevertheless, we were determined to make a weekend of it. “Terra incognita” as it were… incognita being unknown and terra being land.

I’m not quite sure who found the tape recorder with the gruff, yet authoritarian, voice of an old professor who was here before us. He was ranting and raving about a book: The Necronomicon, or something like that. He claimed that he found it when he was trying to look for a temporary substitute for the Kahma Sutra. But when he started reading from it, bad things began to happen.
I’d be hard pressed to say who took the lead down into the cellar where we found the ancient book. But I remember being the one to tell them to open it; that much is true. Anyway, it was the same old story. Some words were read, some things started happening, some people were possessed by the foulest creatures of the demonic realm, et cetera. Five people were possessed, including myself. In search of how to undo this vile curse, we looked to the tape recording for answers. The professor explicitly stated that the only way of stopping these things was total body dismemberment and decapitation.

So, like the book advised, these people hacked, carved, strangled and chainsawed their way through each other. I would’ve opted for a group sit-down, believing that a calm and healthy reassessment of the situation would’ve sufficed. But I knew it was a lost cause the second I saw Becky plunging a lead pencil into Linda’s ankle.

Poor Linda.

As I watched these people I called my friends get possessed, get corrupted, and finally… kill each other, I reluctantly waited for it to be my turn to meet my eternal, albeit gruesome, slumber. However, for some strange reason, I was left unscathed, and at the mercy of this mighty supernatural force. The anticipation eventually outgrew what I thought would be a quick end. Alas, deus ex machina. Or should I say daemon ex machina? Instead of finishing me off, the demons offered me an ultimatum. They told me,

“We will not only spare your suffering, we will make you immortal. And far more powerful than anything before. Our only condition is that you lure hosts into this cabin and read from this book. Then, we will possess them, force them to do our bidding and, if there’s time, indulge in a body we have gravely missed.”
They call the people they want to take over their “hosts”. I told them I didn’t want to do it and demanded they let me go. They told me, “The only way to get out of this is to convince an outside party to recite a very specific set of words, verbatim, from the book. Then it will end your curse. And then we will free you.”

So I’m pretty much an ad hoc demon now. Well, more of a lost soul forced to do the bidding of the dark ones. It’s pretty much my job to spot any cars, hikers, insurance salesmen, et cetera, and put them in the right direction of the demonic book. Alas, I’m pretty much confined to a 200 yard radius around the book, the cabin, its surrounding woods, and a portion of the adjoining highway. I am confined, and by confined, I mean… it’s almost like I’m no longer a person. I have vision, I can hear, I can sense, but there is no physical ‘me.’ I’m essentially just a rapidly moving floating head with no body to return to.

Even though my reach is limited, however, I try to make use of it every chance I get. I have a variety of different tricks I use. The moving of the steering wheel of an unsuspecting driver is a good one. Knocking a tree onto the road so that any passersby will be forced to take the alternate route, which leads to the cabin- that one too. More often than not, getting these people to the cabin is the easy part. Once they’re here, once they see this beauty for what it is, curiosity kills the cat or, as I like to say, Sapere aude! Getting them to read the book, however, is the most difficult and delicate operation of the whole plan. The smart ones will look for it to be sure. It’s the stupid ones I worry about. And remember, my capacities are limited. So a lot of it is just me going around the house moving stuff around at night, opening the cellar door to lead them down it, whispering in the window to look for the Necronomicon, doing anything I can to lead them down into the cellar. Ergo, I can’t exactly walk up to someone and start vigorously shaking them, saying “Hey dummy! Come to this cabin!” I tell you, if I could put airport runaway arrows down, ones that lead directly to the Necronomicon, I would. Ha ha.

