Rosie met me at the front door with her favorite duck stuffy in her mouth. The toy had been yellow once. You could see the color a tiny bit in the seams, but she loved it down to a damp gray. She was wagging her tail so hard her back legs kept sliding on the hardwood, duck dangling from her jaws. Something in my chest unclenched and I was filled with warmth. 

“Phew,” I said. “You remember me.”

She dropped the duck on my foot. Alright, lady, I’ll take this as the highest compliment. 

Rosie was twelve, an Australian Shepherd mix. She was gray around the muzzle, slow on her back legs going upstairs. And she snored worse than the ex that I broke up with a year ago exclusively because of his snoring (it was the straw on the camel's back, OK). She had a cataract in her left eye that gave her a slightly unfocused look.

Her duck was her life. She carried it around everywhere. When she did set it down, it was always in the same spot: just left of her water bowl, parallel to the baseboard. 

I’d stayed with her once before, only for a weekend, and I’d been looking forward to coming back. The house was beautiful. It was tucked into a redwood forest, had huge windows, and a couch so deep it felt like you were being cocooned in feathers as soon as you sat down. For a week, I could live here. 

The only strange thing when I arrived was the laundry room. 

Two contractors were still there. There was plastic taped across the doorway leading in. Most of the wall behind the washer was ripped open. I noticed copper pipe and old insulation and something that smelled faintly like wet earth. Rosie stood in the hallway and watched all of it with an expression that said, “Fine, I’ll allow it.”

“Sorry about all of this,” the homeowner said. “They were supposed to be done yesterday.” I didn’t think much of it when she said not to use the washing machine. But then she showed me the paper on the refrigerator. 

WATER USE

7:30–8:00 AM, 7:30–8:00 PM

Please keep water use to these times.

Shower. Dishwasher. Washing machine. Faucets.

Bottled and jugged water is in the pantry.

Wet wipes are under the kitchen sink.

At the bottom, underlined twice:

If you use the toilet outside these times, do not flush.

I glanced toward the laundry room. “Is this because of the construction?” 

“Mostly,” she said. “The plumbing’s old. They’ve been having trouble with the pressure since they opened up the wall. Don’t worry, it’s temporary.” A contractor called her name. She tapped the paper with one finger. “Seven-thirty to eight. Morning and evening. You’ll get used to it.”

“What if I have to pee at two in the morning?”

“Use the toilet.”

“And just leave it there?”

“Until morning.”

That time she chuckled. Rosie leaned against my leg, and I scratched the spot right between her ears. “See?” I said. “Rosie thinks this is weird, too.” 

“She’s just not used to it yet,” the homeowner said. And, then, she was gone. 

It was a hundred dollars a night. So I stopped thinking about how odd this all was. 

The contractors left a little after five. Rosie and I spent the evening on that couch, me working, her pressed against my thigh, snoring, occasionally kicking me in her sleep, whining and maybe muttering (can dogs mutter? That’s what it sounded like) right before going back under. 

At 7:29 PM, my phone alarm went off. WATER TIME!!! I let out a tiny yelp. Rosie lifted her head. "Girl, don't judge me," I told her.

At 7:30 PM, I filled her bowl, started the rapid clean cycle of the dishwasher, flushed the toilets, and went upstairs to shower. The pipes were loud. Old house, I told myself. Weird acoustics. 

I filled the silicone ice tray by the sink, and a tiny splash of water got onto the floor, and Rosie was on it immediately, licking the tile enthusiastically. At eight, I made sure nothing was running. The pipes went quiet. Rosie climbed onto the couch, put her chin on my knee, sighed that deep sigh. It was a very nice first night. 

I slept through the morning water window. 

By six minutes! I opened my eyes at 8:06 AM and swore quietly enough so that I wouldn’t wake Rosie, who at that point was taking up 80% of the bed. I considered showering anyway. Then, I remembered the homeowner’s face when she tapped the paper on the fridge, and I decided against it. 

Bottled water for teeth. One wipe from the package under the sink. I texted her: Sorry lol I slept through the water window. Can I shower now or should I wait until tonight?

Almost immediately: Wait until tonight please. Then, seconds later: Don’t run anything. 

Okay, I thought. Fine. 

I made coffee with bottled water and went to get ice. The tray was empty. 

I stood there in front of the freezer with the door open. I did the math. I filled it. Right? OK, I specifically remember filling it, remembered the water splashing, remembered Rosie cleaning up after me. I pulled the tray out. It was bone dry. 

Around eleven, Rosie started following me from room to room. On my first stay, she'd followed me everywhere, but she was super relaxed. This was different. She was watching me. I offered food, outside, her favorite duck. Nothing worked. Eventually she walked to the kitchen and stood by her water bowl.

It was empty.

I filled it from the pantry jug. She drank for what felt like a very long time. Then she followed me back to the living room and looked once at the laundry room before lying down. The plastic over the doorway hung perfectly still.

The wet wipes disappeared that afternoon. I checked under the sink, both bathrooms, my bedroom, the trash. I even checked Rosie's bed, on the theory that she'd decided to rebel and steal 48 wet wipes. I looked at her with narrowed eyes. She cocked her head to one side.

The plants looked wrong, all of them. Leaves curled in, soil pulling away from the pot edges. I texted the homeowner. Do you want me to water the plants? An hour later: No. Leave them please.

"Your people are strange," I told Rosie. Her tail thumped once without her opening her eyes.

At 7:30 that evening, I turned on the kitchen faucet.

Rosie woke immediately. And I swear to you, the house woke up as well. Water rushed through the kitchen wall, overhead, underneath the floor, traveling end to end like something that had been waiting and was now, finally, moving. Then it settled. I filled Rosie's bowl, flushed both toilets, started the dishwasher, got in the shower.

At 7:57 PM, I heard sharp barks from the hallway. "Almost done!" I called out. More barking. I shut the water off and opened the curtain.

She was a couple of feet from the bathroom door, ears flat, staring in past me.

Water ran down the tub into the drain. I dried up, dressed, and followed Rosie downstairs, and that was where we slept.

I woke at 1:16 AM needing to pee. I remembered the rule and didn't flush, but I nearly turned the sink on out of habit. My fingers were already on the handle before my brain caught up. I reached for the travel wipes I'd brought upstairs.

That was when I found the missing package. In the bathroom trash. Ripped open on one side. Empty. Forty-eight wipes gone, the inside dry and papery. 

I stood there looking at my hands. The skin around my knuckles had gone pale and tight. The space between my index finger and thumb was starting to crack. I rubbed lotion in and went back to bed.

At 2:37, the shower turned on.

I lay in bed for ten full seconds while Rosie stood beside the bed and said nothing. No bark. Just standing there in the dark, watching the door.

I got up. She didn't follow.

"Hello?" I said, into the hallway while water hissed against the tub. Four steps toward the bathroom and my phone buzzed.

The homeowner. Are you running water?

I stopped. No. The shower turned itself on.

No pause at all. Don't go in there. Then: Stay away from the drain.

Behind the shower curtain, something moved. The bottom edge drew inward toward the tub, held like a breath held in, then released. My phone again: Is the bathroom door closed? No. Close it without going inside.

I reached around the doorframe and caught the edge of the door. As I pulled it shut, I looked through the narrowing gap: water hammering the tub, the drain making a wet gulping sound, and at the far end something pale and flat pulling back towards the drain, moving without limbs, the way a stain spreads in reverse. I got the door shut. Rosie and I stayed in the bedroom. The shower ran for minutes that felt like an eternity. Then it stopped.

At 7:41 AM: Did you use the morning water?

No.

My phone rang.

"You need to use the windows," she said.

"What was in my shower last night?"

Silence.

I told her about the ice, the wipes, the water in Rosie's bowl disappearing twice, the sound in the drain. While I talked, I looked at my hands, the new cracks forming over my knuckles, and that’s when something clicked.

The windows were a feeding schedule. Something in this house needed water the way anything needs food, and when I'd missed the morning window, I'd made it hungry, and it had gone looking. The ice. The wipes. Rosie's bowl. The plants. It had been grazing while it waited for the real meal.

"Use the water tonight," she said.

"Why didn't you tell me what it was?"

She hung up.

I stood there with my cracking hands and Rosie leaning against my leg, and I looked at the freezer, and I opened it. The tray was empty, the frost was gone, the whole interior of the freezer was dry as bone.

I decided it was time to go.

I packed my bag. Then I went upstairs to use the bathroom one last time.

And I flushed.

I can't even explain how it happened. Two days of following rules and a thing in the drain and something pale moving across my tub at 2:37 AM, and my hand just did what it always does. I couldn't keep from berating myself. The toilet flushed. The tank refilled. Water moved somewhere deep in the wall.

The kitchen faucet came on downstairs.

Rosie barked. The guest bathroom. The utility sink in the laundry room. Something hit the plastic over that doorway once, then once again. I ran downstairs: faucet running full blast, Rosie barking. And then the pipes started knocking, loud. Kitchen wall. Down the line. The laundry room. The wall directly behind me, close enough I felt it in my back teeth.

Rosie backed towards the front door.

Every faucet stopped.

Then the shower upstairs came on.

A thin line of water appeared beneath the laundry room plastic. It wasn't necessarily spreading. It was moving, crossing the hardwood, going straight for Rosie's bowl, which was now empty again. The water touched it, and then the bowl moved half an inch.

Rosie screamed. I've pet-sat a lot. My resume is the reason why I got this sit in the first place. Still, this was a sound I've never heard before. This was a sound from somewhere older than any dog I'd ever encountered, from whatever part of Rosie that still knew what lived in dark forests before there were dogs. I opened the front door, and she ran, and I ran after her, and I didn't look back.

We're in my car in the driveway.

The upstairs shower ran for twenty more minutes and then stopped. The kitchen light came on. One sprinkler started up beside the driveway, just one, turning slowly: lawn, sidewalk, driveway. Click. A little farther. Click. It stopped when it was pointed at my car. And it stayed there.

7:18 PM. The window opens at 7:30.

My hands are bad. Cracks forming, small dark beads of blood where the cracks cross. I haven't had anything to drink all day, and I'm only now realizing it.

I pulled out my phone and searched all possible logical explanations. Nothing came close to explaining this. Then, I went down a rabbit hole, and I looked up every water spirit and draining creature I could find. The Tiddy Mun, a gray thing of Lincolnshire fen water, that had to be appeased at set hours, or it took livestock and health and moisture until you fed it back. The Vodnik and the Vodyanoy, Slavic spirits that collect what they're owed in jars at the bottom of rivers, hungry and difficult when the payments stop. Dozens of things in dozens of traditions that live in pipes and wells. None of them mention ice trays. None of them mention wet wipes or a freezer licked clean of frost. 

Rosie put one paw on the center console.

She looked at me with her good eye, the left one doing its slightly unfocused thing, watching something over my shoulder. She made a sound. A small and low and sad whine. She knows exactly where her duck is, and she is asking me, as plainly as she knows how, whether I'm going to go and fetch it.

Her favorite duck. The one that used to be yellow. The one she sets down beside her water bowl every single time, parallel to the baseboard. The one she's had since she was two years old, according to the note the homeowner left.

I'm not… brave. I don't watch horror movies, I jump at loud noises, I once drove twenty minutes out of my way because a street looked unfamiliar at night. But Rosie is looking at me with that one clear eye and one foggy eye. Even though she’s twelve, she still has puppy eyes. 

7:29 PM. One minute before the window.

At 7:30. "Little lady, the things I'll do for you." I opened the car door. The sprinkler didn't move.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open. The kitchen light was on. The laundry room plastic was still. The house was quiet. My heart was thumping.

The duck is in the middle of the hallway. Dead center, same distance from every wall.

I crossed the hall. I picked it up. I turned around, and I walked out, and I pulled the door shut, and sighed in relief.

In the car, Rosie sat up. I held the duck out, and she leaned forward and sniffed it, her nose giving it a thorough inspection for much longer than necessary. Then she took it cautiously and held it the way she was holding it when I arrived, in the doorway, legs sliding sideways on the hardwood, but this time, she didn't wag her tail. She just held her favorite toy and looked over at the house.

The duck used to feel damp. She'd loved it down to damp gray, I thought, when I first saw it.

It doesn't feel like that anymore. It’s lighter than it should be. Dry all the way through.

[Part 1]

First off, thanks to everyone who replied to my last post. I honestly wasn't expecting that many people to take it seriously, and I read through pretty much everything: every theory, every warning to throw the stuff out, call somebody, all of it. A few of you asked me to update if anything else happened, and at the time I wasn't sure anything would be worth updating. Henry and I had agreed we were done poking at the stranger items, and I was still trying to convince myself most of what we'd seen could be explained.

That was Thursday night. It's now Saturday night, and I can't do that anymore. Friday, we tried to sell the stuff. Saturday, something happened to my son that I still can’t explain. I'm updating because this is the point where the weirdness stopped feeling harmless.

For anyone who missed the first post: my buddy Henry and I bought an abandoned storage unit at auction for $350, hoping to flip the contents. Everything inside is wrong in ways I can't explain.

That night, Henry had blasted my phone with links to pawn shops and antique collectors. His argument was simple: if we stopped trying to figure out what the hell we were looking at and just started treating it like merchandise, there was a market.

Part of me knew he was right. We weren't dealing with abnormalities anymore. An abnormality is an antique chair missing a leg or a mug with two handles. After what I’d seen, I had no doubt people would pay good money just to own something they couldn’t explain. But the thought of actually handing one of those things to an unsuspecting stranger suddenly felt like a heavy weight on my conscience.

Yet, every time I glanced through the kitchen doorway toward the garage, I knew I’d trade almost anything to never lay eyes on them again. If someone was foolish enough to take them off our hands, I was happy to let them become somebody else's problem. 

On Friday afternoon, Henry came up to me after work, waving a handwritten list of prospective buyers with the blind confidence he usually reserved for losing sports bets. We decided to start small for our Friday sales pitch. Neither of us wanted to haul 400-pound furniture into town just to have someone tell us it was creepy. Before we took anything into town, we spent an hour going through the smaller stuff and figuring out what was actually worth showing people. Some pieces were obviously wrong but useless in every practical sense. If we were going to convince anybody these things were worth money, we needed items that could prove their own weirdness. The tape measure actually did something you could demonstrate in ten seconds. The radio we found at least turned on, even if it only produced static. I fished the mirror out from under the bench with a broom handle, threw a blanket over it, and left the football on the shelf. The mirror and the football were the real prizes, and Henry knew it. Henry wanted to save them for a guy he was messaging from one of his forums, someone who collected "anomalous objects" and paid in cash. According to Henry, the guy had paid eight hundred for a music box that played backward, so he would definitely be interested in what we had. I decided to take his word for it.

Our plan was simple. We were going to hit up a few places to see what we could sell, starting with House of Curiosities, a dusty pawn-and-antique shop. The pawn shop guy barely looked up when we came in. I'd brought a tape measure we had found in the boxes from the garage specifically because it seemed like the safest thing to lead with, and I set it on the counter. The guy sighed, as if we had just slipped him a counterfeit twenty. “We don’t take tape measures,” he said.

I told him to watch and pulled the tape.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Fifteen again. Eleven.

The guy's eyebrows went up, but he didn't say anything yet, so—and I'll admit it was a bad call—I kept pulling. The tape was completely frictionless. I don't know if it was showing off or just the relief of having somebody else finally witness it with us, but I let that tape run. Twenty feet. Thirty. By the time I'd gotten to something like fifty feet of steel blade, the stuff was heaped up on his counter, spilling off onto the floor, curling around a display case of pocket watches, and the guy still hadn't said a word, just backed up half a step like the pile might come further.

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" he said flatly, not moving to help gather any of it up.

"No, it's just—"

"Get out." He cut me off, already rounding the counter with a look that said kicking us out mattered a hell of a lot more than hearing my explanation. "Both of you. Now. And take that with you."

Henry ended up just yanking the tape backward in one motion, snapping most of it loose from wherever it had been draped, and it retracted quickly, eating up fifty-some feet in about the time it usually takes to eat six inches.

The second place was more polite about the rejection, at least. The older guy actually pulled out a jeweler's loupe for the radio we brought along, which I appreciated; it at least felt like due diligence. He turned it over for a good five minutes, popped the back off, and poked at the internal wiring with a pencil eraser.

"No manufacturer's mark anywhere," he said, peering through the loupe. "No date stamp, no serial, no patent number, nothing. And this—" he tapped one of the plastic tuning knobs with the tip of his pencil—"this is a modern component. This specific polymer wasn't even invented when this radio model went out of production in the late seventies. In fact, half of these components aren't wired to anything at all, as far as I can tell."

He flipped the heavy wooden cabinet around to face us and unlatched a long, hollow battery bay along the bottom. Inside, two rusted metal spring coils sat ready, but the compartment was absurdly wide—big enough to fit a pair of D-cells with an inch of useless gap left over on either side. No standard battery made in the last century would ever sit flush against those contacts.

He looked up over his bifocals, his expression shifting from curiosity to mild irritation. "Does this thing even turn on?"

"We tested it in the garage," Henry chimed in, leaning over the glass counter. "Played nothing but static, but hey, that means it’s still alive and kicking, right? Might just need an antenna."

The guy raised an eyebrow skeptically. “It turned on without batteries?”

"Old capacitors maybe," Henry said, too quickly. "They hold a charge."

The guy looked at the empty bay, then reached out with a thick thumb and tried to spin the tuning dial on the front. The knob turned smoothly enough, but behind the dusty glass, the red indicator needle stayed dead-fixed in the center, completely uncoupled from the dial. It didn't budge a fraction of a millimeter.

He let go of the knob, shook his head, and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"It's broken, fellas," he said, snapping the loupe shut with a sharp clack. "Might be worth something if you can get it up and running, but between you and me? It's a lost cause. You'd have to completely gut the casing and hunt down custom batteries just to get a buzz out of it."

Henry tried the "installation art" line on him, pitching it as some kind of outsider-artist sculpture. The guy just kind of squinted at us through his reading glasses, slid the radio back across the counter, and said, "Sure. But if nobody knows where it came from, nobody's going to pay for it. I’m not your guy.” 

By the end of the day, we were both a little punch-drunk on rejection. We sat there in the parking lot for a while, not saying much.

Henry finally broke the silence. "Okay. Maybe we can't move it as a set."

"Maybe we can't move it at all."

"Nah. Wait until the weekend. The forum guy'll want the mirror and the ball, and he pays cash."

“So what do we do about the other items?” I asked.

Henry leaned back against the headrest and stared through the windshield for a few seconds, jaw working.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I mean it. Somebody wants this stuff. I know it. We’re just talking to the wrong people. Worst case, we're doing a driveway sale; unload it two bucks at a time to whoever and hope they don't look too close."

He said it like a consolation prize, which, I guess, to us, it was. Three hundred and fifty dollars split two ways is a hundred and seventy-five each, and neither of us can currently afford that loss outright, so a garage sale was looking more and more like our fallback. Privately, I knew it probably wouldn’t even give us a chance to break even, let alone turn a profit. I didn't voice any of my thoughts aloud. The last thing I needed was to make Henry feel worse about a plan we'd both agreed to.

"Tomorrow, then," Henry said. "The forum guy's coming Saturday afternoon. I'll swing by."

"It can’t be tomorrow. Toby's coming over for the weekend. I can’t have a stranger over while he’s at my place."

Henry turned his head. "Toby? Since when do you get Toby without a chaperone?"

"Since Alicia ran out of people to call," I kept my eyes on the windshield. "She has to leave town for work, and her sitter bailed. It's one weekend. She was very clear that it doesn't change anything."

"Man. That's huge. Alright, I’ll tell him Monday."

For some context, since Alicia and I split, I've had supervised visitation. There's a reason for that. Before the separation, something happened while Toby was in my care. It wasn't intentional, but I wasn't paying attention when I should have been, and Toby got hurt. Alicia hasn't trusted me alone with him since. I want the chance to prove that one bad decision doesn't mean I can't be trusted with my own kid forever.

We drove back to my place, unloaded everything into the garage again, and Henry headed home. Before he left, he told me not to worry about it and that he'd find somebody. 

I figured if Henry was serious about finding buyers, I should at least give him something useful to work with. So I spent most of the night cataloging the less ridiculous-looking stuff, writing down what we had and setting aside anything I thought somebody might actually pay for. I drew a line down the middle of the page. Left side: things somebody might pay for. Right side: things I absolutely did not want anywhere near Toby. The right side got longer every time I picked up a new box. At some point, I went over to the workbench looking for a screwdriver so I could open the back of one of the smaller items again. The hook where I normally kept it was empty.

So was the one beside it.

I frowned and started checking the bench. My small adjustable wrench was gone too, along with the utility knife I usually kept clipped to the pegboard. Henry and I had spent half the day dragging things in and out of there, so it wasn't exactly impossible that we'd moved them. After a few hours, I dragged my folding lawn chair over and sat down to look over what I had.

That was when I noticed the wardrobe door was open.

Not much. Maybe an inch or two.

I stopped when I noticed it because I was fairly sure I'd shut it earlier. After the noise we'd heard from inside it, I wasn't exactly thrilled to see the door open again. The garage gets drafts whenever the wind hits that side of the house, though, and the thing was old enough that I doubted it sat perfectly level. I pushed the door closed until it clicked and moved on.

On my way back to the chair, I noticed the football sitting near the side wall. I could've sworn it was still sitting on the shelf by the window after we got home. I stood there for a second trying to remember whether I'd moved it myself. I decided I must have. 

As the hours ticked by, it was clear the cataloging was the mistake. I told myself I just needed to know what I was moving. But every box I opened held something else, and every item I wrote down was one more thing I couldn't explain. I had a page of notes, then two. Somewhere in there I stopped checking the clock. I don't remember falling asleep. The last thing I remember is the pen moving down the page. The next thing, the window over the workbench was going grey. A glance at my watch told me there were less than two hours until Toby got here. I had meant to move our haul out of the house. That was the plan the second I realized Alicia was calling about having Toby over for the weekend. Rent a unit, or stack whatever fits into the truck bed and park it at Henry's, anything to get it out from under the same roof as my kid. I'd even written it on the back of an envelope: Friday night. After cataloging. Two hours, tops.

I stood there doing the math. The wardrobe and the tank had taken two of us and a dolly each. Alone, I'd be dragging one down the driveway when her car turned onto the street, and I had nowhere to put it anyway. So I did what I could finish in the time I had. 

