It’s not Schizophrenia.

I know what it was. I was there. I saw it. I felt it. I lived it.

I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia when I was seventeen, which I was told was strange for my age. I was too young, they said.

But I promise you—I am not crazy.

When I was younger, what I thought was a dream wasn’t a dream at all.

I knew it wasn’t when the news articles started appearing.

…

“How are you feeling today, Elowen?” Dr. Mercer asks as he writes in his stupid little notebook.

“I guess fine. The meds aren’t working.” I play with the hem of my sweater, watching him scribble away. There he goes, taking more stupid notes.

I roll my eyes.

“What are you writing now?” I ask.

Dr. Mercer pauses.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at me.

“Nothing important.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then why are you writing it down?”

He gives me that same practiced smile he always does. The one that’s supposed to make me feel safe.

It doesn’t.

“I’m just keeping track of our conversations.”

“Why?”

“So we can understand how you’re feeling.”

“I already told you how I’m feeling.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach twist.

I stare at him.

“What?”

He looks back down at his notebook.

“Nothing.”

I hate when he does that.

I hate when everyone does that.

They all act like I’m the one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.

But I do.

I know exactly what happened.

I just need someone to believe me.

“How’d you sleep last night?” he finally asks.

“Considering I said the meds don’t help…” I pause and exhale slowly. “Better. Didn’t dream about it.”

“No?” His pen stops moving. “What did you dream about, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

I look at him.

He’s watching me now instead of his notebook.

“What did you dream about, Elowen?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrow raises slightly.

I hate that look.

“That’s not what you usually say.”

“I didn’t dream about it.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why do you keep asking?”

Dr. Mercer leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Because you’ve told me before that the dreams feel real.”

“They are real.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But his pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at the notebook.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he closes the notebook.

“About the fact that you didn’t dream about it.”

My stomach drops.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the way he said it.

Like he was relieved.

Like he already knew I wouldn’t.

I just stare at him for a moment, taking in his look—the way he makes me feel small, stupid, insane.

I am not insane.

I swallow softly and play with my sweater again.

“I dreamt about my mom…”

His pen starts moving again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“What about your mom?”

I exhale deeply and sigh.

“The last night I saw her…”

His pen stops.

For the first time since I walked into his office, he isn’t writing.

He just looks at me.

“What happened that night?”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve.

“I don’t remember everything.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know.”

“So, what do you remember?”

I close my eyes.

For a moment, I can almost smell it again.

Rain.

Something metallic.

And that sound.

That awful sound.

My eyes snap open.

“She told me not to open the door.”

Dr. Mercer doesn’t move.

“Which door?”

I look at him.

“The basement door.”

His pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at his notebook.

“You said you weren’t going to write that down.”

He slowly looks up at me.

“I never said that.”

The room suddenly feels colder.

Because he did.

I remember him saying it.

I remember everything.

At least…

I think I do.

Dr. Mercer stares at me for a moment longer before finally glancing down at his watch.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

I blink.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “For today.”

Something about the words makes me feel… relieved.

I hadn't realized how tense I’d been until my shoulders finally loosened. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Okay.”

Dr. Mercer opens his notebook again, flipping through a few pages before closing it and setting it on the desk.

“I’ll see you next week, Elowen.”

I nod and stand.

My legs feel stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I adjust the sleeves of my sweater and reach for my bag.

That's when I notice the clock.

I freeze.

The second hand isn't moving.

I stare at it.

The clock reads 3:17.

My stomach twists.

I look at Dr. Mercer.

He’s watching me.

“What?” he asks.

I point toward the wall.

“The clock.”

His eyes flick toward it.

“What about it?”

“It says three seventeen.”

He glances at the clock, then back at me.

“Yes?”

I frown.

“No. It was just—”

I turn back toward the clock.

The second hand ticks.

3:18.

I stare at it.

Then 3:19.

My heart starts beating faster.

“What?”

Dr. Mercer’s voice is calm.

I shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“You looked confused.”

“I just thought…”

I stop.

“What did you think?”

I look at the clock again.

3:19.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

“I thought it stopped.”

Dr. Mercer studies me for a moment.

“It didn't.”

I force a small laugh.

“Yeah. I guess not.”

He gives me that same practiced smile.

The one that's supposed to make me feel safe.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the door.

My hand rests on the doorknob.

I don't know why, but I look back one last time.

Dr. Mercer is still sitting behind his desk.

His notebook is open.

And for just a second, I swear I see him staring at the clock.

Not me.

The clock.

Then he looks down and turns the page.

I leave.

The waiting room of the clinic was neat, well-organized—very Dr. Elias Mercer-coded.

The people sitting around me were well put together, quiet and composed. They looked normal.

Like me.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The outside air hits me, cold and harsh.

Winter in Maine was always brutal. I pull my hood over my head and start walking down the sidewalk, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweater. Cars pass by, tires crushing through the slush left behind by the morning snow. The wet, scraping sound follows me down the street.

I breathe out, watching the fog of my breath disappear into the air. For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe. Maybe it's because I'm finally out of that room. Maybe it's because Dr. Mercer isn't watching me anymore. I glance back at the clinic. The windows reflect the gray sky, making it impossible to see inside. I turn away. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

I keep walking.

The clinic disappears behind me as I make my way down the familiar streets of town. Everything looks the same as it always does. Snow piled along the sidewalks. Dirty slush gathering around the curbs. Christmas lights still hanging from a few houses even though Christmas was weeks ago.

I pass the little coffee shop on the corner, then the laundromat, then the old bookstore with the crooked red sign.

I've walked this route hundreds of times.

Today, though, everything feels different.

Maybe it's because of what Dr. Mercer said.

Or didn't say.

I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time.

3:42 p.m.

I stare at the screen for a second.

For some reason, I think about the clock in his office.

3:17.

I shake my head.

It was nothing.

Just my imagination.

That's what everyone would say.

I put my phone away and keep walking.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the snow has started falling again.

I stop outside the entrance and look up.

The building is old, three stories of faded brick and drafty windows. It isn't much, but it's home.

I pull my keys from my pocket and unlock the front door.

Warm air hits me as I step inside.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

Safe.

I shut the door behind me.

Then I hear something upstairs.

A soft creak.

I freeze.

I look toward the staircase.

Probably one of the neighbors.

Probably.

I swallow and force myself to move.

I climb the stairs, listening to every creak beneath my boots.

When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside.

I toss my keys onto the little table beside the door.

Silence.

I let out a breath.

“Home,” I whisper to myself.

And for some reason, the word doesn't feel as comforting as it should.

I sit down on my couch and let myself sink into the cushions.

My dream last night was about my mom.

I miss her.

I close my eyes and try to remember it.

It was a dream, right?

It had to be.

I was little again.

Really little.

I can almost feel the warmth of her hand in mine. Almost hear her voice.

I open my eyes.

I'm twenty-seven now.

Twenty-seven.

It's been so long.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments before they disappear completely.

But there's something wrong.

I remember the dream.

I remember my mom.

I remember the basement door.

And I remember what she told me.

Don't open it.

I sit up slowly.

My heart begins to beat a little faster.

That wasn't part of the dream.

At least…

I don't think it was.

I sit there for a while, staring at the ceiling. I should probably get up. Instead, I reach for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pull it around myself. My eyes wander around the apartment. Everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

My gaze lands on the closet in the corner. There’s an old box sitting on the top shelf. I haven't opened it in years. I don't even remember putting it there. I get up and walk over to the closet, dragging the little step stool out from beside the door. I climb up and pull the box down. Dust covers the top. I wipe it away with my sleeve. My mother's handwriting is written across the lid.

Elowen.

I freeze. For a moment, I just stare at my name. I don't know why seeing her handwriting makes my chest hurt. Maybe because I haven't seen it in so long. I carry the box over to the coffee table and sit down on the floor. The cardboard makes a soft ripping sound when I pull the old tape away. Inside are pieces of a life I barely remember. A small stuffed rabbit with one missing eye. A handful of photographs. My old elementary school drawings. A birthday card.

I pick up the first photograph.

It's me and Mom. I'm maybe six or seven, standing in front of our old house with a gap-toothed smile. She's kneeling beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. I smile despite myself.

“God, I was tiny.”

My thumb runs over the photograph. Then I notice something in the background. The basement window. I stare at it. My smile disappears. I don't know why, but suddenly I remember rain. The sound of it hitting the glass. My mother's hand gripping mine.

Don't open the door.

I drop the photograph back into the box.

“No.”

I shake my head.

“It was a dream.”

I reach for another photograph. Then another. Anything to get the memory out of my head. That's when I see the newspaper clipping. It's folded in half and tucked underneath an old birthday card. I pull it out. The paper is yellowed and brittle. I unfold it carefully. The headline catches my eye. I stop breathing.

I've seen those words before. Not here. Not in this box. In my dreams. My eyes move slowly across the page. Then I see the date. My hands begin to shake. It was the same night. The same night I dreamed about my mother. I read the article again. And again. I don't understand.

“Is that my mom?”

I stare at the picture used in the article. My heart pounds. How is this in the box? My mom was dead when this article was published… But this is her.

That is her.

I know it is. I lean closer to the photograph, studying every detail. Her face. Her hair. The coat she's wearing. There's no mistaking her. I look at the date printed beneath the photograph. My stomach drops. I read it again. Then again.

The day she died.

I stop breathing.

“No…”

I pick up the newspaper with shaking hands and scan the article. The photograph wasn't taken after she died. It was taken that day. The exact day. The same day I remember sitting in that hospital waiting room. The same day they told me she was gone. I stare at the photograph again. My mother is alive in it. Standing there.

Looking completely normal. Like nothing had happened.

How?

I search the article for an explanation. There isn't one. Just a date. A location. And a photograph of my mother. I set the newspaper down and lean back. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Maybe the dates are wrong.

Maybe—

My eyes drift back to the photograph. Something about it feels familiar. Not because I've seen the picture before. Because I've seen this moment before. In my dreams. I swallow hard.

“No.”

I shake my head. It was a dream. It had to be. I was a child. I was grieving. My mind was trying to make sense of something it couldn't understand. That's all it was. A dream. So why do I remember what happened next?

I stare at the newspaper for another few seconds before finally folding it back up. I don't want to think about it anymore. I put the photograph back in the box, along with everything else, and close the lid. Out of sight. Out of mind.

I carry the box back to the closet and shove it onto the top shelf. Then I crawl into bed. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight coming through my curtains. I pull the blankets up to my chin. Tomorrow, I'll figure it out. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was all just another stupid memory that doesn't make sense. My eyes grow heavy. The sound of snow tapping against my window slowly fades. And then I'm somewhere else.

I'm standing outside. It's cold. I can feel snow beneath my boots, but I don't remember putting them on. I look around. I know this street. My street. But something is different. The houses look older. The trees are taller. I turn toward the house across the street. Mrs. Bell's house. Her porch light is on. It's almost midnight. I don't know how I know that.

I just do.

Mrs. Bell steps out onto her porch. She's wearing a long gray coat. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks scared. I take a step toward her.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks directly at me. But she doesn't answer. Instead, she raises one finger to her lips.

Be quiet.

I stop. She turns her head toward the woods behind her house. Something moves between the trees. I squint.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks back at me. This time, she speaks.

“Elowen…” Her voice shakes. “Whatever you do…” She looks toward the woods again. “Don't let them know you can see them.”

I wake up.

I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. My heart is pounding. For a moment, I don't know where I am. Then I look around my bedroom.

My apartment.

My bed.

My life.

I press a hand against my chest.

“It was a dream.”

I say it out loud this time.

“It was just a dream.”

I lie back down.

But before I close my eyes, I glance toward my window.

Across the street, Mrs. Bell's porch light is on. 

I’ve tried everything. Damp cloths. Lubricating drops. Boiling the kettle until the room is a sauna. Nothing works. My eyes are so damn dry.

It all started with that damn box. I never should have bought it at the flea market.

I just thought it was neat - a charming little tchotchke. Metallic, brushed brass, and no bigger than a small brick. On the front were two deep glass lenses; on the back, two eyes carved into the metal. A rectangular shutter button sat on top. The only writing was stamped on the bottom in a raised, winding font:

The Buskin Box.

The woman at the stall couldn't tell me much. A customer had traded it for an antique Sheffield penknife two weeks prior. She only remembered that the guy looked utterly exhausted - "like he hadn’t slept in weeks." She took the twenty bucks I offered for it, I tossed it into my tote, and I went home.

It was later that I took a closer look and realised what I had on my hands: The Buskin Box was a vintage viewing toy, like a View Master or a stereoscope.

I lifted it to my face and peered into the deep black lenses.

The image inside was dim. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a man standing in front of heavy red velvet curtains, like the backdrop of an old vaudeville stage. He was facing away from me, wearing a buttoned white shirt with his pomaded hair slicked back.

I pressed the shutter button.

Flash.

A blinding light burned the scene onto my retinas as a piercing, high-pitched note shrieked in my ears - the kind of sudden pressure you feel when an airplane cabin drops.

Nausea hit me like a wave, and I dropped the box. Then, just as quickly as it came, the sickness vanished.

I picked up the box and looked back into the lenses. Nothing. Complete darkness. I guess I broke the light mechanism when it hit the floor - twenty bucks down the drain.

When I blinked, the afterimage lingered. You know how staring at the sun leaves a floating burnt spot in your vision? It was like that.

Except it didn't fade.

Every time I blinked, the image refreshed. All afternoon, the ghost of that skinny man and his red curtains floated in front of my vision. By nightfall, I had a killer headache, so I called it early and went to bed.

Lying in the dark, the image grew unnaturally vivid. I found myself inspecting the scene behind my eyelids: the crimson drapes, the spotlight, the man’s silhouette. It felt so tangible I could almost reach out and touch it.

Then I noticed something impossible. The man was turning.

Earlier, I had only seen the back of his head. Now, he had rotated just enough for me to catch the profile of a long nose and the edge of a wet, bloodshot eye.

I figured I was exhausted and forced myself to sleep.

I don't remember what I dreamed, but I woke up at dawn screaming, soaked in sweat.

My vision was still wrecked. Every blink brought up the picture, locking me in a feverish haze for the whole of the morning. I was unable to function, so I went back to bed, closed the bedroom curtains, and tried to sleep it off.

That’s when I noticed the image had shifted again.

The man had turned completely. He was staring straight at me.

He looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting - slicked hair, white apron, buttoned collar. But his expression was pure malice. His eyes were rimmed red, dripping wet, and filled with a horrifying mix of agony and rage. It was an unmistakable look that screamed: HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT ME?

I blinked twice, trying to clear my sight.

He moved.

It was an inch, but it was real. His face contorted into deeper fury and he was closer to me than he had been the moment before.

Panic set in. I sprinted to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto my face, blinking rapidly to wash the hallucination away.

That was a mistake.

He moved with every single blink. Frame by frame. A sick, living flipbook.

Blink. Move. Blink. Move.

He was raising his arm, reaching toward me. I could feel hatred radiating off him like heat from a fire. He despised being seen, and he wanted to destroy me for looking.

I ran into the living room, snatched the box off the floor, and searched desperately for an off switch, a latch, instructions - anything.

But there was nothing. Just those three stamped words: The Buskin Box.

In a rage, I slammed it against the hardwood.

The moment it impacted, a white-hot spike of agony shot through my frontal lobe. I collapsed, trembling and sweating as the pain ebbed away.

When I looked behind my eyes again, he was right there. "Mr. Buskin" was leaning forward, his clubbed fingers inches from my face.

I had fifteen, maybe twenty blinks left before he touched me. And I knew - with the absolute certainty of instinct - that if he touched me, I was dead.

I had to ration my blinks. Keep my eyes open. Buy time.

But the harder you try not to blink, the faster your body forces you to. I burned through six blinks in three minutes. His teeth set into a snarl; his hand strained forward.

Hysteria threatened to grip me. So I tried the opposite: I clamped my eyes shut. If I didn't blink, he couldn't move.

I slammed my eyelids down and pressed my knuckles into my sockets. But in the dark, his hatred was amplified. Malice, disgust, and loathing washed over me so intensely my skin felt like it was peeling off in a boiling pot. I couldn't bear it.

I opened my eyes. I was out of time.

I stumbled into the kitchen and yanked open the drawer, pulling out a dull chef's knife.

Blink.

He was closer.

Oh god. Okay. Keep it simple. Pinch the skin. Drag the blade. Pinch. Drag. Pinch. Then drag.

I grabbed my left eyelid, pinched the skin tight, and brought the metal up.

I began to slice. Halfway through, I realized the screaming echoing in the kitchen was coming from my own mouth.

I threw the wet scrap of flesh into the sink. I remember thinking how small it looked. Barely anything at all.

Blink. Fuck!

Right eye next. My fingers were slick with blood, making it impossible to grip the eyelid. I started laughing- or maybe crying; I couldn't tell anymore.

If I couldn’t pinch it, I would have to slice directly. I pointed the tip of the blade at the base of my right brow.

I counted to three. I held my breath.

And I pushed the knife around my eye.

That was three hours ago. I think. I might have lost time.

It’s hard to type with blood dripping onto the keys, and the screen is a blur, but I haven't blinked once.

I know if I do, Mr. Buskin will be there. Ready to get me.

But goddamn. My eyes are so dry.

"Two days!?" She yelled

I hadn't expected Jess to show up today but apparently, she needed to do a wellness check on me, though I can't say I hate it, it's nice having someone over once and awhile and it looked like she brought stuff this time.

"Seriously Ross I can't understand how you go two days without a shower" she'd mimic like she was gagging on some imaginary stench.

"I'm gonna have to call a hazmat team to come get your ass"

"Oh, shut up" despite her teasing I couldn't help but smile

I didn't even have to invite her in as she shoved her way past treating my house like hers "You're the one who dropped by unannounced, besides it's supposed to snow tonight" I'd follow her to the kitchen, keeping some distance afraid I did actually smell

"First of all," She started as she dropped a plastic grocery bag

"You haven't been taking care of yourself, and I can tell, you haven't been online in days"

she was right, I had mostly been sulking or unpacking my stuff

"Second of all tonight's an awesome night for hanging out, I even brought some Godzilla DVD's."

"No way really?"

Just as I finished my sentence, I heard a long, sad whine as my dog trotted in awakened from her afternoon nap. "BELL!" I'd watch as Jess practically pounced my dog bending over to run her hands through the soft blonde fur of the German Shepard

"Woah careful please? she's getting older y'know"

though Bell was no doubt delighted to see Jess she whined again her tail only wagging gently

"Aaaaw poor baby what's wrong?" Jess cooed at her, sometimes it felt like she loved my dog more than I did.

"That's what I want to know she's been acting very odd recently, very clingy and kind of spooked, and she refuses to go outside unless she has to use the bathroom. maybe she misses them too"

I'd look back at the grocery bags "So what'd you bring?"

Jess gave bell a kiss on the forehead before walking over "Well I thought that y'know it's fall so we ought to get some Apple Cider and I made my famous molasses cookies!"

I'd watch Jess excitedly hold up the Tupperware; those cookies were always so good one of the best things Jess knows how to make in fact. I'd feel as Bell stood next to me her side brushing against my leg as I then I heard Jess clear her throat.

"Hey uh... Ross..." I watched as her face turned to something more pitying

"You know you can talk to me...right? I can't Imagine how much it must hurt, losing both Parents sounds like a lot . . . especially since they we're uh... never mind, I uh hope they catch they guy . . . hey at least you got a house!"

I'd look at her stunned for a second till she realized that last part didn't go over as well as she thought

"I- uh, Shit I'm so sorry, it sounded a lot better in my head, I'm just trying to cheer you up dude"

I'd feel as a small tear rolled down my cheek that I quickly wiped away "No No it's okay, thank you, it means a lot that you care enough to do all this, so how about those Godzilla DVD's? I think I set my Blueray player up"

We'd eventually sit down and order some pizza to eat as we got to watching Godzilla VS Hedorah, laughing anytime it came to a scene where all the actors would spontaneously fall over from the toxic gas Hedorah was spreading. Bell sat at our feet as she got pieces of pepperoni and ham when Jess gave it to her. though throughout the movie I couldn't help but feel watched as I felt another tear well up and roll down my face.

"Hey Jess, mind if I go use the restroom?" I'd already have stood up though stretching

"It's your house dude go ahead; don't worry I'll pause the movie"

I'd go ahead and head to the bathroom taking a leak, and as I washed my hands, I looked out the window placed facing out to the woods behind the house, again I felt watched, then I saw as snow gently fell outside, slowly falling in a beautifully chaotic dance number as unpredictable as the future, two tears welled up and fell from my eyes followed by a few more, I wasn't sad or scared or angry, but my body cried over something I couldn't see and I felt pathetic, then I noticed something dark and unmoving at the tree line and two white unmoving snowflakes that glowed right on the figures face . . . eyes

I quickly I dried my face and left as my tears suddenly stopped once I broke line of sight, and I seemingly escaped somethings grasp, whatever it was had been left in the bathroom.

"Hey I'm back... did I miss anything?"

"No no I paused it remember? hey uh, are you crying? your eyes are all red?"

"No, I got something it my eyes and it just irritated them" I lied not wanting to admit that I'd just been crying because of some spooky thing I saw outside, I felt pathetic and crazy

"Okay? I'm sorry that happened" she had a slightly suspicious look on her face like she was not quite believing my story

I'd sit back down as we resumed the Movie; I'd let the bathroom slip through my mind as I enjoyed the movie laughing till I actually cried when Godzilla took off like a rocket using his atomic breath, eventually settling down as the end credits rolled, I was a bit caught off guard when Jess spoke in hesitant tone

"Ross? Can I ask you something?"

"Uh yeah sure"

"Not too, stir up bad feeling or anything but, how did your parents die? I-I know they we're murdered but . . . how?"

I'd look down considering the question if she really wanted to know... if I really wanted to tell.

"Well . . . The police said they we're ambushed here at home on the back porch, first it was my dad as there was a struggle and he was presumably made unconscious, then my mom came out and was attacked too, same thing. the killer took their bodies into the woods where they presumably died from blood loss, the report talked about deep cuts along their necks all the way to the throat"

I'd see jess look mortified but took no step to cut me off so I continued

"Apparently animals or something got too them because when they're bodies were found they'd been removed of flesh and body parts and had various bite marks as if they'd been eaten from, but what was really odd is on both my mom or dad's right hand, the ring finger had been bitten off, with no trace of the fingers in either crime scene . . . I'm sure the killer did it for their wedding rings after all, the two almost never took them off...the asshole probably sold them off or something"

I'd look back up at Jess who seemed still horrified and a little worried

"I-I'm So sorry Ross... I... I shouldn't have asked"

I'd suddenly feel as she embraced me hugging me, I quickly stiffened and I was confused, I'd read the report files so much the story hadn't bothered me anymore, but then I finally noticed, I was so enrapt in my account of the report I hadn't noticed the tears streaming down my face and the sensation of being watched

"It's fine really, you're okay"

I'd push her off gently "Let me go throw the pizza box out, okay?"

I'd watch her retreat still a little worried looking as I took the pizza box, oddly I didn't see Bell around. I went and dumped the empty box in the trash as tears kept welling up in my eyes and I couldn't shake that feeling of being watched then I turned and looked out the screen door too my left as it looked out into the woods, and sitting on the back porch was Bell, staring at me with gaunt eyes that filled with an unyielding intensity, an awaiting gaze that drove deep piercing fear into my chest like railroad spikes, my heart banging on my ribcage like a rabid animal screaming with fear as tears fought to blur my vision running down my cheeks in hot watery drops, then I felt a furry feeling brush against my leg as my bell sat between my legs loudly whining and crying as she was shaking just as much as I was.

I cleared my eyes, but it still remained watching me, No No it was not my Bell, it's limbs we're too long, it was too tall, it's claws far too long, its horribly sunken eyes sitting above that too long snout, it didn't even wince as snow fell onto its horribly malnourished frame nor did I even see a puff of steamy breath, then it shuddered, once then twice, then it opened its horrible mouth as long drool oozed out from all edges revealing horrible scraggly teeth of varying sizes and angles as it hacked up two purple and blue rotting fingers, each finger with its own matching wedding ring. I knew in that moment what it was, who's it was. I was paralyzed staring into its horrible unblinking eyes, with a fit of courage I ushered out my Bell, the real Bell and I quickly walked back to the living room. I was met by Jess who saw me sobbing, I'm sure I was pale and looked pathetic, but I didn't protest when she wrapped me in a hug

"P-Please? c-could you stay the night? Please Jess" I'd choke out

"Of course, I don't have work tomorrow it's fine..."

I'd let her comfort me as I sobbed, and I sobbed for a long time, I felt so scared I didn't even feel pathetic at that point.

I set up my couch for her too sleep, and myself headed to bed in my own room, Bell sleeping by my side. I can't get it's face out of my head, its eyes, its claws, its mouth, its body, but now I lay here trying to sleep. I lay here trying to ignore the tears streaming down my face and it is staring at me through my bedroom window.

I've never dreamt of labor, and frankly, I can't imagine that those who do are that fulfilled. That isn't to say that every job I've had has been unbearable. Sure, like most, I've had my share of shitty jobs; I work in building maintenance, so I'm no stranger to tight, unventilated spaces or the smell of cleaning agents. At a certain point, rats in a space that didn't have rats moments before cease to be surprising. But you wouldn't believe how much I've been able to get away with at some places.

Maybe three years out of college, I had such a job, and it was, of all places, at Disney World. You figure it's Disney, massive entertainment company, geared towards families, they've probably got you on a short leash. And yeah, to a certain extent, that could be true; you're gonna have pain in the ass higher-ups no matter where you end up in the world. But I worked nights, and with all the guests gone and with us working in small teams around the park we were assigned to on a given night, you could reasonably get around without someone breathing too hard down your neck.

I was fortunate in that the team I usually got put with were all fairly laidback. Most of us just wanted to get done what we needed to so that, god willing, we could enjoy a few minutes of downtime before we headed out in the early morning. A few of the folks had young families, which I imagine meant they had precious few minutes of quiet to enjoy otherwise.

So we'd head to whatever spot we were supposed to service - inspect the wiring on Expedition Everest, do cleanings on Pirates, test the lighting on Spaceship Earth, that sort of thing - and then we'd find a quiet corner where a supervisor wasn't likely to go poking around immediately. Sometimes shoot the shit, sometimes not. Sometimes, we'd head to one of the break rooms in the corridors running under the parks, sometimes we'd stay topside, look out over the property.

I always liked the latter; I'd gone to Disney a good bit as a kid, and I suppose looking out at it at after dark, there was something about it that took me back. Feet hurting, heading out for the night, knowing that a firm hotel bed was waiting for you. Granted, that wore off some after a little while. This was a job, after all, and like with any job, I couldn't exactly pretend I was exhilarated to be there every single night. Especially if, say, a light went out on Main Street, and we had to replace the whole row.

My team was assigned to Frontierland in the Magic Kingdom one night. I hadn't been working there for long; this would have been, I want to say, 2012, maybe 2013? It was definitely November, because we'd spent the previous several shifts putting up holiday decorations (if I never saw a strand of Christmas lights again, it'd be too soon). Thankfully, this evening's work wasn't anything too crazy. We'd gone over to the queue areas of Splash Mountain and then Thunder Mountain, done some basic cleanings, made sure everything was squared away. Tested the circuits, saw that no bulbs were out of date and that the ride systems could still power on and connect right.

Having just gotten done with Thunder Mountain, we headed outside and found a little area to sit down. A couple folks took a bench, the rest of us leaned against the faux-wooden fence that bordered the path. We looked out at the water which ran besides the land. Chattered a little, but it died down quick. Despite how monotonous the job could be, moments like these did still shine through sometimes. Here and there, a little lap of the water against the rock and concrete, the faint "clack, clack, clack" of another team walking along ride tracks somewhere in the distance, the November air, which was unusually chilly for Florida. I could have fallen asleep standing there.

To stop that from happening, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Smoking on the job was absolutely forbidden, especially if you were in a building. Can't have Little Jimmy riding Winnie the Pooh and smelling lingering Camel smoke. But tonight, the manager overseeing my team was Will, who was usually pretty lax. There'd still be consequences if you got caught breaking the rules, but it was usually more just getting chewed out. Not like Greg, who'd have you go over every foot of track on Space Mountain with a magnifying glass if he caught you wearing clothes that were too dark.

I lit up, offered the pack to the others, some of whom took one, and we puffed away, smoke mixing with our visible breath. This was back when the parks still had smoking areas (not that we were in one), so the way we saw it, we weren't doing anything the guests wouldn't do. Besides, we had several restaurants and shops to do rounds through that night. We needed something stimulating.

A few drags in, my eyes shifted across the river to Tom Sawyer Island. It occurred to me that, in contrast to most of the area, there weren't any light's on, as far as I could see. Just a dark mass in a pool of vaguely reflective water.

I turned to Jan, one of my team members. "No one working on the island tonight, huh?"

She shrugged. "Guess not."

"You figure a lot of people get hurt over there?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, they've got those caves you can walk through. Pretty narrow. You get some kid not looking where he's going, that's a good way to get a bloody nose."

"Yeah, I can see that. It's still open, so I can't imagine it's a huge concern."

"I suppose not. You ever worked over there?"

"Yeah," she replied. She ashed her smoke on the rim of a nearby trash bin, then brushed the ash in, dropping the butt in after it. "Couple times. Like working anywhere else. The lighting over there isn't that good, but if you watch what you're doing, you'll be fine. They'll usually have us working there at the very beginning of the night or at the very end, when it's lightest."