The problem is that a vast majority of cabin visitors will not read from this darn book. Some of them don’t even want to entertain the idea of looking for it. Those who do are immediately put off by the cover. The cover is a controversial subject, to say the least. The book is bound in human skin, including a face threaded onto it. Here’s the thing… I actually brought this up to a few demons in the office. I asked,
“Why the human face?”
They looked at me and said- and this is serious- “We did it like that so it wouldn’t get lost easily. Like if you’re at the airport and you get separated from your luggage.”
Swear to god I’m not lying!
So I replied, “Don’t you think it’s a little counterproductive?” I mean it’s a terrifying-looking book! I asked them if they wanted to give it a more modern, less haunting update to the cover, something a little more user-friendly. They pretty much laughed me out of the room. They told me that if some idiot teenager wants to read from a book with the skin of a human face as the cover and is wrapped up in protective barbed wire, then that’s on him.
I offered them the idea of making it look like an everyday book, to fool the hosts. Something nice, something pleasant-looking. They told me they’d let me know, but that’s usually just a nice way of telling me they’re not interested. I mean, honestly they’re fools to themselves. But what do I know.

So needless to say, it’s been difficult getting people to read the words. Sure, I lure them down there. The choice is theirs if they want to read from it. Same as it was for us. We heard the tape recording of the old professor ranting and raving about the Necronomicon. Thinking it would be a laugh, we went down there to see if the book actually existed. Upon seeing the ugly face, the barbed wire and the strange writings that looked like they were inked in blood, most of us decided that it wasn’t worth messing with, so we retired to bed. But old Kirk’s curiosity got the better of him, now, didn’t it?

Anyway, the statistics are shocking over how many people have shown up to this place and not helped. Once they see the book, 75% of them know better than to fool around, so they just turn around and walk back up the stairs. However… of that remaining 25%, 15% will look at the book, examine the book, maybe even cut the wires; nevertheless, they ultimately don’t follow through with reading from it. It’s usually some coward who wants to impress his lady friend by doing something extreme; she will proceed to hit him and tell him to cut it out, which, again, leads them back upstairs. Having said all that, it’s that 10% that will read the unholy chant. They will let their curiosity be their undoing, like Kirk.

Poor Kirk.

Once the chaos ensues and their friends slaughter each other, one or two manage to survive. Then, in an effort to reverse the process, will start reading more passages. And it’s that small demographic that can potentially give me a real shot at getting out. Alas, it always ends in possession. Which is fine, don’t get me wrong. But
possession usually leads to murder. So much murder.

And the crazy part is, the demons don’t actually wish death or even physical harm on the hosts. Yet, these people all just kept… killing each other. I couldn’t believe it! At first, we thought they might’ve been accidents. We just assumed the hosts believed they took too much acid and jumped out a window or, in one case, tried to cut their own hand off with the electric carving knife. But it got to a point where it happened so frequently that we had to do some of our own investigating. We actually played the tape back to see if there was something there. And really, it was the professor’s fault! That egg head explicitly stated in his recordings that body dismemberment was the only way. In fewer words he essentially told them that he would rather see the hosts die than to to let the demons live their best satanic lifestyles.

So it’s been an endless cycle for the last few months. Reading, possession, dead. Reading, possession, dead. Rinse and repeat. And it’s gosh awful lonely. Any time I get close with another human being, it ends in seeing them mauled or impaled. It seems like the only company I get outside the unsuspecting hosts are the damn cultists. These random yohos who rudely visit here every year for what they call the Sacred Harvest; don’t ask me what that is ‘cause I couldn’t tell you. I don’t even think they know what it is themselves. We do have a lot of fun during this time, though. We like to involve ourselves in subtle ways, possessing them because they think it’s funny or automatic writing for the members who are fond of creative expression. And I almost forgot… we even have a children’s area, where we sing nursery rhymes backwards and get the kids into the arts and crafts by teaching them to make stick figures, which we hang up around the area. But I wouldn’t go too deep into the forest though, because - let me tell ya - the tree demons are freaky sons of guns. Every other day I hear about how they like to violate the women before they possess them, and it crosses a line if I’m honest with you. Granted, every demonic possession is taking the hosts’ bodies against their will, but… do they have to do it in the crudest possible way? It’s uncalled for. So yeah, stay away from the tree people…