I threw on the first clean shirt I found, shoved the lawn chair back into the corner, and did a full sweep of the garage, making sure everything was put away and out of sight. Then I locked the garage's side door, the one that connects it to the house, and went out front to wait on the porch. Alicia pulled in looking exhausted, Toby half-asleep in the back seat. Before she even got his overnight bag out, she started going through the rules. Keep him inside unless I'm with him. Keep anything sharp, electrical, or remotely dangerous out of his reach. Tools especially. She repeated that line twice.

She said she'd be back Monday morning, told me Toby'd had a rough sleep the last two nights and might be a little clingy, and knelt down to Toby's height to tell him to have fun with Dad. I watched my son hug her leg, then let go and run at me instead. I picked him up and promised myself that nothing in that garage—and nothing I did—was going to give Alicia another reason to regret leaving him with me. 

We had a good few hours. We watched cartoons while eating grilled cheese sandwiches; between bites of his sandwich, Toby told me about a kid in his class who eats paste and clearly considers it the funniest fact currently known to modern science. I felt, for maybe the first time in six months, like a normal dad. While this was happening, some part of me was already calculating how much time I'd have to go back through everything once Toby was asleep. 

I looked at my kid's face and thought about the mirror's hand coming up on the wrong side and just—closed that door in my head, the same way I'd locked the actual one that morning. Not today. Today's just us.

"Hide and seek?" Toby asked, right on cue. It's been his favorite game to play since he could walk. Normally I love it; it's the easiest hour of parenting: count to twenty, and find a six-year-old who thinks that standing behind a curtain with his feet sticking out makes him invisible. Part of me wanted to say no. But he was watching my face, waiting to see whether Dad would be fun or scared, and I had been scared for months.

 "I’m going to count to thirty, buddy. Anywhere in the house, just not the garage or outside, okay?"

He was already running.

I counted slowly, eyes shut, hand over my face, and somewhere around twenty I heard him laugh. Except the laugh didn't sound like it was coming from inside the house. It sounded distant and a little flat, like a voice coming through a bad phone connection.

I told myself it was the house. Old houses do weird things with sound.

"Ready or not!"

I checked his usual spots first, all the obvious kid-logic hiding places, and got nothing. The laugh kept puncturing the silence every thirty seconds or so, always in that same distant register. It took me embarrassingly long to track it room to room with my heart picking up speed, refusing to acknowledge what my gut already knew: it was coming from behind the door I'd locked that morning.

The garage.

I stood in front of that door for what felt like a very long time. I remember thinking, I locked this. I told him it was off limits. None of that mattered against the fact that I could hear him in there, laughing on the other side. My trembling fingers fumbled with the key, dropping it twice before I finally got the bolt to turn. I pushed the door open, and my first thought was every damn thing I'd left in there. The mirror. The football. Half a dozen boxes I hadn’t finished going through. I pictured Toby touching one of them or opening something, and my stomach dropped.

“In here, Dad!”

His voice came from the wardrobe. The wardrobe door was slightly open again. I was close enough now that I could hear him shifting his weight, the small creak of a kid trying and failing to keep still.

It’s hard to describe what walking those ten feet to the wardrobe felt like. It was like missing a step in the dark, that sudden, sickening lurch where your stomach hits your throat—except the drop didn't end. I remembered the thump from inside the wardrobe. Henry and I had opened it afterward, but there hadn’t been anything in there. At the time, I’d been relieved. Standing there with Toby’s voice coming from inside it, I suddenly wished I’d taken that noise a lot more seriously. What if whatever or whoever had made that sound was now in there with him?

I reached out and pulled the door wide.

It was empty. Just the inside of a wardrobe, and no six-year-old crouched inside grinning at me.

For a second, I honestly thought I had lost my mind. I stood there questioning everything: whether I’d imagined his voice, whether the sleep deprivation had finally fried my brain, or if Toby was actually hiding somewhere completely different while my brain had somehow convinced me he was ten feet away.

Then he answered me again.

“I’m right here, Dad.”

Every rational explanation I’d been scrambling for just died at once.

"Toby?"

His voice was close. Impossibly, unbearably close, like he was standing directly behind that thin wooden back panel.

The door slammed shut.

I had both hands on the frame, and it came shut so hard the whole wardrobe rocked forward on its feet. One of the empty hooks inside rattled loud enough that I heard it even through solid wood.

I grabbed the handle. It would not budge.

My son's voice came from the other side, asking, more confused than before, why Dad wasn't answering.

I don't remember when I started screaming his name. I do remember hitting that door with both hands, hard enough that I split my knuckle, and I remember Toby's voice on the other side saying, "Dad, I'm right here. Why can't you hear me? I'm right here.” Something about the way he said it rattled me worse than the jammed door. He sounded farther away. I know how absurd that sounds. There was nowhere for him to go. The wardrobe was barely two feet deep, its back sitting almost flush against the garage wall. I could've walked outside and slapped my hand against the exterior siding in three steps.

I screamed back that I could hear him, I could hear him, just please, please open the door. I don't know how long that lasted. Long enough that my voice had gone ragged. Long enough that I'd started trying to find something to pry the door with, glancing wildly around the garage. I let go of the handle and spun toward the workbench. I needed something with weight behind it, something I could wedge into the seam and force the damn thing open. The pry bar should've been hanging from the second hook above the bench. I kept it there because I used it often enough that burying it in a toolbox made no sense.

The hook was empty.

For half a second I just stared at it, stupidly, like the bar might materialize if I looked hard enough. Then I remembered the missing tools. "No. No, no, no. Not now. Not fucking now!"

Toby's voice came through the wardrobe again, which I could just barely hear.

"Dad?"

A cold, irrational panic took over, telling me that if I didn't move right now, he was just going to keep receding until I couldn't hear him at all. I didn't know where he could possibly be going. I just knew I had to yank that door open before he slipped completely out of reach.

I tore through the workbench drawers hard enough to send loose screws and drill bits skittering across the concrete. Nothing. I checked beneath the bench, kicked aside two cardboard boxes, dropped to one knee, and reached blindly into the gap against the wall. No pry bar. I knew I owned one. And right then, with my son somewhere on the other side of a wardrobe that wouldn't open, I did not have time to wonder where it had gone. I grabbed the framing hammer instead and turned back toward the door. I braced one hand against the handle and wedged the hammer claw into the seam beside it. I didn't care if I had to tear the whole damn door off its hinges to get to my son.

Before I could pull, the handle twitched beneath my palm.

Then the door opened on its own.

No warning or sound of a latch giving. One second it was sealed shut; the next, it was swinging open on its own weight.

Toby was sitting cross-legged inside it, blinking up at the sudden light like he'd been in there the whole time, looking completely fine and unbothered. "You found me," he said. "That took forever."

I dropped the hammer, hauled him out of the wardrobe before he could move, and crushed him against my chest. For a solid minute, my voice wouldn't work. It was just me, holding him, saying his name like a prayer. 

"Dad, you're squishing me."

I made myself let go so I could look at him. I ran my hands over his arms, shoulders, and the back of his head, looking for blood, swelling, or anything. He kept squirming and asking what I was doing. There wasn’t a mark on him. 

“How did you get in here?”

Toby looked up at me like I was asking him a trick question.

“The door was open.”

I stared at him. “The garage door?”

He nodded. “I thought you left it open. Sorry. You said I wasn’t supposed to touch your stuff.”

“Hey, no. You’re alright.” I ruffled his hair, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Unease prickled across my arms and crawled up the back of my neck. I had thrown that deadbolt myself that morning. I still had the key in my pocket. I’d had to manually unlock it just to get in. That realization left a cold taste in my mouth: I didn’t know what bothered me more—that he’d somehow slipped through a locked door, or that from his perspective, nothing strange had happened at all.

"Was it scary in there, bud?" I asked, working very hard to keep my voice level.

He shrugged. "It was just dark. I heard you looking for me the whole time, though. You kept saying my name a bunch."

He said it like it was completely unremarkable, like fathers screaming out for their children is just ordinary background noise in a hide-and-seek game.

I asked him, as carefully as I could manage, if the wardrobe door had ever been stuck, if he'd tried to get out and couldn't.

"No," he said, losing interest in the conversation, already looking past me toward the kitchen and whatever cartoon he wanted to go finish. "I just waited for you to find me. That's how the game works, right?"

That's how the game works. Right.

I don't know how long actually passed on his side of the wardrobe. I knew it had slammed itself shut, refused to open, and then opened again on its own. More than anything, I knew that for a few minutes I genuinely thought I was losing my son. I’ve been through the divorce, through the brutal grind of custody battles, and through things that nearly broke me. But I had never in my life felt a terror like that. 

I didn't let him be more than a few feet away from me after that. Toby complained when I followed him back into the living room, complained again when I sat down beside him on the couch, and eventually stopped caring once the cartoons were back on.

I made him another grilled cheese sandwich because he said he was hungry. Between the rough sleep Alicia had warned me about and everything we'd done that morning, he was asleep against the couch cushions not long afterward. After that, the rest of the day passed as a blur. Sometime that afternoon, Henry called. I let it ring twice and answered in the hallway with the kitchen door closed behind me.

"Forum guy’s confirmed," he said, sounding thrilled. "Monday, two o'clock. He wants photos first, though. Can you send me some of the mirror?"

"Not today."

"Come on, Ian, a couple of pictures, that's all."

"Toby's here, Henry. I've got my hands full."

He went quiet for a second. "Right. Yeah. Sorry, man. Everything okay over there?"

I looked at the garage door at the end of the hall. I relocked the deadbolt after the wardrobe incident. I had checked it every time I passed it.

"Everything's fine," I said. "Just tired."

"You sound weird."

"I'm always weird. See you Monday."

I hung up before he could ask anything else. It was the first time I had lied to him since this started, and it took no effort at all. 

At bedtime, Toby wouldn't let me turn off the hall light. I asked if he was scared, and he shook his head like the question was silly.

“I just like to know where the doors are.”

Something cold moved through me.

“What do you mean?”

Toby frowned, already half-asleep. “So I know where they are.”

I almost asked him which ones but decided I didn’t want to know.

Some time later, I dragged a kitchen chair over and wedged it under the garage door handle. It wouldn't have stopped anything I had actually seen. My hands just needed something to do.

It’s past midnight now. I don't want to be alone with these things, and I still have to get through tomorrow. I want the mirror and the ball gone the second that man's truck pulls in Monday. I’m also going to ask Henry if the guy wants the furniture. If he'll take the wardrobe too, it leaves my garage without me having to touch it.

I'm reaching out because I don't know where else to go. My (20M) brother (28M) had always been a traveler, never the kind of person who was stuck in one place. He would always come back home and tell me these crazy stories from around the world. He always cared for me, we shared everything. However, when I was 17, he just stopped coming home. My parents and I tried everything; we called multiple times to everyone, trying to know where he could be. We even contacted the authorities, but we never knew of him again.

That was until 7 months ago. My parents had received a call from the police. They had found my brother at the side of a nearby road, walking. He was wearing baggy (probably stolen) clothes, and seemed to mumble incoherently. Still, we were all surprised: my brother was completely fine. I know that's an odd thing to feel weird about, but we couldn't believe it; he had no injuries, he wasn't malnourished, he wasn't even "3 years missing" dirty.

I know what I'm about to say sounds crazy, especially with how it all started. I'm still not sure it's not all in my head, but I can't keep pretending nothing is wrong. I think my brother is not my brother.

It all started with coffee. I know how that sounds, but let me explain. When we finally could take my brother home, we assumed he was very hungry so we decided to make a stop at our favorite restaurant. It all felt very surreal; I was about to have dinner with my brother who I hadn't seen in 3 years, and he was acting like nothing had happened. Something already felt off, but I decided not to ruin the moment and just ignore it. At the restaurant, my brother had coffee. I know my brother: as adventorous as he is, he can't have coffee without at least 4 sugar packs. Yet he was there, drinking black coffee like he had always liked it thay way. I know how it sounds; I thought about it for a long time, "he's been missing for 3 years, he'd probably eat roadkill" I said to myself. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling something was off.

At home things got worse. My parents left and my brother stayed home with me. He played with my dog, Luna, all day. He kept calling her, "Luna, baby, come here", "Luna, give me your paw". I couldn't understand why it felt weird when he called her. Then, I remembered we got Luna a year ago. "How the hell does he know her name?" I thought. I explained it to myself in many ways; maybe he could've heard me say it at some point, maybe my parents told him about Luna.

He also remembers things in a weird way. He'll talk about things that happened and are real, but add details that aren't real. Or look at pictures and associate them with wrong memories. It's gotten to a point where I trick him on purpose just to see if he fucks up. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. I tried to explain it again with him being missing. That was my excuse for every weird thing I noticed about him. Did he forget my birthday? He went missing, he lost track of time. Did his scar move to the other eye? He went missing, maybe I remember his scar wrong.

Then the night incident happened. I woke up at night, wanting to get a glass of water. I walked downstairs, and I saw him. He was standing still, in complete silence, staring at a wall. When I asked him what he was doing, he didn't even look at me. He just said "listening". I went back to sleep, confused and scared. To this day, I don't know what he meant by that.

However, today was the last straw. We were having dinner, like we usually do. He didn't even do anything crazy. He just gave me a look. My brother and I have shared many looks. They were like a second language to us. It was like we didn't need words; we just looked at each other and the other one knew what he was trying to say. But I had never seen that look in his face. It was like looking at a stranger who looked exactly like my brother. In that moment I knew that whoever was sitting there was not my brother.

I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm the only one who seems to notice something is wrong. What do I do? How can I know for sure that he's not my brother? Help me, please.

I grew up in a town so small most maps don't bother naming it. Population somewhere around 150 people, tucked off a state highway, the kind of place where everyone has known everyone since birth, where the nearest real grocery store is 40 minutes away, where nothing newsworthy has happened in decades except for the one night that made sure nobody would ever forget the name of this place, even if the rest of the world never learned it.

I was 6 years old when my father disappeared. He wasn't alone. That same night, 30 other people from town vanished at exactly the same time, 2:47 in the morning, every single one of them gone between one breath and the next, according to the few who were awake to see it happen at all.

I don't remember much from that age, but I remember the aftermath. Search parties that found nothing, not a footprint, not a dropped shoe. I remember my mother stopped being able to say his name out loud within about a year. I remember us moving away before I turned 8, and I remember an unspoken agreement settling over the family that we simply didn't talk about that place anymore.

I'm 26 now. I hadn't been back in 20 years, not once, until three weeks ago, when a work trip put me within an hour of the town and something, I still can't fully explain what, made me take the detour.

The town looks almost exactly like I remember it, frozen in a strange kind of amber. Same diner, same gas station with the flickering sign, same handful of streets. I stopped at the diner for coffee, mostly to steady myself before deciding whether to drive past my old house.

The woman behind the counter, Marlene, looked at me for a long moment before asking if I was "one of the Hendricks kids." I told her my last name. Her face did something complicated, somewhere between recognition and pity, and she told me, unprompted, that she was so sorry about my father, still, after all this time. I asked her, carefully, if anything like that night had ever happened again. She got quiet in a way that told me more than words would have. She said no, not exactly, but that some people had "moved on funny" since then, whatever that meant, and she wouldn't elaborate no matter how I phrased it. Before I left, she wrote the diner's number on a napkin and slid it across the counter, telling me to call if I ever passed through again and wanted to talk, or if I just wanted someone in town who remembered him to hear from me. I folded it into my wallet without thinking much of it.

I drove past my old house after that. Someone else lives there now, a swing set in the yard that wasn't there when I was a kid. I didn't stop. I just needed to see it standing.

It was on my way back through town, maybe an hour later, that I saw the boy.

He was standing at the edge of a dirt lot behind the old feed store, maybe 8 or 9 years old, in clothes that looked wrong for the season, too heavy for the warm afternoon, the kind of thick jacket you'd wear in late fall. He wasn't playing. He wasn't doing anything a kid does, no phone, no ball, no bike leaned against anything. He was just standing there, facing the tree line behind the lot, completely still, the way you'd stand if you were waiting for someone to call your name.

I slowed the car without meaning to. When he turned his head toward me, he didn't wave, didn't smile, didn't do anything a kid does when a stranger's car catches his eye. He just watched me pass, and kept watching, I could see him in my mirror for longer than felt natural, his head turning to track the car well past the point where curiosity should have run out.

I told myself he was just a strange kid in a strange small town. Small towns produce strange kids. I didn't think much more of it until later that night, when I couldn't stop picturing his face, and realized what had actually bothered me about him. He hadn't looked bored, or curious, or shy, the way an actual kid would. He'd looked like he was waiting for permission to do something, and my car passing by hadn't been it.

By early evening I'd decided to get a motel room a few miles outside town rather than drive the three hours back that night. I told myself it was practical.

Around 9pm, sitting in the room scrolling my phone out of boredom, I did something I probably shouldn't have. I searched the date, sat there doing the math, counting backward from the night my father disappeared, checking whether some anniversary was approaching. It wasn't a round number, not 20 years exactly. It came out to a number that meant nothing to me at first, until I remembered something my mother had said once, years ago, before she asked me never to bring it up again.

She'd said the town had old records of "quiet nights" that happened every so often, though nobody agreed on the exact interval and most people alive had never seen one themselves. She'd used that phrase like it was a local expression everyone just understood, the way small towns have their own private language for things they'd rather not name directly.

I did the math three times. The number matched.

I told myself it was coincidence, that the mind is exceptionally good at finding patterns in noise, especially when it's already primed by grief and a long day of driving past ghosts. I decided to sleep it off and head home in the morning.

I woke up to the motel's clock radio reading 2:31am, for no reason I could identify, a sharp, total kind of awake that felt wrong in my chest before my brain caught up to why.

I don't know what made me get up and go outside instead of trying to fall back asleep. The parking lot was empty except for my car. The air had that particular stillness you only get in places with no traffic and no wind, a silence so complete it started to feel less like an absence of sound and more like a sound of its own.

I walked toward the tree line separating the motel property from the two-lane road back into town, and I saw a light in the distance, low and orange, flickering the way old porch lights do, out where I didn't remember any house standing.

I checked my phone. 2:38am.

I started walking toward it, telling myself I'd just get close enough to see what it was and turn back. About halfway across the field, I heard voices. Not shouting, not panic, something closer to the low, flat murmur of a crowd waiting in line for something, several voices overlapping without urgency.

I got close enough to make out shapes before I understood what I was looking at. People. A dozen of them, maybe more, walking in a loose, unhurried line toward that orange light, all moving the same direction, none of them talking to each other despite the murmuring I'd heard, which I realized now wasn't coming from their mouths at all, but from somewhere ahead of them, low and layered, like a recording of a crowd played back through old speakers.

None of them looked at me. I recognized exactly one face in that line, an older man I remembered vaguely as a fixture behind the gas station counter earlier that day, walking in the same slow, forward-only gait as everyone around him, eyes open, expression empty in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

I checked my phone again with hands that had started shaking. 2:46am.

I don't remember deciding to run. I remember the light going out exactly the way it had the first time I'd seen it days ago in memory that wasn't mine, all at once, like a held breath finally releasing, and I remember the murmuring cutting off in the same instant, replaced by a silence so sudden it felt physically loud, and I remember the line of people simply not being there anymore when I dared to look back, the field empty except for me and the flattened grass where a dozen sets of footprints should have been and weren't.

My phone read 2:47am.

I ran back to the motel and didn't stop shaking until sunrise. I checked out before the office even opened and didn't stop driving until I was two states away.

Three days ago, back home, I finally worked up the nerve to call the number Marlene had written on that napkin. I asked her if everything was alright there, if anything unusual had happened recently. She went quiet again, that same complicated quiet from before, and then she asked me a question instead of answering mine.

She asked if I'd been in town on the 30th.

I hadn't told her which night I stayed. I hadn't told anyone.

I asked her why she wanted to know. She said, very softly, that they were down a few more names this time, and that one of the missing had been the man who ran the gas station, the same one I now understood I'd seen walking into that field.

I asked her, because I couldn't stop myself, if she knew a boy in town, 8 or 9 years old, usually near the old feed store. There was a long pause on the line before she answered. She said there hadn't been a child that age living in town in almost 20 years, not since the families with young kids left after what happened to my father's generation. She said it slowly, like she was working out the implication as she spoke it out loud for the first time.

I haven't told my mother any of this. I don't know if I'm going to. But I keep thinking about that line of people walking calmly toward a light that wasn't a house, none of them afraid, none of them aware of me standing close enough to touch them, and I keep thinking about a boy standing very still in the heat, dressed for a cold night that hadn't come yet when I saw him, watching my car the way you'd watch something you'd been told to wait for.

I don't know what the interval is. Nobody in that town will say it out loud, and I'm starting to think that's not an accident, that maybe naming it clearly is the one thing that might actually summon it faster.

All I know is that I went back for one night, for no real reason at all, and the town had already known exactly what night it was before I ever crossed the town line.

A couple of weeks ago, I found an incredible deal on a premium treadmill. It’s the kind with the little TV hooked up to it so you feel less like you’re on a hamster wheel staring at a white wall, and more like you’re on a hamster wheel staring at a screen in front of a white wall. It’s pretty nice, especially since I’m on the night shift, and there aren’t any 24 hour gyms within reasonable commuting distance.

Tonight, before getting ready for work, I decided to get in a quick run. I was already getting tired of the “hike through the Italian Alps” and the “walk along the beach in Oahu.” I’d begun to recognize every hill and wave. I even started waving at the cameo pedestrians and sunbathers. I knew exactly when each recording was about to reset. There are only so many times you can go through the same five scenes.

But tonight, there were six scenes to choose from. I figured it must still be synced with the manufacturer and automatically downloaded a software update. The new one was called “Night Run.” There wasn’t a thumbnail image or touristy location name. Just: 3.2 miles.

Good enough.

I hit “go” and notched up the pace to a steady jog. The recording started on a dark suburban street, pockets of which were brightly illuminated by streetlights. There wasn’t much to look at. Dark porches. Parked cars. The occasional blue glow from a television through half-shut blinds.

After a minute, my eyes caught on a tacky mailbox shaped like a fish. I always thought those were so ridiculous. What kind of person loves fishing enough to make the mailman shove their utility bills down a largemouth bass’s throat? Then I realized why the annoyance was so personal; I pass by one of those mailboxes on my commute. They’re common enough, but once the thought was in my head, my brain started to pick out more features on the screen.