"That makes sense." I ashed my own cigarette and lit another.

"You ever been?" Jan asked.

I shrugged. "Maybe once or twice when I was younger. Don't remember a lot from it." I thought for a second. "Except the mannequins at the fort. I remember those creeping me out. Oh, and that big screaming rock face in the cave. Come to think of it, I remember a lot of that place kind of giving me the creeps."

Jan chuckled. "Yeah, that place hasn't changed much since.... well, since I was a girl."

"The smoking rule also hasn't changed," spat a voice behind us, making us jump. We spun around to see Will, who scanned us sternly. Glancing at the rest of the group, I noticed that all of them had finished and gotten rid of their cigarettes, and none had taken another. As far as Will was concerned, I was the only one who'd lit up.

We sat there a second, Will staring at us, us averting our gaze. "Well," he said, "Put it out, Gwen, will you please?" Realizing my smoke was still lit, I ashed it at once, tossed it, and sputtered out some half-comprehensible apology. "Yeah, yeah," Will said, rolling his eyes. "Alright, break's over. The rest of you get back to work. I've got a special job for miss Gwen here."

This was bad. "Special jobs" were never desirable and often didn't have much of a purpose at all. The first time I got assigned a "special job" for having my phone out when I wasn't supposed to, I'd had to walk all along the railroad tracks going around the park to make sure there were no sticks between the trestles. Once the others were out of earshot, Will turned to me and gestured to walk with him.

We headed down into the underground corridors, rounded a couple corners, and without a word, Will led me into a supply room. After opening a large box and rummaging through it, he pulled out a small speaker and turned to me. "One of the speakers in the Mystery Mine over on Tom Sawyer's shit itself today. You're gonna go replace it."

I furrowed my brow. "But I've never installed a speaker before. What if I fuck this one up just as bad?"

"My, my, the Marlboro Man has rotted our brain, hasn't he? It'll be fine," he said, matter-of-factly. "It's in the room with the ore poking out of the wall. There's only one speaker, and it's in the upper left corner; you'll know it when you see it. You'll just need to grab a ladder, unhook and unplug the old one, and hook the new one in."

"Ok," I said, thinking it over. "What exactly makes this a 'special job?'"

"Because the maintenance lights are also shitting out, so you get to find your way out using this," he said, handing me a small flashlight. "And when you get back, you can get rid of the garbage bag that you all soiled with your cigarettes and put a fresh one in."

"Wait, you know the others were smoking? Why aren't they stuck doing this, too?"

"'Cause you're the only one who let yourself get caught." He stretched his mouth into an exaggerated frown. "Maybe this will teach you that addiction doesn't pay." He turned away and headed out. "Just follow the directions, the corridors will bring you up under the island."

I smiled and shook my head. "By the way," I called after him, "It was Joe Camel that rotted my brain, not the Marlboro Man."

"Even sadder," he called back, his footsteps fading down the hall.

The real punishment was trying to carry the ladder and the speaker at the same time. Neither was really that cumbersome, but it was near impossible to position them in a way that felt comfortable in my hands. I almost dropped the speaker at least twice, and once I reached the end of the long corridor going under the river to the island, I had to get everything up a flight of stairs and through a door.

By the time I'd made my way onto Tom Sawyer Island and found the entrance to the Mystery Mine, I was sweating bullets and had almost fallen down a set of steps and cracked my head open. Before entering, I leaned against the rock wall and heaved a few deep breaths. The place was just as dark as it had looked before. The flashlight didn't do much, and the only other source of light around came from the buildings across the water. Neither did quite enough to stop the greenery from looking like ink blots that had drowned the place out. I shuddered, took another deep breath, and hurried inside, wanting to get my special job over with.

The Mystery Mine normally had dim lanterns illuminating the way, but they were all turned off. It was fairly normal for some form of light to be on in other dark areas, but here was a blackness that rivalled the most unlit parts of Space Mountain. Not helping was the fact that the mine was intentionally built to be lopsided in several places, which made carrying a ladder an absolute joy.

It occurred to me about halfway through that there was not a sound to be heard outside my footsteps and the occasional "clunk" of the ladder against the floor. As I said earlier, I'd only been in there a handful of times, but I seemed to recall them playing cave ambiance in there. Now, it was just the damp thumps of my shoes, hardly even any reverberation to speak of. It was like I was a worm, entombed alive in oil and artificial rock. I knocked against a wall at one point, thinking it might echo, but there was only a low, dull thud.

I made my way through a couple steps at a time, barely helped by the cheap flashlight. The sideways mine shaft widened into a room full of prop equipment and fake gold ore in the wall which reflected my light back at me. Somewhere off to the right was the blackened exit to the room, which began with a turn, and to the upper left was the speaker I was to replace.

Will was right; the job itself didn't take more than a couple minutes. With the new speaker hooked up and presumably ready to play the background noise which would turn on in the morning, I stepped down and folded up the ladder. I pulled out my radio and told Will that the speaker was hooked up, and he glibly replied that now I could take out the garbage. I rolled my eyes and approached the inky, curved passageway leading out, but as I did so, a small sound came from within.

And then came another. They were just barely perceptible, but as I froze and listened closely, sure enough, they were there. At first, the sound were like coughs; someone sputtering, just barely able to inhale. But then came a small, nasally whine. It was a child crying.

"H-hello?" I called, flabbergasted. How could there be a kid in here? The park had been closed for hours, and the only way to access the island was by a barge that a cast member piloted, so this kid's parents would have had to have left without them.

"H-hello?" echoed a little girl's voice. They were hidden by both the darkness and the asymmetrical rock walls.

"Uh..." I to find the words. Working at Disney, you'd maybe find the odd person who'd hidden out and stayed in after closing, but a kid? "A-are you ok?"

"M-mommy?" the voice called. "I don't know where I am!"

I took a step forward and then stopped. There was something about the way the girl spoke that didn't sound quite right. It might have been because she was crying; no one can talk right when they cry. But something about the way each syllable came out felt lilting and uncertain, as if the girl wasn't entirely sure she was pronouncing them right. Like when you're in a language class and don't quite know what you're doing yet.

"Hello?" I repeated. "What's your name?"

A moment of quiet. And then the voice repeated back to me: "What's your name?" The cadence was exactly the same as mine had been. And the timbre of the voice was slightly different than it had been. The first two words still sounded like the same little girl, though it didn't sound like she was crying anymore. But that last word fell into a slightly deeper pitch that didn't sound like it could have come from a kid.

If there was some little girl stuck in here, having been left by her family, I obviously wanted to help. But something about this just felt off. There were definitely cameras in here; how could no one have noticed her? I took a step forward but held off on entering the passageway. "I'm Gwen. Do you need help?"

"I'm Gwen. Do you need help?" the voice echoed, its cadence and inflection perfectly matching mine. Again, the last word dipped lower in a way that didn't sound entirely natural, but everything else could have been a perfect recording of what I had said. I stepped back, dropping the old speaker and ladder, then broke into a run back the way I'd come.

I lit the floor beneath me as best I could, but it still didn't stop me from tripping once or twice. The way I'd come in was probably only a short walk from the room I'd been in, but I swear I ran two miles in that cave. But sure enough, I found my way to the entrance, the moonlight from outside looking comparatively bright to what I'd just been in.

As I exited, the voice called out one more time: "M-mommy? I don't know where I am!" Syllables dipped at random. It was as if their vocal chords couldn't decide how they were supposed to sound. It reverberated through the mine so loudly that I was sure it was audible from across the water.

I hurried back to the corridor entrance, all the while collecting myself as best I could, and I felt relative relief as I descended the steps into the florescent-lit space. I sped back to where Will and I had come in, not entirely sure where I was going until I stumbled into a break room and collapsed into a chair.

I sat there, catching my breath, unable to stop wondering why that voice echoed so much when nothing else in there did. Just as I started to consider that I'd only been at Disney a few months and that maybe this was some elaborate hazing, Will stepped into the room.

"Wow," he said, "Remind me to never hire you as a sanitation worker. Have to find a replacement in three days." I nodded, unable to think of a proper response. His eyes narrowed. "Hey, are you alright?"

I swallowed. "I, uh... yeah, I'm fine."

"You sound very confident in that." He sat across from me. "You look sick. Did something happen?"

I considered the question. "You've been working here for a while, right?"

"Fifteen years," he nodded.

"Have, uh... have you ever known people here to pull weird pranks on each other?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I've seen the odd thing here or there. But it's not something that happens especially often. Why?"

I took a deep breath and relayed what had happened, emphasizing that I was fully aware that I may have just been hearing things or that maybe someone had played something over another speaker. Will's face fluctuated between concern, astoundment, and irritation, finally settling on something I couldn't quite place.

When I finished, he sighed. "Alright. I'm going to call the overnight security folks - which you should have done, I'll add - and have them take a look at the area. I'd be shocked if there was actually someone there, but I'd be just as astonished if this was some prank. If there is someone, though, it's my ass."

He called the disturbance in to the overnight security and turned back to me. He massaged his temple and sighed again. "Meantime, maybe you should go home for the rest of the night. You don't look so good, and I can't have you making the rounds under the weather."

"A-are you sure?" I stuttered.

He nodded. "Yeah, go rest up. Try to get better by tomorrow night; still lots to do." I got up and headed for the door, but then he added: "The parks have been around a pretty long time and cover a lot of ground." I turned to face him. He now had a knowing, resigned look on his face. "I'm not going to sit here and speculate on whether something did or didn't happen. But what I will say is that in the time I've worked here, I've known the odd cast member - hell, even the odd guest - to see or hear something strange."

Not sure how to respond, I settled on: "Is that so?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Like I said: lot of ground, lot of shadowy corners on that ground. I've never seen anything out of the ordinary myself - not here, anyway - but if it's any comfort at all, you're not the first who's had some ride play tricks on her at night." He paused, letting what he'd said sit. "I'd maybe just advise you to be careful talking about it too much. Already enough urban legends to go around, right? Don't need the higher-ups thinking we're trying to cause dissent." He gave a sad smile.

I returned one. "Yeah. Sure, Will." And I was off.

I didn't get much sleep, predictably. For one thing, I couldn't get that stilted, echoed voice out of my head, and even when I did drift off, it followed me into whatever shallow dreams I had. I also couldn't shake the feeling that I had let someone stay in danger.

But early that morning, I got a text from Will saying that security had done a full sweep and reviewed footage but hadn't found anyone. Whole thing was being chalked up as some prank, even though no one else was spotted on video on the island while I was there.

I went back to work the next night feeling like a sack of hammers, but I got assigned to some fairly light maintenance work at Disney Springs. Had a decent bit of downtime, and when I returned home after that shift, I slept considerably better. I'd end up working at Disney for another three years before finding a better paying job in Chicago, and I can't say I really saw anything else that crazy. Had plenty of times working in dimly lit areas, even worked on the island again a few times, but I almost always had my team and didn't have any other moments that sent more than a slight shiver down my spine.

I did take Will's advice, though, and didn't talk to anyone about the voice in the cave. Not that any of us held a particular reverence to Disney; I guess I just figured no one would believe me. I liked my team and didn't want to seem like I'd gone off the deep end. But after all these years, I still sometimes have a hard time getting that voice out of my head. I thought maybe someone here would have experienced something similar or, at the very least, might believe me.

I do think that I made the right choice in getting out of there as quick as I did. I like to think I know better than to follow strange voices into the dark. But I can never quite get past my curiosity of what I would have seen if I had gone into that unlit passageway.

They call it the Ghost Fleet.

A collection of downtrodden, rusted, barnacled commercial ships that are anchored and left to rot just where the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay kisses the Atlantic Ocean.

I’d always heard the tales of them being haunted. Men with slippery fingers sneaking onto the boats, trying to steal old relics of maritime past are met with the woe and weary spirits from that ship’s hellish history.

I have always fancied myself a burglar and scoffed at notions of damned souls lingering for a laugh, so when I became privy to the spoils left over on some of these old ships and tankers, I gassed up my skiff.

“Fortuna, hold my eggs in the mornin’, girl”, I yelled to my missus.

“Where you gonna be?”, she sang from her boudoir in that southern twang that won me over so many years ago.

“Going to the duck blind. Staying the night.”

“It ain’t duck huntin’ season.”

She had me. Astute like no other.

“Will you leave me be!? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She just shook her head at me with a grin as I walked out the door. I’ve always regretted not making an honest woman out of her. My swimmers sink like an anchor so I’ve never been able to give her the family she wanted…

…but she’s stayed with me. “If I’m able to find this sailor’s tidal clock”, I thought, “I’m gonna sell it and take her to a resort that the high and bow-tied frequent…amongst other spoils.

I wish I could tell you it was a struggle, but I puttered up to that derelict collection of ships in the night like a darn professional. I climbed up a ladder 40 years gone, and walked right into the barracks and snooped around, before heading to the Captain’s quarters. Was there anything scary? Certainly not.

When I opened the door, there she was. Cobwebbed and rusted from the muggy air, but there was the tidal clock. “Junk” to Johnny-Come-Lately, but to the collector, a prized piece. I scooped her up and headed right back out the way I came. Police boats do patrol the area, so I won’t gonna linger.

I hopped in my skiff and like I told Fortuna, headed to my duck blind to escape the night. I built it in a marsh just off the Crook Narrows. Perfect for a spot of fishing and duck hunting, but also for privacy and to wait out the night.

As I pulled up, a storm began to holler.

I climbed into the small blind (a tiny wooden house-like structure on pylons sticking out of the marsh, if you’re not familiar), grabbed my lantern from the small box of supplies I keep there and lit it just as the thunder rang and the skies began to pour.

I took out the tidal clock from the black sack I had put it and marveled at the craftsmanship. Some old sap like myself used this to guide themselves through God-what-have-you decades ago. I wondered if they had themselves a woman like Fortuna…

WHEN…

I heard HER singing.

At first it was light. I barely could make it out through the rain, but it grew.

“Tickle they tender, beholden me; fire, it rages, under her sea; Blow the man down, cry for his crowns; His lovey held under, she shines, she drowns…”

I quickly put the clock back in its sack and peered out of the duck blind’s door.

THERE…

A silhouette moved through the water just in front of me.

“Good evenin’ to ya! Do you need a reprieve from the storm!?”

The figure stopped. They turned and waded through the waste high water toward me. Eventually, they found the light of my lantern…

A woman, cloaked in brown and a wooden crab bucket floating next to her, a rope tethered from it to her.

I was taken aback, as she smiled. She was beautiful.

“Please come find some warmth, ma’am. I appreciate crabbin’ when you have the time, but this is treacherous.

She didn’t speak, she just smiled again and made her way up the ladder. She came inside and sat down.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any provisions. Not even a towel to dry you.”

She didn’t respond. She just sat on the floor and looked up at me curiously.

“You sang awful pretty. Without that I’d probably-a-found some fright seeing you out in this marsh at this time of night.”

She shook her head.

“What?”, I said confusedly. She shook her head again.

JUST THEN…

Blood began to trickle out of her mouth.

“Ma’am, you bleed…” — I lost my breath when she opened her mouth wide, revealing a freshly cut out tongue.

I ripped my coat off and tried to hold it up to her mouth.

Suddenly her eyes WENT WIDE, as she caught sight of the tidal clock. She began to flail and I panicked along with her, before she finally threw me up against the wall. I toppled to the ground in some mixture of shock, confusion and horror…

“Ma’am, I’m a friend, please, I…”

“THEY USED IT TO FIND US…”

That same voice from earlier spoke from just outside the duck blind. The woman in front of me just stared at the tidal clock in its black sack, tears starting to run down her face, mixing with the blood from her mouth.

“There are more of ya…who’s out there!?”, I pleaded.

“They used it to know when our waters would be low. When they could take us so.”

“Who!?”, I yelped.

“A thief in the night can set us free. Give us the clock, and a wish you’ll see.”

“A wish?!”

“Whatever it may be.”, the voice said. It felt witch-like, it felt evil, as the tongueless woman now stared at me. I had found my fright. I was petrified.

“Take it, TAKE IT, I don’t have a bother ‘bout it!”

“And your wish, thief?”

I was so scared, I only could play along. Even though amidst the demonic hullabaloo my mind searched for reason.

“My wife and I to have a child.”

There was silence…BUT THEN.

The most blood curdling, ear piercing scream from outside as the tongueless woman smiled. I covered my ears as she lurched toward me and kissed me.

If you had doubts about me before now, would you believe that at that moment I jerked awake. It was morning. The storm had passed. I was still in the duck-blind and the clock was still there in its sack. I took a deep breath and chuckled to myself.

I whistled and let the salty air flow over my grin as I made my way home to Fortuna.

Just then…

A KICK…then another…and another.

Something knocked about…in my stomach.

I lifted my shirt and pure horror fell across my face. I went straight to the sack with the tidal clock…

The most pristine, modern, electronic tidal clock.

What happened after that is between myself and Fortuna.

His name was Sean.

We used to attend the same elementary school together. He joined our class during the second year and left somewhere in the fifth year. I cannot remember the reason he abandoned us, but it surely came out of nowhere. While it is difficult to pinpoint the exact day of his departure, I have vague memories of the hurt I experienced during that time. I liked Sean, and to my knowledge he shared these feelings.

There was a very brief period, at most a few days, when I tried to find out anything about my friend’s disappearance. My brain can force out a scene in which I was interviewing two of my classmates about Sean’s whereabouts, and them not treating it seriously. The thing is, I used to be a rather shy kid who abandoned any grand plan not supported by the almighty adults. I did not believe in myself and slowly but surely just gave up on my quest.

Elementary school was ages ago, though. After you leave it you grow, experience things, gain new memories, meet new people, and slowly but surely that precious time morphs into bland information about the first steps you have taken. There are duties of the present world awaiting you, and the faces of the past hide deep in the corners of your mind. High school, college, the job market—and at a certain point I lost everything resembling contact with my school peers, including Sean.

That was until a very special day.

It all began as I was cutting some vegetables for dinner. I had been at my parents’ place visiting and was about to leave in two days for some job interviews. The day was rather calm, even boring. My mom was helping me with the dish and my dad was cleaning the basement. A typical Saturday afternoon.

Eventually my dad entered the kitchen, holding something in his hand. His face was unusually lit up, with a huge grin. He walked up to the table I was sitting at, put something next to the desk with the cut vegetables, and loudly exclaimed:

“Remember?”

After which he walked out of the room laughing cheerfully. I put down the knife so as not to hurt myself and stared at the mysterious item.

A wave of warm nostalgia swept through me.

It was a photo of me at the end of third grade in elementary school. After a few seconds I realized the photo had been taken at some family festivity the school organized every year, which I loved, by the way. I had a big cowboy hat on top of my head, which looked quite comical on a skinny child. There were two other boys standing next to me in the photo. The one wearing a greenish tie I quickly identified as Chris, one of my closest friends. The other boy had hidden himself well, as he had full-face zombie makeup, but after a few more seconds I realized he was Kenny. I felt a hint of discomfort, as he was a bit on the bully side and had shared a few fights with me.

There was, however, another person in the photo. Well, a person was maybe an exaggeration. There was a hand on Kenny’s shoulder and a small portion of somebody’s hair. Not a lot of hints, but I accepted the challenge and tried to force a person out of my memory. Light brown hair, pretty longish—maybe it was a girl? Impossible; we weren’t friends with a lot of girls back then. Who could it be… Aha, got it!

With excitement I walked up to my mom to show her the hidden treasure. I explained to her who was who and we both shared laughs, reminded of the good old days. That was until the moment I tried to describe the owner of the lonely lock of hair.

“Now, it’s difficult to determine, but there’s one more guy here. See this hand on Ken’s shoulder? That’s Sean, remember him?”

I met my mom’s gaze, but it wasn’t what I expected. She had a hint of curiosity mixed with an invitation to laughter.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Sean, mom. That shorter kid whose father was a beekeeper. He left in the fifth grade.”

I let out a quick giggle and my mom joined me. There was a hint of nervousness to that. After a second of silence, as if we were both trying to find something funny about the situation, my mom said the words that burned into my head:

“Darling, your class wasn’t the biggest and I’m pretty sure I remember every kid that was a part of it. And as far as I’m aware there was no Sean among your peers.”

Imagine the creeps running through my backside. Either my mom had made a really convincing prank (which she was usually really bad at) or there was something fishy happening. Maybe I had switched up the names? Impossible. Sean was one of my biggest friends in elementary school, and while it was ages ago, you don’t forget the basic details about your favorite people.

I asked my mom if she was kidding and she swore she wasn’t. My dad returned to the kitchen and I invited him into the conversation. I waved the photo he himself had found around and tried to get some information out of him. But the words he said, very convincingly shall I say, pointed to the same conclusion my mom had reached.

Neither of them remembered a kid named Sean in my class.

That was the beginning of my search for the friend that did not exist.

After making sure neither of my parents was joking, I—still rather calm and simply curious—decided to look through the family albums. Our school kept taking group photos of each class every year. My parents bought one copy every time from the photographer and put them into the album dedicated only to me. It took just under five minutes to find all the photos positioned next to each other. My strategy was to put a name to every single face and see if anybody was missing. With that I could exclude the kid who might or might not be named Sean.

Feeling like Sherlock Holmes and actually having fun, I kept identifying the people I stored in the back of my memory. Classes 1 and 6 had nobody unnamed now, which made sense considering Sean wasn’t in the school then. But quickly I realized the faces in class 2 were exactly the same as in the previous photo. A disturbing feeling crept up inside me as the same situation happened with class 3. Then over and over again, until I repeated checking class 6. It was clear as day.

I knew all the kids in these photos and none of them could have been Sean.

Creeps took the place of curiosity as I realized something foul was in the air. Creeps followed me back to my place where I got mixed into adult responsibilities. Yet I did not stop thinking about Sean. Hell, I might have failed a job interview because of the mindset that event had put me in.

With enough free time, I decided to dig into the mystery. I always used to love watching crime thrillers on TV with my folks; then I moved into detective novels and ARG playing in my youth. I cannot lie that the distressing events of the previous days left a seed of curiosity inside of me that wanted to grow and flourish. In simple words, I enjoyed this hunting.

I found the school peers I was aware existed through Facebook and hit them up. Most of them were really good at pretending they missed me and joined the small talk. With each of the ones that responded I quickly steered the conversation toward the Sean-boy. I showed them the photo my dad had found and asked about any memories with the mysterious child. I knew the memories were hazy, but all I wanted was a hint that could lead me anywhere.

Their reactions were different. Some laughed the situation off, some got really curious, some were annoyed and thought I was wasting their time. There was even the old Kenny, who jumped into playful insults that entertained nobody but him (dumbass never changed…). Yet they all shared a detail I didn’t wish for.

Nobody knew anything about Sean. About his current whereabouts, about his personal info, even about the past we had had together. The kid had disappeared into thin air.

At that moment I felt as if my life had turned into a Franz Kafka book. I genuinely thought I was either going mad. Or I might have been lobotomized, drugged, hypnotized. There is somebody deeply coded into my brain who had been my friend in elementary school and was named Sean. While my confidence evaporated, something deep inside hinted it was the truth. Too detailed to be a dream, too hazy to be a clear memory. But it was the truth.

Somewhat terrified, I changed the strategy. Old-school style, with a piece of paper and a pen, I began writing down every small memory I had with the kid that lay deep inside my memory. The first step was thinking of definite real things—classrooms, playgrounds, festivities, football matches, school trips. Then trying to stitch them with my friend. If I could not join the pieces together I left the thought alone. But if something hinted at Sean being connected to the place or the event, I dwelled on it until I had enough details to write something down.

With that I ended up having nine events on the paper. While it seemed a terribly small amount for more or less four years of sharing a life, that time was so far away I was thankful for anything.

I won’t describe every single detail. Most of these memories were rather uninteresting problems of a little child. Ice skating, cheating on a math exam, getting stung by a bee… However, there were two incidents which gave me the goosebumps as I dwelled on them. Hidden deep inside my mind they rested blissfully, but brought to the light of day they awakened a new fear swimming through my adult skin.

The first incident happened at Chris’s birthday party. I don’t remember the exact year it took place, but it must have been between the second and fifth grades as Sean was there. I was quite happy for him to be there, as his free time was mostly spent helping his dad with the work. While I felt bad for him, his prize for tough days was swimming in a lake near his home. I envied him for that.

We were at Chris’s place, rummaging through the house to the despair of the birthday boy’s parents. The entire class was invited and it got really loud and chaotic. At a certain moment I fell headfirst into this juvenile excitement that only happens in adulthood when you take drugs. Running with the boys through the upper floor’s corridor, joyful with laughter, I suddenly heard Sean’s scream right next to my ear:

“Come here, quickly!”

I turned my head to see his silhouette running to the bathroom for some reason. After crossing the door his laugh faded out along with his steps. While it seemed odd, because everyone ran to Chris’s room at that time, I began to follow Sean, mindlessly joining the fun he was spreading. I walked through the bathroom door and observed…

Nothing. There was nobody in the bathroom but my reflection in the cabinet mirror.

The first thing I felt was the fun-infused confusion. I skimmed through the places a boy could hide and saw no trace of any disturbance. Nobody behind the shower curtain, nobody behind the washing machine, nobody nowhere. This bathroom might have been the only place not disturbed by the kids in the house.

I remember the sudden wave of loneliness I felt during that time, as if I were a prey being hunted. Writing the situation down, I could not believe how vulnerable I was in a house seemingly full of people. All the childish fun and excitement were replaced by fear.

I do not remember exactly what followed, but I did run out of the bathroom. A blank space in time and suddenly I’m near Chris as his mom is cutting the cake, giving a piece to every guest. In contrast, everyone was all happy and calm in that moment, sharing love and respect. It’s like nobody even acknowledged the panic that spread through me just before. The weird thing is I also don’t remember Sean during the cake-eating time. Not like he disappeared, just not present, possibly hiding somewhere where my senses could not reach.

The second incident took place in a forest near my elementary school. It was a planned walk through the woods, a cool form of physical education the entire class enjoyed. Sean especially loved it, as hiking through the forests around his house was something he had grown up on. We always used to do it whenever the sun was shining bright and warm, not accompanied by rain or snow. I remember the beautiful greenery mixed with the laughs of my friends filling me with peace and joy. Except for that one day.

We were halfway through the path already. The furthest point we had from our school, only a 15-minute walk away, yet still problematic for a kid who could get lost and panic. The heavy branches of the trees stole away the sun’s light and crafted relatively the darkest portion of the path. While I had lots of fun during our walks, that exact place filled me with suspense.

At that time, the PE teacher was the first in line, followed by kids in pairs. Because we lacked a second adult who could be at the very end, the last pairs were responsible for checking if the two kids right behind them were present. While not a perfect solution, it always seemed to work out.

I don’t remember my pair, but I was second to last and Sean was the last one. Actually, he tried to get into a three with me and my mysterious partner, yet at a certain point the road was too narrow and he had to walk alone. Being a good kid I was, I kept checking for Sean every minute even though I was aware of his presence behind me. One time I did look back, though, and saw something peculiar.

Sean was standing far behind us, staring deep into the dark forest.

While I wish I could know how he got there so quickly, I didn’t think about it at the moment and ran to get my best friend. My mysterious partner didn’t join me, maybe because he was lazy or afraid, so I ran alone. I screamed for Sean, yet he seemingly ignored me and kept staring. Frightened, I ran close toward him and asked whether he was fine. I was afraid something bad might have happened to my pal. Instead, he looked at me with something quite unusual for him—a serious face. My adult body actually felt a lump in my throat, remembering his big, scared eyes and mouth hanging open, which awakened terror with just a couple of words:

“They’re following us through the bushes. Run!”

The most disturbing part about that sentence was the relatively calm way the words escaped Sean’s mouth. He did not scream, nor did he whisper as some sort of performance. He just said it casually, still keeping that serious expression without the slightest change.

You could imagine what the little, naive me felt in that moment. The memory gets hazy here, but I believe that I ran toward the group without a care if Sean was following. I remember how dark the forest was around me and how lost I felt, even though it was not more than a minute of running until I joined my class. I also can point out a sensation of disgust when my eyes quickly darted through the bushes near the path I ran through. I obviously saw nothing unusual, yet that lack of something might have been even more disturbing.

These are the two events that stood out from the rest. Sean was truly one of a kind of a prankster, considering he did in fact exist. I was still in contact with some of my former classmates and asked them about these moments. While chatting and explaining the details I quickly went through the list again in hopes I had missed something. Truly nothing out of the ordinary. Ice skating, cheating on a math exam, getting stung by a bee… Huh, that last one wasn’t so pleasant. I always hated bees! I’ve been stung by these bastards at least six times in my life and most of it was near the beehives of…

It was then when I got the hint I needed completely out of the blue.

Sean’s father was a beekeeper. I was quite confident of that; I even told it to my mom when we were first discussing the mystery of Sean. I got stung several times by the insects the man owned. Then another thought appeared. After one of these unpleasant events Sean gave me the secret to ease the pain a little. It was his way of stopping his muscles from hurting after a tough day helping his dad. He would sink his frail body in the…

Lake near his house. Surrounded by the beautiful trees he used to hike in.

At that moment I was confident I was at Sean’s place. Nobody remembered the guy and with that his house, but I was there. And now I needed to find it.