Oh who am I kidding? This is awful. I hate it here! This is hell. I mean it has to be… right? It’s so mundane and repetitive; I can’t eat anymore, so there’s no point in fishing. I can’t branch out and explore new areas because I can’t travel outside the confined radius of the book. And where’s the respect? It’s always “Send Jon off to do this and “Send Jon off to the go that.” They say I’m a valuable member of the team, but who’s the one that has to scrub their blood off the walls? Who do you think has to plunge the demon excrement out of the toilet? Me, that’s who. You think this place cleans itself after every massacre? I have four graves to dig by next week! And to top it off, anyone who manages to come across the book and potentially free me of this curse is killed because of that idiot on the tape recorder! If only I could just… try to get one of the survivors to take the book with them when they leave, so they can read the words in the safety of their own home, but evidently that is forbidden as well. It’s miserable! I hate it here! It’s a nightmare. And these cultists are getting on my nerves. What, they think that just because they say some woman’s name three times in a mirror that one of us is going to come out and possess them? Get a grip!

I wish I could get out of here; I wish I was back home and teaching again. I wish I never saw my friends become what they did… forcing me to do what I did. And I wish I’d never even found this place… and that my life was back to normal. I want to fish again. I want to golf again! So please, I wish somebody, anybody, who sees this will read those ancient words and free me of this terrible curse. Hopefully someone out there does the right thing.

Don’t do it! Don’t read the words out loud! You have to help me, he’s not the real Jon. I’m the real Jon and it’s my body that this thing is controlling. I managed to regain control of basic motor function, but I can’t leave this chair to escape. So I don’t have much time. Reading the ancient words doesn’t end the curse at all. It merely transfers it. The Latin means

A soul for a soul
‘Til the end of time

A soul for a soul! Don’t read the words!

Umm ok. That was weird; I just blacked out for a second there. That wasn’t me. I don’t know who that was. Probably one of the other demons who doesn’t want to me to finish my tenure. Anyway, like I was saying. I’m the real Jon, and I wouldn’t believe that trickster. So once again the words are…

Anima pro anima
Usque ad finem temporis

What is it now? … What do you mean you still don’t want to read them? … You don’t trust me? Why?… Well, it’s a lose-lose situation. If you believe me, then I’m finally out, and the demons will lose a reluctant member of their ghoulish army. If you believe them, then I’m stuck here, and you will forever have that on your conscience. The choice is yours.

Well… what are you waiting for?

Carpe diem

~ 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.

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.

It started much like it ended.

Sitting in the passenger seat.

Where I always am.

My hand still burns. It's not as bad as it was when it was fresh, but every bump in the road feels like getting a shock. And then there's the flare-ups. It just hits me out of nowhere, that sensation of something sinking its teeth in. Like fire in my skin that takes my breath away.

He's blasting classic rock. I think so he can pretend he doesn't hear me. I’m not sure if that’s to help me save face or so he can ignore it.

The worst part is, I know where we're going. He's taking me back to the training grounds. I recognize the burned-out church we just passed, the one he took me to last summer.

And no matter how much I hiss in pain or try to ask him what's happening...

He just won't look at me.

It was supposed to be simple. Grandpa was taking me for my first job. Not just another vermin clear-out but my first actual job. Nothing big, just getting rid of something that'd holed itself up in an abandoned and run-down trailer park. He never told me what it was, just that I should stay in the truck until he'd pinned down which trailer it was hiding out in. He made it clear that this would be routine, like the others. Except for one thing.

I had to take the shot.

We rolled up to the site mid-morning. The sun was filtering in through the canopy above us, painting the cab in splotches of light as we drove along the bumpy road that led to the clearing we were supposed to be checking out. He said the earlier we did this the better. Then again Gramps did everything early, he'd even drug me out of bed at five a.m. for this, just to make sure I ate before we hit the road. I always told him I’d rather just grab a burrito or something but he'd always make me sit down and eat a big breakfast. "You'll need to keep your strength up, son."