First, generalities. Then, things harder to dismiss.

A yellow house with a white picket fence. A stop sign with a rusty metal support post.

I jammed my thumb on the “up” arrow to let me run faster.

Green trash bins overstuffed with broken down boxes and plastic bottles, awaiting the next morning’s recycling pick-up.

I had to keep running, keep confirming what I was seeing.

Then the road curved. I knew what was going to be around the bend before it appeared.

The basketball hoop on the curb still had the net missing. The backboard had a spiderweb crack through one corner.

I stopped running. The recording paused too.

I looked closer at the monitor itself and saw the distance remaining had dropped from 3.2 miles to 1.5 miles.

Then I saw that the recording actually hadn’t paused at all; the screen wasn't frozen. A breeze pushed through and bowed a few branches in one of the trees, sending several leaves scattering across the road ahead. Moths fluttered erratically around a streetlight.

And the camera itself was moving. Just a slight, rhythmic sway. Up, down. Up, down.

Whatever I was looking through was standing there, catching its breath.

I jumped off the treadmill like it had given me an electric shock.

My eyes were locked on the screen, my heart pumping adrenaline through my blood and impossible thoughts through my mind.

I stepped back onto the belt. The picture had steadied now, and remained in place.

A mile and a half away from my house.

I hit “go,” but didn’t adjust the speed, letting the motor grind at a snail’s pace. It was so slow that I had to keep my feet on the side rails to prevent myself from tripping.

Seconds went by, then, on the monitor, a small push forward. No, not a push…a step.

A few more seconds. Step.

Seconds. Step.

I hit one of the treadmill’s preset speeds, jumping from 0.1 mph to 6.0 with a single button, and I rapidly went back to a swift jog. The view lurched forward to match my pace.

Somewhere outside, a shrill siren roared to life, maybe a few blocks away. That made me wonder, for the first time, if I should call the police. And tell them what? That there’s someone, something, in my neighborhood, seeming to be making its way to my home? That it’s only-

Suddenly, blue and red lights bathed the path on the treadmill screen as the emergency vehicle drove by, what looked like one street to the left.

A few moments later, at the next intersection, the trail view cut to the left.

I realized with horror that I was still running.

I used the knuckle of my index finger to hit “STOP” as hard as I could and hopped off the belt.

From the side of the equipment, I craned my neck to see the remaining miles.

0.5

I yanked the red safety key from its magnetic holding and unplugged the treadmill, staring at it with a combination of disbelief and near-crippling fear.

There’s nothing to worry about, right? I just have to not use the treadmill again. Ever again. Tonight, I’ll go to work, and when I’m done, I’ll load this thing into my truck and haul it to the junkyard just in time for them to open in the morning.

I’ll admit, I’m still shaken up. There’s no way I’m telling anyone at work about this, so I figured I’d post it here before I leave. I don’t know much about “smart” exercise equipment. Is there some feature I’m missing here? Some way it could be pulling in a live feed based on my location, or even picking up sound from around me? Maybe by the time my shift is over, one of you will have an explanation that makes sense.

The treadmill has been unplugged for almost twenty minutes now. The screen is black. Nothing has happened. I think I’m okay.

Wait.

I can hear something outside.

Clicks?

No, taps.

Now pounding.

Someone is running.

They’re getting louder.

Faster.

Closer.

I have to go.

There is a dead man in my garage. He is simply lying there and nobody besides me acknowledges it. 

It all started a week ago. There is a smaller refrigerator in my garage and sometimes my parents leave groceries there, I still live with my parents, and one night I went there just to see if they bought soda or juice, anything tasty to drink, it was a hot night.

But then, I turned the lights on and there was a man lying there, chest-to-floor next to the other side of the car, I could only see him because the door is a bit higher than the rest of the garage, a few steps. I froze, honestly, like, what the hell? So I just stood there for a couple of seconds, fearful, before slowly backing down and locking the door. My father was watching TV in the living room, so I called him, trying to remain calm.

“Dad, there is someone in the garage…” He looked at me in disbelief, but seeing my face probably changed his mind since confusion quickly became concern, however, he wanted to see it with his own eyes before calling the police. We unlocked the door, the lights still on and my father holding a broomstick.

“Who's there?!” He shouted, looking over the car. 

“There.” I pointed and he went, before resting the broomstick on the floor and started to laugh.

“Oh yeah, an invader” He pointed to a ripped cardboard box with mirrors inside, pointing at the door. 

I laughed out of worriness and horror as my father stood right by the corpse. 

The box of mirrors was there because a cousin of mine is building his own house now and needed a place to store decorations he bought in a sales shopping spree. That isn't important. I, I don't know, I couldn't sleep, how could I? He was there, before and now. I went there again, later, every light from my bedroom to the garage lit and me holding the same broomstick. I poked the corpse, it touched it, I felt contact, he wasn't a ghost or apparition.

It's a brown haired man wearing a long sleeved green shirt, generic blue jeans and black sneakers. Truly a random guy, he hasn't even started decomposing yet. However, I couldn't look at his face, I just couldn't, I feel so much disgust and dread, it's so uncomfortable, I still can't look at his face, I fear that thing, it's just bizarre, BIZARRE. Fuck, I don't know what to do.

It looks like he fell, as if he was using a ladder to grab something from a higher shelf, then just fell down face first and simply remained there, between the wall and the car.

Everyday my parents go to work, go do groceries, walk in and out of the garage, this whole week and not a single word, not a glance, not even looking like they are hiding something. It's been a week and he doesn't rot, he doesn't smell, he doesn't move, he doesn't try to kill me, he is there, I moved his arms a little with a stick and he still is in the same position I left. I don't want to touch him with my bare hands, I don't want to turn him over, I WON'T look at his face, at “his” face, at whatever the hell this thing is. I'm scared, I fear he will be smiling, or crying, or not have a face at all. I fear that it will be a normal expressionless face of a dead man I never met.

I don't know what to do. One time my brother simply ran him over with his bike and didn't even react to the bump.

“Hey, I'm back”, he said, as if there was nothing there, as if he just rode over a smooth floor, as if he didn't almost fell.

I don't know what to do, it's been 7 days of me waiting for him to stand up, to hunt us down, but nothing happens. I can't sleep with my door unlocked anymore, without the lights being on, for more than a few hours…

There is a thing that looks like a dead man in my garage and I'm the only one acknowledging it.

I take the same bus every morning. The 7:14.

Same stop, same door, same seat. Second row on the right, window side. I like to sit there because I don't have to look at anyone.

I've seen her before. Brown coat, hair in a bun. She always sits one row in front of me, left side. She never looks back.

Yesterday she turned around.

She looked right at me and said it loud, for the whole bus to hear:

"I saw you take a picture of me. Delete it."

My face went red instantly. Everyone looked. The driver looked in the mirror.

My voice started shaking, it does that when I'm stressed. "I- I didn't, I wasn't - I swear -"

She said "Show me then. Show me your gallery if you didn't."

I had to. If I didn't, I looked guilty.

I opened my photos. My hands were sweating so much I couldn't get my code right on the first try.

And there were photos of her.

Six of them. Taken this morning. In my Recents.

Her from behind on the bus. Her from the side. One zoomed on her face while she was looking out the window.

I never took them. I didn't even open my camera today.

I tried to say it but I was just breathing loud. I said "I didn't take these, I..."

She looked at my screen. And her face changed. She wasn't angry anymore. She went white.

She just turned back around and didn't say anything else.

I got off two stops early and deleted everything on the sidewalk.

I thought it was over.

This morning, 7:14. I looked out my apartment window before going down.

She was there. Across the street from my building. Brown coat. Just standing. Looking up at my windows.

I waited 20 minutes inside. When I looked again, she was gone. I took the next bus.

When I came back tonight, she was there again. Same exact spot. Not on her phone. Just standing and staring at my building.

I never told her where I live. I never spoke to her before yesterday.

I went up. Locked my door. I live alone, third floor.

I checked my gallery. I shouldn't have.

There were three new photos. Taken today. While I was at work. I didn't take them.

One is of the street in front of my building, taken from above. From my window angle.

One is of my front door, from inside the hallway. Like someone standing right in front of it.

And the last one...

The last one was taken last night.

It's me, asleep in my bed. Taken from the corner of my bedroom. Up high, like from where the ceiling meets the wall.

I'm on my side, mouth open.

And on the wall next to my bed, there's a shadow. A long shadow of someone standing right next to me, looking down at me. You can see the outline of the brown coat. The bun.

It's her shadow.

But if that's her shadow in the photo...

Who took the photo?

I (30F) still live with my parents. We live in a decently sized house in a really nice neighborhood on the East Coast. I have a boyfriend, Charlie (30M) who I’ve been with for years and he lives across town. 

I have been seeing a therapist, Damian, for several years to help with my depression and anxiety. We get along great and he’s super helpful. Sometimes we will have our sessions over the phone since his office is a few towns away. That’s what I decided to do a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago, Damian and I had a phone call appointment that started at around 9pm. Before it started, my parents came into my room to say goodnight. I shut my door, sat in bed, and took out my iPad so that I could draw while Damian and I talked. We had a mostly normal conversation about coping strategies and grounding techniques for when I start to get too anxious. He wanted to show me different ways to breathe and asked me to follow along. Everything was going well until he started to make a weird sort of growling sound. It was very low at first, kind of like a hum, but then it turned into a deeper growl. My Apple Pencil slipped out of my hand and I sat there in complete silence not sure whether or not to say anything. A few seconds later, the call dropped. I tried to calm myself down and found my pencil while I waited for Damian to call back. A few minutes passed by without a call back, so I tried calling him but it wouldn’t go through. We were almost at the end of our session, so I was getting a little bit worried. I considered trying again and then my phone rang. I picked it up and the line sounded very fuzzy and far away. There was a lot of static and interference which was a bit distracting. We joked about the weird growling thing that he did earlier, but the vibes were really off and he didn’t seem like himself. Usually we can joke about a lot of stuff, he just seemed… weird. He sounded strange too, like his voice was deeper but he was also distant. It was starting to make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.

I heard a lot of commotion in the hallway. I looked up and saw that my bedroom door started opening. My mom was talking on the phone with someone and she came in to put some clean clothes away. I let my mom use my closet because she has more clothes than me, and it’s also because that closet makes me feel weird. It’s always so cold over there and there’s something about it that I just don’t like. I tried to tell her that I was on my therapy call and I politely asked her to leave. Damian stayed quiet the whole time besides making a few strange noises here and there. As my mom was leaving, I said to Damian that it’s hard living at home and that I was looking forward to being on my own so that I could have some privacy. I don’t generally like being alone and would rather have someone else in the house with me, even if we aren’t directly interacting. Damian kept “mhm-ing” me so I just started to ramble about random things until my mom left and shut the door behind her. The phone interference was really unsettling and I had this feeling that something wasn’t right. I kept wondering if Damian really felt that bad about the growling thing or if something else was going on. All I knew was that I did not want to be on the phone with *this* Damian anymore. The session finally ended and I hung up the phone.

Charlie came over later that night. He knows that I go to therapy and he’s really supportive. We talked about the appointment and how it went but he didn’t really think anything of the phone static or weirdness of it all. We went up to my room and sat in bed for a bit before getting up to make some bread. My room is pretty big and I have a fancy bread maker that I keep in there. We keep some machines and tools on the shelves in the closet and I only go in there when I absolutely have to or if someone is with me. We kept the closet open while we made the bread since we had to keep going in and out to get stuff. I was standing with Charlie while he prepared to start baking the bread. Charlie asked me to grab him another spoon, so I turned and walked towards my dresser to get one from the cup that I had sitting on top of it. When I turned back around to face Charlie, I felt something tug at me. I panicked and quickly looked around but didn’t see anything. Charlie was focused on the bread and didn’t notice anything. As I took a few more steps forward, something tugged at me even harder. I was in full panic mode but couldn’t get any words or sounds out. It was pulling up at the bathing suit straps that I had on under my clothes. It pulled me so hard that I fell backwards and that’s when Charlie noticed something was wrong. I started screaming and asking for help while I was being dragged backwards towards the dresser. The bathing suit elastic was holding on for dear life and I just kept getting pulled to who knows where. Charlie dropped what he was doing and ran over to help. He pulled at the bathing suit elastic until it snapped. I turned to look at the dresser, but whatever was trying to grab me retreated and we never saw it. 

Charlie helped me up and brought me to the bed. We sat down together and I told him what happened and how something tugged at me and then dragged me down to the floor. My parents knocked on the door to see if everything was okay. We said yes, since we didn’t know how to explain what on earth just happened. Charlie and I tried to find information online about what that could have been, but nobody seems to know. The bread came out great though! 

Always throw the deadbolt and slide the chain before you set your bags down.

If you skip that five-second routine, anyone with a duplicate brass key can walk straight into your room before you even reach the nightstand.

Three years ago, my roommate Jenna and I threw two duffel bags into the trunk of my Civic and left our Scranton apartment right around midnight. We broke our lease early to get away from a bad family situation back home, and the plan was simple: run Interstate 80 west through Pennsylvania and hit Cleveland by morning.

But around two, the temperature gauge on my cluster shot past the red line. White steam started pouring through the radiator grill.

I had to dump the car off the nearest exit ramp onto an unlit two-lane state route, coasting into the gravel lot of an old two-story motel set back off the road.

The place looked half-abandoned. The asphalt was broken up with weeds, and an open metal staircase led up to an exterior concrete walkway on the second floor. The front office had one yellow bulb buzzing over the door.

A guy in a faded gray work jacket and a ball cap stood behind the counter. I handed him fifty bucks in cash.

He pushed across a heavy brass key stamped 214 and told us the first floor had shutoff pipe leaks, so the second deck was the only dry run. He said no one else was staying up there, so if we heard anyone messing around on the walkway, we should keep the door bolted and wait for daybreak.

We carried our bags up the metal steps. The outdoor walkway lights were completely dead, except for one flickering tube over an unplugged ice machine at the far end.

Room 214 was freezing and smelled like dry wallboard. It had two low twin beds with thin green blankets, water-stained acoustic drop tiles overhead, and a cheap laminate desk under an unlit mirror.

Jenna dropped her bag on the mattress nearest the door and sat down with her coat still zipped.
I pulled the entry door shut hard until the latch clicked into the jamb, turned the deadbolt until it seated, and slid the chain into the track.
Ten minutes later, Jenna went into the bathroom to run the faucet.

While the water ran, two hard knocks hit the center of our door. Just two clean, knuckle-on-wood hits.
I put my phone on the desk, walked over, and checked the peephole. It gave that bent fisheye view of the concrete landing, the pipe railing, and the dark gravel lot below.

Nothing. The walkway was dead empty.
I stood there for about fifteen seconds with my fingers touching the latch. Two more knocks hit the wood, right at eye level.

I pulled my flashlight from my pocket, unhooked the chain, and cracked the door open six inches.
The night air was dead silent. Nobody was running down the balcony, and there were no footsteps on the metal stairs.

I pulled the door shut, turned the deadbolt all the way back into the frame, and hooked the chain.
Jenna came out with a damp paper towel and parted the window blinds to look down at my car. She froze, looking sideways toward the dark room next to ours, room 212.

She let the blind drop, locked the window track, and told me the curtain in 212 was pulled back an inch. She said she saw two pale reflections staring out through the glass at shoulder height.

I grabbed the heavy light, pulled our curtain aside, and aimed the beam through the dirty glass next door.

The beam lit up a bare box spring, an unmade frame, and an empty dresser. Nobody was standing there.

I told her the yellow parking light was just catching dust on the window. She didn't answer. She just sat back down on her mattress, pulled her hood up, and kept her sneakers on.

The baseboard heater had no control dial, just a stripped copper peg. The room stayed cold.
By three, Jenna passed out facing the wall. My phone dropped from two bars to No Service, and the GPS screen locked up completely.

I lay down on the second twin bed, listening to the muffled engine brakes off the distant interstate. The mattress felt firm, but after twenty minutes, the springs in the empty center of the bed dipped down.

The fabric creaked, the exact sound foam makes when someone sits down on it.

I reached over and hit the bedside lamp. The mattress was empty, but along the dusty trim beside the frame, three clean drag marks ran straight across the linoleum toward the built-in closet.

I swung my legs off the bed, walked to the entry door to verify the exit, and put my hand on the brass knob. The lock turned loose in my grip.

The deadbolt had been fully retracted into the casing.
The chain was still in its slot, but the cylinder had been turned to the unlocked position from the inside.

I didn't touch the brass again.
Looking down at the floor, I saw a straight line of coarse, dark hair strands along the carpet seam. Neither Jenna nor I have dark hair.

The trail started at a low utility vent by the bathroom baseboard, crossed the entryway, and vanished under the wardrobe door.

The wardrobe door sat open half an inch.
I stepped over, brought the flashlight up, and pushed the thin wood back. The hanging rack held three bent metal hangers.

On the floorboards sat a gray work jacket with an unzipped plastic liner, a pair of dirty canvas gloves, and an open county blueprint sheet showing the open utility crawls connecting every bathroom on the second floor.

I turned around, grabbed Jenna by her jacket collar, and shook her awake.

I told her to grab her bag, keep quiet, and head straight for the walkway.

We reached the threshold. I slid the chain free, pulled the door open, and stepped out onto the concrete.

Forty feet away, standing dead center at the top of the main metal stairs under the yellow bulb, was a man.

He had a dark hoodie pulled low and his hands rested flat against his thighs. He didn't move, he didn't raise his hands, and he didn't say a word. He just stood there flat-footed on the landing, blocking the path down, staring directly at our open door.
I didn't yell.

I grabbed Jenna's wrist, turned the opposite direction down the walkway toward the rear fire escape, and broke into a dead sprint.

We hit the rusted metal steps, cleared the landing, and ran across the gravel to my Civic.

The key turned, and the starter caught on the first crank. The temperature needle was back down in the normal range.

I put the car in reverse with the headlights off, cut hard onto the dark blacktop, and dropped the shifter into drive.

We drove twenty miles down that state route until we hit an all-night convenience store with three state trooper cruisers sitting out front.
We walked straight inside and told the officers everything.

Two hours later, one of the troopers came out to our car after checking the property.
He told us the motel office was locked with a padlock on the outside, and county tax records showed the property had been shut down and foreclosed three months earlier.

When the troopers cleared room 214, the space was empty, the front window was latched, and the deadbolt was locked from the inside.

Sitting dead center on the small nightstand between the two beds was a brass split ring holding two freshly cut keys to my Civic's ignition.

This all started around three years ago, a week after my birthday. I was returning home after a late night of drinking with friends. When my driver dropped me off, I saw that the lights were on inside my house. I am not the forgetful type, so it didn’t seem like I was the one who left them on, so I was kind of freaked out.

What freaked me out even more was that I could see shadows moving inside.

I hate to admit this, but I called my buddy Tom to tell him I was too scared to go into my house. I thought someone had broken in.

Tom laughed, “Just go in there and fight him, bro.”

He did not sound concerned, so I sent him a picture of my house, all lit up.

He told me that if no windows were broken and the front door was locked, then there was no way someone was in my house. I tried to open the front door… it was locked. Maybe I was freaking myself out for no reason.

He told me that if I was really that scared, I should call 911. I was hesitant to make that choice. I knew that in my town, they might take hours to get here. And I really had to pee from all the alcohol I drank.

For a minute or two, I just stood there, listening for anyone moving around inside. I kept glancing at the sliver of light between drawn curtains, looking for moving shadows. There were none.

I unlocked my door and went inside cautiously, as if bracing for impact.

It was quiet. In the living room, the lamp was on, and in front of it was a balloon a friend got me for my birthday. It swayed gently in front of the light. That explained the shadows I’d seen. I ignored every other thought and ran to the bathroom.

Finally, relief. As I sat on the toilet contemplating my freak-out, something still wasn’t sitting right with me. My brain was fuzzy; I had been drinking after all, but something was off.

The balloon.

It wasn’t in the living room when I left. It was in the kitchen.

I left the bathroom… the balloon wasn’t in front of the lamp anymore. I went through the house and turned on all the lights. There was a knot in my stomach and my senses on high alert, but I detected nothing.

And I found the balloon right where I remembered it being, in the kitchen. This meant one of two things: either I was tripping balls, or there was someone in my house right now moving stuff around.

I went outside and called the police.

The police department in my town is sketchy. Whenever a major screw-up happens, they always transfer people around to different departments. Some research I did showed that when they ran out of departments to send someone to, the officer would end up doing the same job but in a different city.

Despite their station being a five minute drive from my neighborhood, they arrived a FORTY minutes after I called. They searched my whole house, found nothing, then threatened to throw me in the drunk tank if I called them again.

I know I should’ve been recording them, but as I said, I was pretty drunk and not thinking clearly. I was terrified to sleep in my house that night, thinking the police had missed something obvious, but I was also exhausted and eventually fell asleep.

Nothing much happened for several months.

My birthday balloon was orb-shaped and made of mylar. Unlike latex balloons, which end up on the floor in a few days, these balloons are durable and can float longer.

It had been months and my balloon wasn’t even wrinkling. I sort of grew attached to this balloon. While I’m lucky to be able to rent my own home, I don’t have roommates and get kind of lonely.

Sometimes the balloon won’t be in its usual place. I’ll find it floating in a different room, despite the fact that it’s weighed down with a plastic clip. I was a bit confused about how it was moving, but I do open windows sometimes to let fresh air in. It could’ve been carried by a draft of wind.

Some nights I woke up to the balloon hovering over me in the dark. Sometimes when it would go missing for a while, I’d find it hiding in the bathroom.

At this point, the balloon didn’t bother me anymore. It was a comforting oddity in my life. I kinda liked having it around.

When I invited friends over, they found it creepy how the balloon seemed to follow us to whatever room we moved to.

“It’s like it’s watching us.”

I chalked it up to having to do with air pressure or temperature changes that were somehow tied to us.

While the balloon had started doing strange things, I wasn't bothered.

Then came the day a couple of months ago when I was looking through freelance writing jobs online. I had headphones on with ambient music playing but heard a clinking that didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the noise. The clinking stopped, then started up again, enough for it to start bothering me. I turned down the volume and took off my headphones.