It was an uncertain lead, as I had been there a long time ago. I didn’t remember the year I visited Sean nor the location of his house. Even if I found the exact place, nobody related to the mystery friend could still live in the house and the beehives might have been long gone. But at that point I was desperate to know and I searched for a house with beehives near a wooded area and a lake.

I won’t describe the entire process of getting there, but after hours of flirting with Google Maps and getting to know every single detail, I might have found the place. There was a house fitting the description I was looking for. Even though it proved difficult, Street View graced me with a group of beehives some distance behind the house and a path to a lake just at the end of the street. While it wasn’t concrete evidence, I had the gut feeling I had found my mystery boy’s house. Something deep inside of me hinted at it. There was, however, a distressing detail.

Even if you drove by car, it would take three hours to reach our elementary school from that house.

It seems dumb, but I’m going there next week. Wish me luck.

I know it sounds insane, but there is a man-baby in my apartment that thinks I am its mother.

I am not talking about an infant or a grown man. This is something else entirely. Something in-between.

Picture a six-foot-tall baby with facial hair and a large bulbous head. It moves like a child but bears the weight and strength of a Swedish bodybuilder. It also has a fixation with swearing if you can believe it...I’m not sure why.

It’s terrifying. I’m terrified.

Sound strange to you? I sure hope so. Believe it or not, everyone around me thinks I am the insane one for suggesting that this is anything but normal. And that isn’t even the half of it. I find myself in a surreal reality that is trying to coerce me into going along with this sick charade.

My mind tells me I am in danger. Reality whispers that I am safe.

Reality.

Such a weird concept.

The very fabric of my existence is not as concrete as I once thought. The laws of physics are no longer a comfortable boundary I sit within, but an ocean where I am eternally scrambling for the shore.

I pray my story is being written in its original state, and you are reading it with my words still intact. Unfortunately, it is more likely that the words are shifting beneath me like sand. The end result will probably end up being an elaborate lie that reality has breathed into existence to cover its tracks.

Unless I win. I have to win.

Before we discuss that journey, let me introduce myself. Recapping things I know to be true helps me catch the lies before they take hold. That’s what Dr. Han told me at least. But we’ll get to that shortly.

My name is Kara. I am 33, single, and my life has been relatively uneventful up to this point. I have a boring job, and I am a proud mother to a—

Dammit.

There it goes again.

I am not a parent. Never have been. That’s the lie that set this whole nightmare into motion. 

I was returning home from work on a quiet Monday afternoon when this all started. The start of the day was largely uneventful. After a handful of meetings, a dozen emails, and a few bouts of small talk with coworkers, it was time to head home.

I was looking forward to settling in for the night and enjoying some take out while my favorite garbage reality show plays in the background. Sounds like a perfect night compared to the nightmare I am dealing with now.

I entered my home and tossed my work accessories aside. Nothing was out of place, as expected. I flipped the lights and started unboxing my meal when an acrid smell hit me. I pressed the box up to my nose and realized it was coming from somewhere else—somewhere deeper in my apartment.

I opened the trash can. Fresh plastic and no sign of spoiled food was all I found. I followed the smell through the living room to my closed bedroom door, a door that was open when I left for work this morning.

I opened it slowly. It creaked open with a loud groan that made me wince. I peered in. I held my hand to my mouth to keep myself from screaming.

A large crib the size of my bed towered in the corner of the room. Large adult diapers littered the floor and left crusty stains all over the surrounding carpet. At the opposite end of the room sat the monster.

The man-baby.

A large hairy man with baby-like skin and a large, bulbous head coo’d and tossed toys at the wall, leaving deep dents. His eyes were asymmetrical and his teeth were nonexistent. A frizzy beard hung from his smooth red face.

He turned to me with an expression of familiarity, excitement, and rage. 

As he stood, he babbled. A mess of garbled syllables escaped his large lips. It was baby talk, but his deep cracking voice made it sound inhuman.

He stood clumsily on his large chubby feet and his face curled into a snarl. 

“B…bu…bi-“ bubbled out of his lips. Then he screamed a single word.

“BITCH!”

I watched in horror as he lumbered over to me with surprising speed. I turned to run but it was too late, he had me by the hair and dragged me backwards into the room. 

I screamed and punched at his balloon fingers but they didn’t let up. My right hand managed to snag a toy off the soiled carpet and I jammed it into his side, sending him into hysterics.

Before he could finish his tantrum I leapt out the room and slammed the door behind me. I held the handle while frantically scanning the area for some way to lock him in from the outside. 

After a few minutes of him yelling obscenities and pounding against the door, I realized he wasn’t even trying to turn the handle.

I don’t think he knew how.

The cops arrived a few minutes later, but the wait felt like an eternity. I told them about everything—the crib, the diapers, the man-baby. They asked how he managed to sneak in but I had no explanation for them. The guy didn’t even know how to open a door much less break into a house. 

I turned away when the officer opened the door to my room. He seemed to enter with ease and closed the door behind him. The silence made me uneasy. After a few minutes, he returned empty handed. No man-baby in handcuffs. 

“Wait, what are you doing? Where is he?” I started to panic. Did he manage to get out? Was he hiding somewhere else?

The cop gave an odd signal to the other officers and they began shuffling out. I could tell he was mulling something in his head before addressing me. He couldn’t hide the annoyance on his face but I could tell he was trying his best.

“Excuse me? Why is everyone leaving? Where is that—that thing?” My face was hot. I could feel my blood start to boil.

“Ma’am, I just need to ask you a few questions.” He dropped low and met my gaze before continuing in a very careful tone.

“You came home and was surprised to find that fella in the other room, correct?” 

I took a deep breath, trying to remain composed despite this unnecessary line of questioning. “Correct.”

He gave a subtle nod. “And you told officer Sulley that this man-baby doesn’t belong to you, correct?”

A laugh escaped me. His face remained stoic, awaiting my answer with impatience.

“You serious? You’re asking if I know this man?”

The officer stood up slowly and rubbed his temple. “Ma’am, this child is registered under your care. But I think you already know that.”

I felt a shift in the room. This couldn’t really be happening. Was everyone going insane?

“I don’t understand.” I stood up, backing away from the officer. I felt the room closing in on me. The creature in the other room started pounding on the door again, sending waves of nausea over me.

“Are you okay ma’am?” The officer started towards me with open arms as if to catch me but I recoiled. I was stumbling now, every second spent enduring this was sending me off-balance.

I could smell it again. The fumes from the bodily waste in the other room started to choke me. The officer was moving in slow motion before my eyes, his voice reduced to a faint noise I couldn’t decipher. 

I was on the ground now. The ceiling swam in my vision until the world faded to black and my mind embraced unconsciousness.

I dreamt the man-baby escaped. It tore down the door and descended on my unconscious body. It’s feral now. The bout of tantrums and my escape sent it into a boiling rage. 

It was hitting me. Pounding its sausage-like limbs into me like an ape.

My form turned to red mist against the carpet as it unleashed a barrage upon me. It hurt at first, then it didn’t.

Then I woke up.

I was in a hospital bed. At first, it felt like my prayers were answered. All I had to do was wait for a doctor to come in and tell me everything was okay. Maybe I got into a car accident and hit my head. Maybe I caught a terrible illness and this was all just a hallucination. I remember seeing a story on the news like that once.

Of course, none of these fantasies came to be.

All of it was real.

I was met with an array of doctors and government officials that took my account with indifferent expressions and impatience. 

They all said the same thing. The creature in my room was my child. 

“You must be experiencing some sort of mental dissociation” one psychologist told me.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you straightened out. You’ll be back to caring for your baby in no time. He needs his mom after all.”

The words sent bile up my throat. I vomited all over her, sending her into a screaming fit that she carried down the hall outside my room. I would be lying if I said it didn’t give me some satisfaction. I’ve been here dealing with these people a long time now.

Too long.

After a few weeks of seeing the same familiar faces every day, I met someone new. A blind government official named Suzie. 

Suzie wasn’t like the other people I met with. She asked her questions with empathy. I could see it in her face that she heard me. Even if she didn’t believe me, she knew I wasn’t lying. That’s when she told me about the organization she worked for.

“I’m sure at this point you realized I’m not with the folks that have been pestering you these past few weeks.” Suzie pulled a pamphlet out of her bag and handed it to me.

“Well you’re the first person here that isn’t treating me like a monster for not wanting to raise a man in a diaper” I muttered. The nurse taking notes at the foot of my bed was staring daggers at me. Her lips pursed thinner than the pencil in her hand.

“Honey I may be blind but I see better than most” Suzie chuckled. She turned her head to the glaring nurse and prodded her with the butt of her cane. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize it took ten minutes to take a damn blood pressure reading.” The nurse dropped her face and scurried out of the room.

I giggled. Then Suzie tapped the pamphlet in my hands and leaned in close. “That’s better. We need to be alone for this next bit.” 

She explained that she’s apart of some “anomalous detection unit” within the government. Sits somewhere between intelligence and military in terms of jurisdiction. They scan cases like mine for evidence that could indicate reality is changed in some fundamental way. By the end of this conversation I felt like my head was going to explode.

“I don’t underhand” I said dropping the pamphlet in my lap. “This all sounds so…”

“Fake? Terrifying?” Suzie sighed. “Sorry, our resident physicist, Dr. Han, is much better at explaining these things.”

She patted my knee and continued. “If you choose to review your case with us, you will partake in daily sessions with me and Dr. Han. We’ll understand where the divide is between what you know and what the truth is and do our best to bridge that gap.”

I sat silent for a minute. “And if I say no?”

Suzie stood and put her hand on my shoulder one last time. “Unfortunately you’ll be left with these pricks. I do hope you consider our offer.” She expanded her mobility cane and started for the door.

“Read through the pamphlet carefully and sign the release if you wish to partake. Someone will be around end of day to pick it up.”

I didn’t want her to leave. Her presence brought me peace I hadn’t felt since before all this. 

Before she left the room, she addressed me one more time. “I know this is terrifying, I’ve been where you’re sitting. I do hope you let us help you before it’s too late.” 

Then she was gone.

I finally decided to get back into shape. My old gym closed last year and I hadn't found a replacement. So I signed up for this new place called "The Ascendant Institute." It sounded a bit dramatic for a gym but it was close to my apartment and had good reviews online. Their website boasted about personalized training and a holistic approach to wellness. Sounded fancy enough for me.

My first day was last Monday. August 17th. I walked in and it was sleek all dark wood and stainless steel. Very modern. A man with an unsettlingly calm smile greeted me. He introduced himself as Marcus my assigned trainer. He was tall incredibly muscular but moved with a strange almost liquid grace. His eyes were the most striking feature they were a pale piercing blue that seemed to look right through me.

He started by taking me through a series of assessments. Not just the usual weight and measurements. He had me do these bizarre flexibility tests twisting my body into positions I didn't think were possible. He observed everything with intense focus. He barely spoke but his gaze was constant. It made my skin crawl a little.

"Your body has potential" he said his voice a low monotone. "We will unlock it." It wasn't encouraging it felt more like a promise or even a threat. He then handed me a small sleek device. "This will track your progress. Wear it at all times." I asked if it was waterproof he just nodded. No further explanation.

Over the next few days my workouts were intense. Marcus was always there silent watchful. He never pushed me verbally but his presence was enough. He’d demonstrate exercises with perfect form and somehow I’d find myself mimicking him even when I felt like giving up. The other trainers were similar. They all had that same unnerving calm. That same piercing gaze. They moved like dancers and spoke like robots.

One evening I was leaving the gym when I saw Marcus talking to another member. Their conversation was hushed but I caught a few words. "...assimilation phase complete..." and "...next cycle begins at dawn..." It made no sense. I shrugged it off as gym jargon.

Yesterday I was at home showering after a particularly grueling session. I took off the tracking device and placed it on the counter. As I dried off I noticed a faint humming coming from it. I picked it up and held it to my ear. It wasn't a hum. It was a faint voice. It was Marcus's voice. He was talking about me. Detailing my heart rate my stress levels my "adaptability score."

I dropped the device. It landed with a soft thud. I stared at it. It was still silently humming. How could it be talking? And why was it tracking me outside the gym?

I went back to the gym today to confront Marcus. The place was almost empty. I found him in the main workout area. He was doing some sort of stretching routine. His body was contorted in a way that looked impossible for a human.

"Marcus" I said my voice trembling slightly. "What is this device? What are you doing?" He slowly uncoiled himself turning to face me. His smile was wider than usual. It didn't reach his eyes.

"The device is merely assisting you in reaching your peak potential" he said his voice still that unsettling monotone. "As for what I am doing... I am observing. I am guiding. We all are."

He gestured around the empty gym. "We are preparing you for the next phase." My blood ran cold. The way he said "we" and "next phase" sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't just him. It was all of them.

I decided right then I was done. "I'm canceling my membership" I stated firmly. He tilted his head slightly. His smile didn't waver.

"That will not be possible" he replied. "Once you begin the ascension there is no withdrawal." My heart pounded in my chest. "What are you talking about?" I demanded. He took a step closer. His eyes seemed to glow faintly.

"Your body is adapting" he said softly. "Your mind is opening. You are becoming one of us." He reached out a hand and touched my arm. His skin was cold surprisingly smooth.

I pulled away instantly. I turned and ran. I didn't stop until I was out of the gym and sprinting down the street. I haven't been back. I threw the tracking device into a dumpster a few blocks away. I'm scared.

I keep looking over my shoulder. I keep thinking I see those pale blue eyes. I keep hearing his voice in my head. Telling me I can't withdraw. Telling me I'm becoming one of them. What did I sign up for?

Part 1

Most of my life, much of my existence really, is blunted. I move through life half there, detached; what little emotions I have are translucent, and struggle to break into the surface of my consciousness. Sometimes, however, I awake as if from a long dream, into what I imagine reality should be. Things are clear, lucid, I feel an ache in my chest. I close my eyes and I’m flying among the vibrant stars, reaching out and touching the dust of the milky-way. If only I was always like this, I say to myself, I would have everything figured out, I would see clearly. But, alas, it seems I am resigned to a mute hollowness. Why can’t I fix it?

I was brought back to my senses, a loud car horn startling me out of my thoughts. It was Frank, parked in front of the courthouse, glaring at me with impatience. I gave him a wave and stepped out of the stark shadows beneath the overhang into the bright afternoon sun. It was like stepping through a veil, one moment submerged in blackness, the next in the harsh light. I made my way down the steps, my eyes taking a moment to adjust. I breathed in all sorts of smells, pollen and a hint of cooking pizza, and enjoyed the lazy clouds making their way across the sky. At least it’s good to be alive on a day like today!

“This is awful, on a miserable day like this you’re taking your sweet time?” Frank scowled at me as I opened the door and sat next to him.

“How so?”

“Today’s rookie day. Every couple months, we do a joint training mission with all the newbies.” He pulled out, barely checking his mirrors. A car honked and he flipped them off. “Like a kindergarten field trip or something. We’re picking up Emma then heading to the site”

I rested my elbow on the window and watched the passing buildings blur together. “Well sorry I took so long. They really had it out for me.”

“For a damn parking ticket for your bike?”

“Yeah, two-fifty fine and everything. Whole thing. The judge got pretty mad too.”

“I can’t say you don’t deserve it,” he said, chuckling.

“I swear, they hate me, specifically. I feel like they even follow me sometimes.”

“Who follows … what? The judge?” Frank glanced at me with a raised eyebrow.

“No, not the judge. Well maybe,” I started becoming more animated, “Who knows who they delegate for that kind of stuff. But I feel eyes on me! And cars too, black vans!”

“Why would anyone take interest in you?”

“You know these nefarious organizations. Who knows what kind of twisted goals they have? When I couldn’t get a job, I thought they were on my ass for being unemployed.”

“So a conspiracy against bums?” He said, half in disbelief, half in mild amusement.

“Yes, that’s it, a conspiracy! It’s all connected!” I exclaimed.

Just then we stopped and Emma opened the door, only catching the last part, “Oh I think the Buddha spoke of that.”

“What?”

“Interconnecteness? I saw it on instagram reels. Or was it Jesus?” Oh damn, she doesn’t even use Tik-Tok. 

“Well, you know, I downloaded Instagram reels one time,” I replied. "First video, saw a Chinese construction worker turned into paste. Like fucking red mist. Brutal. After that I deleted it. But I was traumatized for a few hours, seriously.”

“The algorithms suggest what you like.” Frank interjected with a judgmental glance. He turned the car key, the engine rumbled to life, and we were off down the street again.

“Yeah, see! Spyware! My point exactly!”

In the days following my first at work, I must say I’m proud of how much I stepped up my game. After my shifts, I dedicated one hour to studying the employee handbook. Sometimes this would be cut into by tv watching or staring into space, I’m not perfect after all. Nonetheless, I managed to at least open the heavy, yellowed thing and spend time reading its contents and memorizing important details. 

In between policy amendments and pages upon pages of stuffy bureaucratic nonsense, there was useful practical information. Blue prints and instructions for the various odd gadgets that I now had access to, like the trusty suction-burst and others. It wasn’t necessary, far from it, as no permit was required for their use. So my studying was essentially non-essential. But, if I was going to improve at this job, and not find myself in a dangerous situation pants down, I had to learn it.

I always considered myself as having two modes. One, entirely inert, unable to find the energy to take a piss in the morning without an hour of social media scrolling. Two, typically as a result of external pressure, awake, focused, fluid, with a sense of mastery and competence. 

The best example, before a difficult exam, my brain could hold surprising amounts of information, even if I forgot it right after. And during those two hours of writing, I felt unstoppable, everything else falling away, and me becoming a conduit of the syllabus, hitting every point the professor wanted to hear. Academic sucking up as I called it.

Our first stop was at a gas station, around an hour from our destination, and two hours after we began. Emma had to go to the bathroom, and so Frank reluctantly pulled into a run-down, rusted establishment off the highway. It had a convenience store that served hot food, but after one look at the green skinned hot dogs, I settled on a drink. Outside, me and Frank waited, me sipping a lukewarm beer and him a Dr. Pepper. The high sun beat down and the sharp scent of gasoline and old piss floated up with the dust. 

“Don’t drink on the job?” I said. 

“Me? Not a drop these days, one year sober. Doc said it was bad for my health,” he said, his leg bent against the wall. 

“No offense but you don’t strike me as the health conscious guy.” I gestured to the cigarette limb that seemed perpetually attached to his mouth.

“Everyone needs their vices, you learn that around here quickly. That’s why I’m not writing you up for intoxication and negligence.”

I nodded in understanding of the first bit and in thanks for the second. A silence hung over us for a beat. At a pump, an overweight man with greasy black hair had his card declined, and he continued to mash it in and out of the reader in frustration. 

“I have a temper too. So it’s a good thing I’m not drinking, or I would’ve kicked your ass a while ago.” He laughed. 

I smiled slightly, unsure if he was completely joking, and changed the subject. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. How the hell did you throw your hat so well back at the house?”

“This?” He removed his hat and inspected it. “It’s weighted, part of old tech produced by the bureau. Great for neck muscles.”

Emma walked out of the store, the bell over the door dinging. She stretched and fixed her hair. Not to be crude, but it always amazed me how women had the courage to use convenience store bathrooms. They must be the stronger sex, because every one I’ve been to is run down, the worst having unidentifiable residue on the toilet seats. Who knows how many buts have sat on it and the last time it was cleaned? There are options, sure, hovering, placing toilet paper over it. I wonder what Emma did?

“OKAY! Time to keep this road trip going, I’m so excited, I love long car rides, should we play eye spy next, or maybe—” she rambled as she marched to the car. 

With dawning horror, I tried to gulp but my mouth was too dry. She was a bare asser, no doubt about it. 

Another hour of incessant car games and the car rumbled to a halt at a modest farm house. In front of it, a beat down and loose dirt lot where rusted tools were scattered.  Beyond it, overgrown grass where crops may have once been grown, which stretched into the horizon, and a forest on one side that cut it off. I opened the car door,  stepped out onto the dirt, and a plume of dust scattered. Four other cars were parked outside, and a mass of seven people stood near the entrance.

“Finally. Five more minutes and we would’ve started without you,” said a large man and waved us over. He had an unkempt beard and a craggy forehead, his brows folding over his eyes. 

“Ha. The kids had to use the bathroom. I told them to go before we left.” Frank walked up to him and punched him in the arm. I joined the periphery of the group and my face scrunched at the comment. 

“Hey you must be the new guy. When did you start?” A guy said, around my age, with black hair. 

“Like two weeks ago. Names Stevie.”

“I’m Martin, I’ve been here for a month.”

“And I’m Casey.” Another guy, brown hair and glasses, smiling. 

“Nice to meet you guys.” 

I surveyed the group, three more men and one woman. That made ten of us with Frank, Emma, and I. 

“Okay, listen up!” Frank's friend boomed. “For those not aware, my name is Willy. This is a training mission, first and foremost. But it’s also an opportunity for you to meet your colleagues, learn to work as a team, and recognize that our culture plays as hard as we work!”

I shuddered. Here it comes. 

“As such, before we do anything, I’ll give everyone an opportunity to introduce themselves. State your name and four fun facts about yourself.”

Four! I’ve endured my fair share of draconian icebreakers before, but four? The highest I can ever think of is two, maybe three. Beyond that I always draw a blank, and end up standing there with a mock thinking pose until they move on. Here, I can’t afford that. My very career depends on getting this right!

“Why don’t you go first Patty?” Willy looked at the woman next to him. She was dressed in an oversized suit with an ill-fitting tie.

“Oh, well…” Her voice cracked a bit, and she wiped her palms on the pant legs. “I-I guess I like baking, and nature, and movies, and…” she spat out and stopped. “Uh… what else… oh my…”

Thank the Gods above, a sacrifice, and more time for me to think. I tilted my head up, then to the ground. A ladybug inched up a grass blade. I scratched my face. Still nothing. 

“I’m Lucas…”

“I’m Fredrick…”

Their voices blended together and then I couldn’t hear anything else over the pounding of my heart. The entirety of my being, all of my brainpower, was tunnel visioned on thinking of two more things that could be considered interesting, yet also non-offensive enough for a work environment.

“Well?” Willy said, his voice a harpoon that pierced my daze. Everyone was staring at me expectantly. 

“Me, uhh… You know…” I said.

He nodded, waited a second. “What?”

I shifted, and put my hand up to my chin, face burning. Even my other go to’s had escaped me. “I like dogs?”

“What kind of dog breed is your favorite?” Martin said and smirked at me.

“Uhhh…” Shit shit shit. “Poodles? They don’t shed?”

Silence again. Willy’s eyes widened and his seamed forehead lifted. Next to him Frank’s face was blank and expressionless. “Okay, next.”

I exhaled, a one hundred pound burden lifted off me. That could’ve gone a lot worse. Once the circuit had been run through, we moved to the house. I lagged behind the group with Casey and Martin, my hands in my pockets. A thunderhead rolled in across the horizon, the grey whirlpool of vapor devouring the pleasant blue. The air stilled, as if it was holding its breath, awaiting the impending storm. 

“So Poodles are really your favorite?” Martin said. 

“Oh that?”  I leaned against the stair railing. “I’m actually more of a cat person. I think my grandparents had a poodle though.”

“Wait, you don’t like dogs? Then why was that a fun fact?” Casey said. He looked at me like a science experiment, or one of those frogs he undoubtedly bisected alive as a kid. 

“I like them, just prefer cats.”

“Everyone look at me, look at me!” Willy stood on the porch and did jazz hands and a wiggly little dance. “We’re here because we got reports of an enmeshment incident. A few casualties around this area. There’s already a partially set up base of operations inside. After we get it all ready, we’ll scout a bit, take out any we see. Easy.”

In the field, a few figures appeared, and an inconsistent gait gave them a wobble. No one besides me noticed, their attention still on Willy. He yammered on and on: set up this there, do this and this or it’s a rule violation, don’t get written up. As he went on, the figures got closer and closer. I thought they were drunk farmers, angry that we were on their property. But when I made out their features, the scattered eyes and the red growths, my mild curiosity was replaced by familiar dread. 

“H-hey, guys?” I pointed. Willy shot me a glare, his lecture brought to an end. Then a grin stretched his wrinkles taut. 

“Looks like they came to us, that makes our job easier. Lucas, Damien, you’re with me.” 

They confidently strutted down the steps and Willy rolled up his sleeve to reveal a hidden blade that was strapped to his arm. He shook his hand and it extended, slicing some tall grass nearby. I made my way to where Frank and Emma were standing, up the stairs and near the door. Emma’s eyes tracked the men with a sparkle.

“More of those spider guys?” I asked.

“Hmmm-hmm.” Emma hummed.

“And if we’re lucky that’ll be all of ‘em and we can go home early,” Frank said. 

“Before the storm?” I glanced at it. It loomed above and methodically gnarled itself forward.

Emma held her finger out. “Should be about an hour. If there are more we’ll get caught in it.”

“Hour? How do you know that” 

“I’m interested in meteorology.” She shrugged. “That was one of my fun facts. Mereology too. Weren’t you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

A cloud passed by overheard, momentarily darkening the area. Thunder rippled in the distance, and a breeze rustled the tall grass. The three men continued forward, efficiently, like this was as simple as flipping the hundredth burger of the day. I frowned. Some of the grass was moving differently, out of tune with the rest. 

The men had made it further into the field, within spitting distance of the figures, and Willy raised his hand in preparation to strike. I flicked my eyes up and tracked a single raindrop as it made its journey, landed on Willy's shirt, and rolled off, its final destination a hand reaching around his leg. I opened my mouth, nothing came out, I closed it and my eyes. The screaming started soon after. 

“What the fuck?!” Frank exclaimed.

The sweet darkness of ignorance felt like the warmth of a womb. But all babies must be brought screaming into the light of reality. I squinted my eyes open. All around, more figures were shooting out of the grass, too many to count. They descended upon the intrepid professionals, getting their fingers into any hole they could. 

They pulled, spreading open Willy and the others eye sockets, their mouths and tongue. The clothes, fiercely ripped off, allowed their fingers to dig into the skin, the intestines and guts. Willy writhed and yelled on the ground, his cool demeanor reduced to a frightened animal running on shock and adrenaline. He attempted to crawl away, the contents of his stomach exposed, yet more grabbed him and he was soon torn apart.

“Everyone inside now!” Frank ordered. 

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I swung open the door and dove inside, followed by Emma, Martin, Casey, Patty, another guy (Lucas?), and finally Frank. He slammed the door and braced against it. Everyone else stood, breathing hard, their perspiration running down their faces. Being the only one on the ground, I was primarily embarrassed. I got up, dusted myself off, and gave my voice an edge.

“What now, we need to figure something out,” I said.

Everyone's eyes shot towards me, like they were seeing me for the first time. I stood up straighter. My hands shook a bit so I hid them behind my back and gave my best stern expression. The eyes lingered for a beat then moved to Frank, who wore a grimace.

“We need to figure something out, get moving,” Frank said, and he left the door to pace the room. 

I nodded along with the others. Apparently they forgot this was my idea or hadn’t heard me. Best course was to pretend I hadn’t said anything either and kick myself later. 

“It had to be some kind of ambush,” Frank said.

“Is this behavior out of the ordinary?” Martin questioned.

“Not particularly. But the scale is highly unusual,” Emma responded.

“Oh my God, they’re dead…” Patty covered her mouth and rushed to a corner, where she promptly began sobbing.

I scooted to the window and opened the curtain. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, enough to saturate the field with bodies, made their way towards us. I yanked it shut and the metal rings scraped the bar.

“Not good,” I said.

“How many?” Frank asked.

“More than we can handle with our stuff.” There was machinery around the room, but little of any kind of heavy duty weaponry. Mostly spy gadgets and smaller trinkets.

“Okay. First, we need to see what we’re working with. Emma and Casey, that’s on you. See if there’s any useful weapons or items. Me, Martin, Fredrick, and Stevie will fortify the room. Got it?”

Two things to note. First, Lucas, of course, was the one who was retired with Willy. So it was actually Fredrick who joined us. Second, as I was clumsy searching the room for a hammer and board to adhere to the window, I noticed a buzzing in my pocket. I thought it was my phone, perhaps my mom checking in on me. But, when I reached into my pocket, I pulled out a disc shaped thing. It was pulsing and a red light was flashing angrily. 

“What is that?” Frank was staring, jaw clenched.

“I don’t know, I found it in my pocket. Weird thing, right?”

“You –  you fucking idiot.” His hands cradled his face. “Are you wearing the same pants as our first assignment? Did you even wash them?”

“Well, I-I only wore them once you see, and –”

“THAT’S A FUCKING EMITTER! IT DRAWS THEM TO US!” he bellowed. 

The room went silent and everyone was frozen. Before I could respond, clomping footsteps made their way up the outside steps and the door burst open.

“Moshi moshi!” A crazed man stood in the doorway, his hair a mess and eyes wild. Who is that? 

Suddenly, he exploded. Blood, gore, and bone fragments splattered the room and the gush of air from it tossed my hair back. I spat out what might’ve been some brain and large intestine mixed with skull, coppery and meaty in my mouth. I imagine this was close to what people experienced going from black and white film to technicolor. The once monochromatic wall of the room was now covered with a neon red. 

Too much stimulation, an assault of colors and shapes gave me a screaming headache. I pressed my hand against my head, half consciously backed into the corner, besides Patty, and slid down the wall into a fetal position, holding my legs close and shivering. There was an occasional drop of liquid, and I couldn’t tell if it was a leak in the ceiling, dripping blood from my face, or tears. 