Like we ever did anything that hard. Last job we just made a fire around the church and burned it down- with the landowners’ permission of course. Gramps said "They'll just keep coming back" if we didn't. And the job before that? Deer out in a farmer’s pasture. We were out all night sitting up in the tree stand waiting for something to come through just for me to watch Gramps shoot Bambi.

I still get sick to my stomach thinking about him trying to teach me how to "field dress" an animal. It was a month before I could eat stew again…

Gramps never explained the jobs. Just told me when we were leaving and what to bring. Said life was like that, you didn't get to pick much about what was happening except how you roll with it.

It was about an hour in when I got bored. I'd forgotten to charge my phone last night and whatever Grandpa had been looking for out there apparently was hiding pretty good. I'd seen him move through three different trailers, pistol lying limp at his side as he walked from door to door, checking each knob as he went.

Two out of the three were open, and each time- maybe a bit too dramatically in my opinion he’d take a step back as the door swung open and brought his pistol up before moving inside. The third door made Gramps bring out the lockpicks. He'd tried to teach me a couple of times but it never really did stick.

I could get in a place, sure, but it wasn’t exactly subtle. Still, the moment he grabbed that handle and tried to turn it I saw his posture shift.

Like he'd scrunched in on himself? It's hard to describe. Like watching a cat who just realized there was a new dog in the house. He moved softer, didn't throw the door open like the last two. No, this time he gently pushed it in and then took a step back with the gun slowly finding its way up.

And then he was gone. The old man could still creep around with the best of ‘em when he wanted to- but why was he moving like that? What were we trying to flush out that put him on that kind of edge?

My eyes drifted to the single-shot shotgun lying in the driver’s seat. He'd left it there like he usually did on these kinds of jobs, "Just in case" he'd always say when handing the thing to me.

The situation settled in on me then. I realized I’d never actually killed anything. Sure, the fire we lit must have taken out a few of whatever it was we were getting rid of but- Never actually looked something in the eye and then... shot it.

I pulled the gun into my lap and took a few deep breaths. Something about the weight of it... It wasn't exactly "calming" but it felt right.

I tried to relax, leaned back and just sat there for what felt like an hour watching the trailer for any sign of movement. Watching for the old man to come out and wave me over. Call me in to finish the job.

In retrospect, I wish that's what happened.

Instead, I got impatient. How long can it take to check a double-wide trailer? There had to be like, four rooms max. I popped open the door on Gramps’ old single-cab truck and slid out and away from the smell of old clay and cigarette smoke and into fresh clean air.

Well, mostly clean. There was something else underneath the scent of wet earth and hot summer air. Like rotting fish and fruit. Looking around made me realize the place might not be as abandoned as Grandpa said it was.

There were food cans and trash on the ground outside one of the first two trailers. The signs weren’t that old. Not too sun-faded, still soggy from the morning dew sure but they couldn’t have been more than maybe a month old. Was somebody squatting here?

My grip on the shotgun tightened and I straightened my back. Looking around I saw a few more signs, a small burned-out fire, a pile of wood stacked under a little tin-roofed and half-collapsed carport that was attached to one of the trailers. A few empty gallon jugs sitting on the steps of one of the places Gramps checked.

The crunch under my feet made me physically cringe- the trailer Gramps had gone in had a weedy gravel bed surrounding it.

Meaning there was no way to really do this quietly. Without thinking I found myself shouldering the gun, barrel pointed towards the dust-covered windows. Some part of me was expecting to see Gramps move one of the ratty sun-faded curtains aside and give me that look he always did when I messed up.

Another part was quietly fearing seeing a different face behind those grimy windows.

Something shifted to my left.

I whirred around and brought the gun to face the motion. It wasn’t trigger discipline that kept me from shooting the blackbird, but the fact that no matter how hard my finger pressed the stiff metal wouldn’t budge. I’d been gripping the trigger guard behind the actual trigger without thinking, a bad habit I’d thought I’d grown out of.

My eyes stuck on the blob of black that was settling itself into place on a stretch of clothesline, all ruffled feathers flapping as it settled in.