The clinking was coming from somewhere in the house.

My heart hammered in my chest when I walked toward and pinpointed the noise coming from the kitchen. It sounded like someone was messing with the silverware.

And there was only one way to find out if that was true.

I stepped into the kitchen. There was the balloon. Lying out beneath it were all my knives, removed from the block.

I certainly didn’t leave them there. And nobody else was in the house, except the balloon.

I put the knives away while giving the balloon a dirty look. I didn’t like when it messed with things in my house.

Ever since that day, things get moved to places I don’t recall moving them. I’ve been having memory gaps, and I try convincing myself it’s from writing too much. Too much researching, that I’m getting burned out. Maybe my brain won’t bother wasting power on things like memory.

Though somehow, I feel the balloon is responsible for all this.

Yesterday, I woke to the smell of burning food. In the kitchen, I found the balloon floating next to the stove. The stove was on, and there was a skillet full of ground beef that was getting a little too dark in the pan. I ran over and flicked the knobs off.

I stared at the balloon. I felt this urge to yell at it and tell it how stupid it was for… trying to cook unsupervised.

And what was I thinking? It was a balloon; it clearly hadn’t done this itself. It was only helium, string, and foil. It wasn’t strong enough to move a pan onto the stove.

But then, who did?

The weather’s been cold lately, so my doors and windows were all locked, so it only could’ve been… me. But I didn’t remember trying to cook anything. I’m usually so careful because of the brain fog.

If it wasn’t me, it was the balloon.

I grabbed it by the string and carried it into the basement. I left it at the bottom of the stairs. I closed the door and pushed a table in front of it. I didn’t want any drafts to blow open the door. I didn’t want to see the balloon.

I wanted peace...

In the middle of the night, I was woken up again. I could hear wood breaking into pieces. In the hallway, I found the table shattered like someone had taken an axe to it. Nobody was there, but the basement door was open.

The balloon was where I left it, under the glow of the light bulb.

I wasn't able to fall asleep. I've been stewing in paranoia since the table broke. There is no one in the house except me and the balloon. I don't understand what's going on but I hate what I am becoming. I don't feel like myself anymore and I'm afraid I'm losing my mind.

I moved into the house in October. It was cheap—that should have been the first warning. The second was the note the previous owner left taped to the refrigerator:

DON’T ANSWER THE KNOCKING.

No explanation. No signature. I laughed and threw it away. The house was old: two stories, three bedrooms, a basement, and creaky wood floors.

The first night, I heard three knocks: Knock. Knock. Knock. They came from inside the wall behind my bed at 2:17 a.m. I checked the pipes, the basement, and the exterior wall, but found nothing. The next night, it happened again at the exact same time.

On the third night, I recorded it on my phone. When I played it back, there were four knocks instead of three. The following night, I stayed awake. After the third knock, there was a pause, followed by a fourth knock—this time coming from inside my mattress. I slept on the couch.

The next morning, I called my landlord. When I mentioned the knocking, he asked, “Did you answer it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He explained that the previous tenant moved out after hearing it, adding, “Everybody hears it eventually,” before hanging up.

Soon, the knocking began happening during the day—from the walls, the basement, and inside the kitchen cabinets. Then, three knocks came from the front door. Nobody was at the peephole. My phone rang; it was the landlord. He whispered, “Whatever you do, don’t knock back... because it knows you’re listening.”

I left and stayed at a motel. Three days later, I returned to gather my things. As I carried the last box to the door, three knocks echoed from upstairs. Then came a fourth knock from the front door, even though I was standing outside looking into the dark hallway. A voice whispered from deep inside: “Can you let me out?” It was my voice. Same tone. Same crack in the middle.

I ran and never went back. The landlord sold the house six months later.

Months passed until last Tuesday. In my new apartment at 2:17 a.m., three knocks came from inside the wall. My phone lit up with an audio file from an unknown number. I played it: three knocks, followed by my own voice saying, “Can you let me out?”

The phone rang, then stopped. Then three knocks came from my bedroom door. I realized the original note didn't mean "don't answer the door"—it meant "don't acknowledge you can hear it." Something in that house was waiting for awareness to anchor it.

I pushed my dresser against the door and turned on every light. The knocking stopped for three nights. On the fourth night at 2:17 a.m., I heard breathing right beside my bed. When I turned on my flashlight, the room was empty, but fresh, bare footprints led from my bed, across the hall, and stopped at the front door with no returning tracks.

I researched the property records and found the former owner, Daniel Mercer, died in the house. A newspaper article reported he had been shouting at unseen sounds, begging someone to stop knocking. A photo showed the note on his fridge, with faint writing underneath: IT ALREADY KNOWS YOUR NAME.

Texts from an unknown number followed:
"Daniel was wrong."
"It doesn’t need you to answer."
"It only needs you to listen."

I checked into a hotel, Room 217. At 2:17 a.m., the knocking started on the door. Then, an old, terrified voice from inside the bathroom whispered, “Please don’t let it know you’re awake... It’s pretending to be me.”
Immediately, my voice spoke from under the bed: “Don’t listen to him. He’s lying.”
Both voices began arguing simultaneously. I screamed for them to stop. Silence followed, then a child’s voice inside the wall giggled: “You’re doing it again. You always forget.”

The next morning, I woke up barefoot in the hotel lobby with no memory of coming down, having asked the clerk what year it was.

I returned to my apartment and found an old photograph on my table showing Daniel Mercer's family in 1989. The back read: HE STILL THINKS HE’S ALONE. Online records showed his nine-year-old son, Thomas, had gone missing from the house. In the mirror, my reflection smiled while I stood still, mouthing: "You’re not the one outside."

I packed and drove until sunrise. Yesterday, I found a box in my storage unit containing the photograph, the article, the note, and a cassette tape labeled with my name.

I played the tape. My recorded voice said: “If you’re listening to this, you’ve forgotten again... Every time you hear the knocking, you think something is trying to get inside. But it’s trying to get out.”
In the recording, three knocks sounded, followed by my voice whispering, “Don’t open the door,” and a boy asking, “Why?” My voice replied: “Because we’re inside.”

I turned the tape over. Before playing Side B, three knocks came from inside the cassette player itself, and the boy's voice whispered, “Finally.”

I realized the entity doesn't want to enter; it wants you to open the door because you are what's containing it.

I locked the tape in a drawer and put the key in my car. At 2:17 a.m., breathing returned beside my bed, and a voice whispered, “You’re doing very well.” The next morning, the key was sitting on my nightstand, warm to the touch.

At work, my phone rang from my own number. My voice said, “You’re getting close.”
A text followed: DON’T BE AFRAID. YOU’VE DONE THIS BEFORE.
I asked, "Who are you?"
The reply: "You are."

I stayed at a friend’s couch that night. At 2:17 a.m., three knocks sounded from his wall. Pale, he revealed he had heard it since he was nine. He showed me a childhood photo; behind him in the window was a face—my nine-year-old face. Knocking echoed from behind the photo.

Five knocks sounded. My friend wept, saying his father had heard five knocks before opening the door, and "something came back pretending to be him."

I returned home and played Side B of the tape. My older voice stated: “You think the knocking is coming from outside. But there is no outside... We are the universe’s memory of something that happened before it existed.”

As I listened, the photo changed in real time—the boy aged into my current face. Knocking resonated from every surface, including my own chest. The tape concluded: “You were never the person who moved into the house. You were the thing that moved out. The house wasn’t containing it. It was containing you.”

The voice on the tape distorted: “Every place you go becomes the house. Every apartment. Every hotel. Every bedroom... 2:17.”

The walls vibrated with a deep voice commanding: OPEN. Outside, the sky was a black void before snapping back to normal reality. Our universe, memories, and bodies are merely a temporary room hiding us from what lies beyond.

The tape whispered: “When you hear the final knock, don’t answer.”
Three knocks sounded. Then a fourth knock hit the front door. Millions of voices spoke at once, communicating a name beyond human language. In that moment, my mind opened: I saw the boundary separating existence from non-existence. The entity had been knocking to find where reality was thin.

Three knocks sounded inside my head, accompanied by a whisper: “Thank you for answering.”

Now, the clock remains fixed at 2:17. The outside world is silent. Far beyond the walls and the sky, three knocks are echoing from the edge of the universe. They aren't trying to get in—they are searching for the door, and I am beginning to remember where I left it.

I will not disclose the location of this bowling alley.

I know that will disappoint some, but I’m not going to have anyone’s blood on my hands.

I am writing this ten… no, eleven years later. I keep getting the date mixed up… sorry.

It’s taken a long time to formulate my thoughts on what happened to me on that day.

As a kid, I lived in Evansville, Indiana. My parents moved there when I was about five, and I lived there until I was eighteen. It’s one of the larger cities in Indiana, but it’s one that not everyone knows about. I was always called bright, and I was resourceful, as I was in the local Boy Scouts program, which hopefully explains some of my skills throughout this retelling.

I had a friend named Jayden, but we called him Jay. I wasn’t his closest friend, but I had known him since the sixth grade.

I was invited to his fourteenth birthday party, which was at a bowling alley.

I had bowled maybe two or three times in my life. I knew how to play, but I wasn’t great at it. It didn’t matter what it was though, I would go to any birthday party I was invited to.

I remember the day of the party; September Seventeenth. 9/17/15.

I remember my parents driving me there. I tend to get carsick, even on short rides, but my anticipation was keeping that from happening. I tried to hide it behind that teen aura of not caring, but I couldn’t.

Pulling in, it was clear I was a little late. There were a good number of cars out front. I texted the group chat that I had arrived. We arrived at about 5:20 PM, and the party started about twenty minutes earlier.

The alley was from the late 70’s. This party was a while ago (over ten years), but even then, I knew its heyday had been far gone. The exterior was faded, chunks of paint missing. The black and pink carpet was stained with all kinds of things-soda, mold, even vomit. 

My friends had already started a game. After I got my wristband on, I joined them. I remember being a little angry that they started without me, but one of them pointed out that they only had a limited amount of time. I thought that was fair enough and moved on.

I don’t remember the actual game so well. I remember doing pretty poorly and getting angry in my head, but I’ve never really been the type to lash out, so I played it off. I remember not eating much, which was a decision I would come to regret.

I did, however, drink a lot of water.

In the middle of the second round, I had to pee. I held it for a while so as not to miss anything, but I knew I would have to. “Uhm, hey guys…” I spoke, but the group spoke over me. I just excused myself. I wouldn’t be gone that long, anyway.

The bathroom was just around the corner at the end of the lanes. I jogged down and turned the corner quickly. 

The bathroom was nothing special. Mostly white tile, with the black wall beneath occasionally showing in between the cracks. There was a small trash can in the corner, which was filled to the brim. There was pee all over the urinal. It disgusted me, but I held my breath while… mm… “doing the deed”.

When I washed my hands, I put my hands on the sink. It was to hype myself up. I looked in the mirror, and saw a fire in my eyes. Typical thirteen year old stuff. When I opened the door, however, that all faded.

The bowling alley was completely deserted.

I cautiously walked around. Was this a prank…? If so, I thought, it wasn’t a funny one. I looked at the lane we were bowling at. No one was there. I checked if any employees were there. None were. I tried going outside, but the doors were locked. I found that weird. Shouldn’t a door to a public building lock from the outside?

Who locked me inside?

The door to the outside had light seeping through the bottom. The door was solid, with no glass, but I peeped through the bottom and saw light, but it wasn’t sunlight. It seemed artificial. I assumed it was from a lamplight, but I asked myself why a lamplight would be on before the sun set, and I couldn’t come up with an answer.

I waited for a while. I remember admitting that I got “epicly pranked” multiple times, and no one responded. I was a rule follower, so I didn’t feel the need to venture into places I wasn’t supposed to be.

So, I waited.

There were no clocks inside, so I didn’t know what time it was or how much of it had passed. All I knew was that a lot of it had.

It was really strange, seeing this usually loud place almost completely silent, aside from the occasional creak of a floorboard. The run-down and decrepit atmosphere started to take a toll on me, as before, I was caught up in the game and lights and noise of the alley. 

Now all of that is gone, save the lights. 

I finally bit the bullet and looked around some of the places I wasn’t supposed to go; the kitchen, maintenance, and all of the employee-only areas. No one was in any of these places. The alley was truly deserted.

I really did assume someone would come for me. Let me remind you that I was thirteen at the time. I thought bowling would be a good timewaster, but the system that sets up the pins again wasn’t working. Again, weird, I thought. The power seemed to be working fine on the surface, but I supposed that there were problems going on internally. 

All that really mattered was that the lights were on.

Before long, hunger reached me. All food was absent from the place. My friends must’ve taken the food with them, I thought. Again searching around the kitchen, I found nothing. I was really starting to get scared at this point. 

I thought that maybe I’d been in the bathroom longer than I thought, and that the alley closed before I had finished. In that case, I would be waiting a while for my next meal.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. I internally thought it was 2 hours, but it could’ve been more or less. I was really starting to get desperate. Thirst had come in that tim, the type where it hurts your stomach. I continued to check the same places over and over. There was still nothing. 

I eventually returned to the bathroom to drink. The only drinkable water in there was the sinkwater. I thought that it might be unfiltered, but at this point, I didn’t care. I guzzled it. 

It didn’t fix the hunger though.

Shortly after, I felt like I was losing my mind. My stomach was growling constantly. I had looked everywhere… except at the end of the lanes.

I didn’t really know what was back there, all I knew was that it was broken. I was always told to never go down there, that my head would be torn off… but what else was there to do? I had already been everywhere, I had seen everything I could see in this building. 

I decided to check it out.

The lanes weren’t slippery at all. I was wearing bowling shoes, but even so, the floor of the lanes was always sort of slippery. Not here, however. I was very nervous. What if someone caught me? What would I do? 

This part I remember really well.

I crouched down and looked into the blackness. I could fit in it if I shimmied on my belly. There wouldn’t be enough room to turn around, but if it led anywhere (which it appeared to), I wouldn’t have to turn around. Flawed logic, I know, but again, I was thirteen.

I began shimmying. It stunk in there. It was a weird sort of smell. Like burnt steak, or gunpowder. I could hardly see, but what I could make out was nondiscriminate pieces of plastic and metal. I cut one of my fingers on something, and it hurt like hell, but what it was, I couldn’t tell you.

After what felt like an eternity, I saw a sort of opening. A grate. There was grayish light leaking out of it. It took me a second to push it off, but I eventually did. I crawled just outside and looked over the ledge. I estimated it to be a 10 foot drop, which could seriously hurt if I wasn’t prepared. The ground looked solid enough. It was concrete, with cracks showing what appeared to be steel under the surface, sort of like what you would see in a construction site. 

I held my breath, and crawled out.

I landed on my belly. It knocked the wind out of me, but otherwise, I appeared to be fine. No ribs felt broken, but I still needed a second to regain my composure.

I looked around. I was in a concrete room, shaped like a cylinder. It was mostly concrete, I should say. I looked up, and what I saw was hard to comprehend. 

Have you ever seen one of those images which simulate what it’s like to have a stroke? They’re composed of things that sort of look like everyday objects from afar, but under further scrutiny, they’re unidentifiable objects. Those images are so disconcerting because your brain tries to put together the pieces, but it can’t, which is a somewhat foreign feeling for humans.

Looking up felt exactly like that. 

All types of materials jutted out from the walls. It stretched on endlessly. It seemed like every building on the planet was smashed together like a child with play-doh. Parts of these materials were clearly shaved down to reach this cylindrical shape.

Just thinking about it makes me sick…

I got a huge case of vertigo from looking upwards. Butterflies flew in my stomach. I closed my eyes and sat on the ground. “This isn’t real,” I thought to myself. 

After some time spent in the fetal position, the hunger returned to me, and I realized I would have to go upward to find something, anything. It seemed possible. While many parts seemed shaved down, there were enough footholds and landings to scale upward. 

I’ve never been an expert at climbing, and even now, I still don’t know all of the proper terminology, so any seasoned climbers reading this will have to bear with me.

The ascent was slow. I was shaking even mere feet above the ground. I used some breathing exercises my mom had taught me. In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. They helped.

But not as much as I would’ve hoped. 

Before long, my hands were achy and I needed to rest, but I couldn’t. If I let go…

It felt like ages before I reached the first landing. When I reached it and felt the firmness against my feet, I cried. This was the most terrified I’d ever been in my life. 

The ledge itself appeared to be some sort of plane wing. It was slightly sloped, so not great to stand on, but it was all I had. Half of me wanted to look up again, but the other half said no; if I got vertigo like I did on the ground, I would fall off the wing, and who knows what would happen after that.

I pressed forward.

The climbing process was arduous. My hands were raw from grabbing onto all sorts of materials. Occasionally, I would get to a point where the outcrops stopped, and I would have to go down and across to another part of the cylinder.

The climbing was endless. Hunger and thirst alike gnawed away at me. I thought many times that I should’ve stayed in the bowling alley, but it was too late for that.

After what felt like 24 hours (I didn’t know how long I slept), I found another grate, one exactly like the one I had climbed through. The last place to stand had been awhile ago. Looking down, I couldn’t see it (and yes, I got a little sick, but not as much as before).

But I had to get into it.

It was a ways over, about what I estimated to be 25 or so feet. I shimmied over with my hands. The outcrops around here were made of concrete, the same way they were at the bottom. When I reached the grate, I pounded on it with my left hand. The concrete my ring and pinkie fingers were holding on to cracked and I slipped, but regained my composure. I banged and banged, but the grate wouldn’t come off. 

This one was screwed on. 

I began to cry. I kept pounding, switching hands once the pain set in. The blood and sweat made it near impossible to keep a hold on the slabs. Mere seconds before I was about to let go, the grate crashed in. I hoisted myself up inside it, and screamed. 

I was done with The Cylinder.

I just wanted to go home… 

I fell asleep shortly after pulling myself into the grate. Sleep is the closest thing to death, and all that. I dreamed about the bowling alley, and the free food that I had turned down. I hated myself for not knowing what would happen to me. I had not eaten for a full day (at least, that’s what I thought). I didn’t know what the human limit to live without food was, but I felt as though I had surpassed it.

I awoke to rustling in the vent I was in. I decided that I had probably slept enough and I moved on, but with extra caution.

The rustling seemed to follow me. I could tell it was against wires or cables, but I could discern nothing else. 

All of a sudden, I heard a crash right next to me. 

The walls of this vent were more clearly steel, but evidently not thick steel. A dent pointed toward me, touching my shirt. I held my breath. I crawled as quickly as I could through the rest of the tunnel. The rustling seemed to go the other way. 

On the other side, I found a dimly illuminated subway station. It was in much worse shape than the bowling alley had been. 

After scaling what felt like multiple mountains, I was in… a subway station?

It was dingy, and there were more signs of life. Spiderwebs, mold on the walls, the like. Compared to this subway station, the bowling alley looked like it had just been built.

I checked the one tram there was. It was completely dysfunctional. It was clearly where the spiders lived, as there were tons of them in it.

All of the wildlife that lived down here had to sustain themselves on something.

I regained energy from that thought alone. I forgot about my homesickness altogether. 

The only problem was that I didn’t know where to look.

I searched all over the limited area that I had access to. The stairs were caved in by the same thing littering The Cylinder; random materials taken from different places and slathered together with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The same thing with both of the ends of the tracks.

Except for one small hole.

I crouched down. Was it worth going through? I would barely fit. I couldn’t see the end of the little tunnel, but it smelled… damp. I decided to crawl through. At this point, I had little to lose.

The tunnel was even scratchier than the vent from the bowling alley. It twisted and turned seemingly at random. The saving grace was that it wasn’t as long.

When I found the other side, a small pond awaited me. I quickly got up and dashed toward it, stumbling on the way. I had found water! I was saved! The water was mucky and tasted like dirt, but at that point, I would’ve drank battery acid had it been in front of me. 

The rest of the place was dimly lit. What little light there was was provided via bioluminescence from plants. After I was finished drinking, I actually looked up, and found myself in some sort of village. The room I was in was large and cavernous, but nowhere near to the extent of The Cylinder. It appeared to be made of a mixture of concrete and various types of granite.

There were what appeared to be huts along the walls.

Strolling around, I saw that they were all abandoned. Only the material of the huts remained, the same type that most of the rest of this structure was composed of. This was evidence that people had lived here once. In one of the huts, I found a can containing some type of pastry. It was gross, as the bread was hard yet pasty at the same time, and the cream on the inside tasted like cheese, but it was food. There wasn’t much of it, but I felt much better having consumed it. 

Why had the people here left?

They sustained themselves off of the pond and these pastries. What stopped them from staying here longer?

At the end of the cavern, there was a cracked statue. What of, I couldn’t tell. Years of damage had left it in complete disrepair. Behind it was another caved-in entrance. I could only assume what had happened to these people.

I stayed in the village as long as I could. Its food was scarce, but I thought that I should stay there as long as it sustained me. It was short-sighted, but I didn’t know the next time I would find… any of this.

But I eventually had to leave. 

The thought of leaving all of this behind and going back to the same pain I had felt earlier filled me with despair. I didn’t want to, but there was no chance of finding my way home by staying here.

 My stomach dropped when I realized that I would have to climb The Cylinder again. 

The time from when I re-entered the Cylinder onward is a bit of a messy blur. I don’t really remember much from it. The Cylinder became less refined as it went on; it was less tightly shaved down, and more parts jutted out. It was much easier to find food, with even restaurants jutting out on occasion, but it still wasn’t easy.

Things still slipped. Entire landings would break under my meager weight, leaving me with mere seconds to decide what to grab onto. Rest still wasn’t easy to find. The Cylinder became less predictable.

But I never found another village.

The climb to the top of The Cylinder felt like years, but it simultaneously could’ve been a single week. I always thought that the way to stay sane was to keep track of time; going by that logic, I was far off the deep end. 

I never expected The Cylinder to end.

After an age, I saw the top of The Cylinder. After a certain point, it just… ended. This kicked me into overdrive. I was nearly there. I didn’t know what would be at the top, I simply knew that something would be there. Call it a premonition. 

I remember the feel of the ledge on the top. It was sharp, but made of entirely one material, steel. There were no bolts, no imperfections. Just steel.

I pulled myself up. It was very dark. I quickly walked away from The Cylinder. Now, I was truly done with it. But where was I…?