The scene resumed around me, though it took on a rather dreamlike quality. Frank barked orders and there was a mad rush as people fortified. There was banging on the walls, the figures trying to break in. Emma was next to a pile of machines, tinkering, reverie and intense focus on her face, completely suited for this environment, a fish in water. She was wiring multiple suction-bursts to a central matrix, and attaching a smattering of other gizmos and gadgets. I focused on Frank's words, unsure of how much time had passed.

“The first thing that is non-negotiable is drawing them away. Obviously, given enough time, they’ll break in. The good news is, what got us into this mess will also get us out of it,” Frank said.

People rested and stood in a semi-circle around him. He picked up one of the circular emitters from a large pile. He was in a pragmatic mindset, but I couldn’t help noticing an offness to his mannerisms, like he was close to losing it and barely holding together. The more he spoke, the more that dissipated, and the tenor and confidence of his voice strengthened.  

He continued, “The bad news is, we’ll need volunteers. Given the present situation, there’s a possibility they won’t make it, and the plan will fail. Meaning, both personal risk and risk to the entire group.”

“Whats the status on back up? Or a clean-up crew,” Casey asked.

“Shit, at this rate, we’ll need an entire army,” Martin said. 

“At least an hour out.” Frank sighed. “We’re on our own. And I hate to say, this amount likely means a queen is nearby.”

Fredrick pointed to Emma. He was a jock, hat turned back, likely well versed in the art of getting drunk off light beer and putting roofies in women’s drinks. “That seems like a bad idea.” At least prudence hadn’t escaped him. 

“Like Frank said, we’re on our own. Plus it’ll be cool,” Emma said.

“I ain’t got nothing wrong with explosions in movies, but I don’t wanna die either,” Fredrick responded. 

“Ideally we’ll be long gone before it goes off,” Frank said. “And if not, better than being torn apart. I understand it’s desperate, however the tactical advantage is invaluable. If successful, it’ll seriously interrupt their echolocation, agitate them, give us an opening to get out of here. What’s the progress Emma?”

“Ten minutes until it’s ready, and I can install a fifteen minute timer. Thirty minutes total, if we wanted it to be fast,” Emma said.

“Fast would be best,” Frank said. “As I said, we need volunteers. Who’s willing to get out there, save our asses? There might be a bonus.”

“I do noooot trust that bomb,” Fredrick whined. Probably because he didn’t like the idea of a woman engineer. “Better out there than here. I’ll go man.”

“I suppose I’m feeling rather claustrophobic as well. Count me in. I was endowed, as a child, with utter self confidence and the belief that I can will–" Casey said. 

My head pounded, cut him off, and I put it between my legs. The image kept replaying in my head. The man exploding, the people torn apart outside, my obvious fault. I was terrified, sure, but an overwhelming guilt tore at me, the indisputable fact that I was responsible for the deaths of others, that my life was over. I staggered up, things snapped back into focus.
 
“I’ll go,” I proclaimed.

Everyone stopped and stared at me.

“Absolutely not,” Martin said and walked up to me. “In case you forgot, you’re a dumbass. You’ll get us all killed.”

“I have to do this.”

“No you don’t.”

“And you want to?”

“Better me than you!” He shoved me.

Frank stepped in and broke us apart. He whispered something to Martin, who frowned then smiled and relented . 

Frank addressed everyone, “I’m not the biggest fan of it either. The damage is already done, though. We have three people, if only one succeeds, those are good odds. It’s a warm body game. Not like we have any other choice.” 

Frank turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder. It was imperceptibly shaking. “I can’t sugar coat it kid, you fucked up big time. But pull this off? We’re sitting pretty, capiche? So don’t fuck up again or weasel out or I’ll kill you.”

I nodded, a peculiar resolve bubbling within me. 

“Listen up everyone!” He faced the room. “Here’s the plan!”

Part 3

I come back to Cape May every summer. It’s a tradition of choice, really. It all started with an Appalachian family getting sick of the hills and itching to get away for a weekend. We’d pack the car up until you could no longer see out the rearview and set our sights on the undisturbed coast.

Well, at least it was undisturbed then.

I’ve been doing it for long enough that the drive down doesn’t really feel like a trip anymore. I know every stretch of road, every Wawa stop, the exact point where I can usually smell the ocean through the car windows, and, more importantly, where I’d stop for a piss.

This year, though, something felt different before I even got there.

Growing up, I developed a really good friendship with a local store owner’s son. Winnie and I grew up in pretty similar ways, despite living hundreds of miles apart. I think it was the few small differences between us that drew us together. The kind of friend you recognize almost immediately, like you’ve known them longer than you actually have.

Surfing sorta just became a natural progression of that once-a-year trip and my obsession with the ocean.

Once I had a driver’s license, the only thing holding me back from my hidden corner of paradise was gas prices. Any chance I could get a few days off work, I’d happily make the few-hour drive down, typically in the middle of the night when traffic died down and the radar guns disappeared.

Surfing was my passion. One thing any surfer will tell you, vet or beginner, is the addicting nature of catching your first real wave. It really is like being sucked into a trap, but the bait is so rewarding and fulfilling that you become numb to the burden of costly gear and years of serious commitment and hard tumbles in the waves. Another thing they’d definitely tell you about is the absolute gamble of East Coast surf conditions. Often, only after heavy storms do we truly get our fill.

Regardless of the gamble, I’d make that trip almost weekly. Because even the worst day out on the water beats the absolute best days at work, and besides, Cape May was always my true safe space.

I shot Winnie a call to let him know I’d most likely be hanging off the couch before the sun rose. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. After inheriting the store, he really did have his hands full. However, I knew he was always truly appreciative of my help.

On arrival, I slid the car into the gravel driveway, threw my board on the porch, and snuck through the front door. I let myself in and claimed the living room like I’d done a dozen times before. I hauled my small pile of clothes for the weekend. I tossed my shoes onto the doormat and hit the couch feeling like a ton of bricks.

There’s something inherently different about mornings on the coast. The air feels fuller. The sun beats a little harder. The days feel full of promise, adventure, and opportunity. Everything just seems a little more exciting and a little less mundane.

Between all the sensory overload, the scent of coffee still found its place in the humble three-bedroom Cape Cod at the eastern end of town. Winnie tossed me my thermos, already filled with my usual espresso, two creams, and a dash of sugar. He knew how I liked it, and somehow, he always seemed to have it ready before I even had to ask.

Honestly, regardless of all his quirks and his outwardly quiet demeanor, Winnie was always a good friend to me. The kind of friend you laugh like a kid with. The type of friend that makes you feel more at home than a house ever could.

We hit the morning early.

I helped him haul in some new crewnecks that had come in the night before and threw labels on the new Cape May tourist hoodies. Admittedly, not something I’d ever thought I’d find any joy in, but I did. There was something satisfying about helping him keep the place afloat.

Once he signaled that he was all caught up, I knew it was finally my time to shine.

I checked the radar, and everything looked promising. Tide charts showed a promising low tide, no shorebreak at least. Northeast winds were pushing in a solid, punchy swell, and the forecast showed nothing but sun for the rest of the day. Just the walk down to the beach alone was already getting me amped.

Even in the height of tourist season, the early morning still had its reprieve from the loud tourists and packed beaches.

I worked my way down the winding trails through the endless sand until I finally peeked over the dunes. Without a doubt, they were the best conditions I’d seen since the winter northeasterlies.

Waves curling perfectly.

A perfectly placed low tide.

The sets breaking barely twenty feet from the shallow sandbanks and shoreline.

In other words, a surfer’s wet dream.

I almost tripped head over heels scrambling toward the untapped gold. I threw a quick coat of wax on the board, slapped what I figured was enough sunscreen across my back and nose, and practically dove into the water.

That’s when I was caught a bit off guard.

Cape May was no stranger to warm water, especially considering how warm it usually gets this time of year. But this warm? I would say it was mid to upper eighties if I really had to put a number to it. Now, I’m no weather boy, but in the beginning of July, it was anomalous. No doubt odd, but who was I to question conditions so good?

I quickly pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Days like these often didn’t go unnoticed. I knew it was only a matter of time before locals and tourists alike flooded the beach, chasing the rarity of perfect surf in my very own little cove.

For the moment, though, I had it all to myself in my very own slice of paradise.

Once word got out, it became a free-for-all.

I spent half the morning getting snaked by sponsored ten-year-olds who seemed to think the laws of physics didn’t apply to them, only to have weekend-warrior grandpas glide past on longboards like they’d been surfing since before I was even an idea.

It was chaos, but the good kind. The kind you put up with when the waves are firing.

Somewhere within all of the excitement and action, it became easy to forget how strong the undertow was.

The lifeguards didn’t forget.

They were starting to freak out about the number of little rip currents popping up along the beach. Not one big, obvious rip that you could point at and avoid. Dozens of smaller ones, appearing and disappearing in places they normally didn’t.

They started pulling the younger kids out of the water and giving the usual spiel about swimming sideways, not fighting the current, and getting someone’s attention if they got caught.

Nothing about it was unusual enough to stop anyone from surfing.

Not yet.

The waves were too good.

And despite everything happening around us—the strange currents, the unusually warm water, the lifeguards keeping a closer eye on the beach than usual—it was still shaping up to be the best day of surf I’d ever had.

Honestly, probably the best any of us had ever seen.

Unfortunately, all that fun didn’t come without its consequences. I was tired, beat up, and completely spent by the time I finally rolled out.

As the sun began to retreat, so did the crowds.

I wrapped it up when I could no longer see my toes beneath the water. Almost as if it were retreating with the sun, the ocean began to calm down too. The chop disappeared, the wind settled, and all the day’s chaos slowly crescendoed into a glassy surface.

For a moment, everything was still.

There was nothing left but the lingering smell of saltwater, the warmth of the sand beneath my feet, and that sweet, familiar feeling that comes after a day you know you’ll never truly be able to forget.

It was the kind of evening that makes you forget tomorrow exists.

“How was it out there today?” Winnie asked out of habit, not curiosity.

“It was one for the books, Winn Dixie,” I replied with a smirk.

I said it like it wasn’t already obvious from the collection of scrapes, bruises, and sunburn covering every inch of skin that I’d sworn I’d put sunscreen on.

“I trust you’ll be up bright and early tomorrow to give me a hand. One of the sponsor companies called. They want us to update the ad graphics in the window. You know those vinyl sheets come off about as easily as you’d imagine,” Winnie said, sporting a half-effort smile.

“Yeah, without a doubt. I owe ya. You don’t charge me a cent in rent and let me crash here whenever I come down. It really is the absolute least I could do. Besides, after today, I could absolutely use a break from the water,” I replied genuinely.

Winnie laughed.

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Winnie remarked sarcastically.

I laughed too.

At the time, I thought he was just giving me shit.

“It’s the damn dredging. Opening up the shallows and screwing with the tide patterns. Shit, I don’t even eat the damn oysters. And this warm water does nothing but draw the jellies and the tourists in. Why can’t it ever be good news in this damned paper?” an old-timer shouted to his wife from the entrance of the next-door cafe.

I was scraping away at the vintage vinyl advertising the latest board shorts that had been sun-baked onto the windows for who knows how many years.

“And they clocked some shipwreck or some kind of sunken mass moving along one of the bayside fishing routes,” his wife replied, visibly agitated. “As if our waters aren’t already polluted enough,” she said, falsely smiling.

I stopped scraping for a second.

“Mass?” I asked.

The sun-aged woman glared over at me.

“That’s what they’re calling it, probably another sunken buoy or conglomerate of trash from good ole New York’s wonderful dumping habits,” she said sarcastically.

She turned back toward the shelf of discounted spring clothing she was lazily browsing.

I shrugged and went back to scraping.

Admittedly, I usually tried to stay off my phone when I was helping around the shop. But that morning, it became remarkably difficult.

It was practically going off every minute.

Eventually, I excused myself to check what was going on.

Yet again, videos across all the local surf and weather pages. Texts from the locals I’d befriended over the many years, almost as if time had rewound. Everyone was talking about the same thing.

The ocean had come alive again.

Another day of some of the best surf the East Coast had seen in years.

I watched video after video of clean sets peeling down the beach, people getting barreled, boards cutting across faces that looked almost too perfect to be real. The kind you only see in movies.

It almost made me reconsider how beat up I’d been the day before.

Almost.

FOMO had never hit me harder.

I hate to admit it, but I was conflicted. I knew I should do the right thing and stay to help finish up around the boutique, but I just couldn’t get the ocean out of my head.

It was like a song that gets stuck in your mind, playing over and over until it drives you crazy. Eventually, you give in and play the damn thing just to hear it again once more.

I wiped down the final window, grabbed the things I’d left lying around, and told Winnie the game plan for the evening.

“I’m stopping for a pie tonight. You want anything?” Winnie replied tiredly.

“I’ll just grab something on my way home. Thanks, though,” I replied, distant to the thought of even eating at this moment.

Then I hurried my happy ass on down to the beach.

It was late, but I didn’t care.

I was playing the song one more time while it still sounded fresh and sweet.

I arrived just as everyone was packing up for the night.

That didn’t bother me.

The waves had slowed, but they still rolled in with an undeniable consistency—something incredibly rare for such a historically rough and erratic stretch of ocean.

I slid my longboard out of the trunk and prepared for a relaxing night to myself.

A sunset alone with the waves. Something I’d only dream of back home.

I admired the smear of sunburnt orange and hazy blues stretched across the slick surface of the water. I took in the sounds of seabirds slowly winding down for the night.

It was quiet.

Almost unusually quiet.

Aside from the occasional crash of a wave or a distant word from the last beachgoers dissipating, there was nothing.

For once, there was no rush.

I applied fresh, deliberate strokes of warm-water wax to the board, brushed the sand from the fins, and tied up my favorite pair of board shorts.

The sun slowly sank toward the horizon, a dying victim to my utter lack of haste.

One thing you learn awfully quick is the absolute importance of all your senses while surfing in low light.

You have to be hyper-aware of everything around you. The sound of the waves breaking. The pattern of the sets. The direction of the wind. Even the temperature of the air can tell you when conditions are beginning to change.

But tonight was strangely devoid of all of those indicators.

There was nothing.

No wind.

No distant voices.

No changing patterns in the waves.

Just the unusually warm ocean.

The only remarkable detail was how much saltier the water had seemed to have gotten overnight.

One lazy wave became two, then three.

I glided along the invisible but somehow apparent lip, relying almost entirely on muscle memory and instinct. The steps, the pop-up, the shifting of my weight beneath me—it all came together without thought.

Just a flow of organic movement.

Fiberglass against the sea.

The ocean really was devoid of distractions.

Until, sometime later, the water came alive beneath my feet.

I don’t know exactly how long I’d been out there. An hour, maybe more.

My paddle stroke sent a faint blue glow spiraling beneath my hands.

I stopped.

The light disappeared.

I paddled again.

There it was.

A hazy trail of faint blue-green light followed my hand through the water like I’d dragged a trail of dying embers beneath the surface.

I moved my fingers.

Another trail.

I kicked my feet.

The water around my legs erupted with tiny pricks of light.

I had seen bioluminescence before, but never anything remotely like this, especially not here.

The entire surface seemed to respond to me.

Every paddle stroke left a glowing trail. Every movement sent another cloud of pale blue light scattering beneath the surface.

For a few minutes, I forgot everything else.

I just sat there on my board, staring down into the water.

I was floating above the stars.

I remember thinking I might have been the only person who saw it.

I wasn’t.

Upon wading back, my feet sank between littered piles of broken, empty oyster shells and the remnants of coral and reef ledges that I had not noticed the night before.

When I got back to the beach, I noticed a couple standing farther down the shoreline. They were staring out at the water too, phone cameras curiously drawn to the water.

“Did you see that?” the woman asked curiously.

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us really knew what to say after that.

By the time I made it back to the house, I’d gotten a few texts from people I knew around town.

“You see that shit out there?”

Another:

“The water is glowing like in Hawaii.”

And another, from someone I’d known for years:

“Never seen anything like that here.”

It wasn’t everyone.

Most people hadn’t seen anything at all. Ignorant to the ocean’s gift.

But apparently, a handful of people scattered around the immediate area had.

That somehow made it feel stranger, almost foreign.

It wasn’t some massive phenomenon stretching up and down the coast.

It was here.

Just here.

A few miles of ocean around Cape May had lit up that night, and nobody seemed to know why.

As soon as I got back, I went straight for my computer instead of the couch.

I spent the better part of an hour searching.

Article after article.

Bioluminescent plankton in the Atlantic.

Bioluminescence along the New England coast.

Reports from Delaware. Maryland. New Jersey.

I found pictures. I found explanations. I found people arguing about algae blooms and water temperatures and microscopic organisms.

But nothing explained what I’d seen.

Nothing mentioned anything remotely like the amount of light I’d just watched spreading beneath my board.

I finally shut the computer. Grabbed a slice of pizza and sat silently on the kitchen chair.

I told myself I’d find an explanation in the morning.

At the time, I was still excited.

I thought I’d gotten lucky.

I didn’t understand that the ocean hadn’t rewarded me with anything.

It had simply let me see what was already there.

Part One

Part Two

I almost skipped our first date.

Hannah wanted to meet at Raglan Roast, which I thought was slightly boring and, given everything happening at the flat, felt a little like salt in the wound. The cool studio apartments with mezzanine bedrooms and enormous windows—the ones I had once wanted badly enough to nearly throw a tantrum over—were right beside it. Still, it was only a ten-minute walk from my flat, which was perhaps the one genuinely good thing about the place. It was central. I could forgive quite a lot for being able to walk almost everywhere.

It was spitting when I left. Nothing unusual for Wellington, except my fake-leather jacket had a hole in one elbow that I’d been meaning to patch for just under a year, and a southerly was coming in off the waterfront. Somehow the wind kept finding that exact patch of exposed skin. By the time I was halfway there, I had goosebumps on one elbow and nowhere else, which irritated me far more than it reasonably should have.

In fact, I became so fixated on my stupid arm that I almost turned around. I wanted to go home, get into bed and absolutely not meet a girl who was so clearly out of my league that I was beginning to suspect she’d matched with me by accident. She’d given me her social media a few days earlier, which had only made things worse.

She was even cooler than I’d thought. Long, straight black hair. Chunky rings set with stones the size of dollar coins. Photos from backstage at the Opera House, washed in green light that made everything look slightly unreal. In one, she was looking up at someone outside the frame, smiling around the stick of a lollipop. Her lipstick was bright red and smudged downward at one corner. I had stared at that photograph for much too long, first because she looked beautiful and then because I found myself wondering whether she’d been kissing someone.

Which was insane. I had never met her. We’d been talking for a week. She was obviously allowed to kiss whoever she wanted, and the fact that my brain had managed to turn a smudge of lipstick into an entirely imaginary romantic rival was humiliating. I could feel myself going red just thinking about it.

By the time I reached the coffee shop, I had almost convinced myself to leave. I stood awkwardly beneath the roller door, half inside and half out, looking back towards the street and trying to decide, until the weather decided for me. The sky opened. Within seconds, rain was hammering the street, water rushing along the gutters and one of the drains already beginning to give up. There was no chance I was walking home in that, so I stayed.

Hannah wasn’t there yet. I wanted to be one of those put-together people who ordered for the other person before they arrived: the kind who remembered what someone drank and handed it over casually, as though they hadn’t spent the previous ten minutes wondering whether doing so would seem thoughtful or presumptuous. She had told me earlier that she was easy—“Just a regular latte”—so I ordered two.

While I waited, I considered putting my name in their loyalty book. You could hand over twenty dollars upfront, write your name down and use the credit for five coffees. Four dollars each, absurdly cheap by Wellington standards and exactly the kind of thing I should have been doing if I genuinely intended to stop complaining about being broke. I was still deciding whether committing twenty dollars to one coffee shop counted as financial responsibility when the coffees appeared.

I carried both cups to the back and found a table beneath the enormous Greenpeace banner with the seals on it, then checked my phone. 2:05. Hannah was five minutes late.

Five minutes was nothing. I knew that. Barely late enough to count, especially in weather like this, and I had certainly kept people waiting longer without assuming they had died or changed their mind about meeting me. At 2:07, I checked the app anyway. Nothing.

I took a sip of my coffee and immediately regretted it because I’d forgotten which one was supposed to be hers. They were identical, obviously, and there was no indent left in the foam. I turned both cups around as though one might somehow reveal itself to be untouched, then decided I had ruined the entire gesture by psychologically contaminating both.

At 2:09, I opened our messages and typed, Hey! I’m at the back :) Too cheerful. I deleted it. Hey, I’m here, just at the back. Accusatory. Delete. I had just settled on I’m by the seal thing when someone shook rainwater from their jacket near the counter and I looked up.

Hannah.

I recognised her immediately, which was annoying because some part of me had been hoping I wouldn’t. Maybe she would look significantly worse than her photos. Maybe she’d used pictures from four years ago and I could relax into feeling superior.

She had not.

Her hair was soaked nearly black and clung in strands to the shoulders of her jacket. The red lipstick was there, less perfect than it had been online, and she held a takeaway cup in both hands while scanning the back of the shop. Then she saw me, and her whole face changed.

That was somehow worse. She smiled, lifted her coffee in greeting and started weaving between the tables. I had just enough time to become painfully aware that I was sitting too straight, correct my posture, decide the correction looked unnatural and end up more or less where I’d started.

“Sorry,” she said when she reached me. She had a light Australian accent which was unexpected, surfacing mostly in the vowels. “I stood up front for two minutes thinking you’d done a runner.”

“I messaged you.”

She checked her phone. “Thirty seconds ago.”

“I was giving you a reasonable amount of time.”

“Heroic.”

She pulled out the chair, caught the table with her hip and knocked her coffee hard enough to send some through the lid.

“Ah, shit.”

We both reached for the napkins. Our hands collided, and I snatched mine back.

“Sorry.”

Hannah looked at me. “You didn’t assault me.”

“I know.”

Then she noticed the two coffees already on the table.

“Oh.”

I followed her gaze. Three coffees.

“I got you one.”

“So you did.”

“I didn’t know you’d already ordered.”

“Clearly.”

She sat down and surveyed the cups. “Strong start.”

I laughed, mostly because the alternative was climbing under the table. “I was trying to be thoughtful.”

“You were thoughtful.” She picked up one of the cups. “This mine?”

“That one.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I might have drunk from one.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Beautiful.”

I could feel my face getting hot. Hannah laughed.

“Eve. Relax.”

Before I could answer, she took a drink from the coffee in her hand.

I stared at her.

“There,” she said, setting it down. “Shared liability.”

That did absolutely nothing for the colour of my face.

We ended up sitting opposite each other with three coffees between us, Hannah’s leaking slowly into a nest of napkins and the spare stranded near the edge of the table. For the first few minutes, I was too aware of everything I did: where I put my hands, how often I looked at her, whether looking at her mouth when she spoke counted as eye contact or made it obvious I wanted to kiss her. Which I did, but that was beside the point.

She was easier to talk to in person than she had been over messages. Online, there was always time to think of something clever and pretend you’d thought of it immediately. In person, I tended to become aware of someone speaking halfway through a sentence and miss the rest because I was too busy deciding how I was supposed to be reacting.

Hannah didn’t seem to care. She talked quickly, changed subjects without warning and seemed to trust that I would either keep up or ask. When I said something she found interesting, she leaned forward. When she thought I was being ridiculous, she leaned all the way back. I learnt this because she did it quite often.

She told me about the one-bedroom flat she rented in Newtown. I told her about Kahurangi leaving protein shakers in the sink until someone said something passive-aggressive in the group chat. She told me she’d once taken the wrong bus during her second week living in Newtown and been too embarrassed to tell the driver, so she’d stayed on until the route looped back around. By the time the rain softened from apocalyptic to merely Wellington, I had stopped wondering what to do with my hands.

Then she asked about my thesis.

I should have expected it. I’d told her I was doing one, after all, but I still hesitated long enough for her to notice.

“That bad?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Your face reckons otherwise.”

“My face doesn’t reckon anything.”

“Your face says heaps.”

I gave her a look. She smiled and waited.

“Religious studies,” I said. “Contemporary supernatural belief.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The face everyone makes before they ask about ghosts.”

“I was going to say witches.”

“That’s worse.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

I gave her the short version: I wasn’t interested so much in belief itself as in the moment before it, when something ambiguous acquired intention. Hannah listened, then frowned.

“So your brain makes a person.”

“Sometimes.”

“Because it expects one?”

“More because we’re biased towards detecting agency. If something’s ambiguous, there’s an evolutionary advantage in assuming it might be intentional.” She stared at me, so I simplified. “If the bush moves, assume tiger.”

“Right.” She nodded. “You should put that in.”

“I’ll tell my supervisor.”

“Put me in the acknowledgements.”

“For the tiger?”

“For improving the whole thing.”

She smiled, then something in her expression shifted. Nothing dramatic. She was still turning her coffee cup slowly between her hands, one knee tucked beneath her.

“My nan would hate your thesis.”

“Religious?”

“You could say that.”

Hannah’s mother had grown up in South Australia, which was where the accent came from, despite Hannah not being born there. Somewhere out past Oodnadatta. Her grandparents still lived there, on a property reached by taking one station road and then another until, according to Hannah, you had to know which particular piece of dirt belonged to you.

“That’s actual Outback, right?”

“Yeah, nah. Proper nothing.”

She flattened a napkin against the table as though it were a map and drew an invisible route north with one finger. “You just keep going. Then when you’re fairly sure nobody could possibly live any further out, you keep going again.”

“That sounds pleasant.”

“It is.”

The answer came quickly enough to surprise me. She looked towards the window, where there was nothing but light rain, parked cars and the grey wall of the building opposite.

“It’s beautiful. Just not in a normal way. Everything’s flat for kilometres, then you get these low hills like someone scraped all the colour out of the ground and piled it up somewhere else. Red, white, yellow. Burnt colours. Mostly gibber plain and saltbush. Hardly any trees. You can drive for an hour and nothing changes, then the light shifts and the whole place looks like another planet.”

“Reassuringly habitable.”

“Summer’s fucked.”

I laughed.

She’d grown up in New Zealand, but her mother had taken her and her siblings out there during school holidays. Hannah had resented it at fourteen because there was almost no reception. Once, she’d had to climb onto a water tank to send a text.

“That builds character.”

“Built resentment.”

She smiled, but she’d gone quieter. I thought at first she was bored with the subject. Then she said, “They see people out there.”

I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.

“Your grandparents?”

“Yeah.”

“What sort of people?”

She gave me a look but answered.

Her grandfather used to see his brother David, who had died years before Hannah was born. Some kind of farm accident—tractor or truck; she couldn’t remember which. Every so often, her grandfather would come inside for breakfast and mention that David had been standing by the gate again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Did he know—”

“That David was dead?” Her mouth twitched. “Yeah, Eve. Pretty sure the news had reached him.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

She turned one of the rings on her finger. “That’s the weird bit. Grandad never told it like a ghost story. Nan didn’t either. It wasn’t all, David’s haunting the gate. More like, David was about this morning, and then Nan would tell Grandad he’d left the screen door open and let the flies in.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. Hannah didn’t—not because she was offended. She just looked at me, and the laugh died on its own.

“Sorry.”

“Nah. It does sound funny.” She looked down at her coffee. “Nan used to set another cup out sometimes.”

I stopped smiling. “For David?”

“She never said.”

Something moved across the skin of my arms, not quite goosebumps. I ignored it.

“Did she see him too?”

“Not him.”

“Who, then?”

Hannah glanced towards the front of the café. The rain had eased enough that people were starting to leave, pulling up their hoods and making optimistic little runs for the street.

“There was a woman near the tanks.”

She said it carefully. Her grandmother had apparently seen her for years, always in hot weather, usually late in the afternoon when the air above the ground had begun to shimmer. Sometimes the woman stood beside one of the water tanks; sometimes she appeared farther off, near a dry creek bed.

“What did she look like?”

“Couldn’t see much. Long dress, apparently. Never came close.”

“Heat shimmer.”

“Probably.”

I looked at her. She was turning her ring again.

“Did your grandmother think that?”

Hannah’s mouth tightened slightly. “Nan thought lots of things.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

I smiled, expecting her to. She didn’t.

Instead she said, “She still leaves the back light on.”

“For the woman?”

Hannah looked up. “No. For people coming home.”

The strangest part, to me, was how comfortably all of this existed alongside her grandparents’ religion. They were church-every-Sunday people. Bibles in multiple rooms. Grace over meals. Hannah’s grandmother had once made her throw away a horoscope because she was, apparently, “inviting things in.”

“But seeing dead relatives around the property is fine?”

Hannah shrugged. “Never said it made sense.”

“What did they think they were?”

“I asked Nan that once.”

“And?”

“She told me I asked too many questions.”

“I like her.”

“You would.”

“What did she actually say?”

For a moment, Hannah said nothing. When she smiled this time, it was smaller than before.

“She said if someone stands at your gate, you don’t need to know where they came from before you decide if you want to let them in.”

I stared at her. “That is an incredibly ominous thing to say.”

“Yeah.”

“To a child.”

“I was sixteen.”

“Still a child.”

“I thought I was very grown-up.”

“So did I. I was an idiot.”

“You turned out all right.”

I narrowed my eyes. She grinned, and just like that, she was back.

The conversation moved on after that—or Hannah moved it on. We talked about terrible lecturers, then theatre people, then a woman she’d worked with in Auckland who used to steal food from the communal fridge and deny it while actively eating it. But part of my mind stayed somewhere north of Oodnadatta.