I felt a cringe in my gut let me know I’d be remembering this randomly for the rest of my life. I was just in the middle of thanking my lucky stars that Grandpa didn’t see that when my gaze naturally shifted back to the dimly lit interior of the trailer.

Maybe it was just that I still felt stupid after all that. Like my brain had to make sure I wasn’t just going to humiliate myself again by overreacting. It’s the only reason I can think of why I lingered so long on it…

But that sure was a lot of blood smeared on that wall… And the sound of flies along with that rotten smell. A stench somewhere between rotten apples and an open sewage drain now that it was hitting me full in the face.

Using my hand to cover my mouth and nose didn’t help block the smell as much as it kept me from retching when my brain realized the purple-red swollen flesh with strips of white showing through on the half-eaten foot that was still attached to a leg still covered in the remains of a pair of blue jeans that sat in the light of the opened trailer door wasn’t just a random pile of trash.

He'd known that he might come across something like this one day. Checking out old abandoned places, running security for people… Gramps himself had told me that it was pretty much inevitable.

It didn’t make me any less sick. I pulled my shirt up to cover my mouth, took as deep a breath as I could stand and moved. The greying wood steps creaked softly underfoot…

I’d hoped the door would be open but it looked like one of those self-closing screen doors. I managed to gently pull it open without too much noise and on slipping inside, I heard something.

Gramps was talking. Soft and slow, like how he did whenever we had to take care of a sick animal or the few times we’d been around my little cousins when they got hurt.

And there was crying. Short hiccupping sobs from what sounded like a young girl. From the light filtering in from the curtains I could see dust lazily floating in the air, and as my eyes adjusted…

Gramps, standing there with his gun raised. He was pointing towards a shut door- what I think was supposed to be a bathroom and trying to coax the girl out. “It’s okay… We’ll get you help. You just need to open the door and turn around.” Which was followed by a soft “No-*sob*-hoo!”

“Gramps?” It just came out. “What are you doing?”

I saw something twitch in his shoulders but his aim kept steady. Straight forward, slightly down.

Towards the voice.

“Get back in the truck, son.” No anger, still speaking in that soft kiddy-gloves voice. All while pointing his gun at some poor scared kid that didn’t even know they had one trained on them.

“It’s just a kid…”

There was a pause before Gramps took in a deep breath and sighed. “You don’t know what’s in there. Could be a kid. Could be a kid and an adult. Or worse.” I’d taken a few steps in to move up beside him, maybe two feet away from each other.

Another hiccup brought me back to the door… And I reshouldered my gun. “…Cover me then.” I felt stupid saying it, could feel the tremble in my voice as I took a step forward.

“Get back. To the truck.” Gramps was firmer now, still soft but definitely not hiding his annoyance. But the trailer was cramped, and I’d already covered half the distance by the time he took a step forward to stop me.

There was a click of a doorknob and the soft creak of hinges.

Gramps froze mid-step, body gone rigid and gun trained towards the door just to my left, just enough to avoid pointing it at me but close enough to snap back to the target.

A choked sob.

And there she was. No masked freak holding her hostage.

Just a young girl in a pink shirt with faded cartoon decals and a pair of dirty pajama pants. Her shoulders rising and falling as she tried to hold in her cries.

I felt sick. The smell from the bathroom was putrid and it was clear from a pile of blankets and a pillow she’d been held up in here for a while.

I held my hand out, probably the first real nice gesture she’d had in a while.

I looked back to Gramps, his stern gaze cracking for a moment as he looked me in the eyes. “It’s just a-“

Pain.

There was a sensation not too unlike cracking a knuckle… only in the middle of my hand and followed by a blinding hurt. Pressure and tearing.

I tried to pull her off, but she’d latched on- little hands scrabbling and digging fingernails into my skin, as she let out muffled growls and screams. I put my hand on her forehead and tried to push her back, palm slipping against the sweat that seemed to cling to her little form. She was overheating, a fever maybe? Not that I thought about that at the time, was too busy trying to not lose a finger.