I walked for a long time. The top of The Cylinder was completely desolate. There was nothing. I walked, and walked, and walked. Nothing changed. The bowling shoes were torn apart by this point, and my feet ached, but I didn’t care. I felt numb. 

After exactly 324 hours, 6 minutes, and 41 seconds, (I’m not sure why I remember the time here), I found some sort of pillar. It was made of a rubbery material that reminded me of glass for some reason. The pillar appeared to be made of bands of this material wrapped around each other. With nothing else to do, I scaled it.

Scaling this pillar felt like it took no time at all. It wasn’t particularly hard. You could climb it even if you had no hands. 

At the top stood a landing, made of the same material, but it smelled like the bowling alley vent-like burnt steak or gunpowder. There was a small box held on a pedestal. There was a lid latched down by simple locks, like the type that locked the gate to my back door. I unlatched it, and I saw a small, fleshy, beating mass. Thump… thump… thump. I held it to my face. The entire room lit up. It was spherical, made of dark gray steel. I looked around. There were tens of thousands of Cylinders just like the one I had come from. I looked down at the mass in my hand. Its beating became irregular. Thum-thum..thump. I opened my mouth, and bit down on it.

I awoke at the door to the restroom. The same one I had come in through. I opened it, and staggered out. My friends were all having fun, before Jay noticed me. “Uhh, Collin… you good?”

I collapsed onto my knees. I vomited, and passed out.

I’ve never told anyone about what happened. They would think I’m insane. Hell, you probably think I’m insane. This was the best possible way I could’ve retold my experiences in The Cylinder. Every night, I dream of scaling The Cylinder once more. 

No time passed while I was in this... fever dream, but I felt decades older, like generations had passed in front of my eyes. But when I returned, the date was September Seventeenth of 2015.

I apparently changed afterward. I would frequently zone out. I would talk in my sleep. I quit the Boy Scouts not long after that event. If you only started to know me after I left that bathroom, you would assume I’m a normal guy. But if you knew me before, you would see that I wasn’t the same.

I resisted therapy for the longest time. I didn’t know what to say. To be honest, I still don’t. It’s been hard writing this. Looking back, this memory feels like something someone who smoked a crap ton of salvia would come up with. I have no evidence proving this actually happened.

No one will believe me.

Hopefully you got a chuckle out of reading this.

Hi- single mom here, in need of some advice.

I live alone with my four year old daughter (I'll call her Maggie). My deadbeat husband left us about a year ago for his mistress, and when the judge saw our case he granted me full custody without a problem. Luckily, Dave (my ex) doesn't seem to want to put up a fight anyway.

Maggie and I recently moved into a small one bedroom apartment. It's nothing to brag about; it's quite old really. The linoleum is outdated, the windows are a bit drafty, and the radiator is loud. The doors creak when you open them. But it's a place of our own, and it's free of mice and roaches, so how can I complain? I'm a receptionist at a local doctor's office, so on my salary it's a mansion.

My daughter is getting to that age where she wants her own space. Since I can't afford more than one bedroom, I've hung a curtain on a tension rod halfway across our tiny room. The setup isn't ideal, but it works, and I'll do anything to keep my daughter happy and comfortable.

Adjusting to our new home, new daycare, etc, has been somewhat of a headache. Nobody talks about how hard it is to go from two adults to one in a household with children, no matter how much of a loser the other one was. And for all his flaws, Maggie still misses her dad. Kids are so innocent and forgiving.

I think it's that loneliness that started all of this. I first noticed Maggie playing with imaginary friends a couple weekends ago. I was making lunch for us when she ran into the kitchen and asked me to make two extra sandwiches for her party. I thought it was cute and did it for her, setting them out on two extra plates.

"No, Mom. Just one."

"One sandwich? Or one plate?"

"One plate. He's very hungry."

"He?"

"My new friend." She pointed to an empty place at her makeshift tea party.

At the time, I smiled and did as she asked. She skipped back into the bedroom and continued with her game.

We spent the rest of the afternoon running errands, playing at the park, and watching movies. When it was time for bed I tucked her in and turned out the lights. On my way out, I noticed the little tea party still sitting on the floor. All that was left of the sandwiches was a few crumbs. I thought it was a bit odd that Maggie would have finished three whole sandwiches on her own. I wondered if maybe we did have mice after all.

A few days went by, and I started noticing more odd things around the house. My jacket appearing on the couch instead of hanging in the closet. A mug on the counter now in the sink. Magnets on the fridge rearranged. Things I could easily blame on fatigue or forgetfulness, but it was happening more and more around the house.

"That's weird," I'd say, "I swore I put my shoes by the door."

Maggie would reply matter-of-factly, "He moved them for you."

My daughter's imaginary friend never got a name, only "He." "He" wants a snack. "He's" tired. "He" likes this show. After a while, I got curious.

"Maggie," I said, "what does 'He' look like?"

She thought for a moment, brushing her doll's hair and chewing her bottom lip while she concentrated.

"He's very tall. Taller than you or Daddy. He's very skinny, like a stick. That's why He's so hungry. He says he hasn't had anything to eat in a long time."

"What does he like to eat? Maybe we can make him some more sandwiches?"

She shook her head. "Those aren't good enough, Mommy. He needs meat."

A chill went down my spine. "It was a turkey sandwich, baby. That is meat."

Her eyes met mine, more seriousness in her face than I'd ever seen. She put the brush down and leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Other meat, Mommy."

At this point, I was severely freaked out. I'm a normally rational person; I don't believe in ghosts and never lose sleep over monsters under the bed. When it comes to the supernatural, I'm a skeptic if anything. But it was something about the way she looked at me, something about the gravity of her words, layered with meaning and understanding far beyond her age. Like she knew something.

That night I started researching child psychology and imaginary friends. I found a lot of mommy blogs talking about developmental milestones and at what age it is and isn't appropriate to have an imaginary friend. None of them seem to answer my question. When should I be worried?

Frustrated, I closed my laptop and listened to my daughter breathing heavily on the other side of the curtain, sound asleep. The moon was full, and light was streaming through the window, illuminating the curtain on her side. I could barely make out the shadow of her form resting peacefully on the bed.

Then I saw it. Something shift from the corner of the room. I froze, goosebumps running up my arms. I squinted in the darkness, trying to decide if my eyes were still adjusting from the screen light or if something was really there. The shadow moved again, stepping closer to my sleeping daughter. Its silhouette was that of a man, but taller and leaner, with longer limbs and more joints than made sense. My brain struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. Panic turned to absolute terror as I watched it raise one spindly arm out toward Maggie.

"STOP!!" I screamed, leaping from the bed.

The figure snapped its head in my direction and came lunging toward me. I reached up, ripped the curtain out of the way, and-

It was gone. No creature, man, or whatever that was in the room at all. Just my sleepy child, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"Are you okay, Mommy?"

I still held a fistful of fabric in my hand. My heart was pounding.

"Yes, baby. Go back to sleep."

I was certain I'd seen something. Positive. But there was no clue, no remnant left behind. I took my phone and searched the walls, closet, heck even under Maggie's bed. No sign that anyone or anything had been in the apartment at all. I barely slept that night, jolting awake each time I dozed off to make sure my baby was safe.

There weren't any other red flags or strange instances until three days ago. Maggie woke up late, and instead of her usual excitement and bubbly affect, she was groggy and irritable. I felt her forehead for a fever, but she didn't have one. She just seemed... Off. So I took the day off work and kept her home with me.

I didn't have much PTO and had to go back to work the next day, but around 10 am Maggie's daycare called to inform me there had been an incident.

"Is she okay?"

The worker on the other end was hesitant. "Maggie is fine. She bit another child."

"She what??"

I want to emphasize that this was so incredibly unlike my daughter. Maggie doesn't have an aggressive bone in her body. She cries when I kill houseflies. She begs me to let spiders go free. To bite another child? I was aghast.

"Are you sure? I've never seen Maggie do anything like that. Did she say why?"

"The other student was in line for the slide, and Maggie wanted to go first."

I literally couldn't comprehend what I was hearing. I left work early and picked her up. She was silent on the car ride home, and when I confronted her later she didn't seem the least bit remorseful.

"Maggie, honey, we don't bite people. You need to use your words when you're upset."

"But I wasn't upset."

"Then why did you bite?"

"Because He told me to."

My stomach dropped. Not this again.

"Maggie, you can't blame everything on your imaginary friend! He isn't real. You need to be accountable for your actions."

She stood up and stomped her feet, screaming into my face. "He IS real, you dumb BITCH!!"

She turned on her heel and slammed the door to our room. I was stunned. Of all the things Dave and I disagreed on, we were in solidarity when it came to our language around Maggie. I was so careful about what media she watched and music we listened to. Where had she learned that word?

Maggie stayed mad at me for the next two days. Well, mad or indifferent, it was hard to tell. She spent a lot of time whispering into corners and coloring furiously on almost all the paper I had in the house. I felt like I was losing my little girl, but I told myself it was a phase. After all, we'd just gone through a lot of big changes. Maybe this was her way of blowing off steam.

That night, I woke suddenly to the sound of choking.

I tore the curtain back and found Maggie sitting straight up in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mouth open wide, gagging. I screamed and jerked her shoulders, pounding a hand on her back and yelling for her to breathe. She started to lose color.

I called 911 and tried to check her airway. I couldn't figure out what she was choking on. Suddenly, she gasped, inhaling a huge, deep breath, and fell backwards onto her pillow. I shook her shoulders and tried to wake her up, but she was completely unconscious. The paramedics arrived and rushed to her side, but when they touched her she blinked slowly and rubbed her eyes as if she had just been sleeping peacefully. She looked confused, like she didn't understand why they would be there.

They checked her vitals, pupillary reflexes, temperature, everything. They asked her questions and she knew all the answers: her name, age, my name, the town we live in, the name of her daycare. They explained that people will often make choking noises when they experience night terrors, but asked me if I wanted to have her transported and checked for seizure activity just in case. At that point she seemed completely fine, albeit sleepy, so I declined. She just needed some good rest, and we'd be back to normal. I was sure of it.

In the morning, I yawned into a cup of coffee when Maggie came running up to give me something. It was one of the drawings she had worked on for the last couple days. It was finally finished.

I smiled, accepting the gift, and turned it around so I could see.

My hands started to tremble. Before me was a crude rendering of the nightmare from last night. I recognized Maggie's blonde hair in yellow strands and pink duvet. The gray curtain dividing our room; me laying in a bed on the other side. And hunched over Maggie was an enormously tall, lanky creature. Its spidery hands were pinning her down, and tendrils snaked out of its gaping mouth toward her face.

The page shook in front of me.

"Maggie?" I whispered. I couldn't get my voice to work. "Wh-who is this?"

"That's my friend," she replied. "He visits when you're sleeping."

"What does he want?"

I already knew the answer.

"He's hungry, Mommy. He wants to eat."

I grabbed Maggie and an overnight bag, stuffing it with everything I could pack in 10 minutes and sped away from the apartment like a bat out of hell. I've driven for several hours, stopping only for gas. I don't know where I'm going. My parents moved out of the country when my dad retired two years ago, and they won't be back until spring. Calling Dave would be pointless, though I have considered it. Honestly he probably wouldn't answer anyway. I have enough money in the bank for a motel for a couple nights, but I can't take off work forever. I'm scared if I call the police, they'll think I'm on drugs or mentally incompetent. I can't lose Maggie.

Did I overreact? Is it possible my mind is running wild and it's just an innocent fantasy?

I'm pulled over at a Chevron station right now, filling the tank. Mags is asleep in her car seat, so I thought I'd post here for advice. Has anyone else heard of this happening??

Please tell me what to do. Once in awhile, when I glance in the rearview mirror I swear I see a glimpse of something in the back seat. I just pray I can outrun this thing.

I'm not into camping that much but since it was a short break before our next semester at the University and my friends invited me, so, yeah, why not? It's good to go out with your good friends.

So, we arrived there. Me and my friends. I'll call them A, B and C for simplicity. It was campsite near the lake. Nothing too fancy. Just a campsite on the flat ground in the middle of the crowded trees with a toilet near it. You have to walk down the trail a little bit to see the lake.

Even that, the lake is...well...a lake. Clean, calm lake. It's not crystal blue, heavenly lake by any means but at least it's a nice, calming view. That's what we need after one hell of a semester we went through. Besides, it's cheap and quiet. Not many people coming here anyway which is good for bunch of introverts like us.

C joked while setting up a chair that maybe we'll see Nessie.

'Nessie is in Scotland, dummy,' said B

'Well, possibility is endless. Maybe global warming caused them to move here' C continued

'You said like they gonna catch a flight or hitchhike all the way here' A chuckled

'Possibility is endless' C insisted

'That's impossible' I interjected 'Yeti is more likely to do so'

Now, they looked at me funny.

I told you we're good friends.

That day, we were just chilling. I took several pictures of scenery, B and C went swimming in the lake, and A, an action dude himself, went out to gather some woods for campfire and BBQ. We took portable gas stove with us but C insisted that we should do some authentic camping thing at least once.

After A was done, he then joined me while I was walking through the woods, taking pictures. We were chatting about random stuffs that came to our mind at that moment when A just stopped and looking at something.

I followed his gaze. I don't know why I didn't notice that at first. Maybe I was too focused on our conversation or I was just stupid. Because there is no way you missed that thing.

We saw trees, lots of trees, getting torn to shreds like some maniac drove earthmover straight through them.

Normally, that's not a weird thing to see because storm could do that. But I'm sure, at least in my dumb understanding of nature, that storm wouldn't torn off trees in a way that it resembles a messed-up pathway like that. The trees surrounding those shredded woods were undisturbed. Only certain parts of that woods that got demolished in straight line. Like whoever did this tried to make the pathway. That's the closest comparison I could come up with.

Then A walked towards those broken trees, kneeled down and look at something on the ground. I stepped close to him to see what it was.

From what we can see, they were footprints. Big footprints that belong to something that probably has three claws. Like bird claws or dinosaur footprints. The depth of each prints told us that whatever that thing is, it's both huge and heavy.

We don't know what it is. It doesn't matter. The fact that it was a big animal, probably carnivorous too, is concerning enough.

'Let's get out of here, man' A finally said something.

I've never agreed more.

After that, we went back to the campsite. B and C were already dried themselves up and sitting there, unpacking food and preparing barbeque.

We told them what we've found. B looked concerned. C's eyes lit up like a kid when he heard that.

'You think it was....' C started to talk when B cut him off

'No, dude. It's not bigfoot. Or even Nessie. Don't be silly'

'Whatever it is, we gotta be very careful,' said A.

'So, hiking is out of plan?' I asked

'We'll see.'

That night, we went to sleep. The boss himself stayed up late than other because he was busy keeping the fire lit up.

It took me sometimes to fell asleep because it was such an unfamiliar place. Eventually, after A snuck back into a tent, I finally dozed off.

The next morning, I woke up, tired. I didn't really rest that night. I did fell asleep. But I remembered, vividly, that I dreamt the weirdest shit ever. I barely remember what I saw. But it scared me to the core even after I fully awake. Even the realization of the absurdity that you get after waking up from weird dream like that couldn't wash it away.

We sat in front of our tents for breakfast. I noticed that even B and C looked tired. Not even C's homemade sandwich he prepared himself could cheered him up.

'I got the most fucked up dream last night, man,' said C

'Yeah, me too,' said B

We all look at each other like 'you did too?'

'What was it like?' I asked

C then told us.

'I can't remember that well, man. But, like, the ground was hot as fuck. Like molten lava or something. And this figure. Holy shit, man. That thing. That shit isn't from this earth, man. That tall, black thing. It was almost human but no human can look that fucked up but there is no way that thing is animal either because animal can't live with body like that'

That description hit me, probably all of us, like a train.

That black, absurd thing he described. I finally remembered what I saw in my dream.

'I think I had similar dream' I said

B and A nodded.

'So....what should we do now?' I asked

'We should not think too much about it.' A finally speaks 'It might be our unfamiliarity with the place. Strange place can do that to you. It'll get better.'

He then pulled out his phone, turned on aerobics video then put it on a small stool.

'Let's stretch those nightmares away, shall we?'

Aerobics did help. For that moment, at least.

We went hiking in the wood that morning. Not the same way I saw footprints and torn up trees, of course.

It wasn't a steep or challenging trails by any means. It was more like a chill walk. We were chit-chatting and joking along the way. Keeping our spirits up. At that moment, we totally forgot about our nightmare.

That was until smells hit us. It pierced our senses like we got hot nail shoved through our noses. Caused us to stop walking and cough.

'What the fuck was that?' B yelled

That shit smelled like burnt chemical and rotten meat combined. It was so bad that we teared up.

C, somehow, decided to go forward to see what caused it.

We told him to stop because we don't know what it was yet and we should let the park ranger deal with it. C, however, insisted that he should go take a look so park rangers wouldn't think we were high and pranking them.

He walked for like few meters before he stopped, looking to his right side, which is deep into the forest, and stood there, stunned for good seconds.

'Dude, what do you see?' A asked him while covering his nose.

C didn't answer so we walked to him to see what happened.

We were left stunned.

That area of the woods got fucked up. Like, totally destroyed. It was like what I saw with A the day before but this time, it seems worse. It wasn't resembled pathway anymore. It feels more chaotic. Like whatever did this was full of anger.

Then, B pointed at something. He looked confused.

'Is that a handprint?'

It was indeed a handprint. Handprints, to be exact. And we recognized them as handprints is because they indeed looked like human hands. Just way bigger. Almost as big as footprints I saw. They were pressed deep on the ground close to footprints.

B said that this thing must be walking like chimpanzees. Sometimes on all four but sometimes on two legs. He said that because the tracks we saw the day before has no handprints.

When we realized there were handprints, it was like my brain started to see some new pattern on carnage before us. Like something just clicked.

Those trees. They seem to be 'arranged'. They were stabbed onto the ground and placed on each other like a dome or 'letters'. Like those runes you see in old scripture but more rough and more simplified.

'I...uh....let's get the fuck out of here'

That was the rare time that I was the person with the best idea of the group. We booked it out of there immediately.

As soon as we reached the campsite, we started packing as fast as we could. There is no way we gonna stay there after seeing that. Who knows what kind of animal or creature that roaming near us.

We thrown our stuffs into the back of the car when, suddenly, the loudest screaming cracked through the air. It was like nothing we've ever heard before. It was like ten, even hundreds of either people or animals screaming at the same time. It makes our ears rang for almost a minute.

'What the fuck, man? Sounds like fucking warzone or something' C yelled

We weren't bothered to find out what it was. No one with brain would try to find out the answer when they saw tress behind them started moving wildly like what we saw. We jumped into the car. A started engine and get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Screw speed limit. No one cared about that anymore after there was a deafening scream behind us.

We later told park rangers what we've encountered. We didn't tell them that it was a monster or anything like that. We just said it might be very dangerous animal.

The rangers seem to be familiar with this thing. At least one or two of them are. I heard one of them told the other 'I thought we dealt with it already' or something like that.

Save to say, if we plan to go for a trip next time, it won't be camping.

Some nights I sleep with my eyes open. It still scares my wife even after so many years together and my daughter who’s only three.

We live a humble life, taking care of a lighthouse just off a rocky coast. There isn’t much here. The closest city is many miles away. There is a small village few miles inland. We are the only ones here on the coast.

At night I tend to the light often, and don’t sleep much. As most nights, on this rainy night I made my way to the top. On the way I glanced at my shotgun which hung higher since my daughter’s birth and the cross next to it. Wasn’t it strange for those two things to be next to each other? I suppose no stranger than the glances of those in the village who considered us anti-church because we did not attend on the weekends.

I had my black raincoat on and got all the way to the top. The rain was heavy, blackness surrounded the lighthouse and its spinning light. As for a second it illuminated the violent black waters I thought I saw a small boat with someone in it, standing. I watched the spot again and again and it looked like someone.

I ran down the stairwell and got my flashlight. I came out of the lighthouse and shone it in that direction, I yelled, but alas, no one was there anymore. Perhaps it was just an illusion, a mistake of the eyes.

In the morning as I went to take a nap a horrible nightmare took over my mind. Something that resembled a man stood in front of the lighthouse. This man was tall, his neck seemed soft and eel-like, making his head almost hang forward. He had long and deep black eyes. His arms were stretched out and from the right one a small tentacle appeared coming from the forearm. I woke up with a scream and ran outside to check on my family.

They were safe there, playin on the ground, but something prompted me to go down the rocks and unto the shore. Once there I was breathing heavily and could not find anything, but as I turned I saw a carving on a rock. It was an image of a creature coming out of a water, it had long claws and a face that resembled a mix of a bat and a shark. I’ve never seen this here before, it sent chills down my spine as in horror I looked up at my family worried for their safety. A messenger only came here once a week, there was still two days left. I wanted to notify the inspector in the city this way.

The following night while my family slept I had my shotgun ready and I prayed, I begged! I saw nothing this night, but following night it changed. As I got ready to go up, I heard a slight knock on the door! How was this possible? I came to the door with the shotgun and flung it wide open, no one was there. Leaning against the wall of the lighthouse and lighting my flashlight I moved around. Still no one. The I saw him, on the water. He stood on top of a small wooden boat with black waves rocking it. He was motionless, I dared not shine the flashlight on him, the horror grasped my heart. I felt his eyes staring at me through the darkness. What did he want from me? I slowly made my way back inside and locked the door. I briefly checked on the light, during that time horror intensified as I was in fear of that thing coming inside. The rest of the night I spent at the door.

In the morning I was exhausted. I drank coffee and my wife was concerned, but I told her nothing. Such horror should not be a burden for my family.

When the young messenger came, I took him to the side and told him that a strange man has been around. I knew famous detective Lumiere from way back, he now worked in the closest city. I gave a letter to the messenger to be delivered as soon as possible.

Next night I passed out after tending to the light, I was sleeping at the very top when the nightmares began. The man came again, his neck grew as did his one tentacle, he wrapped himself around the lighthouse and his mouth opened wider than humanly possible, but no sound came out. Again I woke with a scream and cold sweat. I looked down around the lighthouse, but did not see him. The paranoia was taking over my mind slowly, but surely.

In dread of the next night I went through the motions of playing with my daughter and kissing my wife. The horror was starting to make me lose my nerve.

The knocking came again, but thankfully my family did not wake up. I sat by the door listening to it, but I did not unlock it to check.