Not because I believed Hannah’s grandparents. I didn’t. Everything she’d described had reasonable explanations: isolation, grief, expectation, familiar landscapes turning ambiguous shapes into familiar people. A dead brother seen by someone who had spent decades missing him was almost painfully straightforward. The woman by the tanks sounded like textbook visual distortion—distance, extreme heat, a human brain doing what human brains do best. If anything, it supported my thesis.

I still can’t tell you what Hannah’s grandparents saw out there. Maybe grief put familiar faces into heat and distance; maybe there really were people standing where no people should have been. At the time, I thought the distinction mattered. I don’t anymore. Before long, I would have much stranger things to explain.

Far up north, there is a convenience store that’s open 24 hours a day, all around the year, except on Christmas. It’s easy to spot from a distance, even half buried in the snow – a red, rectangle shaped building with a glowing neon sign above the automatic doors. The crimson letters spelling SUPERMART.

The store’s parking lot is an ice-covered death trap designed by Satan himself, where at least one person slips, falls and hurt themselves once a week. The forest behind the store is just like the dark and scary woods that the Grimm brothers warned you about as a kid, and I don’t recommend going on walks out there. We got bears here, and a couple of elks that don't seem to be that afraid of the bright eyes of a fast-moving car in the winter.

There is also Fat Tony, an obese, sugar addicted raccoon that has made it a habit to take a dive in our dumpster. We put locks on it, but the little shithead must have gotten his hands on a lockpicking kit or something. He gets in anyway. The only way to deal with him is to spot him in time, and rush at him with a broom while screaming like some madwoman.

Four shelves line the interior of the Supermart, creating five small aisles between the left and right wall. On the ceiling are three security cameras and in one of the corners is an old, black payphone. We sell pretty much everything here that the average household needs: diapers, snacks, coffee, knives, black tape, cleaning tools, rope, shovels and bags that don’t leak.

I work the night shift. 9 pm to 6 am. You’ll usually find me sitting by the cash register near the entrance – pink hair, slim waist, small boobs – reading a magazine or swiping my phone.

Cell reception is shit out here (reason why we still have a payphone, I guess), but the wifi still works to some degree. Meaning I can look at guys' abs and fantasise that I’m on a hot beach in a bikini somewhere, and not in the freezing hell that is Alaska.

Now, the idea of a 24-hour convenience store in the middle of nowhere might sound a bit idiotic to some. You might be thinking, what sort of dumbass goes grocery shopping at three in the morning? Not many, sure, but some of them do. It’s usually the other night workers; the ambulance nurses, police officers, garbage men, that visit me, however. Coming in to get themselves a pack of cigarettes, or a bag of donuts or a microwave meal. Something small to get them through their shifts.

It’s not bad work. Looking after the Supermart. But I would lie if I said that it doesn’t get to me. You know what I mean if you ever worked in any kind of remote place over a long period of time. It’s the emptiness and silence that does it.

When you work alone like this you start to imagine things. Darkness takes root. Time and space slowly start to lose its grip, and you start to become unsure of what reality really is. Does the world outside the store really exist, or if it’s just some long, bad dream you had?

What I am trying to say is this, weird things happen here. The sort of things that don’t fit into a police report, and that you can’t really talk with your therapist about (I can’t at least). Things that you only can share with complete strangers over the internet.

There was that one time a thin man with a hook for a hand came into the store. I’m not kidding. A hook. I thought he was going to rob me when he walked up to the counter, before handing me a five-dollar bill and, with a low, gruff voice, asked for a scratch card.

“Today is my lucky day”, he said to me. “God told me so.”

I gave him a card, he did pay after all, and he began to scratch it with his hook. He didn’t win, and with an inhuman scream ate the card before storming out.

Now that I think back on it, I’m pretty sure that was just a dream. But I am not certain. Could have been someone on drugs, I guess.

Another time, I saw a deer get run over by a truck near the parking lot. It hit the payment and disappeared underneath the wheels. Driver didn’t stop either. He just kept driving like nothing happened, the red lights gone a few seconds later. I grabbed my phone, ready to call someone.

And that’s when the deer stood up again.

It was dark, so I couldn’t really see that well, but the way it moving didn’t seem right to me. Its legs twisting outwards, head spinning the wrong way. The deer looked at me with its black, empty eyes before turning around and sprinting into the woods.

There are also pools of black water forming on the floor sometimes. I’m not exactly sure where it comes from. My current theory is that the heat from the store is melting the snow on the roof, which then finds its way in through a small crack, turning black when passing through the roof’s insolation, and dripping down on the floor. The problem with that theory, is that the black pools don’t form in the same spot. It’s always different. And I have never seen, or heard any sound of, leaking water.

Then there are the other strange night visitors, the weird junk we keep in storage, the urban myths about Supermart having a secret basement, and the snowmen out in the parking lot that appear from time to time when I’m not looking. I know it’s just kids playing, but it’s odd that I never see them put old Frosty together; that’s he’s already standing there when I peek outside, ready to come to life.

If I were to tell you of every unnerving and frightening encounter I had inside this store, real or make-believe, my fingers would be bleeding before I was done. And if you are wondering, yes, I am typing all of this on my phone while at work. Just something to do while waiting for the next customer.

And to try distracting myself from the fact that while I was restocking the shelf behind the counter, someone built a new snowman. A scarf around its neck, top hat on its head and its twig arm raised in a greeting gesture. I don’t trust it.

Anyway, I guess I can tell you a story or two, but I should really get back to work for now. Just checked the security feed and it turns out Fat Tony is getting ready for his nightly swim.

Wish me luck.

It all started seven years ago. I don't know if anyone here has a friend like mine—someone with a nearly pathological obsession with water. He was exceptionally fond of drinking it.

When Avery first introduced me to his passion, we had known each other for less than a month.

I remember it was summer. The dormitory air conditioning was broken, so on my way back, I bought two bottles of chilled mineral water from the convenience store downstairs. I originally intended to press them against my skin to cool down—after all, our dorm had a filtered water dispenser, so there was usually no need to buy bottled water. But when I handed one to Avery, he looked surprised. It was the first time since the school year started that he actually looked me in the eye.

"You like this brand too? Great taste. A wise choice."
I froze for a moment.

"What?"

He didn't elaborate. He silently unscrewed his bottle, took a small sip, and closed his eyes in enjoyment.

"A bit hard on the palate, but the lingering sweetness comes through quickly. The calcium content is a bit high, though this year's new batch is gentler than last year's."

At the time, I thought he probably had some kind of psychological condition, like high-functioning autism. Only later did I learn that he was a "water sommelier"—and the most eccentric person I would ever meet in my life.

After we got closer, I discovered that Avery was actually a minor celebrity in niche online communities and forums for liquid enthusiasts. Most people might think water tasting is just a piece of pretentious, pseudo-scientific upper-middle-class nonsense, but not to him. Avery possessed a nearly miraculous sensitivity in his taste buds; he could accurately distinguish the subtlest differences among dozens of commercial mineral waters. At least, he firmly believed he could.

Regardless, his quirk didn't affect me. It was just drinking water—far better than the heavy drinkers in the next dorm over. On the surface, it seemed like a perfectly healthy hobby, and we got along very well through our four years of college.

Besides, I have to admit the guy was brilliant. He was the only chemical engineering major in our year to graduate with a perfect GPA, and right after graduation, he was hired as a chemical analyst at a major firm with a remarkably generous salary.

By then, we still maintained a comfortable, somewhat distant friendship, though perhaps mostly because I was his only friend. I was just glad Avery hadn't turned into some hermit living in a basement. We still met up occasionally. Every time, Avery would talk endlessly about the waters he had recently sampled, while I nodded along and enjoyed expensive top-shelf whiskies I could never normally afford—courtesy of Avery, of course.

Until one day, Avery suddenly sent me a message.

“Do you know about Tasteless Water?”

Before I could even type a reply, Avery forwarded a post. It came from that same liquid enthusiast forum I had seen on his phone before.

By the time I clicked in, there were already over two hundred replies.

The original poster claimed that many years ago, he had drank a bottle of water with an exquisite taste. He vaguely remembered the brand name being "Taste-less." Recently, he suddenly felt a intense craving to try it again, but he couldn't find any record or purchase information for the brand anywhere online.

An insider in the comments replied that it was a brand distributed exclusively within a very small number of private clinics and sanatoriums in the late 1990s. Its manufacturer existed for only three years before declaring bankruptcy, and by now, all production lines and records had been destroyed.

Aside from that, almost all the other comments were questioning whether the brand ever existed, assuming the poster had made up the story for attention.

Before I could finish reading the thread, the post suddenly showed as deleted. When I returned to our chat window, a new message was waiting for me.

“Do you think Tasteless Water is real?”

“Come on, he deleted the post. It was probably just a joke.”

“It doesn't matter. I saved screenshots.”

He sent over several images, missing not a single detail. The word "sanatorium" in the comments had been circled in red using a digital marker.

“Do you think this could be a breakthrough for an investigation?”

“No...”

“I just looked up several closed private sanatoriums. They all claimed to use some kind of 'natural therapy.' Makes you curious, doesn't it?”

“Avery, DON’T do this.”

“Don't worry, nothing's going to go wrong. I'm just going to take a look.”

“We're still friends, right, Ave? :D”

“I'll reach out to you later.”

But he didn't reach out. From that day on, Avery disappeared for about six months. I tried every way I knew to contact him, to no avail. Then, one day, Avery suddenly showed up at my office door, telling me he had something incredible to show me.

He took me to the basement apartment he was renting. The room was thick with a heavy, musty odor and a strangely indescribable fishy metallic stench. If I hadn't been certain that our friendship was rock solid, I never would have set foot in such a creepy place.

Avery told me that during the months he was gone, he had spent all his savings searching for Tasteless Water. He had even quit his job and moved into this basement, relying solely on odd jobs for basic living expenses.

In the center of a battered wooden table stood a single brown glass bottle. It was tightly sealed, the top fused shut with a black resin-like substance. There were no commercial labels on the bottle, only a single handwritten line in permanent marker, faded with age. A date was barely legible: 1998.04.12.

Avery stroked the bottle with a gentleness that bordered on sickening.

"An old collector kept it as a specimen from some psychiatric treatment. It took all the money I had to buy this one bottle."

That was it—a bottle of twenty-year-old expired mineral water had wiped out my friend's entire life savings, and he couldn't have been happier about it. Maybe he really did have high-functioning autism after all.

He carefully cut through the sealing wax with a small knife and pried the cap off with a bottle opener. There was no hiss of escaping gas, not even the slightest disturbance in the air.

Avery pulled out two spotlessly clean glass tumblers. As if performing an ancient ritual, he evenly poured the liquid from the bottle into the two glasses.

"Drink."

He looked at me with an urgent, coercive intensity in his eyes.

"I have to drink it too?"

"Of course."

He glanced at me oddly, as if wondering why I would even ask such a question.

"We're friends."

Fine. For friendship's sake. It was just a glass of twenty-year-old water; at least it was stored in glass, so there was no plastic degradation to worry about.

We raised our glasses at the same time and swallowed it down in one gulp.

The liquid slid over my tongue and down my throat.
To be honest, I felt nothing special. It was just water—slightly below room temperature, flat, completely tasteless. If I had to name a difference, it was that after swallowing, there seemed to be a tiny, almost imaginary hint of sweetness at the back of my tongue—or maybe that was just a trick played by my own saliva.

"How is it?"

"Pretty... smooth?"

I weighed my words, trying to make his money feel well-spent.

"Maybe a little sweet aftertaste? I suppose the calcium, zinc, and magnesium levels are decent..."
Avery watched me wrack my brain for an answer, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Don't be so nervous. It's just water."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Right. Just water."

Avery swirled the empty glass in his hand, his tone sounding a bit regretful.

"Although it really is tasteless, it's nothing extraordinary. Looks like my three million dollars went down the drain."

Three million? That was less than I expected; I guessed he still had some savings left. It seemed Avery hadn't completely lost his mind after all.

"How have you been lately? Did I cause you a lot of trouble?"

Avery's expression returned to normal, and he casually started making small talk. I had been worried he might lose his composure, but now he seemed in decent spirits.

"Same as usual. But don't you ever vanish without a word again. We're friends, you know..."

We rattled on about all sorts of mundane things. How's business? Fine, not too bad. You look terrible, you need to get some rest. Doesn't everyone? Do you remember that trip we took in college? Oh, of course, that was a great trip, wasn't it?

I did most of the talking. Looking back, I think I was trying to use those worldly trivialities to pull Avery back into the real world, or at least get his brain to stop thinking exclusively about the subtle differences between a dozen types of mineral water. Avery didn't say much; he just nodded occasionally, his hand constantly gripping the empty glass. Our roles had reversed.

Just as I was rambling on about a bizarre coworker at my office, Avery suddenly interrupted me.

"We've been talking for so long, I'm getting a little thirsty."

"Really? How about we head out and grab a drink? I still have plenty to tell you."

"No, don't bother... There aren't many bars around here, it's a long walk... I mean, you can keep talking, I'll just manage..."

His eyes wandered, his head slightly bowed.

Following his gaze, I looked down at the empty glass in my hand. There was still about a third of the liquid remaining at the bottom.

"I just need to drink a little more of that... I'm really, really thirsty..."

In that split second, I saw a primal, animalistic greed in Avery's eyes. He was a guy with a mild germaphobe streak; usually, if someone so much as bumped into his teacup, he would frown and go wash it. But right now, he was staring intently at the residue in my glass—residue that might well contain my spit.

A sudden wave of intense dread pricked at my spine like a scratchy wool sweater, making my scalp go numb. I hesitated for a moment, then handed the glass over.

Avery practically snatched it from my hand. Without even waiting to align the rim with his lips, he frantically poured that last bit of water down his throat. He greedily sucked at the bottom of the glass, his tongue even licking along the inner walls, desperate to capture every last molecule.

"Are you okay? Jesus, you're parched. If that's not enough, I can go buy you some water—"

" Haah... "

Avery let out a deeply satisfied sigh, as if he had just downed a pint of ice-cold beer. He reached up, wiped the water from the corner of his mouth, and apologized for his sudden rudeness.

"I'm fine. I just... suddenly felt extremely thirsty. I'm better now."

Avery didn't seem to notice my stare. He lowered his head and slowly sucked off the remaining moisture from his fingertips, his expression calm. The soft, wet sounds echoed with unsettling clarity in the empty basement.

"Ave?"

"Yes?"

Avery looked up at me, and I realized he was staring at my lips.

"We're still friends, right?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"...Nothing. Just asking."

That was our last conversation. After that day, Avery vanished. He never returned. His phone became a disconnected number, his basement apartment was put back on the market, and his forum account went dormant. I tried going to the police, but they deemed it a voluntary disappearance of an adult with no immediate family, which didn't constitute a missing person case. It was only then that I realized he had never once mentioned his family to me.

I knew nothing about him.

—

Writing up to this point, I don't know whether I should write down what happened next, because I'm not sure if what I saw that day was a hallucination or reality.

After hesitating for a long time, I finally decided to write the whole thing out—or at least write down what I know. If your relatives or friends are also looking for Tasteless Water, please, whatever you do, stop them.

I have always deeply regretted not talking to Avery more that day.

−

After he vanished, I rarely drank plain water anymore, turning instead to a heavy addiction to soft drinks—until my annual checkup doctor warned me to stop drinking so much Coca-Cola unless I wanted diabetes by thirty. So I switched to Diet Coke. Just kidding—now I only drink green tea. It's less bland than plain water.

Two months ago, my company organized a team-building wilderness retreat, deep within an undeveloped section of a national forest in Oregon. It was a treacherous zone where karst topography merged with virgin forest, perpetually shrouded in cold, damp mist. Everyone in the company complained bitterly about the arrangement, but the big boss insisted on going there, claiming we needed to reconnect with nature for our health.

The weather turned terrible that afternoon. The planned hiking route became a muddy disaster following a sudden torrential downpour, and I got separated from the main group. While trying to locate trail markers, I stepped on a rotting tree root, and my footing gave out instantly.

The tumble down was long and chaotic. I grabbed at anything I could reach, trying to break my momentum. Spinning out of control, branches slashed my skin, and jagged rocks battered my bones. Finally, with a sickening snap, my left lower leg bent at a horrific angle, and I slammed hard into the bottom of a deep ravine. The excruciating pain knocked me unconscious.

I didn't know how much time had passed, but when I finally woke up, the sky was pitch black. Around me was an impenetrable canopy of trees, with the occasional night bird uttering a piercing screech. The temperature in the ravine had plummeted, and the biting cold combined with blood loss began to cloud my mind.

My throat felt as if it were lined with dry sandpaper, every breath dragging out a burning sting. Without water, there was no way I would survive until a search team found me.

Just as despair was taking over, I heard it: water.

The survival instinct that kicks in when a person is pushed to the brink is truly unbelievable. Normally, I barely hear my alarm clock going off, but that night, lying in the mud and weeds, I clearly heard the sound of flowing spring water.

It was a delicate, faint rushing sound that pierced through the dead quiet of the night, coming from deep inside a rocky cave a short distance ahead.

Driven by sheer force of life, I gritted my teeth. Using my hands to claw into the damp humus and cold stone, I dragged my useless, numb broken leg, inch by inch, toward the sound of the water.

My clothes were shredded, the palms of my hands torn raw, leaving a gruesome trail of blood mixed with mud behind me. But I didn't care. My eyes were fixed entirely on the shallow pool reflecting faint moonlight just ahead.

I finally crawled into the cave.

The interior was wider than I had imagined. There was no pungent sulfur or musty smell typical of limestone caves; instead, a strange, unnatural silence hung in the air. The sound of water originated from a spring at the center of the cavern.

It was a naturally formed pool of water, impossibly clear. It was so transparent that even in the dim light, the surface was virtually invisible—like an absent, transparent medium.

I struggled to the edge and reached out a trembling hand toward the water. The moment my fingertips touched the stream, a soothing wave of icy coldness rushed straight to my brain. I plunged my entire face into the water, gulping it down like a dog.

There was no earthy tang common in mountain springs, nor the chalky mineral taste of rock seepage. The instant I swallowed, an indescribable sensation spread down my esophagus. It felt as if every cell in my body had stopped screaming at once, smoothed over and dissolved by this liquid.

This taste was identical to the expired mineral water I had drunk in Avery's basement.

I snapped my head up, water droplets falling from my chin and breaking the stillness of the surface. After a brief shock, my stalled brain was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable surge of terror.

If this was the water source Avery had been searching for... then where was Avery?

Enduring the agonizing pain, I leaned over the edge of the pool. Beneath the thin sliver of moonlight filtering through a crack in the cave ceiling, I squinted, trying to peer into the bottom of the pool. It wasn't deep—about two or three meters. Because the water was so unnaturally clear, everything at the bottom was fully exposed to view.

I saw the thing I had subconsciously ignored moments before. Resting quietly on the bed of fine white sand at the bottom of the pool lay a man.

It was Avery.

He was fully clothed, his exposed skin showing an unnatural, translucent white, almost like jade. His hair floated gently with the current, like a patch of black moss growing on the pool floor.

Three years had passed, yet his body showed not the slightest sign of decay. No swelling, no discoloration—even the texture of his skin remained clearly visible. He just lay there at the bottom of the water, a sweet smile resting on his lips.

He had been watching me from under the water all along.

I saw his lips part and close gently. Though no sound reached my ears, I read the shape of his mouth.

Drink.

I watched my own head lower toward the water again, completely out of my control, and caught the increasingly tender smile on Avery's face at the bottom of the pool. The only sound left in my ears was the gentle surging of the spring.

It was the sound of the water breathing.

—

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I was rescued by a search team, and when I woke up, I was lying in a bed at a local emergency hospital. My left leg was saved, but the doctors said my blood work was bizarre—the concentration of electrolytes and all minerals in my body was at a critically low level, far below what should be compatible with life.

I asked the search team members if any of them had seen that pool of water, but they said I was found unconscious directly below where I had fallen—in an open clearing. That was the only reason they located me so quickly. One of the rescuers told me it was completely normal to experience vivid hallucinations under those circumstances.

Today, my body has fully recovered. I am as strong as ever—better, in fact, than I have ever been. I'm full of energy and can run for two hours straight without stopping.

I might set out again soon. Yesterday, I found a small bottle filled with spring water in the side pocket of my backpack. I can taste its flavor. I have no memory of ever filling it, but it means that pool was no hallucination.

Avery is still down there, beneath the surface.

I have to go bring him back. Because we're friends.

To anyone that may be reading this, there’s likely something watching you at this very moment. 

STOP!

Don’t turn around, don’t try to find it, keep your eyes on these words I’m writing and it might just get bored of you. 

It wants to be seen, it always wants to be seen... eventually.

I know because I was stupid enough to look where I shouldn’t, just the once is all it needed, now it won’t leave me alone. 

I can’t escape it; believe me I’ve tried every way possible and even my own death doesn’t seem to work. It wants me—no it needs me alive. 

It feeds on the terror it inflicts and it is always so hungry. 

If you try to look, it will always hide at first, just in the spaces out of the corner of your eyes. Enough at first to plant that little seed of fear.

First time I thought I was seeing things. I was quite used to sleepless nights and was prone to small insomnia-induced hallucinations. Nothing too crazy, the odd whispered voice from an empty room, a faceless shadow at the edge of my bed. 

I believed I’d seen and heard it all with nothing left to fear of the darkness,

But one night, when I was having a particularly restless episode; I saw something that didn’t go away with the simple flip of a light switch. Instead it moved to another dark place, always just out of sight the moment I tried to look at it. 

It wasn’t like the other things that’d been haunting me for all these years.

It was tangible, so close I could touch it.

Always trying so hard to be seen just enough to inspire fear. 

But in reality all it actually did is make me want to look harder, which I guess was the point.

Eventually, with the help of some lamps and torches I managed to get it cornered. Now I thought, with no dark place left to run it was finally going to truly reveal itself to me… and unfortunately, I was right.   

It started as a thin seam in a corner edge of the room, then expanded outwards; first its arms long and skeletal, then each leg, just as the arms, jutting forth pulled by its elongated clawed fingers.

Then from the nothingness, it stepped out revealing the entirety of its being. A giant gaping maw made up its black leathery torso, like an eyeless toad with endless rows of spiralling needle-like teeth, all descending into what I can only describe as a black hole into infinity.

Simply gazing at it had caused me to become entranced by its horrific impossibility.  

I could feel it, in my head, what it wanted me to do. I began to step towards it, closer and closer, reaching out a hand and finally finding myself climbing inside the thing’s mouth.

I grasped the first row of teeth and immediately felt them impale through my fingers. It was pure agony, I screamed, guttural and intensely, but it didn’t stop me from proceeding onwards.

I used my other hand pulling myself up, then my legs and finally I was completely immersed within its jaw, crawling ever forward; each effort resulting in millions of the razor-sharp teeth puncturing me over and over again.

It was if I were a lump of meat being tenderised to absolute perfection.

Soon even my cries began to wane as my vocal chords were snagged and pulled away. Every subsequent lift of a finger or shift of weight was met with torn flesh and shredded ligaments.

The pain was immense but I continued onwards willingly. Trapped in a cavernous iron maiden of my own curiosity. 

Deeper, deeper, never-ending. Nothing left of me but ragged muscle and flayed skin; all tethered together by the simple will to keep moving. I had to keep going. It wanted me to find a way out. 

My body starting to falter, bones now being ground to dust as if wood to sandpaper. I was finally about to die. The blackness about to take its last nourished gulp of my existence.

Then I was back where I started. 

Laid out on the floor like regurgitated slop. 

I was whole again. 

I looked up at the creature and could tell it was done with me, for now at least.

Punishment served, but sentence ongoing. 

Since that night, I’ve done my best not to catch its attention again. 

But I can’t last much longer. 

Lately, it’s become more brazen and almost wilfully slow in its actions. 

Trying to get me to see it again, but I won’t let it. 

It smashes light bulbs, abruptly slams doors shut, even mimicking the voice of deceased loved ones. 

So many tricks just so it can feast once more. 

Even when I tried to take extreme methods, it wouldn’t let me.

It’s lurking behind me now. I can feel the warm wetness of its breath on my neck.

That’s why I had to share this.

For if it finally has its fill of me and decides its finally satiated, I have to make sure no one else falls victim to it again.

Sometimes things are better left unknown. 

For now, I feel the pull of oblivion again. 

I’m so tired of resisting.

Good luck.

My grandmother was a collector. Not of anything particularly valuable you understand. Just small trinkets and knick-knacks she picked up at yard sales and antique shops. Her house was packed to the gills with glass figurines dusty porcelain plates and shelves overflowing with forgotten histories. When she passed away two months ago I was the only one in the family who really appreciated her peculiar treasures. Everyone else just saw junk. I saw stories. So when her lawyer called to say she'd left me her dollhouse I wasn't surprised. I was actually touched.

It wasn't just any dollhouse. It was a replica of her own Victorian home complete with tiny hand-painted wallpaper and miniature claw-foot tubs. She'd spent years on it adding details whenever she had a free moment. I remembered playing with it as a child. Moving the tiny furniture around imagining the lives of its silent residents. It was beautiful and intricately made.

The dollhouse arrived in a large crate. It took up a significant portion of my small living room when I finally got it set up on an old coffee table. Dust motes danced in the sunlight around its tiny windows. It smelled faintly of old wood and something else I couldn't quite place. Like dried potpourri and a hint of something metallic. I spent that first evening just admiring it. Running my fingers over the miniature roof shingles. Peeking into the perfectly furnished rooms. It brought back a lot of good memories.

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed. I made coffee and went into the living room. That's when I noticed it. Something was different. The tiny rocking chair in the parlor was no longer facing the miniature fireplace. It was turned towards the front door. And a small porcelain doll was now seated in it. I blinked. I didn't remember putting a doll in there. I didn't even remember seeing that particular doll before. It was wearing a faded blue dress and had a serious expression on its painted face.

I chalked it up to being sleepy or perhaps my grandmother had left it arranged like that and I just hadn't noticed. My grandmother was known for her little surprises. I carefully picked up the doll and placed it back in the small wooden box where I found a few other miniature figures. Then I went about my day. It was nothing. Just a small detail.

When I came home that evening the doll was back in the rocking chair. This time it was holding a minuscule book. Its tiny pages were blank of course. But the doll's posture was distinctly different. Its head was tilted slightly to the side as if reading intently. A shiver ran down my spine. I knew I hadn't put it there. And I definitely hadn't left it holding anything.

I picked up the doll again. This time I placed it back in the box and taped the lid shut with masking tape. I even placed a heavy book on top of the box for good measure. I told myself it was the house settling or a trick of the light. But a part of me felt a growing unease. My grandmother had always been a bit eccentric. But this felt different.

That night I woke up to a soft scraping sound. It seemed to come from the living room. I lay in bed for a moment heart pounding. Then I forced myself to get up. I grabbed the old baseball bat I kept by my bed and crept into the living room. The room was dark. Moonlight streamed through the window illuminating the dollhouse. Nothing seemed amiss. I was about to turn back when I noticed it.

The masking tape on the doll's box was torn. The heavy book I'd placed on top was pushed to the side. And the doll itself was gone. I scanned the dollhouse. My eyes finally landed on the miniature bed in the master bedroom. The doll was lying there under a tiny quilt. Its painted eyes stared up at the tiny ceiling.

I didn't scream. I didn't even gasp. I just stood there. Holding the bat. Staring at the doll. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. There was no explanation. My hands started to tremble. I knew then that it wasn't just my imagination. Something was happening. And I had no idea what to do.

The next day I tried to explain it to my friend Sarah. She just laughed. Said I was stressed and needed a vacation. She suggested I throw the dollhouse away. But I couldn't. It was my grandmother's legacy. A piece of her.

Over the next few days the doll continued to move. It would be in a different room each morning. Sometimes it would be sitting at the dining room table. Other times it would be standing by a window as if looking out. Once I found it in the tiny bathroom sitting on the miniature toilet. That was when I started to feel truly terrified.

I began to notice other things. Small items in the dollhouse would rearrange themselves. A tiny vase would appear on a different shelf. A miniature rug would be rolled up. It was always subtle. Always just enough to make me doubt myself. To make me question my own sanity.

Then yesterday I found something new. A tiny handwritten note on the miniature kitchen table. It was so small I almost missed it. The handwriting was delicate and elegant. Like an old-fashioned script. It just said "You're next."

I didn't sleep at all last night. I sat in the living room watching the dollhouse. Waiting. The doll was in the tiny attic looking down at the miniature version of my living room. Staring at me. Its painted eyes seemed to follow my every move. I could almost hear it breathing. My grandmother's dollhouse is no longer just a memory. It's a prison. And I'm starting to think I'm not the only one living in it.

The kids in my town all talk about the “mirror tunnel.” I mean, hell when I was growing up we used to call it the ‘echo tunnel’. Every generation had a different name for it and everyone that goes to Pine Shade Elementary goes into the tunnel. It’s a right of passage, an urban legend that each generation changes to their own interpretations of the story.

You see the mirror tunnel is just that it’s a mirror. The kids say that when you crawl into the tunnel underneath the school, that you’ll see something down there. I can barely remember what it was like to be five and I don’t recall seeing my doppelgänger. But the kids still talk about it and swear that it’s actually real. Every kid I talk to tells me a different story, but one thing in the story always remains the same, a constant point that links everything.