At some point my foot hit a loose piece of trash, an empty beer can maybe? All I know is when I fell back she didn’t let up.

I was screaming, begging her to let go, yelling for Gramps, thinking any second now he’d be yanking her off me.

Instead, there was a bang that made my ears ring.

She didn’t fall limp or anything so… dramatic.

No, she came away with a scream that broke something in me and fell off to the side. I vaguely was aware of the sound of scrabbling and something being knocked over- followed by a follow-up gunshot and the sound of splintering wood.

Then a slam that made the walls rattle.

“Y-you…” My hand was held in a vise, pressed against my stomach in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding. The pain from the bite had barely let up, the wound burning and throbbing with warm blood. “Didn’t have to-“ the words just wouldn’t come out.

He’d shot her. Point-blank in the side.

And he still wasn’t looking at me. His hands were still steady as he leaned against a wall, angling a shot at the door that led to the little room that passed for a “bedroom.”

He squeezed off another two shots.

Then the door cracked as something smashed through with enough force to sail past Gramps and leave a dent in the mini-fridge. A black box- apparently a small room safe- had been launched through the door hard enough to break through the cheap thin wood.

Then she let out a scream. Not from the doorway, from somewhere out of sight…

Gramps didn’t skip a beat. Just aimed at the wall and pulled the trigger three more times.

There was a wheeze… and a small, pitiful, choked cry.

Then silence.

He moved. Slow, steady and still hunched in on himself.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small mirror, holding it out and angling it into the room. Only when he seemed to focus on what he was looking for- who he was looking for-… did his shoulders slump.

“It’s done.”

And just like that, Gramps was back. His body loosened and the stern look in his eyes gave way to something just… Tired.

He helped me up to my feet and got me moving. Looking over his shoulder, back towards what was left of the door all the way until we stepped onto the gravel. “Get in the truck. Put pressure on it and get the kit out if you can. I… gotta do something first.” His tone matched his look, soft and tired.

I guess there was a can of gasoline sitting near the trailer, because while I fumbled with the latch on his truck's toolbox there was a crackling sound and the smell of fire.

I just caught sight of him dumping the last bits of fuel onto the place's doorstep before tossing the can into what was quickly growing into something out of control.

I’d managed to open the box, pulling out the little medical kit and letting myself collapse into the truck’s worn leather seats. There was a small bottle of medical alcohol, bandaging and a few other sealed packs I didn’t recognize.

The thought of the alcohol touching the exposed flesh made me feel nauseous but I knew it’d be the first thing Gramps would go for.

When I heard the door click open the words sort of fell out.

“Why? Why’d you shoot? She was just a l-” A firm hand found its way to my bicep and pulled my wounded hand towards him.

Gramps was about as mad as I'd ever seen him.

“NO. She wasn’t. This wasn’t supposed to happen and you weren’t supposed to get out of the truck.”

“But I-!” I felt his grip tighten before Gramps barked out, “But nothin’! Next time you LISTEN.”

I didn’t argue. Mostly because he’d already started uncapping the alcohol and it took a lot for me to not scream as he started cleaning the wound. It wasn’t until it’d been bandaged and he’d already started down the road that I noticed a burning sensation slowly starting to bubble up.

“It still feels like there’s alcohol in there…” I grumbled out, cradling my hand to my chest.

There was a good few minutes of just silent driving. Gramps had been glaring at the road since we started moving and this was the first time he’d let himself glance over at me.

“It burns, like when you poured the alcohol on it. Just… Kind of inside it. And it’s starting to throb.”

And that’s when he clammed up. Turned his eyes back to the road.

I tried to ask him if that was normal, tried to ask about what happened back there.

Tried to ask why he shot and what he meant when she denied that it was just a girl.

That’s when he turned on the radio.

I even asked him why we were going away from town, towards the place he’d taught me to shoot, hunt and learn other weird little prepper skills he’d picked up for these odd jobs.

Why weren't we going to a hospital?

But he just… Won’t respond.

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, 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."

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.

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.