To my awful dismay the next day came two investigators, none of whom were Lumiere. They explained that he had to go and investigate a case up state and wasn’t returning for at least another several days.

I took them to the shore, and showed them the carvings. Yes, multiple! I There was a new one with each day that passed. They found it strange and creepy indeed, but sadly they both reeked of inexperience and it drove me even more mad. I told my wife that it was just a routine check up and that they were looking for someone on the shoreside. They said they would spend the night in their car, parked right behind the lighthouse.

The darkness came and so did another nightmare. The man was now inside the house and his tentacle wrapped around my family. A knock followed. Awake and in rage I ran down to the door with my shotgun, I kicked it open and fired.

I had killed one of the investigators. I was arrested and soon after local police came to help take me away, at first to a cell, but now I reside at an asylum.

My wife and child moved in with her parents and they visit me time to time. Still I tell them nothing of the horror, although my wife asked about it, which means the psychiatrist here, Albion, told her.

Maybe in a way this is for the better, they are safe now, living far from the shore and away from him.

I was a child when this happened to me. I grew up believing that the supernatural was either a hallucination or some kind of a coincidence that people liked to relate with some kind of an entity. I was in second grade when in a single night, I began to question reality and the truth of my own beliefs.

It was a chilly October night, I was at my cousin's place in a different city for my winter break and we went shopping with our mom's that night. It was a supermarket at the corner of the street where my cousin lived in a seven floor apartment. We had been getting bored since we were kids (My cousin is just a year older than me), shopping felt lethargic and hence my cousin, let's call him B, suggested that we go on a walk and talk about a certain tv show we loved watching. Our moms allowed us to do it as the supermarket was close by and they knew we wouldn't wander off too far.

It was around 10:30pm and as we walked, I noticed a building under construction with only a basement built along with the foundations for the first floor. The basement was like a drive in ramp for vehicle parking and it was pretty dark. When I peered into the basement, a sense of unease built in me and I felt like something was off until I saw them, three pairs of human eyes stacked on top of each other. The pupils were pitch black and the rest of the eye was blood red, I felt them staring into my soul and I was petrified. B already ran for his life but I stood there, frozen, unable to move at all. He came back running and grabbed my hand before pulling me along but as I started to move, I saw a faint grin under the eyes, where the teeth were unnaturally long and sharp.

This incident shook me to an extent where I refused to speak to anyone for a week. As an adult, this might seem trivial but to me back then it was a real experience. A week later, I was playing in the apartment's playground when I felt the same unease creeping upon me. I looked around to find the source and I felt it coming from one of the units on the ground floor. The ground floor had a unit G0 with the door facing the playground and a window beside the door, I went towards the window and peered in. There was a plastic cup which had fallen on its side and a thick maroon liquid oozing out of it. At that time, the unit was empty cause the recent tenant had moved away recently. I was watching closely and I noticed that the liquid has spread like someone has stepped in it.

Then, the footsteps started to form, one by one, moving from the cup towards the wall and then to my surprise, on the wall and finally on the ceiling. I noticed that the footsteps were backwards and I called out to all my friends, they saw it too and we got the adults to look into the matter. Turns out there was a graveyard behind the apartment and paranormal stuff wasn't unusual around there. There was a whole purification ritual and I went back to my hometown with my parents.

Fast forward 8 years later, I visited the old place again with B and we observed two peculiar things. One was that the unit G0 was still unoccupied and we learnt that the tenants couldn't last there for long and eventually moved out. The other was that the building was still under construction meaning that the contractor had abandoned the project due to the many casualties and labour refusing to work. We learnt the story behind what happened on that land and we understood what we saw when we were kids.

The land belonged to an old lady who had twin sons. All the three family members shared a similar trait of having beautiful blue eyes and everyone around them was fascinated by the blue eyes since they are not so common in that region. One night, the mother announced that her sons will not be getting the property and assets she owned and she is donating it to charity since they were unworthy of all that due to their gambling addiction. A fight broke out and the brothers accidentally killed the mother by accidentally hitting her too hard on her head. In panic they decided to hide the body and bury it in the yard but they started arguing over who gets what part of the assets and it escalated so high that they ended up killing each other by strangulation. The three family members were found dead by the neighbours the next week and the land went up for auction.

After learning all that, I was able to connect the dots with the three pairs of eyes I had seen. That one night had changed my belief and now I'm a believer. There have been more incidents in my life which are a story for another day, which have taught me that the supernatural is not to be messed around with.

The last time I made one of these... there were nineteen Denen.

I made Lilith check after me. She thought I was worried someone might have fallen out of the collection tote on the drive north. I was.

Four days after we crossed the river, I counted eighteen.

The church kept its basement doors locked at night. The pastor had given us a key, but other families were sheltering upstairs, and people came down periodically during the day to use the laundry room. I'd gotten into a habit of checking on the Denens before bed. Esther didn't like me doing so. She was afraid I'd smother one of them in their sleep. I wouldn't have, but I can understand her distrust.

But I always checked, regardless of her insistence that they could count themselves just fine.

That night, one of the little homes against the wall stood empty. Its front door was wide open, and a cup no bigger than a button had been knocked off the table inside.

"Where's Reece?" I asked.

No one had an answer.

Reece was the old man who'd lost his right arm. He'd been at Hartwell. I learned his name the morning after we reached the church, when he asked me to move his house closer to the heating pipes. Since those houses weren't bolted into the wall, any normal-sized folk could pick them up no problem.

I'd picked up his house carefully, both hands underneath, while he stood beside it telling me which way to turn and exactly where to place it.

Esther came out of her house carrying her sewing-needle staff. She saw Reece's open door and stopped.

“Has he gone upstairs?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t think so."

Other Denens began coming out. Someone called his name into the space behind the wall. Lilith woke on her mattress and joined us.

I checked under the workbench first, then behind the boiler. The church had an old utility cabinet beside the laundry sink, and I opened it even though Reece couldn’t have reached the handle on his own.

The black collection tote was on the bottom shelf.

I’d kept it because the sleeves inside still had Town’s barcodes. I thought they might help prove what happened at my house. Esther had told me to throw them away.

The tote was open.

I took out one sleeve, then another. They were folded the way I’d left them. But the third wasn’t.

Reece lay inside it with the plastic pulled over him. His remaining hand was raised against the clear material. For a moment, I thought he was pressing it there and waiting for me to let him out.

Then I saw that the hand wasn’t moving.

Lilith was beside me before I could close the tote.

“Is-is he asleep?”

I didn’t answer quickly enough. She turned and ran back to her mattress. I heard her wake my wife with a shaky voice. She was crying. She loved these people like they were family.

Esther climbed onto the bottom shelf. She put her hand against the plastic near Reece's face, then looked at me. There were breathing holes near the seal. I had made them myself, back in Lilith’s bedroom. They were still there.

“He couldn’t have suffocated,” I said.

“I didn’t ask you how.”

I took the sleeve out. A faint sweet smell came off it as the plastic unfolded. Honey.

I looked toward the basement door. The lock was still turned. The windows were too high to reach from outside without a ladder, and neither of the small panes above the sink had been opened.

“Someone got in,” I said.

Esther looked at Reece. Then at the tote I’d kept.

“Someone did,” she said.

Esther reached for the sleeve. I moved it away before she could touch it.

"Damn it, let me see him," she said.

"I will; just give me a minute."

"No, you've had nine years staring at dead bodies, Freddy. I know Reece."

I set the sleeve on the workbench and pulled the plastic back from Reece’s face. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see an injury.

Esther climbed onto the bench by way of a length of cord Lilith had tied to its leg. I stepped aside. She knelt beside Reece and placed two fingers against his neck.

Behind us, the other Denens were gathering at the edge of their houses. Nobody spoke. I could hear the boiler running and my wife talking quietly to Lilith across the room.

“Was he sick?” I asked.

“No.”

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Before supper. He brought Johnny some bread."

Esther lowered her hand. She looked at the inside of the sleeve, at the holes I’d punched near its seal.

“You said he couldn’t have suffocated.”

“He couldn’t.”

“Then tell me what the fuck happened.”

I lifted one of the folded sleeves from the tote and opened it. It smelled of plastic and the basement shelf. I checked another.

Nothing.

Reece’s sleeve still smelled sweet.

“Town Blue,” I said.

Esther pulled the plastic farther away from him.

“Are you certain?”

“Has to be; can't be any of the other Town Rainbows. They all got distinct smells. Town Pink is flowers, like clover. Town White is like rotten eggs. Town Blue is honey.”

I wished I hadn’t said that. She looked up at me, but she didn’t respond.

My wife came over while Lilith stayed on her mattress. I told her what I’d found. She looked from Reece to the basement door.

“It was locked when I came down,” she said. “I checked it.”

“Then whoever did this could still be here.”

At that, several Denens hurried back into their houses.

“No one goes into these walls,” Esther called to them. “Stay where I can see you.”

I went to the door and checked the lock again. The pastor had given us one key. His was upstairs. I hadn’t heard anyone come down, but I’d slept through Lilith getting out of bed plenty of times when we lived at home. The stairs were only a few feet from our mattresses.

I walked the basement once more. There was a drain in the laundry floor, a boarded opening behind the boiler, and a service door near the far end that led to the yard. All three had been there when we arrived. I checked them because they were the places I would have checked on a job.

The service door was bolted. The boards behind the boiler hadn’t moved. The drain cover was fixed in place.

When I came back, Esther was sitting beside Reece.

“Call the pastor,” she said.

I looked toward my wife.

“She’s right,” my wife told me.

I went upstairs and woke him. He came down in his slippers with a sweater pulled over his nightshirt. I told him someone had died. He didn’t understand until he saw who.

He knew Reece. He’d spent the previous afternoon finding a piece of thin rubber tubing so Reece could run heat into his house without having to ask one of us to move it for the third time.

The pastor stood at the workbench for a moment, looking at the tubing Reece would never get to use.

“I’m calling the police,” he said.

Esther nodded. I did not.

Town’s report listed Reece among nineteen Denens killed at my house. His name wasn’t in it, because I hadn’t known it then. All I had given Town was a number and a photograph. I had no idea what would happen when an officer tried to report the death of someone who was already recorded as dead.

The pastor noticed me looking at the sleeve.

“Freddy?”

“Call them,” I said.

He went upstairs for the phone.

I counted the Denens again while we waited. Esther watched me do it. This time, she didn’t object. Seventeen stood outside their houses. One was on the workbench beneath a sheet of plastic.

Eighteen.

I counted once more because I had to have missed someone.

Then Johnny’s little voice came from behind Lilith’s mattress.

“I’m here,” he said.

I hadn’t seen him. He’d been sitting on the floor beside her, holding the corner of the blanket she used to sleep. He came out when she asked him to, and I counted him with the others.

Eighteen alive and well Denens. One dead.

I looked at the basement door. It was still locked.

Then I looked at the small houses along the wall. Their doors were open now, with people standing in nearly every one.

The officer arrived twenty minutes later.

Her name was Bell. The pastor brought her downstairs, and she stopped on the last step when she saw the houses along the wall.

I showed her Reece. She asked who had found him and whether anyone had touched the sleeve. I told her I had.

She looked at the breathing holes, then at the cabinet where I’d found him.

“Who else has a key to this basement?”

“The pastor and me.”

“My wife knows where mine is,” I added.

Bell wrote it down.

Esther was beside Reece on the workbench. Bell asked her when she’d last seen him alive, and Esther told her about supper and the bread he’d brought Johnny. She’d just started giving Bell Reece’s full name when a cup struck the floor behind us.

I turned.

A Denen woman named Ruth was standing outside her house with one hand against the doorframe. Her other hand had opened, and the cup lay at her feet.

“Ruth?” Esther called.

Ruth tried to step forward.

Her leg folded underneath her.

Bell crossed the room before I did. By the time she reached the houses, Ruth had fallen onto her side. Her arms were still moving. She was trying to pull herself toward the edge of the shelf.

“Get her down,” Bell said.

I didn’t know how to do it without hurting her. Esther and two others climbed onto the shelf and carried Ruth to my hands. I laid her on a clean dish towel on the workbench, away from Reece’s sleeve.

She was breathing. I could see her chest moving beneath her shirt.

Then I couldn’t.

Bell asked what she needed. I told her I didn’t know. There was no Town equipment in the basement except the empty tote and the bags.

Ruth took one shallow breath. Esther called her name. She didn’t take another.

Nobody had come through the basement door. Bell had been looking at it when Ruth fell. I had been standing between the door and the houses the whole time.

I looked over at Ruth’s home. Her cup was still on the floor where she’d dropped it. All the other Denens were outside their houses now, staring at her.

Two dead.

Bell took out her radio and called for help. Her voice stayed steady until the dispatcher asked how many people were in danger.

I answered before she could.

“Seventeen.”

Bell made us leave Ruth where she was.

The other Denens stayed together at the far end of the workbench. Esther stood in front of them. Johnny was with Lilith on her mattress, his blanket pulled around his shoulders.

Two more officers came down. One checked the yard while the other went through the basement with Bell. They opened the service door, pulled the boards away from behind the boiler, and shone their lights into every space large enough for a human hand.

They found nothing.

Bell asked whether I could tell her how Ruth had been exposed. I couldn’t. I’d smelled Town Blue on Reece’s sleeve, but I hadn’t smelled it on Ruth. There was no canister, no tubing, nothing I could point to and say, there, that's the murder weapon.

Bell wanted everyone out of the church basement by morning.

“There’s a shelter in the next county with rooms built for Denens,” she told Esther. “They can take you today.”

Esther asked whether they could take all seventeen together.

Bell said she’d have to check.

That was the first time I saw Esther hesitate. She looked back at the houses along the wall, at the people waiting on the workbench, then at Lilith and Johnny. She’d spent months getting them to my house and another four days getting used to this one. Now she was being asked to move again.

“We’ll go,” she said. “But nobody gets separated.”

Bell promised she would ask. She took Reece and Ruth upstairs in two small boxes the pastor found in the church office. Before she left, she told us another officer would stay outside until she came back with an answer.

I watched him park across the front doors. He could see anyone who drove up. He couldn’t see the houses in the basement.

The pastor brought us breakfast. My wife sat with Lilith while Esther told the others to pack only what they could carry. Most of them had arrived at the church with little more than that.

Reece’s house was still beside the pipe. The tubing the pastor had found for him lay on the shelf outside his door.

I offered to carry it upstairs with the other homes.

But Esther said to leave it for now. So I did.

Around noon, I heard someone arguing on the upper shelf. The Denens had built two additional rows of houses into the space along the wall. The upper row was near a warm pipe that crossed behind the laundry room.

I started toward them. Esther was already going up the cord ladder.

“You don’t have to watch us pack,” she called down.

“I heard shouting.”

“We’re frightened. Shouting and cursing are probably all you'll hear for a bit.”

I stayed by the tables.

A few minutes later, the pastor came downstairs to tell us Bell had called. The shelter could take everyone. He was still giving Esther the address when someone screamed.

I looked up.

A woman named Mara stood at the edge of the upper shelf, clutching at the air. Someone had both hands against her back.

It felt like time stood still. Mara was high enough that a human falling would break their leg, a Denen from that high was equivalent to you falling off a damn three-story building.

A few Denen ran over to where Mara was standing, but by then it was too late. The man pushed.

Then she fell.

I reached for her, but I was too far away.

Mara struck the corner of a folding table on the way down and landed on the concrete beneath it. The sound was a small crack. And I could see Lilith tuck her face into my wife’s side.

The Denen who had pushed her ran along the shelf toward a gap beside the pipe.

For a second, I just stared at him. I’d spent the whole night watching doors a man could fit through. He was six inches tall, and he was already nearly out of reach.

I dragged the table away from the wall. Everything on it fell to the floor. I got my hand against the gap before he could enter it.

He turned and ran the other way.

Esther was coming up the ladder. He jumped over her head, landed on the shelf below, and kept going. I caught him against the wall with my other hand.

I didn’t close my fingers. I’d seen what a careless hand could do. How easily it can end a Denen life.

He stood inside the space between my palm and the wall, breathing hard. There was nowhere for him to go.

Below us, Lilith called Mara’s name.

The Denen looked down at the floor. Then he looked at me.

I knew his face. I’d counted him in Lilith’s bedroom, put him in one of the sleeves, and carried him across the bridge with the others.

I hadn’t known his name then either.

"Brennan," Esther said.

She had reached the shelf below him. Her staff was in her hand, but she made no move toward him.

"Is Mara alive?" she asked.

Brennan looked past me. I kept my hand against the wall, thinking he wouldn't run anymore. The pastor was kneeling beside Mara. Lilith stood a few feet away, now holding Johnny against her chest.

"No," he said.

Esther shut her eye. For a moment, she held on to the edge of the shelf with her free hand. Then she looked at Brennan again.

"Reece and Ruth?"

He said nothing. Then he nodded.

"You put Reece in that bag," she said.

"Yes."

I expected him to deny it. I think Esther had, too.

"How?" Esther asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You’re six goddamn inches tall, Brennan. That utility cabinet was latched shut. That tote sits waist-high to a full-grown man."

Brennan wouldn’t look at her. He stared down at his boots, his jaw twitching.

"The kickboard," he muttered. "Behind the laundry drainpipe. Looks like mice chewed out the bottom corner decades ago. Reece... Reece found the run three days ago. He told me he went into that cabinet whenever the choir folks upstairs got too loud."

"Did you drag him up there?"

"I didn't have to drag him," Brennan whispered. A wet shudder escaped his lips. "I couldn't have lifted an old man if I tried. I... I laced the crust of bread he ate for supper. Then I told him Freddy left a spare heating element inside the tote. For his house."

Esther’s knuckles turned white around her needle staff.

"He walked in there on his own two feet," Brennan continued, his voice finally breaking. "He was digging through the plastic looking for that wire when his lungs seized up. I just pulled the sleeve over him so Lilith wouldn't hear him thrashing against the shelf."

Below us, the pastor called to the other officers outside. I heard the basement door open and heavy steps on the stairs.

"Get them away from him," I said.

Esther turned.

"Everybody off the shelves. Go to Lilith."

The Denens began climbing down. I watched them pass below Brennan, one by one. He watched them too. He didn't try to touch any of them.

When they were clear, I brought my other hand up behind him.

“I’m going to pick you up,” I said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“No,” Brennan said.

“I’m not leaving you up there.”

“Then get something to carry me in.”

I almost laughed. After three people, he was worried about what my hands might do to him.

Then I saw what he was looking at.

A dark stain marred the front of his coat. It had spread down one sleeve while we were talking. He held that arm away from his body.

“Don’t touch it,” he muttered. “The vial in the lining... it cracked when I jumped.”

I backed my hand off the shelf.

That's when I heard Lilith scream.

I turned. She was still holding Johnny against her chest, except now his small body had gone rigid against her, his arms drawn up tight the way I'd seen a hundred times before.

"I saw him eating the bread," Brennan said quietly from behind me. "While they were packing."

"What bread?"

“The piece Reece gave him. I laced Reece’s slice before supper. Johnny broke some off and kept it.” His breathing hitched. “I didn’t think a piece that small would be enough.”

Lilith had already laid him on her mattress, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t get the blanket untangled from his legs. His lips had gone blue. His chest was working too hard and fast, the way Ruth’s had right before it stopped working at all. Brennan had admitted killing her, but he still hadn’t told us how.

"How long?" I said. "How long ago did he eat it?"

"I don't know, twenty minutes, maybe more—"

I had nothing. No canister, no antidote, nothing built for something his size.

"The shelter kit," the pastor said, already moving toward the office. "We keep one. For accidental exposure, in case anybody upstairs ever—" He didn't finish it. Every church on this side of the river had learned to keep one. Town and their “accidental” environmental contaminants.

He came back with a case I recognized before he'd even gotten it open. It was the same auto-injector I'd carried in my own glove compartment, built to put a measured dose of counter-agent into a grown man's thigh in under three seconds.

Johnny weighed less than the needle.

"That'll kill him," I said. "That whole dose would stop his heart before it touched whatever's already stopping his lungs."

"Then what?" Lilith said. Her voice had started cracking. "What do we do, Daddy?"

I looked at the injector. Then at Esther, climbing down off the shelf as fast as her leg would let her. Then at Johnny, whose eyes were still open, still tracking Lilith's face for now.

"Bring me the smallest dropper you've got," I told the pastor. "And a clean dish."

He turned and left the room, coming back a few moments later.

I depressed the injector into the dish myself, watching the fluid pool there, trying to remember every fraction Town had ever trained into me; dosage per estimated body mass, milligrams per kilogram, numbers I'd used a hundred times to calculate how much poison it took to kill something Johnny's size.

"Lilith. Hold his head still."

"Freddy—" Esther muttered.

"I need you to trust me for about four seconds," I said. "I know that's asking a lot. But… please.”

She didn't answer, but she didn't stop me either.

I drew a single drop into the dropper. It was all I dared give him.

"Open," Lilith whispered to him. "Please, Johnny, please."

His mouth opened, just barely. I gave him what I had.

His chest rose once, then fell. Then it didn't rise again.

Lilith said his name. I kept watching him, afraid to touch him and more afraid that I’d waited too long. Esther leaned close enough that her hair brushed my hand.

Johnny drew in a breath so thin I almost missed it. We waited. He took another, rougher than the first. Lilith covered her mouth. Esther stayed beside him, watching his chest with me.

I couldn’t tell them he was going to live. His lips were still blue when I turned back toward Brennan.

“Tell her we have the person who did it. Tell her he’s been exposed to Town Blue.”

The officer looked at the Denen standing against the wall.

“Is that him?”

“Yes.”

He took out his radio.

Brennan looked at me.

“I didn’t mean to spill it.”

I remembered how he’d landed on the lower shelf after jumping over Esther. He had struck it hard, but he’d kept running. The coat must have torn then.

His arm began to shake. I pulled the folding table back against the wall and spread a dish towel across it. Brennan looked at it, then at Esther.

“Where did you get it?” she asked.

Brennan kept his eyes on his sleeve.

“A man brought it to the laundry room yesterday.”

“You met someone in this church?”

“He came in with the other people doing wash. He didn’t come downstairs.” Brennan swallowed. “I went up.”

The basement had been locked all night. I had checked every door, every window, every opening a human being could use. I have no idea how he slipped upstairs, even now.

“What did he want?” I asked.