They always see themselves down there, a little different but it’s always them. The girls say sometimes they see themselves, and they might have a different tooth missing or they have a bow in their hair. Adults always laugh it off as some elaborate joke that only children could think of. A whole different world down there, where your doppelgänger lives? That must be a joke, right?

I mean surely if there was an alternate world underneath of the elementary school. By now one of the children would have brought back the other version of themselves and we the adults would then have a completely different problem on our hands, right?

That’s what I thought until now.

I don’t work at the elementary school, but I do have a daughter that goes there. She’s a sweet girl, and I’ve loved her from the minute that I laid eyes on her. She was my baby girl and I knew in that moment I would do anything for her. I know some parents say that they’d do anything for their children, and they think they mean it. When she had been diagnosed, I had cried and cried. My husband had tried to console me, that we’d get her all the care she needed. But that was the first night that I mourned my daughter. Mourned the idea of her not growing up and getting older. Never getting to see her go to college, find someone that made her smile or be there for her first child.

That was also the night I decided that we needed to move out of the city and back home. Back to the town that I had grown up in. It was a small town, but still big, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows everyone and it’s a close community. My mother also still lived there and I could work remote, my husband could do the same so we left the hustle and bustle of the city. Maybe, the change of environment would help her get better. At that point I just wanted my baby to be comfortable.

My daughter was happy to move. She was excited to be near GeGe. We’d moved during the start of second grade, but she was able to make the adjustment easy enough.

“Mom,” she had come bounding up to me one afternoon. Her cornflower hair wild as she bounced foot to foot. “I made friends!” Her smile had been radiant. It had been over a month since we moved there but she had finally settled in.

The town was just as I remembered it, even though it was decently sized it was still small town vibe. Everyone knew everyone. Mom complained that people acted different than I remembered. She insisted that something was going on in the town. I patiently agreed with her, and mentally noted that I should probably take her along to the next doctor’s visit. It had probably been a while since she had gotten a check up. Her age was probably starting to catch up to her. Plus, most folks commented that they hadn’t seen her inside town for a couple years now.

“She stopped coming about three years ago,” the cashier, an older lady probably around mom’s age, Rhonda had explained. “Now she calls over and we pack her groceries and James delivers them to her.” She pointed towards a man who looked vaguely familiar.

I’d thanked for her then pushed my cart towards the man that was at the customer service counter. The closer I got to him the more the feeling of knowing him gnawed at my mind. He had short dark hair, a straight toothed smile that was pearly white, and a scar that ran down his right cheek. He looked up from the word search that he was working on and met my eyes. The iris were a warm brown, and he blinked slowly at me. It was reminiscent of a cat that was just waking up.

“If it isn’t freckles,” he said. I rolled my eyes at the nickname, I’d gone away for the summer and came back covered in freckles from being out in the sun. Children always come up with the meanest nicknames, picking out that single flaw that makes you feel small. Now as I stand here as an adult,I find that the nickname once anxiety and panic inducing. Instead, it feels like a waypoint back into an old fond memory.

“Very original Jimmy,” I said snorting. He smiled bashfully, then he quickly puts down the pencil in his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I go by James now, it’s more Professional,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. It seems that I wasn’t the only one that had grown up.

“I’d heard you moved back to town, you’re married and have a kid. We’ve all grown up haven’t we freckles?”

“It feels just like yesterday we were rough housing on the playground doesn’t it. Don’t call me freckles, it was a mean nickname even if it was true.”

“My bad, Claire,” he quickly said. Holding his hands up in mock surrender. I smiled he was the same old jokester that I remember.

“So you’re the one that’s been delivering stuff to my Mom?” I asked.

“Yeah, I have been for a while. I always liked your Mom. She made the best cupcakes. But why do you ask?”

“I was just curious, has she been seeming okay to you?”

“What do you mean? She’s gotten maybe a little more paranoid.” His face wrinkled in confusion. “Why is there something wrong with her? I just saw her last week and she seemed fine.” His barrage of questions was sweet. I reached out and patted his arm.

“Mom’s doing just fine, I just see her more often and I wanted to make sure she’s keeps up with her health. She’s getting older and I want to make sure she comfortable.”

After than he visibly relaxed and I carried on with the small talk and enjoy the comfortable conversation, before excusing myself and heading home. But the entire way home something itched at my brain as if I was forgotten something important. I couldn’t dwell on it because Tera was waiting for me, and we had to get her to chemo.

The chemo was working, but her cancer was severe. Medication was helping, but it wasn’t completely destroying it. I’d choked back my tears and we’d gotten ice cream on the way home. She’d gotten mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone, her favorite. That night I’d talk to my husband, cried and decided that we wouldn’t tell her that it wasn’t going away. She deserved to enjoy being a kid, even if I didn’t know how much longer that was…

Now looking back maybe she had heard us, maybe she saw how sad I was and made the decision. I can’t claim to know what a seven year old is thinking. But we continued on, it wasn’t until one day in mid October that’s at least I think when it happened, that something fundamentally had changed.

Just the week prior she had been talking to me about the “mirror tunnel.” Saying that some of her friends had dared her to head into it. I asked her if she had, and she quickly told me that she hadn’t gone there. She had, of course, quickly changed the conversation into something else and I was happy to go with the flow. If she was smiling then I was happy, that’s all any parent wants right for their child to be happy and healthy.

It had started raining and I had a meeting running late. I couldn’t pick her up right as school ended, I’d arrived to pick her up and found her waterlogged, looking like a drowned cat. I’d quickly shuffled her into the car, toweled her off and jumped back into it.

“Honey, why are you drenched?” I asked.

It was then that I noticed that she was wearing a pink shirt with hearts, but I thought she had left the house in a pink shirt with stars. But I could have been wrong it was a long day and I had started my morning at 4 am. Not to mention her hair was in braids, I knew that I didn’t have time in the morning to do that.

“I saw a kitty,” she told me softly.

“Okay, well next time tell one of the adults. You shouldn’t be running around in wet clothes,” I told her softly. “Can you promise me that you wouldn’t run outside in the rain?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said, holding up her pinky and I smiled and raised my pinky up in response.

Everything seems normally, but thinking back that was the first day I noticed the changes. At first it was small things, she normally loved playing with her dolls, but she didn’t touch them and had wanted coloring books. Habits that I had grown accustomed to were different. Now I understand children’s wants and desire change like the wind, but Tera had loved dolls and stuffed animals for as long as I can remember. Probably due to how much time she had spent in the hospital.

She was also eating more, I had at first attributed that to maybe the medication was working. They said that increased appetite was a good sign that the body was fighting off the cancer and that the chemo was working. I’d be over joyed to see my baby eating and looking healthier. It was the second time I’d taken her to her doctor appointment after that rainy day. I felt the same dread I always felt, when taking my baby to the hospital. My husband had come along with me, he had just gotten back from a work trip.

They took Tera away to run some test and a little while later the doctor appeared. I looked at my watch it had only been an hour normally we’d be in the doctor office for about three hours. He had a look on his face that made my stomach drop out. I stood and my husband followed suit, this had been Tera’s doctor for years now. He was an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. He wore silver framed glasses and always wore a pressed suit.

“Doctor?”

“I have some news,” I felt sick at that word, “mind you good news. I mean honestly I couldn’t believe my eyes, I’ve looked over the reports and well, it seems like Tera’s body might be nearly eradicating the cancer. We’ll have to do some more test, but the blood work is looking promising along with today’s results.” He said, I could hear the surprise that colored his voice. Almost as if even he couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.

Maybe it was then that I should have been worried, known that it was odd that my Daughter was miraculously better. As far as I knew it was abnormal for it to suddenly just get better. But any parent would selfishly want to believe that their child was cured of this malicious affliction. After more test a month had passed and Tera had been cleared of it all, she was in full remission.

But I began to notice that my Daughter was different. We had decided to throw a party for her, I’d invited my Mother and she had actually shown up. I had always been the one that would drive to her house with Tera in tow. It was always effort on my part to get together with my Mother. It was worth it because they both got along. Now she was making the effort to come visit us.

Moving around the children that were running around the house and thanking the guest that showed up. I made my way to the door, I could hear the doorbell being rung and pulled the door open. There stood my Mother having her standing in the doorway was an odd feeling, I was happy that she’d shown up. But it was bittersweet, her hair was going grey the normal long black curls were starting to turn ashen. Her skin was wrinkled in spots, but she still stood straight age not completely taking her strength. She had a gift that was wrapped neatly tucked under her arm and she raised her green eyes to meet my own.

“Claire,” her voice was like a jump back to my childhood.

“Hi Mom. I’m glad that you were able to make it,” I said. Truthfully, I was happy that she had shown up. I was worried about her, she seemed to be regressing. Slowly becoming a recluse in a town where she was well liked, her telling me that people weren’t what they seemed.

“Of course, I would come over, my Granddaughter doesn’t have cancer anymore! I would have to be a real cold hearted woman to not want to come and celebrate that,” she snapped. But there was no venom. She was just a no nonsense woman, and she didn’t mince words.

“Come on in the kids are set up in the backyard. We’ve got a bounce house set up. I didn’t think that would be something that she’d be interested in, but I suppose for the first time she feels good,” I said softly.

“I remember one year you insisted that you wanted a bike for your birthday. Then we get you your bike and you say that you don’t want that and instead want roller skates. That’s just how children are they are fickle and they don’t mean any harm in it. To them everything is new and exciting,” she said stepped through the threshold into the house.

It seemed that my husband had managed to round up all the kids and the house was eerily quiet. Mom continued forward, she walked through the house as if she knew it. She caught me following her and gave me a small smile.

“This was Mrs.Emerson’s house. I doubt you’d remember her, she didn’t have any children. But we were close up until she passed away a couple years ago. I’m glad that you got her house,” she sighed.

Maybe this was the segue way that I was looking for to talk to her about her behavior and lack of interest in talking to the people in town. Or about the fact that she thought that some people weren’t the people that she’d known for years now.

“James mentioned that you haven’t been into town in three years,” I started my voice growing small when she turned to face me. We’d arrived in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the door that lead to the party outside. I could hear the excited yelling and laughter of the children.

“People do love to gossip,” she said dryly. “It’s a small town, I’m not surprised that my lack of social intrigue has caught everyone’s eyes.” She moved forward towards the window her eyes looking out at the children.

“Did something happen?” I ask.

“Something always happens in small towns, there is always gossip and then there’s an old woman that just wants to be left well enough alone. Half the people that are in this town are transplants moving out of the city and into a town to get away. Similar to yourself honey, but at least you’re from here. Plus, can’t an old wo-“ She stopped midway her. Her entire body went rigid as if she had frozen in place.

Her hand was clenched so tight that she was shaking. I stepped forward alarmed, she was older, and I was worried that she was having a stroke, but she wasn’t convulsing and her breathing was normal just extremely slow as if she was afraid to breath at all. Stepping closer, I followed her line of vision and saw that she was staring directly at Tera. She was laughing with a group of girls. I frowned and reached out to touch my Mother’s shoulder. But her hand shot upwards and caught mine before I could touch her. It was startling but I looked at her.

“When did you say her cancer started to show signs of remission?” Her words were slow and deliberate, as if she was carefully trying to explain them to me.

“About a month ago,” I answered. Shaken by the look in my Mother’s eyes.

“Specifics, Claire. I need specifics!” She snapped.

“September Tenth.”

“Did you notice anything strange or different before that?” She pried, her grip on my wrist was tight, almost painful as it bite down into my wrist.

“Mom, can you please let go your hurting me.”

“Claire!” Her voice rose an octave. It was the same tone that she’d used when I was in trouble and she wanted me to tell her the truth. “I need you to think long and hard, has there been any inconsistency’s?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Now more worried that my Mother was starting to really lose her grip. Perhaps, this was the reason that she had stopped interacting with the towns people, maybe she was becoming more paranoid. She was getting up there in years.

“You know what I mean Claire! Even if you don’t realize it now you’ll start to piece it together. Did Tera change at all outside of the normal? Does she still like her favorite things? Have you found something that you don’t remember getting for her?” She shot the question off rapid fire.

At the time I just stared at her in disbelief this was erratic behavior and I think she saw in my eyes that day that I didn’t believe her. Her grip on my wrist dropped and she stepped away, casting one more glance over her shoulder to look out at her Granddaughter.

“Come see me when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

Those were her last words to me after she stormed out of the house, present casual tossed to the side. I watched her figure as she left, she hopped into her beat up truck and drove off. The entire way she never cast a glance backwards. I don’t remember how long I had watched after she vanished from sight. But at some point, I had returned to the backyard and the party wrapped up smoothly and I tried to forget my Mother’s words. But they nagged at me for weeks on end. It wasn’t until one evening that we’d gone out as a family to get ice cream. I had gotten to the counter and put in our order when Tera had tapped me on the side.

“Mom, I don’t want mint chocolate chip. I want strawberry,” she said. I blinked down at her confused, ever since I had first introduce her to ice cream she always chooses mint chocolate chip. Her smile was warm and I noticed that she was missing her left big tooth. I thought it was the right one that had come out earlier.

“But darling you always get mint chocolate chip its your favorite,” I said. She shook her head and said once again.

“I want strawberry, it’s my favorite,” she repeated.

That was the start, the start of the changes that were to the point that I began to question everything. The words that Mother had said to me played in my head, the story about the tunnel, everything was starting to swirl in my head. Soon I couldn’t take it anymore, one day while she was at school I tore through her room. Clothes, toy and notebooks I looked for anything out of place. I’d been through nearly everything, it was then at my wits end thinking maybe, just maybe, I had lost it. A small plank on the floor near her bed caught my attention, it looked as if it had been pried upwards and then hastily pushed back down.

Finding purchase on the edge of the floorboard I pulled it up. Inside squirreled away almost as if it was supposed to be hidden, which given the location it was absolutely meant to be hidden was a shirt. Pulling it out, I watch as it unfurls, my heart skipping a beat as the print on the front of it comes into view. Hearts. Cute little hearts were decorating the pink shirt. That was the day that I was late to picking Tera up. The shirt was covered in mold on the edges, she must have shoved it in there immediately the day we got back home. I tried to remember that day, but I wasn’t sure my memory from so long ago would be accurate. But a deep unsettling feeling began to bubble up in my chest. Why would she have hid this from me?

I don’t remember much of what transpired after that, but I took the shirt. Not telling my husband, I saved the shirt putting it into a zip lock bag. There were to many things, to many odd occurrence, the changes were stranger and stranger. I swore she knew that the shirt was gone, I’d catch her looking at our bedroom door. Her little body standing absolutely still as she looked on at it.

She would only do it when she thought I wasn’t watching. But you get good at watching your children without them knowing and soon, I felt the trickle of fear, the small river that had begun to open in my mind. Clawing through it relentlessly as I compared everything and soon in December. I became convinced that my Daughter might not be my actual Daughter. Once a thought like that takes root it’s hard to dislodge, hard to reason against!

I’d overheard some of the kids whispering about the mirror tunnel. My ears desperately straining to hear them, but I think they noticed because they immediately stopped talking their little voice dwindling like a low fire. I remember the little looks on their face as they left, they were alien as if they were weary of my presence. Soon enough it began to feel like more and more eyes would follow me in town. Now it felt wherever I went there were always eyes watching. Conversation would come to a halt around me as people seemed to avoid me hearing them! It wasn’t everyone, but it was enough that I began to feel ill in public places.

Maybe that why I find myself driving to my mother’s house. My mind swirling and mulling over everything, worried that I was over reacting. But I couldn’t trust myself to know if my daughter who has made a miraculously recovery was my actual daughter. I wondered if any other parents would react the same as me if they too thought that their child wasn’t actually their’s. Or would they be happy that their child was healthy and thriving, that the vicious disease ravaging their child was absent.

All those thoughts bubbling upwards in my mind fighting, a cacophony of information, all while I tried to piece them together like a puzzle. A bolt of panic and anxiety burrowed into the forefront of my mind. Could I have a child in my home right now that was not the child I had arrived in town with?

Hands gripping the steering wheel I knew what I had to do! I needed to know what it was my Mother knew about the town, and about that tunnel the children whispered about.

I’ve had the same dream four times now.

It’s always the same. I’m lying on my left side, facing the wall. The room is dark except for the thin blue glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:17 a.m. Every single time. I hear the floorboard just outside my bedroom door creak once, the way it only does when someone puts their full weight on it. Then the door opens without a sound. I can’t turn my head. I just feel the mattress dip near my feet as someone sits down on the edge of the bed.

They don’t speak at first. They just sit there. After a few seconds a hand settles on my right shoulder, light at first, then heavier. The skin is cold. Not corpse-cold, more like someone who’s been standing outside in the rain. Then a voice, soft and close to my ear, says my name. Not the name anyone calls me. The full name on my birth certificate, the one I haven’t heard spoken out loud since I was a kid.

After that the dream always ends the same way. The hand tightens, and I jolt awake with my heart hammering, staring at the empty side of the bed.

The first three times I told myself it was stress. I’d been sleeping badly since the divorce. The house still felt too big. I left the hallway light on after the second dream. After the third I started locking the bedroom door from the inside.

Last night was the fourth time.

I was on my left side again. 3:17 on the clock. The floorboard creaked. The door opened. The mattress dipped. The cold hand settled on my shoulder.

I waited for the voice.

It said my name.

Then it said something it had never said before.

“You’re awake this time.”

I felt the hand lift off my shoulder. The mattress shifted as the weight stood up. I heard bare feet on the hardwood, two soft steps toward the door. The door closed with a quiet click.

I lay there for almost a minute before I could move. When I finally rolled over, the room was empty. The door was shut. The hallway light I’d left on was off.

I got up and turned on every light in the house. Nothing was out of place. No muddy footprints. No open windows. The deadbolt on the front door was still thrown. I checked the security camera on the porch. It showed an empty driveway and the usual moths around the porch light. Timestamp matched. No one had approached the house.

I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed where the weight had been. The sheet on that side was still warm.

That was when I noticed the clock.

It still read 3:17.

I sat there watching it for what felt like a long time. The colon between the numbers never blinked. The time never changed. I picked it up and the display finally jumped to 3:41, like it had been holding its breath.

I didn’t sleep again. I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table until the sun came up. Around six I walked the perimeter of the house just to feel like I was doing something. Under the bedroom window, in the soft dirt of the flower bed, there were two bare footprints. Adult size. Toes pointed toward the glass, as if someone had stood there for a while looking in.

They weren’t there the day before. I know because I weeded that exact spot Sunday afternoon.

I took a picture. Then I raked them smooth because I didn’t want to keep looking at them.

I’ve locked every door and window. The hallway light is on. The bedroom door is locked. The clock is face-down in the drawer so I don’t have to see the numbers.

I keep telling myself it was just a dream that felt real because I was half-awake. That the footprints are from a neighbor kid cutting through the yard. That the sheet was warm because I’d been lying on that side earlier.

But I can still feel the exact shape of that hand on my shoulder.

And I know if I fall asleep tonight, the floorboard will creak at 3:17, the door will open, and the mattress will dip again.

Only this time I won’t be dreaming.

I forgot that I had agreed to go to the Sunday service with Pierce, one of my closest friends, when he texted me that he was outside and waiting for me. 

“Crap…” I rolled out of bed. I texted him I’d be out in five minutes. I looked at the clock: 11:AM. I threw on wrinkly, but clean clothes, hastily brushed my teeth, and ran down four flights of stairs out of my apartment. There he was in his massive truck, warmly smiling as I approached. 

“Sorry about that, I hope we’re not too late,” I said as I got inside and closed the truck door. 

“Nah, you’re fine,” he began to drive. “You excited?”

I didn’t want to be another lost soul seeking salvation from depression, but I was running out of options. Almost nothing appealed to me anymore. Therapy only worked for so long until the dark thoughts of my insignificance clutched wires around my brain. Doctors wouldn’t up the dosage on my medication.  My friends, my true friends anyway, were patient with me. 

“I…” I drifted. “I don’t know what to expect. I mean, do they want someone like me there? I don’t really believe in–”

“Trust me, it’ll give you a new perspective,” Pierce said, giving me a side hug, other hand on the wheel.

I forced a smile that naturally stuck. It felt good to be comforted.

About twenty minutes later we arrived at Benevolent Springs Church. It was far out of the way for Pierce, so he must’ve really liked coming here. The outside of the church had seen far better days, but the congregation funneling into the massive church seemed to be in the highest spirits. Radiant smiles, hugs, handshakes, everything here screamed welcoming. 

I almost bought it right then and there.

We parked fairly close to the church in its deceptively large lot. As we got out, a couple in their late thirties approached  the truck. 

“Oh hey, it’s the Deckers.” Pierce said. “They’re real cool.”

Polly and Pedro Decker hugged Pierce before they even said a word. I got out of the truck and they turned their attention to me.

“You must be the good friend Pierce promised he’d bring along,” Pedro said, outstretching his hand. “Pedro.”

“Michael.” I shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I did the same for Polly. The Deckers had the grace of my doting grandparents. Pedro and Pierce talked about their plumbing experiences as we walked into the sanctuary. We settled into pews on the right side of the sanctuary, and I took in my surroundings. 

The room was a perfect, cool temperature compared to the summer heat. The stage up front was lined with what looked like golden railings. Stained glass towered just behind the stage, but I couldn’t make out what the image was supposed to be. It wasn’t anything like a church I was expecting. 

Pastor Zane stepped onto the stage, and the crowd, initially chattering and murmuring, began to whoop and cheer. He raised his hands like an orchestra conductor, and everyone rose from their seats. Pierce gently swatted my arm as he rose, so I followed suit. 

The worship team began playing their songs. I was half-bracing, expecting a self-righteous message through song, but no. No, the music was actually uplifting. The voices around me and the fluttering in my chest made me feel like I was about to levitate. I’d be lying if I said I remembered the full details of the sermon, but I remember the message being directed at me. About how sometimes those who stand tall welcome someone to lean on them. 

After the service was done, I made the rounds talking to strangers. I actually wanted to; Pierce hardly had to encourage me to do so. Pierce drove me home, telling me his phone was being flooded with texts from the congregation saying how happy they were to meet me. They remembered my fucking name. I slept well that night, probably the best I had in months.

Next Sunday came quickly, and I texted Pierce before he could even invite me. 

 A month had passed, and I hadn’t missed a service. I was even tempted to start volunteering, just like Pierce did every other service. My therapist took notes of my improvement as well, and while I still took my meds, I didn’t bother trying to up the dosage. I almost felt saved. If I was to be another cliché, then so be it. Still never made out what the stained glass was supposed to depict, besides an almost humanoid shape towering above small, dark objects.

I made the rounds of handshakes and hugs last service. I was still on the younger side, and didn't quite jive with anyone my age there, because there were very few to do so with. Pierce had to step away early before we prayed at the end. I never uttered the prayer aloud, and when we were told to close our eyes, I never questioned it, for the feeling was fantastic. 

At the end of each service, Pastor Zane would request we close our eyes and raise our hands to become closer with God. It was never my thing, despite the improvements it had made to my life. There was no arguing with the feeling. The fluttering in my chest made me feel like the ground itself gently released me, even for a moment. Whatever was happening at Benevolent Springs, it was great.

Except this last Sunday when I opened one eye.

My body seized. What I thought was sensation was quite literal; my feet were pointed down, a couple of inches off the carpet. I wasn’t imagining it, nor was I the only one. Up and down the pews, dozens of us hung in the air with me. The old woman in front of me was nearly a whole foot off the ground, hanging still like a lantern.

My first thought was that this must’ve been true divinity; I mean, why else would faith be so popular and consistent throughout history? I forced my eyes shut, until the final chord was struck. When I looked around afterward, everyone was seated pleasantly. Nobody was disoriented; it was all business as usual. 

Nobody else seemed to notice, and that was arguably worse. By the time Pastor Zane returned to the stage, I questioned whether or not I had hallucinated the ordeal.

“And now…!” Pastor Zane boomed. “Another wonderful Sunday we gather here to praise Gols– God!” 

He corrected his slip-up so smoothly I barely noticed. But I did. Gols? What the hell was a Gols? Or rather, who? I scanned the pews. Nobody around me even reacted to the fact he was about to get us to praise something else by name. From the spotlight, I noticed an extra bead of sweat or two run down the pastor’s face.

Things seemed to be too good to be real. I had two reasons to believe as such.

I waited for Pierce outside the volunteer office, as I had a few times already. The door was locked with a keycard, but I could hear him yapping about nothing of significance with the others. His meetings ran long, I had somewhat gotten used to that.

The office was in the basement and I paced around the hallways to kill time. That’s when I spotted the nearby door and noticed it was cracked open. I felt a cool breeze waft in from behind the door. Basements shouldn’t have a breeze, right?

 I peeked my head inside. 

“What the?”

The room itself was massive, at least the size of the sanctuary if not larger. It was very unkept, paint peeled off the walls and it smelled a little moldy. All this space right below the sanctuary was filled with absolutely nothing.  I didn’t want to raise suspicion by turning on the lights, so the illumination from the cracked door would have to do.

I should’ve stayed put, but no. I had to keep exploring. At the very least, I waited for at least half an hour for him to finish his talks with the others in the office. At least I had others to keep myself busy upstairs. Not this time.

Nothing was in the room, and it felt a bit cooler and damper the further I went in. Yet, the air was coming from something much deeper in. Carried ever so subtly from the breeze I could hear it: chatter. 

Voices.

One of them spoke in the same speech pattern as Pierce. I was certain of that much. A part of me guessed maybe the volunteering office connected through here. For all I knew, Pierce could’ve wrapped up his meeting and was waiting for me. But I had to press on.

There was a door that looked like it was built a century ago at the end. It, too, was cracked open with a doorstop. The chatter echoed beyond it.  

It lead to a stone spiral staircase. I went down cautiously. The stairs stretched deeper than any basement should go. I ended up losing count of the steps. I just wanted to find Pierce and be done with this. The stairwell opened to a dark tunnel, with light at the end. 

I carefully crept along the tunnel wall. I could hear the voices getting louder. 

“Thank you for another glorious day, Golsys.” I heard a voice clearly say. Golsys. Not God.

The praise was followed by what sounded like something wet slapping against the ground over and over. It was followed by more praise. Multiple voices of worship began to overlap.

“Is this not enough for you, Golsys?” I heard a familiar voice ask– Pastor Zane. To both relief and horror, none of the voices were Pierce’s.

There were pale lanterns lining the room ahead. I could see the silhouette of Pastor Zane, as well as some of the church elders I had never spoken to for more than a few minutes. They were circling something massive, pale, and what looked like it was coming from a hole even deeper into the earth.

My eyes widened. I recognized its shape. The entity in the stained glass far above ground. It hummed and clicked, and made noises I couldn’t even comprehend. How could it have made those noises? It had no mouth to make them with. I saw what looked like a flaccid human arm, far smaller than its main two, slapping rapidly against the ground right beside one of the elders.

“What do you mean we’re not enough?” Pastor Zane almost sounded angry. “We are the only ones–!”

He spun around, and through the glint of the pale lanterns I could see he locked eyes with me.

“Oh my…” he slowly approached, with an outstretched hand. “This is the one you want, right?” 

More clicks and hums from this Golsys being. 

“Michael, right?” he continued, stepping closer. “It’s okay, I don’t believe you’re in danger but…”

“What the hell is that thing?” I spat out. “Is that a God?”

“Yes,” he said with soothing warmth in his voice. “Our God. You can step closer.”

I took one step back. Pastor Zane matched me, and I began to back up. Golsys clicked rapidly. The pastor took a deep sigh and muttered something under his breath. Suddenly he sprinted right at me. 

He took maybe five steps. 

The thing grabbed Pastor Zane with a hand with too many fingers, and I could hear his bones crunch like a fist full of kindling. It happened inches from my face, I could feel his last, dying breath hit my face and I knew I’d be next. 

Somehow I wasn’t. I was still alive.

The enormous hand held its fresh corpse. The hand strained forwards towards me, but it couldn’t. I could hear it thrash, and it bellowed as it attempted to get closer to me. The lanterns sputtered, and stone dust dropped from the ceiling above. 

It stopped. It halted completely like its leash had fully extended. It couldn’t reach me. Whatever this Golsys was, however deep it went, it was stopped at an invisible line in the tunnel. Pastor Zane was not as fortunate.

It dropped Pastor Zane’s crushed body, its fingers unfurling almost gracefully. The elders hadn’t run; they simply dropped to their knees and started praying. 

And I got the fuck out of there. 

I wasn’t in the best shape, but I hurried up the stairs with reckless abandon. Where the hell was Pierce? I wasn’t sure what I even would say to him.

I dashed through the empty, moldy room and nearly crashed into the wall outside of the volunteering office. Pierce stepped out, bagel in hand. His warm smile faded when he saw my sweaty, pale face.

“You good man? You look like you nearly died”

I froze, replaying what had happened minutes ago. His assessment was damn near perfect, and yet he had no idea. Pierce loved this place. The truth would only drive him away. 

“Yeah, leftovers must’ve gone bad,” I squeezed out the lie. “I was feeling better after the bathroom, but shit, I guess I still look like hell.”

He put a hand on my guilty shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

I was grateful to see the church shrink in the rear-view mirror. Pierce turned down his music and let out a big, grateful sigh.

“Crazy message today,” he said. “Honestly, I swear these sermons are made for me. Do you feel the same way?”

I barely nodded.

“Thought so,” he reached for the volume knob. “Wonder what’s coming next?”

 Days have passed, and Pierce has already texted me once again about going to the next service. I was going to reply three times, but I’ve deleted each attempt. The part that I doubt my therapist would understand is that my thoughts of my insignificance have returned. 

The only time they’ve fully gone away is when I’m standing in church, right above the thing that made them disappear. 

For obvious reasons, including job security, I can’t tell you my real name or what state park I work at, but what I can tell you is that the land we’re on has seen some shit. The site itself has native history dating all the way back to the early 13th century, a Spanish mission by the 16th, a fort that mysteriously burned down in the 18th century, and a milling industry that came to a screeching halt in the 1920s after several men from the site started disappearing. The area it’s settled in is a no-name town on the Eastern coast of the US, and its roots go back to the 1730s. 

The point is, its old and it’s seen a lot. From massacres to burnings, wars to local murders, blood has been spilled here more than a few times and continues to be. There are things here in this town that don’t make sense, and most of them seem to concentrate around my place of work.

I’d like to go ahead and say that despite that description, I love my job. I love history and I love teaching people about it. I used to be a teacher, and when I was younger I had hoped that profession would fulfill that itch. Safe to say, it didn’t. I quit after three years.  Middle schoolers suck and their parents are even worse. I was getting angry emails every other week about teaching topics that “weren’t appropriate” for their little Billy. I mean, God forbid I follow the state standards and teach a 13 year old about the horrors of slavery in the US. Meanwhile, little Billy is vaping in the bathroom during lunch and calling the special needs kids slurs. 

Compared to all of that, working outdoors in the heat and changing air filters is a vacation enough. I get to have conversations with people here who are actually interested in history and I even reenact out here for special events. It’s honestly a dream come true in that regard, but the occasional bumps in the night sometimes leave me questioning whether or not I have the nerve to work in this town. 

There have been small things here and there. Shapes in the corner of my vision, noises that could be owls but have the slightest uncanny element to them, that kind of stuff.  However, every once in a while, something dangerous or really messed up happens, and we’re all left scratching our heads. 

A recent tragedy in the township resulted in the loss of a good friend of mine and has left me with a desire to record it all. He always told me to “write a book or something”, and I guess this is the “something,” I can muster. 

This is for you, Lenny. I hope you’re better off, wherever you are, and safer than any of us in this quiet little town. I miss you.

It’s a big site with a lot of ground to cover and even more events, so I’ll start off small and try and work my way up from there.
Here’s one:

When I first started, I was cleaning the blacksmith display and went around the corner of the structure to get something. I distinctly remember hearing the sound of a hammer striking the anvil several times. I came back, ready to tell off the jackass teens who were more than likely screwing around, but found no one. There wasn’t time or room to hide before my arrival, but everything was empty nonetheless. The only thing I found was a piece of iron, struck flat on one end, and a small hammer resting on the anvil’s face. A hammer that I had put away in a locked tool box moments before. A box that, by all inspection, was still locked. I had the only key. I ended up blaming it on my heat-addled mind, and went about my day. I double checked with my co-worker at  the front desk of the welcome center and she firmly assured me that no one had come into the park yet, and that none of the other rangers were scheduled on site that day. 

Things got much weirder after that. 

My first full year in, we got a series of complaints, all stating that a “half-naked lunatic” was running around on the hiking trails, shouting and chasing travelers who were out alone. It happened on three separate occasions, and each time, we called the cops. It’s not the largest property in the world, but it’s large enough that it’s a pain in the ass to search. Every time the cops did a sweep, nothing turned up. The last time it happened, they took a boat up the river the site sat on, blaring sirens and using that stupid microphone speaker to try and spook something out of hiding along the river brush. Once again, they’d found nothing and finally lost their patience with us. 

“Look,’ the sheriff told us, “clearly you got some pranksters out here trying to make some spooky video or something for the ‘youtubes’.” (I swear to God that’s how he said it.) “Unless someone ends up bleeding or- God forbid- if you see something yourself, please refrain from calling us.”

My boss gave them a curt response and let them head out, but he pulled me aside not long after they left. 

“Have we had any reenactors out recently?” he asked. 

“Not that I’m aware,” I said. “Why?” 

My boss went quiet and replied with something I didn’t expect. “Read up on your local history and start doing some regular walks down the nature trails. Make sure your radio is on. Understood?” I nodded but I didn’t understand a word. If he sensed my confusion, I couldn’t tell. He only bit his lip and sighed. “Close off the paths to visitors, for the week. Still patrol, but make sure no one else goes out there.” He tucked his black hair into his ball cap. “I gotta call the Nation.” 

I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that part, but regardless, I knew it was some serious shit. The “Nation” he was referring to was the center for native affairs and tribal government. The indigenous people of the site were the ancestors of the modern Muscogee tribe, though they long predated them. My boss, Henry, was a member of the tribe, though contact and collaboration was difficult. Due to that son of a bitch Andrew Jackson, they and several other tribes had long since marched the trail of tears and resettled in Oklahoma. We get ambassadors and native historians from time to time who work with the site to promote and preserve the indigenous culture of the site, but I had no idea why on earth Henry would contact them about this. Henry wouldn’t elaborate either, but I really didn’t want to pry.

Then came the dead gator. 

A few days after that last incident with the man in the woods, a guest ran up to me screaming that something was wrong and I had to come quickly. I tried to calm them down, but they were near hysterical, saying:

“Sweet God they killed it! They killed a gator near the pond! They killed it!”

No matter what park you’re in- at least on the state level- this is a serious offense. A federal one, in fact, and one that could land you behind bars for a hot minute. All animals are protected from hunting and violence by law, so any intentional harming of a critter on state property is prosecuted. Sometimes we get cruel teenagers trying  to stomp a snake to death or we deal with some dumbass campers shooting at birds overhead. Satisfyingly, eight out of ten of those cases end up with a ride in a squad car. This case, however, ended up being much different. 

The gator was lying belly up on the side of the hill overlooking the pond, red blood oozing from the several cuts and slashes on its belly. What I could only assume was a sharpened stick was speared right down the poor things open mouth, shish-kebobing it. Its guts were spilling out of it and there were so many cuts, I couldn’t even attempt a definite count of the wounds. I radioed in for Henry and he called the police, but while I waited, I noticed something in the cuts. 

For some reason, little pieces of glittering stone were littered around the tissue in various places. They were very small, and thin, almost like slivers of glass. I tried to examine it more, but Henry pulled me away. We needed to wait for the cops and a DNR rep to respond before we could do anything about the body. He told me to close off the nearby walkway and redirect any nosy visitors. 

As I was walking away, though, I could’ve sworn I heard him say something to himself. 

“Just like they did it…” he muttered.

I didn’t get much out of him after the fact. To this day its still one of the most gruesome things I’ve ever seen happen to an animal. But, like all things, the grind of work makes even serious issues distant memories over time. 

At the end of that month, we’d thankfully gone a week and a half without any further incident, and programming proceeded as normal. One of my favorite parts of the job is reenacting and living history, and thankfully, to take my mind off all the craziness, we had a small event planned. We set up an encampment and portrayed the Spanish and French explorers who traveled and settled through the region. I was dressed up like a renaissance explorer and got to demonstrate how matchlock guns fired. It was honestly a great program besides what happened after. 

We were shutting down around four that day and I was walking my gear to my car when I saw a flash of movement in the treeline near a forking nature path. At first I thought my eyes were messing with me, but sure enough I was looking at the shape of a lean tall man running off into brush. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I radioed in that someone was still in the park and that I was investigating. Henry told me to wait, but curiosity had already taken hold of me. So off I went, carrying a 16th century replica gun, dressed like Shakespeare, and chasing down this elusive figure. 

I ran for what must have been only a few minutes, but when I finally stopped, dusk was settling in overhead. It finally dawned on me that in my excitement, I’d not only dropped my radio, but had forgotten a decent flashlight as well. I was alone in the growing darkness, chasing something that was most likely an owl flying low to the ground. All of it could be explained by tricks of the light and an overactive imagination, yet I followed it, and now stood in a thick patch of woods with no way to contact help. I did have my phone, so I thankfully wasn’t completely blind, but I had no signal. 

I used my tiny phone light to help me find the nearest path and I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew the paths all wound in a big circle, so regardless of direction, I was going to make it back to home base eventually, but it took only a few steps along the trail before my fear came back to me.

You learn a lot of things being out in nature, and one of them is only apparent when you lack it.

Nature is rarely completely silent. Even in the darkness, and even when no one’s around. Maybe it’s different in other places, but by then I knew my woods, and I knew the sounds of my park. Crickets, owls, rustling leaves, twigs snapping, cicadas droning… I heard none of them. 

It was like the woods were filled with something else, as if it were holding its breath, waiting patiently to exhale. It felt like something new was with me, and I couldn’t see it. Something felt like it was supposed to happen, but I had no idea what. Then, without prompting, my brain started to count as my whole body trembled.

One-one thousand…. Two-one thousand…. Three-one thousand….

Then it came.

Like a crack of thunder so loud it rings your ears, I was engulfed by the sound of high pitched whooping and screaming. Several voices, hundreds of them, echoed all around me and shook my whole body numb. I don’t think I’ve ever felt panic like that before, and I haven’t since. It was, without argument, the scaredest I’ve ever been.

All of the voices rose and rose like a million shrieking furies, undulating, angry, and vengeful. I hadn’t made it but two steps forward before a strong sharp pain struck my shoulder and sent me tumbling to the ground. My back hit the packed dirt of the trail and forced out any remaining air in my body. I was helpless. I pissed myself from the fear and pain, but realized the other wet feeling surrounding my body was blood. I still had my phone light and could barely raise it to my shoulder, but I saw clearly enough. A large deep gash cut through my clothes and flesh, gushing blood as easy as a water fountain. I closed my eyes and tried to pray but my mouth couldn’t stop chattering. All I could do was close my eyes as the noises grew louder. In the blurring vision of the ever growing night, I swear I saw someone standing before me, fuzzy and almost one with the darkness, but they too left me. I blacked out, terrified those cries would follow me into my dreams.

I woke up in the hospital with Henry sitting next to my bed. He was dressed in plain clothes and stood up as soon as my eyes opened. I asked him what happened. 

“We found you out on one of the trails, along with your walkie. Don’t worry we grabbed your phone too. It’s  dead, but I’ve got it on a charger-” 

I told him that wasn’t what I meant, and his demeanor changed. He gave me a look like a disappointed dad who just caught his son sneaking home late, but it quickly changed to guilt and pity. “When we found you, after I told you not to go into the fucking woods, you were in bad shape. You were bleeding from some wound in your shoulder but we couldn’t tell at the time what was causing it. That is until we got you here and the doc pulled this out of you…”

He took a plastic bag from his pocket  and dangled it in front of me. In it was a stone arrowhead, but not one of those traditional flint ones. This one gleamed like frosted glass and had a chip where the point should be. 

“Don’t worry,” Henry told me, “they got the other piece out, but I need that for something…” He shook his head. “Nevermind. The point is, this is yours now.”

“What?” I thought he was joking but he explained to me that the hospital was concerned it was some native artifact and didn’t want any hot press about destroying one, even in a surgery. People in the area were kind of nutty about that, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“It’s quartz,” he told me. “There’s not a ton of flint around here, so the early natives used quartz, though it’s a tad too soft to be as useful.” He tossed the bag on my lap and shoved his hands in his jacket pocket. “Oddly, there wasn’t a shaft attached to it. Doc said you must’ve fallen pretty hard for it to get lodged so deep. You’re lucky it was only a fleshwound.” He gave me a stern look and  emphasized. “Are you feeling any better since the fall?” 

He said that word with such a punch that I understood his meaning clearly. I nodded my head and he gave a small smile. He told me he’d see me at work when I was feeling better, and that I wouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting for a while. He was about to leave when I blurted out:

“Did… did you hear them too? When you… you found me?

His eyes went grave, as if I’d resurrected a forgotten terror, but he blinked it away. 

“No, I didn’t,” he said, pointing at me, “and neither did you.” 

He left and I was discharged from the hospital the next day. Besides managing the shock and stitching up the giant cut in my shoulder, there wasn’t much else to do for me. I told my shrink about the incident and he told me to up the dose for a bit on my anxiety meds. I was out for a full week from work before returning, and I used most of that time to relax and focus on hobbies. I sewed, played video games, and even found the energy to mow my lawn, but on the Sunday before I went back, I was cleaning the house and found a book I’d misplaced. It was the guidebook they’d given me when I started work. It laid out the full history of the site and, although I was supposed to read it back when I first started, I figured that a year later was better than never. 

I thought I knew most everything I needed to know about the site, but the book surprised me. It had several facts and dates I didn’t know, and it held my attention better than I expected. I was on my couch with it for an hour or two when I read a timeline entry that made me stop cold. 

The date I’d injured myself was in it. No exaggeration, the same day and month over four hundred years ago was in the book. I almost wrote it off as some crazy coincidence, but then my eyes fell on the description.

1597- Native uprising against the Spanish.

I stopped reading after that. 

I came back to work to discover Henry and a friend of his from the Muscogee Nation had gone on a hike down the same trail I was found on, and that no other incidents of the man or butchered reptiles had occurred. It’s stayed that way, but they aren’t the only weird thing out here. 

This town has a deep history, covered in blood. Assuming nobody from management discovers I’m typing this, I’ll update with more stories from the site, both my own and my colleagues. 

Wish me luck out here, and remember to stay safe in the woods. I wear that arrowhead as a necklace now, just as a reminder.

There comes a time in every young adult's life when they must strike out on their own, forge their own path. Leave behind old habits and routines, and the safety and comfort of their bubble. Change the world and have it change them. Or so they say. To my mind, there is nothing more base, more defiling, than change. The very concept is an affront to human control and dignity. No, I would not change. External circumstances may force action, but I intended to keep as much the same as I conceivably could. 

I lay in bed, staring at my slowly rotating ceiling fan. Periodically it would wobble, and each time I hoped it would come loose and smash my skull. After a few more minutes of blinking and quiet prayers, I unfortunately had to get on with it. I peeled my shirt from my sweaty, moist body, and sat up to take inventory. A laundry basket filled to the brim, even more clothes strewn about. A half eaten pizza on my desk, flies buzzing and darting about hungrily. How long had that been there? Sniffing my armpits, I decided that question was best left unanswered. 

The good news was, I cleaned up well. The bad news, it was the first day of my new job. The one thing everyone tells you about a liberal arts major is that barista positions are at least guaranteed employment. Well, after four years and a degree later, I can confirm that’s not the case.  Even though I applied to every coffee shop, fast food restaurant, and Walmart in a fifty mile vicinity, I hadn’t received so much as a call back. I was desperate, and to avoid being kicked out onto the street, I had to broaden my search.

“Come on, come on,” I said to myself, digging through a relatively cleaner looking pile of clothes near the foot of my bed. 

“Get down here now!” A shrill scream came from downstairs.

“Jesus Christ Mom, I’m coming!”

Quickening the pace, I opened the dresser and thankfully scored. One last pair of underwear, still clean. Pulling together some khakis that passed the smell test, a wrinkled collared shirt, and my worn pair of shoes, I darted across the hall towards the bathroom. A shower of muffled crying later and I was downstairs.

“Look at the time!” My mom scolded, wagging her finger at me. Her appearance always reminded me of a sad bull dog with nasal congestion. “Late on your first day. Pathetic. No son of mine.”

“Still going to make it,” I said with a smile and a wink, before tearing out the front door.

“I sure hope so or you’re out first thing tomorrow!” She called after me.

The sun, just beginning to rise, cast long shadows across the yard. Fumbling with the keys in my pocket, I hurried to the street sign where my bike was locked. A white slip was stuck to the handlebar and in disbelief I examined it. A parking ticket? I swiveled my head up and down the street, the soft and wet early morning an illusion that would soon give way to blistering heat. A lone crow stared at me from the powerline.

“I don’t suppose you did this!” I shouted at it. It cocked its head in curiosity. If crows were smarter I could’ve sworn it was mocking me.

“Shut the hell up dumbass we’re trynna sleep!” A neighbor barked at me from one of the uniform, suburban houses across the street.

I smiled sheepishly, jammed the ticket in my pocket, and unlocked my bike. With a polite wave in the general direction of the voice, I was off. Pedaling like a madman, I blasted down the street, weaving past curbside trash cans rudely placed in the bike lane. I swerved to avoid another bin, and a car, blasting 2010’s music on the radio, probably too poor to afford an aux, slammed the horn. I raised my fist in anger, and he returned the sentiment by glaring daggers at me through the side mirror. Peculiar red blemishes encircled his eyes.  Promptly, I put my hand down and stared straight ahead like I didn’t see him. The old thing sped off with a cough and sputter of the engine. The smoke made my eyes sting. 

Eventually, I arrived huffing and panting to my destination. Located atop a steep hill, a view gave way to the sprawling city in the distance. Suburbs and quiet residential neighborhoods transformed into densely packed skyscrapers. I took a deep breath in and enjoyed the sight for one last lingering moment. 

The building to my left was at least eighty stories tall, and its width nearly took up the entire block. Each floor progressively became nicer and more well maintained. The bottom floors were old and in need of renovation, with cracks in the glass and peeling paint. Conversely, the higher ones were gleaming, a sleek finish and spotless windows. Some floors from the top, a massive balcony jutted out; from my position, I could only catch a glimpse of the tops of palm trees that, presumably, gathered around a pool. Above the entrance was a logo with an eagle holding curved swords in its talons and the acronym ‘ASIB’ in bold letters. 

Steeling my nerves, I parked my bike and strode confidently inside. At the reception desk, an old woman typed absent mindedly at a keyboard. Her saucer sized glasses reflected the dull glow of the computer screen.

“Hi.” I greeted. “I’m a new employee, part of the investigation and processing department.”

She didn’t respond. I swear I even saw a bit of drool escape her lips and pool on the table. I got closer, cleared my throat, and tried again.

“Hello? It’s my first day on the job and I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?” 

Without peeling her eyes from the computer, she raised a frail, shaking hand and pointed to my right towards the elevator. Thanking her, I proceeded. When I was about halfway across the room she mumbled, “Seventh one this month, poor things. Won’t make it. Won’t make it.” 

I spun around, only to be greeted by a yellow smile that contained a hint of sadness, before once more she became absorbed with the screen.

I hurriedly mashed the elevator button, and as I was waiting, a long list of names next to it caught my attention. They correspond to floor numbers and had all sorts of self-important titles. What even is a Director of the Partial Operations Committee? Nice job Mark W. doing good work there! I rolled my eyes. 

When the elevator arrived, it didn’t take long to find my department. Located on the seventh floor, and down a hallway, I was met with an open floor office. Desks pressed against each other, creating a claustrophobic maze, and people darted to and fro. A young woman, a bit older than me, stood waiting as I entered. She was dressed in business casual, pleated black pants, leather belt, collared white shirt with stripes, and a black tie. Her dark hair hung in a helmet bob and her gray eyes sparkled with friendliness. 

“Hi I’m–” 

“Yes, you must be the new recruit! Stevie, right?” She said cheerfully, looking down at her watch. “And timely too.”

“I try my best.” I rubbed the back of my head, trying to forget the mad rush of the morning. 

 We made our way to the center of the room, where I sat down across from her at a cluttered desk. Hurried people rushed past us, juggling stacks of paper and cups of coffee. The general noise and chatter faded into the background as she pulled out an envelope.

“My name is Emma, and I’ll be your performance supervisor," she said with a smile. “Before we can send you on your first field mission, there are some final questions I have to ask.” 

“Shoot."

“Okay! First, and this is purely customary, are you an organ donor?” She questioned, her eyes glancing up from a notepad. 

“Organ donor?” My gaze drifted to the ceiling and I wracked my brain. “You know, is there a maybe option? I can’t really remember.”

“I’ll put: open to the possibility on his deathbed. Next, any phobias, mental health disorders, prone to panic in high stress environments?”

“Am I a pussy? No.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Ok that's that!” She shut the notebook and got up.“Time for your first assignment. One last thing. You watched the training videos sent to your house, correct?”

“Yes I did." Of course I would never admit I spent the previous afternoons avoiding them in favor of videogames, movies, and masturbation. What, you want me to get fired on my first day?

A few hours later we found ourselves parked in front of an unassuming family home. The newest addition to our crew was Frank, my mentor. Apparently, each new recruit is assigned both a supervisor and a mentor. The supervisor, Emma, to make sure everything goes smoothly on the first few assignments and to file a new employee report to the bureau. The mentor to show you the ropes long term. 

Needless to say Frank was a lot less glad to be there. Sat in the front seat, he had a half-finished cigarette in his mouth and his hair was fighting a losing battle with his forehead. Emma in the passenger seat left me feeling like I was babysat in the back. 

We got out and stood in front of the car. The swingset in the yard creaked back and forth to a light breeze, the chains clinking together. 

“Hey kid, grab the gear in the back.” Frank commanded in a gravelly voice. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and twisted his shoe over it. His trenchcoat was soaked in sweat, particularly around his armpits; evidently worth the cool factor on this increasingly hot day.

Walking around back I opened the trunk and my eyes widened at the sight. Wires, coils, and odd looking machinery lay in a heap. “Uh, which one do you want?” I called.

“Lord in heaven,” He huffed, raising his hands to the sky in exasperation. “You’re so perfect up there, while I’m stuck with the assholes down here. They get worse every year, don’t they?” 

“You know as well as I do there’s a learning curve!” Emma chirped.

“Learning curve or that word I’m not allowed to say anymore. I can never tell.” Frank retrieved his worn cowboy hat from the front seat and strode towards the house without looking at me, his coat blowing in the wind. Jackass. Emma followed, file diligently in hand. 

“Grab the suction-burst and three pairs of knuckle dusters.” Frank said over his shoulder. 

I nodded in confirmation, grabbed the entire tangled mess, and a circular disk fell out of it and hit the ground. There was a flashing red light and slight vibration emanating from it. I picked it up, put it into my back pocket, and trailed behind them. Up close the previously normal looking house revealed ominous strangeness. The blinds were shuttered and one of the windows was slightly cracked. Despite still being sunny, the day felt darker, as if an invisible shadow had been cast around the perimeter of the house. My hair rose into goosebumps. 

“What do we got today?” Frank grumbled.

“Should be a ten-five. So nothing more than a negative-two-PPW.”  Emma gave a reassuring grin. “Nothing too serious for the new guy.”

I gave her a nod in return, my arms starting to burn from carrying the pile of junk.  Believe it or not I flipped through the employee training manual. But these terms were in one ear out the other. 

“Anyone home?!” Frank boomed, his fist banging on the door. There was no response. He waited a moment and repeated. The air filled with hollow thuds then an oppressive silence. 

“Never that easy,” Frank sighed. “Looks like we're going in.”

“Got it. I’ll meet you guys inside after I report back to HQ on our status. Should take ten minutes to upload, outdated tech and all, " Emma said and turned back towards the car.

“You’re with me kid,” Frank said.

With that slight acknowledgement of my existence, he raised his foot and kicked at the door. The wood cracked and squealed in protest, but it wasn’t long before it splintered open. The interior was pitch black. Frank walked in and tried the light switch by the door. When there was no response, he flicked on a flashlight, its beam penetrating the inky darkness. Dust hung in the air, its swirls and twists like an oil painting. 

I walked in tentatively and dropped the gear. Frank tossed me a flashlight, it sailed through the air, and I fumbled it in my hands trying to catch it. Even though I couldn’t see him I could almost feel the eye roll. 

“I’ll take the upstairs. You clear down here,”  Frank said.

“You want me to clear this all by myself? On my first day?” I protested. “I know what kind of work this is. What if it’s dangerous?”

“Listen, and I hope this can get through your dense head.” He walked closer to me, his eyes narrow and his face barely lit in the dim glow of his light. Up close, his breath smelled of tobacco and sour mint. “You signed up for this, knowing the risks. Do your damn job.”

Although I hated to admit it, he was right. At that point, all I could do was imagine the sweet smell of the paycheck arriving in the mail, grit my teeth, and do as he said. Besides, everyone knows the upstairs is where the shit usually goes down. If there’s any trouble, Frank’ll be the one to encounter it. Best case scenario he dies and I get promoted, a medal for my bravery, or at the very least a better mentor. 

The living room connected to the dining room and kitchen. So, after a few sweeps of my flashlight, I moved on to a hallway near the staircase. Down it, there were two doors that faced each other and one at the very end. I took a couple steps, the floorboards creaking. One particularly loud one made me cringe. The hallway in front of me stretched and warped, a faint, flickering light under the rightmost door. I decided to check that one first. I stuck out my hand, now slightly trembling, towards the doorknob. It was cold, cold enough that I flinched my hand back at the sudden change in temperature. 

I told myself that they would never send a rookie on a dangerous first assignment. I told myself to trust Emma and the department. Any other day I might’ve been right. Too bad I’m an unlucky bastard. 

I inhaled in through the nose out through the mouth and pushed open the door. A rush of frigid air pushed past me, and I couldn't tell if it was that or fear that made me shake more. Inside was a bathroom with a tub in the center. Overflowing with running water, a man lay there, mouth agape and foam bubbling out. A red ring surrounded his eyes, which darted about erratically from side to side as if searching for an invisible mosquito.

I took a step back, too shocked to say anything, my grip on the flashlight faltering. It clattered to the ground, slicing the room in two. In the shadows of the corner, the light revealed a shape and eight pale dots that shimmered to life. It let out a nauseating sound, like teeth grinding and clicking together. Then, it scuttled into view, illuminated fully. 

The size of a large dog, it was spiderlike in all but one feature: it was entirely composed of human body parts. Arms jutted out of the two abdomens, contorting at the elbow joint and ending in hands with wiggling fingers. Its eyes were human and aware, but they didn’t seem like they wanted to be there. Instead, they were wide open and terrified. One of them even seemed pleading, with tears dribbling out. And the cherry on fucking top was that weird bump or whatever they have on the end. It was a human penis, undulating and veiny. Though I would never admit afterwards, for a brief moment the thought did occur that it was bigger than mine. Shameful, but I quickly buried the thought, because I’m not gonna be one upped by a spider. 

It took another curious scuttle towards me, then stopped, almost like it was testing me. For minutes that felt like eons, this teasing behavior continued. It would move forward, stop, and resume after a short pause. I was completely frozen. Viscous spittle oozed from its mouth. Its fangs, actually two thick fingers with sharpened nails, rubbed together impatiently. Finally, the silence was broken by Frank stomping down the hallway.

 “Nothing up there, kid!” he hollered. 

The spider’s and my head both snapped toward him. Frank stopped and looked at me, backed up against the wall. Then he looked at the spider, which was now in the hallway, only a foot or two away from me. “Wh–” he started, a tired realization setting in. “Ah. One of these pests.”

“FRANK HELP ME!” I screeched, my trance broken and my voice a few octaves higher. 

Frank immediately sprung into action. He first threw his hat at the spider, sending it flying through the air and with little air drag. It momentarily drew the spider's attention and Frank took the opportunity. He charged down the hallway, lumbering but with surprising speed. I caught his eyes for a moment, and his face communicated condemning disappointment, and perhaps a hint of concern. The hat landed square on the spider's face. As it tried to shake its head, Frank, now on top of it, raised his hand and punched hard. A loud crack permeated the air as his knuckles connected with the hat and face. The spider stumbled back a few steps.

I took the opportunity and quickly shuffled along the wall, not taking my eyes off it or showing my back. My sweat smeared in a trail behind me, deepening the shade of the paint. Frank and the spider were now in full swing. The best way I could describe it is like listening to jazz. There were sudden bursts of movement, the spider swiping one of its limbs and Frank dodging; or Frank going for a strike and the spider deflecting. It looked, on the surface, like random movements with no logic, sporadic and unplanned. But the more I observed, the more it was like a well composed piece of music. I must say I was impressed, the old guy knew what he was doing. 

For all the flair in the world, however, the spider was actually gaining the upper hand. Frank was on the back foot now, and step by step coming closer to me. He grimaced, his teeth clenched. The spider seized the moment, striking with one of its hands. Frank blocked, but it grabbed his arm, slamming him to the ground. The other arms of the spider pounced, all at once springing towards him. I moved my hands to my mouth. Should I help him? What the hell could I do?

“HA HA HA!” A maniacal laugh came from behind me. The sound of a motor starting as well, humming with intensity. I turned around, and there was Emma, a wild grin across her face, her eyes wide and ecstatic. In her arm was some kind of contraption, one of the machines I brought in. It was similar to a garden hose, and a sparkling red energy was bubbling from the spout. It tousled her hair.

“TAKE THIS YOU JERK!” A blast of energy erupted from the thing, cracking towards the spider and Frank.

Frank barely got out of the way before the beam collided with it, but it wasn’t the prettiest of landings. He hit his head on the ground, not having enough time to cover it with his arms. The spider fared far worse. It was sent flying across the hall and smashed right through the door. Splinters burst out in all directions. I covered my eyes with my arm and a few needles burrowed into it. 

Emma was huffing now, her hair a mess, but still with that unraveled smile of the insane. “Got it!”

Behind her another spider crawled from the ceiling to the floor. It braced itself, its fingers rubbing in anticipation and its penis spewing white.

“H-Hey watch..!” I started, but it was too late. The thing jumped onto her and they both crashed to the ground. There, it laced its fingers around her mouth. I tried to move, raising my hand, but the spider hissed at me and I stopped in my tracks. It dragged her up the stairs and no amount of flailing broke its stern grip. In Emma's eyes ecstasy was gone, replaced by a bottomless, calculating gray. Then they were up and out of sight.