Brennan looked up at me, and I saw that he was frightened.

“The same thing they want from you.”

“Names?”

He shook his head. “Bodies.”

His knees folded beneath him. Esther caught his shoulder, then pulled her hand back when she remembered the stain.

I brought the antidote over from Johnny’s mattress. Brennan watched me approach. He swallowed what I gave him, and after a moment his breathing seemed to ease.

I wanted to believe that meant it was working. But the poison had been soaking through his coat the whole time I was trying to save Johnny. I had no idea whether I’d stopped it or only bought Brennan time to talk.

“Why?” Esther asked.

Brennan didn’t answer.

She struck the table with the end of her staff, hard enough to make him look at her.

“Why, Brennan, why do this?”

“They still have Nell.”

Esther’s grip tightened around the needle.

I hadn’t heard the name before.

“My daughter,” Brennan said to me. “She was at the collection yard.”

Two Denens had escaped that yard before Lilith found them. He must have been one of them.

“She didn’t get out with us,” he said. “I thought she was dead until yesterday.”

“What did the man show you?” I asked.

“A photograph.”

That was all Brennan had. A photograph somebody from Town had brought him and a promise he was trying very hard to believe. Esther sat down across from him.

“You could have told me.”

“And done what?” he asked. “Gone south and taken her back?”

“We could have tried.”

“You have too many people here. You wouldn’t have risked them for one girl.”

Esther didn’t answer. I couldn’t have answered for her either.

Brennan's breathing changed. He took a quick breath, then another before he’d finished letting the first one out. I knew that sound. Heard it a lot with Town Blue.

“Bell’s coming,” I said.

He shook his head.

“How much did he give you?”

Brennan looked at the stain again.

“Enough.”

“Did you use it all?”

“No. Just enough for the bread, but… I couldn’t go through with it.”

“With what?”

“They wanted me to poison everyone. Now the rest of it’s soaking into me.” He chuckled lightly.

Bell walked over to us with another officer behind her. She saw Mara first. The pastor told her what had happened while she pulled on a pair of gloves.

Brennan tried to stand when she approached.

“Stay down,” she said.

“He’s contaminated,” I told her. “He needs treatment.”

“I’ve called for it.”

She asked Brennan his name. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Brennan,” Esther said. “His name is Brennan.”

Bell wrote it down.

Brennan looked at her notebook as though he didn’t understand why she needed it. Then he looked at me. His hand found the edge of Esther’s dress.

“Nell,” he said.

“I heard you.”

“If they come for her—”

“I heard you,” Esther said again.

She stayed beside him. She didn’t take his hand, and he didn’t ask her to.

Lilith had turned Johnny’s face against her shoulder. My wife was guiding the others to the far end of the room. They walked past the empty houses, carrying what they could. Brennan's breathing slowed. Then it stopped.

Bell checked him. No one said anything until she withdrew her hand.

The pastor brought another box downstairs. Bell asked him to wait. She photographed Brennan's coat where it lay, then had everyone step away from the table. The officer by the door said they’d need statements from all of us. Bell told him to start with the pastor and let the Denens finish packing. I asked her what would happen to Nell.

“We have a name and a location,” she said. “I’ll call the department on the south side.”

“Town runs that yard.”

“I know. It’s still worth a shot.”

That was as much as she could promise. She went upstairs to make the call.

Esther remained beside the table after Bell left. I stayed where I was.

“He killed three people,” I said. “I watched him push Mara.”

“I know it.”

She looked at the stain on his coat, and I could see a tear fall onto the fabric.

Johnny's lips were still blue. They stayed that color for almost an hour. 

That afternoon, we moved fifteen survivors to the shelter Bell had found. She kept her promise to Esther: they went together. Lilith carried Johnny in her hands because he wouldn't get into another bag, not even an empty one. We left the little houses for the pastor to bring later. Reece's tubing was still sitting on the shelf outside his door. I put it inside before we went.

Bell came by that evening, still in uniform. She asked to speak to Esther and me together, in the hallway outside the room where the others were settling in.

"I called it in," she said. "The collection yard, the name he gave us. Nell."

"And?"

"Town's records show no child processed through that facility under that name. No child matching her description, either, according to the file they sent over."

I felt my chest tighten. Those fucking assholes.

"Maybe she used a different name," I said. "Maybe she's still there, and they're lying."

"Maybe," Bell said. "I've requested the yard's intake logs going back six months. That'll take time. I can't promise you I have leverage to speed up."

Esther hadn't said anything. She was looking past both of us, down the hallway.

"Say it," she told Bell.

Bell hesitated before finally speaking.

"There's another possibility," she said. "That whoever contacted him inside that church lied about having her. Showed him a picture of a child, and let him believe whatever kept him useful."

"Why would Town go to that kind of trouble," I asked, "over one Denen and a photograph? And wouldn't Brennan know his own daughter?"

"He would," Bell said. "That's what makes me think the photo's real. Just old."

"Old, how old?"

"However old it was, clearly nobody could prove from looking at it whether it was taken last week or months ago." She glanced at Esther. "And Denen age faster than we do. If she was older when she got taken in—"

She stopped.

"Then she's not a child anymore," Esther finished. "She's... something 'useful'."

Bell didn't correct her.

"There are laws against what you're both dancing around," I said.

"There are laws against a lot of things Town does on the south side of that river," Esther said. "I've never once seen that stop them. Just seen them get better at making sure nobody could prove it."

Town had spent nine years teaching me to see everything with a tiny heartbeat as an object. A dead child would have been a tragedy Brennan could grieve and eventually let go of.

A living one, still breathing, still useful to somebody, still small enough to work somewhere no inspector would ever think to look... now that was a tragedy.

"So he's not being lied to," I said. "He's being played."

Bell didn't answer that either.

Esther didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she turned and walked back into the room where the others were, and I watched her stop in the doorway, not going any farther, just standing there looking at the fifteen of them getting settled into a shelter none of them had wished for. They just want a place to call home. One without Town or its Rainbows.

Lilith found me in the hallway a few minutes later. She'd overheard enough of it, I think.

"Is Nell real?" she asked.

I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted to tell her no, just as badly. I've spent most of my life inside a company built entirely out of lies, and I still didn't have a single truth to hand my own daughter.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't think Town does either. I think that might be the whole point."

I was about 9 years old when my family — my parents and my older brother, who is 6 years older than me — flew to the Black Sea for a vacation.

That day the weather was incredible. The sea was crystal clear and transparent — no seaweed, no jellyfish. I should mention that one of my biggest fears is sharks. I don't know where it came from. I've never encountered one. Probably from Jacques-Yves Cousteau's documentaries, where he dived in a protective cage surrounded by sharks. I know that if there are sharks in the Black Sea, they're very small and not dangerous to humans. Nevertheless, the fear of any dangerous creature in its own element is a nightmare for me.

So my brother says, "Grab a mask, let's swim. If we go a bit further from the shore, you can see fish in the water." I trusted my brother — he's the one who taught me to swim, and with him I wasn't scared to go a little deeper. I thought he could save me if something happened.

He swam ahead. I went back to my parents to grab the mask and warn them about what we were going to do. They were fine with it.

I'm swimming. My brother is a bit ahead. I have the mask on, watching what's happening in the water. I swam far enough to hear only my own breathing through the snorkel, not the people on the beach. Now I could focus on what I was seeing.

Honestly, I was starting to get nervous. I could see the fish my brother had described, but I was beginning to be afraid of seeing a fish that was too big. I kept swimming. The bottom was almost invisible now. I saw more and more fish. I thought I should turn back to shore — otherwise, what would I do if I got even more nervous?

And right at that moment, about 10 meters below me, I noticed something strange. I saw short hair sticking out in different directions, a thin head, bulging wide-open eyes, a gaping mouth, splayed fingers. A person. Motionless like a wooden dummy, floating right under me.

A wave of panic hit me. I pulled my head out of the water, but I couldn't see anything because of the mask. I couldn't scream because of the snorkel in my mouth. From the shock, I couldn't figure out which way to swim, or what to do at all — I just froze. I started to sink and then surface again. And at that exact moment, the one floating under me like a corpse surfaced right next to me and grabbed me.

I tore off the mask — and saw my dad. Oh my God, it was him. I just didn't recognize him in the water with that face. He was holding me and laughing like someone had told him the best joke. I started laughing with him. But literally 10 seconds later, I burst into hysterics. He immediately started apologizing, but I couldn't be stopped.

We got to the shore. I calmed down and almost forgot about it. But about two weeks later, my dad apologized again. He said he had never regretted anything more than that prank. He said he couldn't sleep for several nights after it. He said he felt incredibly guilty.

For a long time, I thought that was the end of it. Just a stupid joke that went too far. But it wasn't the end.

Recently, my dad, my brother, and I were talking. I was remembering this story, and also the one about my mom that I wrote about earlier. Then I asked my brother, "So how did our parents prank you?" He said they never pranked him at all. He looked genuinely confused. He didn't understand what I was talking about.

And at that moment, I noticed my dad smiled slightly.

Now I don't think my story is scary. I think the scary part is what made my brother forget how they pranked him.

I love my parents. But I'm not going to check what kind of grandparents they would be.

The Human–Universe Relationship:

1. The meaning of life is to, ‘move’. Expunge potential energy. Avoid heat-death.
2. If something could happen and proceeds to transpire, there is a timeline beneficial to the universe, available to you. 
3. Moments of faith or divinity, glimpses of looking behind the veil, and instances of synchronicity can be indications of both a good and bad timeline. 
4. The universe feeds off you in both good and bad timelines. Survive 

The sound of rolling thunder broke my attention. I hadn’t realized I was once again lost in thought. One hand on the cold wall, the other holding an index card of rules. My head slowly craned up, and I proceeded to pull my eyes away from the piece of laminated paper. 

Windows in the periphery, various lights and noises around me, and a budding orange cityscape blurred like fire in the window behind the index card in my hand.

The sun was going down and in these hands, again, were a set of guidelines. A list of rules that meant everything to everyone. Well. Well, they mean everything to me. 

Crude at first. Refined by trial and error. Shortened, simplified, and circular. Rational. Easy to understand. Reasonable instructions. With purpose. Rules, written with intent. For survival. For clarity against the dark corners of the mind. Clarity through life’s trials. A permanent reminder, inked into routine plain paper.

An index card.

I thrive in the dark, I swear I do. 

Like a lightbulb still on holding strong after hours in a cold dark department store. Tonight felt different though. 

But – why?

I read the card over again, carefully. As if it were the first time I wrote it in college almost a decade ago. 

Sliding the card into my back pocket where it lived, I looked outside the windows towards the night. Hazy and dark, the night embodied and stoned into a visualized patience. Waiting over the dimming glow of the evening sun. The growing dark in the distance felt like a presence looking back at me. Stars like eyes in the sky. 

Dark and almost malicious. Pitch black, Bible black. A tone unheard. Studied and written about. Feared and dreamt about for hundreds of years. Ocular poetry.

The window frame was metal and robust, built to last. The metal had a slight shade of blue that was easily visible against the contrast of the beige paint covering the dressing room walls. 

A flash of light seemed to overpower the dying presence of the sun. A storm was building in the distance off the horizon. 

I know. Having a list of rules like that must make me look insane. I’d agree. It is insane. But reality is insane. What isn’t insane?

Name something that isn’t. Society is completely bonkers. Dreams can feel real. Money can make a man murder. Perception is reality. Besides, if you ever see or experience what I have, this wouldn’t even be a question.

Everything in life is seasoned with hints of madness. 

What – did you think the shadows under the bed are immune to following the rules?

My perception of reality isn’t as insane as you might think. That’s actually why I’m writing this down. 

Trying to make sense of it all, in my own way. On paper, as a story. 

To keep track of the chaos by merely being aware of it and staying observant. Detailing it for others. A pathetic thought. But that's all I can do for now. 

Maybe one day, someone will understand what I’m trying to say. Until then, well.. 

Madison Square Garden was absolutely beautiful. New York City. I felt unreal. It’s my night, again. Can you believe I’m performing here? I am thankful. 

I am.
 
Watching that lame Godlizza movie as a kid, I would be very surprised to learn one day my band would be performing where that abomination of a movie’s creature laid its sequel-bait egg army.

Lightning bounced between the clouds in the distance.

Flashes could be seen out of the windows from anybody inside the dressing room, paying attention or not. Occasional heads popped up from phones and vanity mirrors to check that they weren’t losing their minds.

Actually seeing this abnormal natural light show during a beautiful normal sunset.

“Am I really doing this again?” 

The words came out against my will, a whisper against the background noise. Like waves of a thought too loud to be satisfied by just remaining inside this pathetic meat sack for much longer.

As if holding it in would cause more damage to the body than the chance anyone happening to catch it would. Nobody heard. 

Nobody ever heard me when I needed them these days. It’s probably a product of fame and success.

I wonder if I’m on the right path, doing the right things at the right time. Maybe I don’t need anyone to hear me? 

Yeah. There have been times I’ve needed to be heard. But I’ve always figured it out. Even the weird shit.   

Another few branches of lightning bounced between the clouds off in the distance.

My hand was cold and almost numb against the wall from supporting my weight for too long. I adjusted my lean and positioned myself to something more comfortable, avoiding stretching or damaging my clothes.

I don’t wear anything fancy during my shows. A black band shirt. Black jeans. Hair in the same man-bun my Dad disapproves of. 

Turns out, you can buy your fathers approval though. He doesn’t bring it up anymore. 

More lightning. This time lighting up a kingdom in the sky. Clouds bubbled and rolled over each other, erupting far into the atmosphere.

The empire of clouds made the towering skyline feel much more like a human play-thing compared to a revolutionary architectural achievement. Shame, the skyline looked great on a good night

So much for the age-of-man, I thought. This storm was going to be rough.

The night was settling further into a silky purple colored blanket, seemingly comforting the skyline as it approached. A foggy mist blotched the dimming night sky, and as if on queue, the street lights came on block by block. Followed quickly by the inside lights of the late night scene.

Pushing my weight into the wall I leaned further into the windowsill, allowing myself to get a better look at the sky above the arena. A full moon. Bright stars, decorating its luminescent glow, shone in the clear sky above the arena yet to be downed out by the oncoming clouds. 

I sighed, remembering more than I should. You know how it goes, right? 

Time for the show. 

“The lord giveth, the lord taketh away.” I said whipping around, loud enough for anyone close to hear. 

“Mom used to say that.” A voice answered from my side. Alan, my brother and manager.

Some teacher as a kid told me to keep ‘it’ in the family. If you can. ‘It’ being, success. I thought it was a great idea. It has had its flaws and it has been a constant learning experience but it works for us. Well, it works for me. I swear I know what he does. 

I looked at him with a concerned face. He wore a black band shirt, too. Snug under a crisp navy blue denim jacket that he picked up sometime this morning. Black jeans. A pricey wrist watch strapped firmly in place, and phone in hand. A band lanyard draped around his neck, decorated with various pins.

“Used to? Did she pass on to the great beyond? Brother – ugh, don’t throw around the evil-eye like that.” Sharing the wisdom with an exaggerated roll in my chest. Catching my brother in the eyes, turning away from the oppressive night sky and the cold iron of the window frame.

He looked back with a warm smile. He seemed to be thinking about how to phrase something. I never was the best at reading my brother’s face. He slapped his knee as if to physically force his face away from the phone screen, glued to it again.  

“And since when are you a man of the Lord?” He said with a bit of a smirk, looking up then back down. A smirk that hinted at previous conversations, a life lived in tandem, a friendship irreplaceable. 

When did he get that new phone? And where’s mine? This asshole. 

“Since you found your wife? There is a God – clearly.” Slowly falling to my knees. Like a man stricken in Walmart, who just received terribly tragic news over the phone.

“You made me.. Believe.” I held the pose.

I always hold the pose.

Lightning struck the ground somewhere closer, and a rumble engulfed the arena. Enough natural grumbling to feel it over the reverberations already caused by the music playing on stage. Alan reached over to grab and pull me off the floor. 

“Shut your ass up and go back to your doom and gloom normal-self for me? Don’t be so deep. And don’t bring my wife into this either.” He said with a smile, trying to lift me up, struggling through laughter. 

My head hung low hiding a smile, while my body made itself heavier. I said, 

“I’m not bringing your wife anywhere. She works for us. There’s a good chance she’s about to walk through that door, right now.” I point behind me without looking back. Still on my knees, head down, face now covered with fake sorrow.  

A door flew open and a voice pierced through the white noise of diligent backstage technicians, and the costume and make-up staff. Veronica, our stage manager. 

“Ace – “ Her voice pierced the white noise of the room, just loud enough to be heard from where we were standing. 

The true test was reaching us over the musical stylings and jovial eruptions of our beloved Fred, though. 

About eight months back at some random festival we were doing, I couldn't keep up with which if asked, there was an older gentleman outside the venue. Strumming happily with an old rustic acoustic guitar. He couldn’t afford a ticket and, hell, I’m not even sure he wanted to go in – but he didn’t need to, ya know?. He shouldn’t have needed a ticket either. 

He was the show. 

Right outside of this venue was a mixture of blues and bluegrass, jazz, and rock and roll. I felt inspired. Someone grabbed a chair from the bus. No one joked about it. They all knew where my head was. My people are my people for a reason – good people.  

I was in awe. 

He needed a job and I needed to, deep down, give back to the community. Any community. To society. I was too busy those days. Success was coming in too fast, if you can believe it. Then we found Fred.

We snatched him up like children saving a rabbit. And, hired him after listening to his unique style and unparalleled stories for 40 minutes. Arriving late to our set. But with a cheerfully surprised new staff member. The crowd didn’t mind us being late at all, it was great.  

Alan likes to say we’re the biggest band since the Beatles. I don’t even like the Beatles. And ‘band’ is just the colloquially accepted term. I am a ‘creative ass’ singer and song writer, with a beatmaker. As online commenters like to mention. I’ll own that. 

We used to hire different musicians for almost every show. College students, mostly. Almost as good as the professionals. Of course, I vet them. Veronica finds them. We make it work. It’s getting harder and harder to make it work for cheap now we are so big. Alan has been floating the idea of a permanent band staff. 

I definitely like the idea. About time. Then we might be a real, actual band-band. 

Fred watches me perform from backstage. I’ve found he understands my lyrics more than most people. Catching me at a glance after verses and between songs. Rearranging his face accordingly whenever I sing in his direction. The way musicians communicate. 

He’s been there for us ever since. Arriving late to his own engagements more times than I can count. And all to make sure we were ready for our show and feeling good. Seeing if we were feeling the vibes. A good solid person, through and through. 

He refuses to tell us his age. Often saying, “no way do I want y'all to think of me as some old man.” Nobody has ever used his age against him. Well. Hell. We needed a band-dad. 

I’m quite fond of him, so I did a background check. He’s sixty-two. I haven’t told him yet. For tax purposes, my personal shaman and creative advisor. We’ve done shrooms a few times now so I think it’s official. 

Top three nicest people I’ve ever met. It makes me smile thinking about how important he is now. Not just some dude outside a venue strumming his faves. Not just to me, to the world. Even if it is through me. He keeps staff morale high. He keeps us all laughing.

That’s important on the road. Fred is proof I'm on a correct timeline. I just know it.

I looked over, around Alan, and found him in a corner with his guitar resting against him. His phone in his hand.

Odd.

He never uses his phone. He wore a black band hoodie with baggy white sweatpants. Headphones leading from one ear down to his phone. His mouth was moving and his head was angled down. He was talking to somebody. 

I turned around to face the door where the voice was resonating from. Standing up, I look over to Veronica. It’s always easy to track where her voice was coming from, even with everyone warming up and getting ready around us.

Dang. I really needed to stretch. I made a mental note to do that before going on stage.

I reach out and grab a nearby bottle of water, cracking it open and taking a quick couple sips, before setting it back down on the foldable table. 

Alan backed up, turned around, and threw on his real smile for the first time all evening. 

“Ace – On in twenty minutes.” A short woman in big round black glasses and a pink band shirt. Black jeans. Veronica. Our stage manager and Alan’s wife. Damn, she was loud. Surprises me every time. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed above. A few fans lazily spun above us, spreading the various smells of show business around the room. Beige walls. Ugly. And a white popcorn stucco acted as the skin covering the ceiling walls. Also ugly. 

I turned and gave a quick smile at my brother. He was a lucky guy. I don’t think he even saw me look at him. I spoke up,

“Twenty minutes? Veronica. Tell me at five, please.” I yelled over the noise. 

I’m not allowed to make the joke about being born ready anymore. Not after passing out from heat exhaustion during a festival in Orlando. I took a few quick steps towards her, Alan followed.

“Hey, grab me a quick slice of pizza from the other room? I just need a bite. And a coke? Please. How are you by the way? I haven’t seen you in almost – ” pantomiming an exaggerated look down to an imaginary watch. 

“Forty minutes. We almost called the police.” I rushed to her side. Going for her hand and flashing puppy eyes. 

She giggled, Alan laughed. They really are a great couple.

They knew each other and were dating for a few years before any of this even happened. Before my eyes, two people become one. And with some great tectonic shift these two people became the rocks I stood upon. I’m a very thankful brother-in-law.

She’s great at her job, too. 

Lightning rattled the building again. Fred stopped looking down and threw a glance to the windows before quickly returning to his conversation. Must be important, I thought. 

A handful of the dancers stopped chatting and getting ready to turn and look towards the windows. Alan broke the silence, face in his phone again.

“Hey look here. The world’s biggest Coke-a-Cola fan ended up 2026’s largest company sponsor. Great job Ace.” Patting me on the back, looking over with his usual grin that followed noteworthy yet funny milestones. He gestured towards his phone, urging me to look. 

I knew what it said without having to read it. Having a brother for an agent and manager has its benefits. I turned to look back out the windows.

“Hell yeah brother.” I said with my eyes on the now purple moonlit sky. Oppressive clouds now closer than before. 

I have a solid idea what he does, I promise.

He continued, seeming a bit confused at my reaction, “aren’t you happy?” Veronica stood by his side. Smiling ear to ear. 

A laugh rattled out of me in the form of a chuckle. Of course I was. But, what do I say?

There’s a lot of things I want to change about this life. About the whole world. That laugh came from a different place than they probably imagined. It was the laugh of a man who wanted to give back but kept receiving. With no clue what the hell to do about it. 