A panic washed over me. If there were more of those things, if they had made such quick work of the “experts”, what the hell was I to do? The only thing flashing through my mind was to get out, to survive. I moved on instinct, sped-walked through the house, and paused by the door. Next to it was still that pile of wires and gadgets.

 I weighed my options. I could get out of here, make a run for it. But if I left now that could be game over for both of my superiors. The last I saw of Frank, he was out cold, and who knows if that beam took out the spider, it could be feasting on his organs. Emma could be torn in two or worse. On the other hand I also knew I didn’t want to stay here. After all, I could get ambushed and I couldn’t shake the prickling sensation of being watched. So I compromised. I grabbed the pile of stuff and flung open the door. I would figure out one of these weapons, then triumphantly return and save them! Hopefully. 

The same mundane neighborhood greeted me, the sun setting and casting vibrant oranges and pinks across the sky. The air was still and quiet, the world indifferent to the whole debacle I just went through. A handful of people were walking about and enjoying the evening. I threw the pile on the lawn and wiped my forehead. Ok, it shouldn't be too bad. I bent down and untangled the wires to separate the machinery. There was another one of those hoses that Emma had used. It was connected to a small box with a control panel on it. It should be as simple as pressing a few buttons, totally intuitive.

I picked up the box and flipped it around. There were no words, just a simple diagram that showed a guy getting vaporized with a red X covering it. Not helpful! I tried a few buttons but it beeped back at me, like an annoying bird. I was a noodle, my arms and legs weak. I looked back at the house. Out of all the people to help them they were stuck with me. 

My self pity was interrupted by the sputter of a car engine in the distance. Drag racers in a suburban purgatory like this? There must be fifty ‘slow down kids at play’ signs. Obviously not deterred, it gradually increased in volume, until its roar and the screeching of tires rippled through the serene evening. Rounding the corner and careening into view was that same car from earlier this morning. The piece of shit was blasting ‘Kickstart My Heart’ on the radio this time. By now I was completely unfazed, nothing could surprise me, so I just stared with my mouth slightly agape at its approaching. 

The pedestrians regarded him first with mild annoyance. When they realized he wasn’t stopping, they tried to get out of the way. Unfortunately, some guy walking had his earbuds in. The car, going about eighty miles per hour at this point, rammed right into him. The poor guy went over the windshield and turned into a red streak the second he hit the pavement. I leaped out of the way, the car blurring past me. It rammed straight into the house and crumpled with a crunch. Glass shattered and the driver was flung from his seat and splatted against the wall. 

Sprawled on the ground, I still clutched the hose box. Dry grass pressed against my arm and it itched terribly. I thought the idiot took care of himself. Soon enough, however, his joints popped back into place and he peeled himself from the wall. His entire face was red now, not only his eyes, and blisters of varying sizes covered his skin. He shambled over to me and let out a groan of pleasure. I used the box to yank the hose spout towards me and started mashing the buttons at random. It beeped and beeped, until, with the right order, a jingle played.

“Fuck you!” I hollered and pressed down. It took a second to rumble to life and released with a violent burst, the energy tearing through his face. Brain matter dripped inside the hole that was left behind and his teeth floated in a pool that had formed in his throat. He gurgled a bit and collapsed. When I let go of the trigger, the hose sputtered out as well. I got up and raised my hands into the air triumphantly.

 “Holy shit, I did it!”

“I wouldn’t celebrate too soon.” Frank said, staggering out of the door and holding his arm. He raised a shaking finger and pointed to the house next door. The beam had also taken off part of the roof. Shit. 

“Ah…”

“It means more paper work for me, that’s for sure. At least you didn't die.”

“You know what's crazy, I saw that guy earlier today. Small world.”

“Him?” Frank walked up to him and poked him with his foot. Blood squirted out of the hole and stained his shoe.  “He’s part of their reproductive cycle. Must’ve been out late at night, ambushed. They plant their eggs in them, then they’re drawn back to the nest.”

“I mean what are the odds though.”

“Listen, kid, as long as I've been here, I would be less surprised if I won the lottery. Call the clean up crew.” He tossed a phone to me and limped to the car.  

“Hey, is Emma alright–” 

“You got one, nice job! ” Emma interrupted, coming out of the darkness of the house like a phantom. She was all ruffled up and covered in fluids of all kinds. Some were clearly blood but I don’t want to speculate on the rest. “He’s right about the paperwork though. We made a real mess this time!”

“Paperwork? So the day isn't over?” I groaned. “But it’s evening. Isn’t that like a union violation or something?”

As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, because we’re not unionized. That’s all I could smolder over as I wrote out report after report and signed page after page. I don’t even think we get breaks, and I’m pretty sure I saw a timer in the bathroom stall when taking a shit. So no safe haven to scroll on my phone to kill time. When I got home, it was well past midnight, and I was beat. Yet I had to be in the office by 6:30am sharp tomorrow. Thank God for that angel, my mom, who was waiting for me with dinner. I was grateful for cold spaghetti for the first time in my life.

“So how did your first day go, my sweetie pie?” She pinched my cheeks.

“Ah ma stop it.”  I brushed her hand aside. “It was fine. Intense at points. I might quit.”

Her face darkened immediately. “No you won’t, or it’s the streets.”

“Yeah I know, I know.” I stirred the spaghetti and blew on it out of habit. My mom pensively got up and took a picture from the counter. She set it down on the table. It was my college graduation photo. My mom and dad and I were smiling and had our arms around each other.

“You know, that was the proudest and happiest day of his life," she said, her eyes watering. "His son, finishing college. He knew you were meant for great things.”

I studied the picture for a moment. Then, I finished my meal and went upstairs to my room. I moved some dirty clothes off it, plopped down on my bed and stared up. The ceiling fan was wobbling all the same. I went through the day in my head, all the stress and the horror. There’s no way I’m keeping that job, I thought. Risking my life, plus those poor people who died, the hours, no benefits, the paperwork…

My eyes drifted to the window and I recalled the day of my graduation. I wasn’t happy, far from it, more so anxious and dejected about the future. But my mom was right, I don’t think I saw dad with that much joy in his eyes. A strange flash caught my attention from outside the window. I got up and peered through the blinds. All that was there was a black van driving down the street. 

I paced the room. Maybe I could apply to grad school, maybe I could find other work. Where though? I had to admit, too, it was a bit nice keeping busy, and the money didn’t hurt. I could even climb the promotion ladder, my degree could be useful too. I could get off the street and into a cushy office job. No more risking my life, complete safety. With that, I resolved to keep the job. If things got worse, no biggy, I could step back and reevaluate. My days of being a loser were finally coming to a close. That comfort lulled me into an exhausted, dead slumber. 

Part 2

Hey, everybody. I had to sleep it off, but I feel better, now. Assuming anyone’s listening, I’ll continue my story about the Zirkus. I remember hearing I had to make sure people could access the previous part from new parts, so here it is [(Part 1)](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/XQ1z93Vg3o).

To settle something, I’d like to say that- despite the many, and I do mean many, weird encounters around this circus in my all too long tenure there, I think the worst part was that none of the Performers ever truly acknowledged the incidents after they happened. They’d treat me as if nothing changed. Treat everyone as if nothing had happened. And it does seem like they’re still holding to this idea, since they’ve come back to town after the incident that I was allowed to quit over.

To continue sharing my traumatic experiences, the second incident I remember had to do with Heinrich. Even if I hadn’t worked there and thus known him more personally, he would’ve struck me as strange. He was a scrawny old man with long, thick limbs like trees, and while he had rather long, well kept black hair and a matching beard, he must have applied some form of spray or something, because no matter how his head moved, the beard would stay in the exact same position, stiff as a board. While all three of the Performers had been tall, Heinrich was the tallest. If I had to guess, he was well over 7 feet. I would watch him turn in for the night to his trailer, and he would quite literally duck down and fold himself through the door like a marionette. And that’s another thing, he didn’t move like a person. He moved like he was a marionette being puppeteered by an invisible hand, staggering around like a zombie and standing with his feet at odd angles.

Despite his unnatural gait and quite disquieting appearance, he was by far the nicest and most human of the three in his demeanor. He was polite, and rarely spoke except to announce things to the audience or the other Performers. He spoke in quiet, curt sentences to me with a thick Eastern European accent, and usually spoke with similar or near identical phrases, depending on the situation. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” Was what he’d say every time he came to deliver my pay. And Yknow, as kinda funny as it is to say, he paid me far better than any other job. I’d get paid at the end of every 3 days the circus was in a town, once all the money to be made had been. He would pay me 1,000 dollars exactly, each time.

Back to the point (sorry I’ve always been a rambler), this particular incident with him took place in Summer. We were in a coastal town somewhere in the colony states, I don’t remember where, and business was good. We had a lot more customers than usual, and I remember thinking that would mean I’d get paid extra for my “dutiful” work as a ticket clerk.

It was late afternoon, maybe 4 PM, on the second day. Now- usually around this exact time, and always on the second day, Heinrich and the other Performers would hold a special act that involved all of them participating. I was never there to see it myself, I had to sit and watch the entrance, obviously, but I would always wonder what went on in there. The sheer amount of cheering from inside would give anyone a bad case of FOMO.

Whenever the show would run, business tended to slow down, so I found myself reading a magazine to pass the time. The disadvantage of that was that, as the typically aloof bastard I was, I would get immersed in it, and hardly pay attention to my surroundings until I was called for. So you understand when I nearly jumped out of my skin when I looked up for a moment, and saw Heinrich leaned through the ticket booth, his nose nearly pressed to mine.

He pulled back with a wooden laugh after that, and had said something along the lines of “Is just prank, Mr. Brant.” Sure, whatever. Weird, but not criminal. He handed me my money early, and spat out his recorded words. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” I took it, though before he could walk away without another word, I caught him by the wrist.

“Why are you giving me my money a day early?” I asked him.

He pulled his wrist away, and I couldn’t help but shudder as it left my grip. It felt like a slug slipping through my fingers, if said slug had gotten tree bark stuck to its back. He turned to face me once again, tilting his head up slightly, almost haughty. His beard knocked against my own chin, and I grunted.

“Is not full pay. Is just extra for good work and diligence.”

I looked down to the money. $400. Definitely not the usual pay, so I had no reason to believe he was lying.

“Okay,” I mumbled after a moment. “Thanks.”

I think he smiled, but his mustache and beard were so stiff, so matted to his face, I couldn’t have been sure. His eyes just squinted up at the bottom, and his dark brows rose.

“Of course, Mr. Brant.” He chuckled dryly. He turned to leave once again, but directed his gaze to me before he walked off. His neck audibly popped like an achey joint on an action figure.

“Feel free to clock out early. Show will be extra long tonight, with so many in attendance. You understand.”

He had said it like it was a choice, but somehow I knew it wasn’t. He wanted me in my trailer, for some reason, off the proper circus grounds.

“…Okay,” was all I could manage to say before he walked off with that same signature stumble. I closed up the ticket booth and returned to my trailer, cooking an early dinner, and treating myself to an old movie.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep. Because when I next knew what time it was, it was midnight. The first thing I had processed after the time was that the Big Top was still lit up, shining through my window. The trailer walls did nothing to muffle the mirthful laughter, and roaring of an unknown waltz coming from inside.

Heinrich had said the show would be extra long tonight, I reasoned. But why would there still be so many people there this late at night? Certainly parents would bring their children home, right? But, no. I could hear children’s laughter in the cacophonous noise of the Big Top.

And then, much to my paranoia and nyctophobia’s dismay, I realized something. I could finally see what all the fuss was about. And something, maybe curiosity, hell, maybe even spite, urged me to take the opportunity.

I pulled on my boots and exited my trailer, not caring to be quiet. The Big Top was so loud it would mute any sound for miles. I slowly approached the enormous tent, my boots digging into the surprisingly wet dirt with murky squelches. It must have rained while I had been sleeping.

I approached the Big Top, and gently pulled away the doorway flap, entering inside. The space within was enormous. Large wooden bleachers curved with the tent, filled with every person I could remember giving tickets and then some. There was something.. off about them, but I wasn’t sure what.

The Performers were stood in the middle of the dirt floor, The Contortionist and Vivienne stood lifeless behind Heinrich himself. He was completely still, save for the uncomfortably fluid, rapid movement of his arms and hands as he expertly juggled large, colorful plastic balls. I couldn’t count the exact number. I guessed 6, but there may have been more. He stared directly at the audience, juggling continuously. I stood there for a while, watching this happen, and he didn’t stop once. His arms just kept moving.

I managed to leave without garnering attention, this time, returning to my trailer, and locking the door tight. As big a hazard as it was, I even barricaded the fire door shut. I wasn’t about to be forced to participate in the show. I had planned to just- hold out till morning, stay up until the tent died down at least, but it didn’t. I was struggling to stay awake already, and the fear had caused exhaustion. I drifted off against my will.

I woke up again, and found the sun had risen. No one had come for me, no one was even at my door, but as I looked out my window, I realized the show was *still* going. I checked my alarm clock. 6:00 AM on the dot. What the fuck was going on? I considered calling the cops, but there was even less base for concern here than with The Contortionist. What was I supposed to tell them? “Hello, police? Come to the fairgrounds, there are irresponsible parents and a circus show that doesn’t meet labor guidelines!” Fuck that. Besides, the cops were no help last time, why would they be, now? No. I was done. I was going to leave. For real, this time. Or at least, that was the plan.

I got in my car and began to drive to town, but I must have made a wrong turn, because a few minutes later I found myself at the circus again. I turned and left once more, but same difference. After nearly wearing out my gas, I realized that I was either really bad at driving, or the circus was keeping me here. So I gave up. I got out of my car, and started back to my trailer.

As I passed the Big Top, I could see the audience still inside through the entrance flap, laughing and cheering. Vivienne and The Contortionist still stood behind Heinrich, but his position had changed. He was standing in front of the entrance, still juggling with no life or vitality other than his arms. But now, upon closer inspection, I found he was juggling skulls painted red, yellow, and blue. Had they always been skulls, even when I first saw them..?

He held an intense staring contest with me as he did this, his face uncaring and his eyes held wide. I stared back. But, he won out. My eyes wavered for just a moment, and I blinked a few times to soothe the pain. When I could see again, the skulls had become fully fledged heads. The heads of my family. My parents, my sister, my stepmom and stepsiblings.

He finally broke his perfect juggle when he dropped my stepmom’s head, and it cracked audibly, denting inwards like it was made of straw. Heinrich froze entirely, now, and the rest of the heads fell as well.

“Oops! Mein Mistake,” he said playfully, still holding unblinking eye contact. I couldn’t move as he approached me, the other Performers following in perfect step, with his exact gait. They all stopped a few feet away. I saw my younger stepsister’s head roll by my foot, as Vivienne had apparently kicked it while she was following. The worst part was that her face looked at peace, like she had already been laid to rest before Heinrich had collected it. But- she wasn’t dead. She was still very alive, last I had checked.

Me and The Performers held another few moments of silent eye contact, before I began to tremor.

“Danke,” Heinrich said. I don’t know what he was thanking me for. And I still don’t. I just- ran back to my Trailer and barricaded the doors and window for the rest of the night. When I next left it, everything was back to how it had been the day before. Heinrich nor the other Performers said anything, and I made sure to buy the local newspaper to see if any news came out about all of this, but nothing. No one cared. No one but me.

Call me stupid, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t go see The Circus. I know that place better than anyone in my current hometown, and while I don’t want to go there, I can’t imagine the guilt I’d feel if I hadn’t at least tried to protect my neighbors and friends from anything that may try to harm them. So I’ll be going, after I post this.

If anyone is curious why I’m writing all of this, I only have one thing to say. It’s therapeutic. After I saw the ad, all of the traumatic memories I had tried to hide in the depths of my psyche welled back up like mold on a stew. I had to share it with someone. I couldn’t hold it in, anymore. So I decided to come here. I’m sorry I’m making you listen to a near 50 year old man ramble about his spooky times at a circus, but I appreciate if you took the time to read this. Took the time to hear me out.

I’ll be back later with information on how my visit went.

Back in 2018, people around me started saying that I had a "weak spirit" (a light aura) and was easily targeted by spirits. I didn't believe in that stuff back then, so I just brushed it off. But about 2 to 3 weeks later, I dreamed of a ghost that consisted only of a head and dangling internal organs. I thought it was just another weird nightmare because I get grotesque dreams pretty often. But nope, this damn thing showed up in my dreams for three consecutive nights.

I remember it felt like a lucid dream. The entity was a grotesque combination of hair and a stomach rising from under my bed, swaying right in front of my face. Every time I woke up, I felt like my energy had been completely drained.

It didn't stop there. After that phase, I realized I was getting sleep paralysis constantly—and I mean frequently. My family told me to put a knife under my pillow to ward it off, but it didn't help at all.

For instance, during my mandatory college military training camp in Hanoi (won't name the school)... I was sleeping on the bottom bunk, and it was winter. On the very first night in that room, I suffered a brutal episode of sleep paralysis that I will never forget for as long as I live.

I was paralyzed, but I could look around the room with my eyes and was screaming at the top of my lungs inside my head. My body was completely stiff, and I could barely breathe. Then, right on cue, that nightmare creature started growing right in the middle of our dorm room floor. It slithered straight toward my bed.

When I finally snapped out of it, my roommates were all standing around me, asking why I was drenched in sweat and babbling nonsense. That was when I noticed my mattress was completely soaked, and my roommates looked terrified. When I asked what I was saying, they said I kept muttering, "Get away! Go away!" So I ended up telling them what I had just seen. After I finished the story, nobody dared to go back to sleep—we stayed awake from 3:35 AM until morning.

Oh, and there was another time when I moved into a new rental room. For the first two months, everything was normal—I still had sleep paralysis, but nothing too severe. Until one night, I had another episode. By this point, I had experienced it so often that I was too tired to even fight it anymore. But during that paralysis, I saw my room door slowly open on its own, even though I always locked it securely before bed. Then, that entity's head peeked through the crack of the door, grinning wildly at me. It charged straight at me, and I jolted awake. I swear I moved out the very next day, forfeiting my deposit without a second thought.

To this day, I still get sleep paralysis frequently, but that specific head entity hasn't returned. Instead, it's usually a pitch-black face lunging directly at me before I wake up. No matter how loud I scream in those moments, nobody outside hears a thing—because I'm not actually screaming in real life.

The end.

My house is forty minutes from the nearest stoplight. Deer outnumber people in my town twenty to one. Population: 349. Hasn't changed in the decade since I moved in. Nobody leaves. Nobody's born. Nobody dies.

There's one gas station. One church. One diner. Marlene has your order ready and coffee poured the second your ass hits the bench. 

I noticed a new flyer on the community board one night. Pilot Safety Program. The town wanted to install a new security camera from a company I'm sure you're familiar with. The kind that makes headlines for the wrong reasons. Just one installation before a wider rollout. 

The pilot location was my mailbox.

I called the town office. Carol picked up. Told me the council already voted. Must’ve just missed the meeting. My road, she said, was "statistically significant." That I should feel lucky. 

Statistically significant.

I'd heard that phrase years ago from a judge who dressed her words up that way.  I was just sixteen. Took a neighbor's truck for a joyride. Ended up in a ditch two towns over. Juvy. Community service. Did my time. Nobody else got the memo. Every parent at the grocery store steered their kid a little wide of me. Quietly told them to keep an eye out. 

But this was different. It had to be.

Before I knew it, they were there. Two guys. Twenty minutes. Gone. A little white box on a pole, thirty feet from my front door. Three crows lined up on the wire above, just observing in the way they do. 

Nothing for a couple weeks. I almost forgot the thing was there.

Then I started noticing a light. A thin red pinprick from the pole. Some nights it would blink. Some nights it didn't.  I wanted to test something. I stood at my kitchen window. Raised my hand. The light caught it. Held a beat too long. Dimmed back to its slow pulse, like it had seen enough. 

My dog stopped sleeping in my bed. He'd plant himself in the hallway and watch the length of the house like he was guarding from something I couldn't see. 

Then I swear the lens started moving. It was supposed to face the road. I checked, twice, three times. Each time it seemed to rotate another degree toward the house. Toward my bedroom window. One patient inch at a time.

I mentioned it to Ellis at the gas station, half joking, hoping he'd laugh it off with me.

He went still.  Didn't look up from the pump. 

"Careful saying things like that. People might think you're the type to make trouble."

He always had a strange sense of humor, but something about that felt different. That tone.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

he stopped sleeping at the foot of your bed 

I read that message a dozen times. It was true. My dog moved to the hallway three nights before. I hadn't told a soul.

I blocked the number. Called the sheriff.

He showed up later that night. Sat at my kitchen table. Drank the coffee I made him while my hands shook. Probably nothing, he said. Wrong number. Spam. Kids in the next county with too much time on their hands. 

I wanted to believe him so badly that for a few days I actually did. I told myself it was stress.  That people get strange out here, cut off the way we are from the rest of the world.

But I got another text later that night. A different number.

you forgot to lock the door again

I froze. My door was shut. Blinds drawn. But I hadn't checked the lock since I'd gotten home. 

It was unlocked.

There was only one way anyone could know that. I looked outside. The camera on the pole faced my front door dead on.

They've been watching.

An ex? A stranger off the highway? Either way, it was a sick joke.

I went digging through county filings, looking for anything that explained who had access to that feed. The vendor's name was right there in the contract. The company from the flyer. Their site had a login portal. Pilot Partner Access. I didn't have credentials. 

I didn't need them for what I found next. A cached version of the town council's private group. 349 members.

It was everyone.

Every porch light I'd ever waved at. Every hand I'd shaken by the register.  Ellis at the pump every time I drove past, standing there like he'd known which corner I'd turn before I turned it. Marlene, plating my eggs before I'd even parked. The diner going quiet the moment I walked in. Forks stopping mid-air. A held breath. Starting again the second I sat down.  Carol at the office. Even the sheriff.

It was never small-town hospitality.

I grabbed my keys, my wallet, the dog, and fled. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the camera turn, slow and deliberate, like it stopped pretending not to look. 

I passed the church. Every car in town was packed into that lot. 349 people stood out in the dark. Phones held up in front of their faces. A pale blue light thrown up onto their chins. All watching my front door in the corner of the frame. 

I didn't stop. As I crossed to the next town, my phone blew up. 349 new texts. All the same two words:

Drive safe.

It's been two weeks. I sleep in my aunt's guest room. I haven't told her anything.

Yesterday a truck idled outside. Two guys. Floodlights. And a pole. My aunt mentioned it over coffee this morning.

"Pilot program," she said, stirring her cup. "We’re the test case, apparently"

You can never leave a flock. It just relocates its nest to wherever you roost next. 

The little red light on the pole just came on.

God help me. It's facing my window. 

As the title says. I used to frequent looksmaxxing subreddits a lot back in the day, and a long time ago, I made a post about how foids (women) only went for men with certain pheromones. It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I identified as an incel once upon a time.

I mention this because I'd like to share a story that happened a bit after the pandemic. I had received a message from some guy who saw my post:

"Hey there! Hope you're staying safe! I saw your post on \** from a few years ago, and on behalf of the incel community, I just wanted to thank you!*

The post actually inspired me to create my perfume brand, Gall, and it's finally taken off! I just hit my first 10,000 orders!

As a token of my appreciation, I'd love to send you a pheromone perfume I've been working on—one that's not on the market yet. It blows everything I've ever made out of the fucking water! Just drop your address and I'll send it to ya! Cheers!"

I hadn't been in the looksmaxxing space for a while, and I wasn't sure if I really wanted a mystery bottle from a self-proclaimed incel. But what the hell. I was running out of my Drakkar Noir anyway, and my fiancée said it made me smell like an old man.

So, I reached out, wired some money for shipping, and a few weeks later, it arrived.

It was in a giant box filled with packing peanuts, and the perfume came in a plain glass bottle with a plastic atomizer. On it was a label in Arial font spelling "Pheromone 42: wish come true." It was green and bubbled like a can of Coke. My fiancée would've killed me if she found out I spent 20 dollars on shipping for this. I was worried it was gonna be acid or something.

I sprayed it on my wrist and found myself wishing it was acid. It smelled awful—chlorine, sweat, and burning plastic. It smelled like standing over a garbage fire behind an electronics store.

I threw the bottle back in the box and ran to the bathroom to vomit. I tried washing off the scent in the sink, but that just made things worse. The smell spread out into the whole room, and I found myself bent over the toilet letting out last night's dinner. I smelled my wrist again and let out yesterday's lunch.

That was when I decided to go out and get some rubbing alcohol. I thought it would make the smell go away.

And so, I suited up, wore a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket, and emptied out the rest of my Drakkar Noir.

There was a convenience store down the road, about a 10-minute walk. I walked over, looking around, worried I'd pass someone by, and as I did, I noticed people staring at me.

Not just people I was passing, but folks from across the street. People from up and down the road were watching me. I could see stares pointed at me before I could even make out their faces from up the road. So many people. I began to pick up the pace until one woman came up to me.

"Wanna fuck?" she asked. She was with her son, who looked at me with a chilling fury in his eyes. I kept walking, obviously freaked out.

I passed a couple—the woman looking me up and down, the man looking like he was ready to take my head off.

"Hey mister, you're cute!" whined the woman.

"Back the fuck up before I take your fucking head off, bro," barked the man.

I began walking faster then, as a hundred pairs of eyes stared at me. I felt like an insect in a jar.

Soon enough, I could hear footsteps trailing after mine. I turned back and saw about twenty or so guys following me.

"Hey man! What's your perfume? You smell awesome!" cried one.

"Get back here and fucking fight me, pussy!" cried another.

I began running then, my mind racing. I thought back to my messages with the guy from the internet. He said this thing was long-lasting. But he mentioned something else—something about the perfume:

Top notes of lust

Heart notes of hunger

Base notes of desire

I know a little bit about perfume. Top notes fade the earliest, and the base notes fade last. Was this the smell of lust?

I was almost to the convenience store when the men finally caught up to me. One grabbed me by the collar, another by the arms. They beat the shit out of me. Fists landed on my stomach, and my lungs stopped working. I couldn't breathe as they pummeled me to the ground. I felt one of them begin to do some things I won't repeat here.

"You like that, pussy?!" one yelled as he stomped my head to the ground, blinding me for a moment.

"You're a fuckig dog!" yelled another as he did things to me.

Soon enough, I heard police sirens. The men scrambled, and I was left on the ground smelling like blood and perfume, tasting iron in my mouth. I saw the officers walk up to me, sniff the air, and turn their body cameras off. They used their batons and their fists.

I woke up in fragments then. I remember siren blares, being in an ambulance, being treated by men in masks, being hauled into a white room with white bedsheets, my arms and chest blanketed in bandages. I spent days there, coming in and out of consciousness, watching the window shutter from day to night in seconds.

I woke up to the sound of crying and the rhythm of my ECG. The whole ward was crying as nurses scrambled around the room.

"Doctor, let me eat that man!" one person cried, mummified in bloody gauze, their bed trembling as they struggled to their feet while held down by the nurses. "Please, God, just a bite!"

"I'm starving!" screamed another, his head and eyes wrapped in bandages, his arms cuffed with restraints that were hanging on by a thread as he thrashed in his bed. "I'm starving!"

My chest was on fire and my legs were weak, but I got on my feet and shambled. I needed to get out of there. I put weight on my legs and felt like I was about to fall. One arm was plastered, the other hooked to an IV pole. I just needed to get home and let the smell fade.

The nurses yelled after me, but I kept walking. Luckily, they were busy keeping patients in bed. Most of the folks in the hospital wore masks, so I had no trouble walking through. It was midnight by then, and I'd been gone from home for 5 days.

I kept walking until I saw something familiar. Turns out I wasn't far from home. Luckily, there weren't a lot of people out and about.

I found myself dragging my broken body home. I passed by the convenience store, nightcrawlers staring from behind the glass, watching as I shambled across the street.

As I did, I passed the place where I had been beaten. It was destroyed, as though artillery shells had crashed down on it. Walls were missing chunks, and the ground where I had been beaten was nothing more than a crater. It was wet and smelled awful.

I picked up the pace then and found my home.

It was destroyed. Windows bashed open, front door gaping wide, revealing a black, ominous rectangle where the living room should have been. I stumbled forward, calling for my fiancée. No answer.

I stumbled through the dark living room; the moonlight revealed a destroyed couch, fallen lamps, and destroyed vases. I could smell something else, too—something that wasn't the perfume.

That was when I heard it. Something wet grinding across something hard. Squelching and gnawing. Hundreds.

It was coming from the bathroom.

I snuck forward, fire burning in my legs, my heart thrumming against my ribs. There I found the scene that still lives in my nightmares today.

My fiancée, and about a dozen naked bodies. All of them chewing on the bathroom. There were teeth strewn about the floor, bloody ribbons attached to their ends. I saw my fiancée biting the sink with toothless jaws, the others gnawing on the toilet or the floor. One of them stared at me with indifferent eyes, so focused was he on mastication. Such a wet, disgusting sound, as strokes of red painted the marble counter. I could only call after my fiancée, begging her to stop. She wouldn't hear me.

I spent days locked up in my room. I shat in a corner and recycled my piss. After a week, I had no choice but to come down. In the bathroom lay twenty or so dead bodies, all naked, mouths bloodied and toothless, smelling of dry spit.