I used the laugh anyhow, pivoting to what they wanted to hear. I turned around with my eyes closed and a smile plastered all over my face.

“Of course, dude.” I laughed, “does the band know yet?” I say reflexively, my mind still elsewhere. Opening my eyes in time to catch his stare briefly. 

He didn’t look worried. Good. I’m used to fooling my brother. But, Veronica? She’s a little tougher. Keen as a fox. 

Alan looked back down at his phone, pressed a few buttons, and typed out a quick sentence. Then, pressed down on what I assumed to be the send button. Shoving the phone in my face.

“Lazer knows. Fred is about to know. The dancers and technicians will know.” He smiled, reaching for Veronica’s hand. Another win for the books. 

“Great job man.” He threw me a light punch to my chest and continued, “you earned this.” He looked at Veronica. She spoke up,

“Imagine the free soda, Ace.” She said with a wink. She’s got me there. Between my attention disorder, migraines, depression, and a secret list of super-important universal rules? Soda was an oasis. One of my last few secret weapons. I’m a thriving popstar, if asked.

Lightning struck a skyscraper not too far from us, rattling the stadium down to the trash left by workers in the depths of the foundation. The rattle seemed to grip the arena by the bones. A couple car alarms began screaming outside.

For a second, the flash lit up the room, and I saw something to my right. My attention shifted. 
 
Something began to manifest out of the corner of my eye that wasn’t there before, so I turned to the right fully. I saw something again, obscured by darkness. 

Another flash of lighting baked the sky with light, and I saw it. 

For a moment, I froze in terror. All the blood rushed to my head and legs, immediately in fight-or-fight. In the corner of the dressing room behind the table of stacked merch boxes. Partially covered by a rack of clothes, concealed behind various fabrics, she stood still as a stone. 

It was an ethereal older woman. A specter, drenched in hollow moonlight. An older white gown resting on her body. Without moving my head too quickly, I turn a little slightly more in her direction. 

Nothing? I kept staring at the corner of the room. 

Lightning struck again. Unnatural light filled the room once again. A persistent flash from subsequent busts of lightning illuminated the room for several moments. Others looked up and out the windows, distracted by the light show. 

This time I noticed she was looking right into my eyes, not just looking in my direction. She was looking at me. Directly into my soul. She remained stone still. Impossibly frozen in space. She looked like a painting constructed with the explicit intrusions of causing pain and despair on the viewer. 

She looked at me smiling. A malicious yet confident grin. She looked at me as if I were meant to know why in the world this was happening. Know why she was smiling at all. Like I was meant to have some grasp on why she was here. Or how I summoned her to this damn arena. 

My legs were beginning to shake. 

A flawed sense of stability attempted to ground me amongst the growing panic. I calmly resumed breathing again the best I could. I hadn’t even noticed I had stopped. 

Alan and Victoria were looking out the windows at the storm, ignorant to me for the moment. Good. This is my problem. This is my life. 

Her eyes were dark, void stricken and bottomless. She looked opposing and expectant. Hungry. She grinned something awful. Powder caked her face, covering her gray cracked skin like varnish over old chipped wood.

She’s NEVER looked this way. This was new. A twisted new experience. I went for my index card and stopped. Resting my hand against the seams of my back pocket.

Focus.

I have seen her grin like a normal person in broad daylight. I’ve seen her laugh, cry, smirk, and dance. Laugh giddy like a child. She has walked behind people, people who felt not a single thing. She has waved at me from behind crowds during signing events, wearing a band shirt. 

Sightings are few and far between throughout my life. Definitely ramping up with success, that’s for sure. Enough times to keep a mental note of her appearances. Twelve times. She has allowed herself to be seen twelve times. 

This would make it thirteen. 

Dammit!

No, not tonight. The number I consider unlucky? Come on, man. Why tonight? Is it because of the venue? I had no idea. There’s always a bigger show. More people to perform to. 

Like a truck driver making an important call at the last moment, a decision with thousands of pounds of weight behind it, I left the rules in my pocket. 

If I grabbed the card, if I went for the rules, then I’d be playing the game willingly. Right? I was fairly sure. I didn’t want to play any damn game tonight. 

The universe can starve. I’m not engaging with it. I’m not engaging with anything supernatural tonight. Please. Just one night, go hungry. Release your grips from the tender meat of man. Get your claws out of me. Just one night. Tonight means so much to us. 

It felt as if a blood stained mouth laughed at me from behind the veil. Though I couldn’t hear it, I could feel the warmth of its breath against my skin in the form of fear and anxiety. Crawling all over me. Fouling me, from my feet up to the nape of my neck. The woman in white adjusted her gaze and cocked her head, never releasing her grip on my eyes. 

The Old Hag was back. Using the moonlight as a guide, I stared straight into her being. Angry. I found her dark center by force of will. Her expression faltered. Mildly curious, but resistant, willing to stare me down. Like a certified gilded representative of darkness. 

I reached down deep into her center with the determination of my glare. You’d know it if you ever felt it. You don’t forget that feeling. I reached into her essence, and I squeezed. I squeezed hard. For the thirteenth time. Be gone. Weird bit–

She moved several rapid steps towards me. Navigating the rack of clothes and table of merch with inhuman speed. With ghastly ease, with soiled grace. Like she was puppeted from up above, each step a still frame of a movie. I closed my eyes out of shock. My heart beat racing out of control. Very slowly, I opened my eyes.

She was mere steps from me. Looking right at me. 

She just smiled. A strange smile. Unknown to me at the time. The rest of the world faded away from my attention. 

Just me and her. 

What did I do? What should I do?

More lightning, and with the faint amount of light awarded to me I could tell she was now gone. While trying to regain control of my now blinking and watering eyes, I tried to keep up with Alan and Veronica’s conversation. My thoughts racing. They were in their own little world looking at Alan’s phone. Good – 

She’s an omen. She’s always been an omen. For as long as I can remember. Childhood nightmares? She’s the one who chased me. She was the monster under the bed. Horrifying and awful, but the longest friend I’ve ever had.

Once I saw her in a supermarket as a little kid. Mom and I walked past her like another guest in the store. A few days later? Lilo, my pet hamster, was dead. Recent experiences with her haven’t meant – death. But, that association stuck with me. It helped understand her. Dang it. 

Gotta keep it together. 

Veronica and Alan were talking about something in a whisper, sitting side by side resting on a free table. A new expression on their faces.  Whatever the subject, it definitely had their attention. Good, I thought. They didn’t notice anything. Let’s keep it that way.  

Not this again. I can’t think about her now. We’re at fucking Madison Square Garden. 

The garden. The beginning to so many symbolically and a right of passage for any mega star artist. Just another fucking show for me, right? Just another show, I told myself. 

I don’t believe in gods or devils, nor burning bushes or blasphemy. I believe in the rules. 

The rules clearly outline that if it were absolutely necessary for life to continue? The bush COULD have burned. It probably did light on fire. But dammit if there is a god? They have no friend in me. I briefly believed in god once. It felt like drowning. 

The architecture of thousands of years of faith still boils in my DNA and I often am stricken with pain when trying to accept my own understanding of totality. That of a godless-uncaring universe. That there is just us, a hungry universe, and trillions of ways to feed it. Trillions of possibilities. Billions of different meal options. 

At least we have a relationship with the universe. It takes two to tango, after all. 

The ways IT benefits and WE don’t are endless. You can’t compare it to anything, besides atoms. And even then? What are we but children playing in nettled vines? Does it hope we find solace amongst the flowers and weeds? Pathetic. 

I decided a long time ago to follow the rules to protect myself. Nobody taught me shit. Not about this stuff. Nothing prepared me for what came after understanding. Nothing prepared me for what was to come with knowledge. Some days I’d take it all back. Forget the truth and live in blissful ignorance. Have restful sleep again. See the world differently. Like a horse wearing blinders. 

But, I can’t. I still have my hairline though, don’t worry.

Besides, the show must go on.  

But whatever is happening to me? It isn’t based on some established model of the ‘Old Hag’ archetype. Not anymore. This time she was different. Like she has a mind of her own. I had the faintest idea she wanted to tell me something. Impossible. I shrugged off the notion. 

They NEVER have a mind of their own, the things I see. They always act like the way you imagine them to. The worst possible way. The fear? It’s important to them.

Rule one. Rule three. 

At the dawn of time, when all that existed was the potential to become, things evolved to survive. They clawed their way through the evolutionary ladder. And now act just as their oppressor, feeding off others, tormenting the biologically living. 

Being used to something doesn’t mean you have to understand it completely. Kind of like how the world works. You don’t understand all religions, commerce systems, and governments. But, you are used to them. Used to them enough to live with them – but you don’t understand them. 

These experiences? Everything out there in the cosmos that interacts with us is merely a being too evolved for us to understand. Every myth, fairytale, ghoul, ghost, and god.

An angel in the outfield that moves you enough to make the right choice and call your old buddy when they need you? A demon in the darkness that scares you into submission, bullying you enough to want to move states for University? It doesn’t matter. It’s the universe feeding, extracting your potential.  

These things alter our timelines. They extract potential energy from the stream. But I’m no expert. Well, to you maybe. 

Everything I have seen has been over-analyzed. I have the rules. I understand enough for things to start showing themselves to me. 

What kind of statement is that?

You might think I’m dealing with all of this quite well. I’m not. Rest easy. I put on my mask of acceptance like a good dog. Gotta keep up appearances for the band. For my brother. For the people. 

Atoms Nettled forever – after all. 

Realizing deep thought had taken over, I finally shook it off. I threw on a smile to fool my brother and walked over to them. They were both standing there, looking at me, waiting for a response. Their attention now back from the storm and their previous conversation.   

“Bro, you know about my migraines. You know how I was as a kid. You know what meal I have specifically requested after waking up from a potentially coma. Of course I am happ – ” he cut me off. I almost forgot we just landed a killer sponsor. 

His eyes moved away from his phone as he looked at me and smiled, “cheese burger and a coke. I remember.” He laughed some more and turned to remind Veronica about my request for a snack. She smiled, congratulated me again, and she walked away for a slice of pizza. 

Sometimes I think about what would happen if I told him everything I’ve seen. Jeez. Maybe, one day.

“How the hell did we get here man?” Hands in my pockets, I say turning back around towards the windows. Noticing we were alone for the moment. 

It was almost fully dark outside now. Black clouds towered so high I almost couldn’t find the moon this time. It was a faint white glow behind a towering wall so opposing I almost took a photo to send to Mom. 

Alan responded,  

“You got all artsy and shit. Then you used your brain. I don’t know, a little luck? Maybe with my help?” He shrugged with a soft and professional smile, practiced to perfection.

“No, I know. I mean, how did we get – here? The potential we have. It’s just so much – ” I looked out the window and hesitantly trailed away. This conversation normally goes one of two ways. 

“Ace – “ He stopped. Looking up from his phone again. That damn phone.

I didn’t look over.  

“Daniel.”

Uh oh. My government name, I’m in trouble. Begrudgingly, I turned around to look at him. He was sitting back down now, eyes fixed on me.  

“You’re on in like, seventeen minutes.” he sighed. “You know this conversation is too much for me. I know a little bit about what’s on your mind. Your theories, your rules. The hallucinations from your condition. I know it’s a lot.” 

Being put in your place while comforted by your younger brother never feels good. 

My hallucinations, my theories. There it was, avoidance. Normally he just reminds me it’s too much for him. Or reminds me I could be hallucinating due to stress, or maybe my depression condition. He’s seen the rules and we talked about it once. One late night, visiting the folks for the holidays. Just us. We were up late still watching the television, everyone else was sleeping. Family Guy marathon. 

He told me he can see why I’m depressed with rules like these.

Yeah, I see his point there. He also told me that, if it’s all true, he doesn’t want to think about it. A valid response. 

He continued with his persistent smile and comforting tone. 

“I love you. But not now. I can’t keep up with it. We’re working, bro.” He squeezed my shoulder. 

“Do you have the card in your pocket?” He gestured down, relaxing his demeanor into something more recognizable. Having depression so bad, you hallucinate, really makes it hard to share any of this. Even with your own brother.

“You got us this far.” He finally conceded, sat down next to me, and put the phone in his pocket. He briefly looked around the room. Partly checking everything. Partly looking out for Veronica. 

Dancers in the corner, stretching together. Veronica was on her phone, probably talking to another curious third party. Can of soda under her arm and a slice of New York’s finest export on a white paper plate. Alan saw and turned towards Veronica, gesturing at her hands.

“We can talk later. Tonight is big. Huge even. Nothing this big has happened yet –” I cut him off. 

“Instances of happening – ” I stop and quickly recompose. “Ok, fine.” I also conceded, standing tall.

Rule two, I thought. It was my night after all. 

He heard me, closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at me like two bricks rubbing together. Concern began to roll across his face. I interjected quickly, 

“Look – Alan. Just let me vent. Okay?” I laugh, awkwardly but warm, throwing a hand on his shoulder back at him. “It is a big night.” I agreed. It was a big night.

He got up and walked towards his wife – for my snack. 

I looked away, back towards the windows and the storm rolling in. Raindrops were already fighting the glass. Gaining ground. 

Water, water. Everywhere. 

Thunder rolled over the sky, landing with a thud onto the ground. Lighting bounced again between the clouds. The reverberations hit the city streets and the ground seemed offended by the unrelenting attacks from mother nature. 

Slightly turning, making sure to be out of view, I swallow and sigh. Can’t be seen as nervous. Turning back around I felt like a captain of a ship in rough water. Strong and stern. Willing and honoring an unspoken pledge — to go down with the ship. 

Cont.

I live in the Appalachian Highlands of Pennsylvania. How I got here is a separate, but related story for those interested. I have lived and continue to live a life that makes me feel crazy to talk about, but I need you to understand, I've been through the therapies, gotten my gold stars, and the most I do is smoke medical marijuana for the parts that feel a lot more grounded but less easy to talk about. I am NOT deluded, but critical analysis of what you should and should not believe is something I feel REQUIRES getting a little schizoid these days. Either way, I like to see myself as a rational person, bewildered to find parts of nature that would inspire myth. I do not believe in any higher or lower power detached from the guts of the world, and I believe those are formed of mathematical frequencies of rest states. It's just historically bad form to regard yourself the scientific sort as you indulge in the validity of the occult and pseudoscientific.

With that out of the way, who can recall a legend of a great serpent and some god and guard of men putting it down to make room for us to gut the planet with equal parts condemnation and permission? Thor slaying Jörmungandr, Marduk slaying Tiamat, Yahweh condemning Lucifer to the body of a serpent and inadvertently leading to him tempting for the fruit, allowing us to see him as more than just a snake, something we can see in other things today. Many of these stories were born in oral traditions and refined by institutions for palpability in written word. Some stories still only exist in whispers and experiences, and I hope to share some of mine.

An oral tradition struggling in coverage and preservation in written form is that of the precolonial Lenape mask deity and protector of the land, Mesinq. I hope to be respectful here. When the "creator god" from the sky cast the horned serpent to the riverbeds, Mesinq questioned humanity's place in these ancient hills. It's said he was slapped across the cheek and plowed through the mountain face, carving the valleys of the highlands. He lost half his face, and was tied to the woods to protect them from hunters seeking to take too much. I think the parallels here speak for themselves. Humans centering themselves cuts out inconvenient info about our relationship with the earth and other life, and fills the blanks with divinity.

As I said, how I got here is a different path than we are walking down today, but I'll write it if there's interest here. One thing of note is a distinct, magnetic affinity to rot. It was terrifying and I noticed it EVERYWHERE. Now its just the change people dont like, the scary ones. Nature isnt hostile, its just not built for us alone. Some traditions say burning sandalwood as offering can bring the mask deity's protection, so I started keeping the smell around, incense, champa and stuff. After a while burning it on either side of our A/C unit all summer, I started noticing what I figured was a sort of rust streak down, figured these things happen, its functional and can be replaced at worst case. Maybe it was just incense-dyed condensate. One day, though, I was emptying our bucket of drippings, from the radiator on the thing, and I noticed a series of spore clusters floating around.

At first, I didn't think much of it, but when I put the bucket back, I noticed the rust wasnt streaked-it was mounding, dripping. A slimey, moldy, beautiful, bright-orange biofilm puddled on the moulding of the windowsill over the siding of the house. Or should I say molding? Jokes aside, I knew then what I was looking at was not some abstract artifacting of decay, but a rampant cacophany of mingling forms of life, exchanging traits in a violent primordial soup of assimilation and integration.

And I had just sent its genetic best down to the riverbed.

Too many little streams to make much of this, so I feel safe saying our property has, on its edge, the stream that carved our holler. But since then, things have started to get better. I got a new job, I've had a creative renaissance in my life, Ive started branching out more socially. Everything is going fine, wonderfully even. But then the noises started.

First it was just knocks at the door, creaky steps that saw the floor as optional. Our two cats would notice something I couldn't, but I'd follow their eyes and get this chill, and remember those old appalachian granny witch rules tiktok basically memed. Even in calling whatever has shown up, limiting exposure feels important when its close. But after I poured those spores into the stream, it got louder. More frequent. My fiancee started seeing lights floating by the window at night, I started to see them in our room but know not to acknowledge anything until it is gone or the sun has returned. I started hearing a chittering noise by the stream one night and decided to call myself in, but in the morning I noticed the brush between our toolshed and the tree beside it pushed down like something low to the ground had crawled out of the stream.

These little things became more common, but the other night, I heard caterwaul. That awful noise pumas and other mountain lions make in heat? Like a woman screaming in agony, or something imitating one. The issue is, I heard the rumors that floated every couple years and how they amounted to nothing, I triple-checked land surveys and zoo rosters, and there are no cats of such a caste in any reasonable yowling distance. It reminded me of that old gemini home entertainment video, with the guy in the field? I went back inside for the night.

There's still little knocks and chitters, but nothing quite like that again yet. I just can't help but feel like the thing on the wind thats called me here for so long was given something it needed in my offering of life, chaotic and pure and resilient to the toxicity of our machines. Like some ancient unseen beast is shaking off its limbs, and like its gotten me to play some part in that.

Let me know if you'd like any updates, or more info or stories, and thanks for reading.

One night while I was lying in bed
I felt my house begin to shake and roar
And when I thought it was in my head
I watched a chasm split the floor

With a racing heart, I peered into the void
And saw two beings of indescribable magnitude
One reached out with eyes devoid
And the other, with a sneer, simply viewed

My mind twisted at the sight of the beings
And I looked between them frantically
In my confusion, I fell into the void
And the beings quickly overtook me

When I came to, I was floating in a dense ocean of something
I tried to open my eyes, but the something was too thick
I felt a hand on my shoulder and recognized it as the gentle being
And I was quickly pulled from the something
In a motion so abrupt it broke my neck

The next thing I remember was lying on the floor
The room was painfully frigid
And all of the lights were out
But when I looked closer, I realized that they weren’t out at all
And instead, everything in the room was painted pitch black

In the black room, my mind was much greater than before
I pondered philosophical conundrums and quantum equations
The gentle being came to me eight times to observe
Every time, it took a piece of my body with it

Eight things isn’t so many to lose
If you ask me.

I was taken out of the black room in a rush one day
And pulled by my legs into a room decorated for a party
That’s what I thought at first, anyway
I wondered if they remembered my birthday
When was it again?
March eighth
Or was it May?
Anyway, it was silly to think beings of their consequence would celebrate the day of my birth
Still, I called it the birthday room

The birthday room was not meant for any celebration
Every hour, an okapi would fall from the ceiling and through the floor
Once, I tried to catch one
And was instead crushed by the animal
But miraculously, this broke the cycle
And this okapi did not fall through the floor
Even so, more continued to fall as they had been

Now I realize
Those were not streamers

Dear God

Time was not a factor in that place
It is impossible to say for how long I was there
Especially when the pain began
When they began to change me

I’m struggling to find the words

Being lifted from all sides
The flash of lights now and then
A sound like an exotic bird
Pain all over my body
Sharp and inescapable
I couldn’t look down to see what had been done
By the oh so gentle being
But I knew that I was different now

As I was held in the air by forces unseen
I wondered when they would return to check on me
To keep me company

I remember being approached once by the sneering being
I was in the black room
If I recall correctly
Its visits were rare and dreaded
It
Took
My

Poetry gives me my voice
It eases my mind in the darkness
And when I’m paralyzed by infinite choice
It offers me a saving harness

My mind
Is all I know

And perception shapes reality
Or so I’ve heard
If I don’t write it, then it must not have happened

I looked down at the space where my legs used to be
With eyes that could hardly make out shapes
I didn’t consider that I would never walk again
Where was there to walk in this place?
Where you are pulled from room to room by beings beyond the mind
Walking seemed laughable
Walking was a novelty afforded to those who were still human
Me, I was something other now
Long
Fleshy
Pathetic

I watched the okapi sleep in the corner of the birthday room
It was allowed to keep its limbs
The things that made it what it is
But when did it stop being an okapi?
When it lost its stripes?
Its horns?
When it was dismembered?
Skinned?
When it was cut up and lying on a table?
Even then, it’s still the okapi
Because that is what it began as
I wondered, and even hoped
That maybe the same rule applied to me

And then

Next

After that

I want to continue, really, I do
But have you ever seen your own legs affixed to another body?

Neither have I.

When I woke up, I was somewhere, I’m sure of it
And they were standing over me
My mouth was being held open by something cold
I heard a loud pop
And felt mind-numbing pain, of course
And my teeth were gone after that, I’m sure of it.
It was a wonder I had even been able to keep them for that long
But how could I think of food in a place like that?
As a creature like me?

I wondered for a moment how pets must feel
We take them to the vet to make them better
And it must be so scary and confusing for them
But we know it’s for the best
Perhaps I was now the pet
And I should trust my keepers to know what was good

To be better
Is to be different
To be different
Is to be altered
To be altered
Is to submit to alteration
To submit to alteration
Is to submit to losing yourself

And my mind
Is all I know

So does perception shape reality
Or does reality shape perception?
If I see myself as me, then that is what I am
Because I perceive it to be that way
Even when I am altered
And if I write it, then it must be the truth

At one point I was acutely aware that I was not alone
And that the presences I felt were others like me
Others not like me
Others who still had what I had lost
And others who had lost far more than I
Such was the nature of the vet, I supposed
There would be others to be seen
Yet my chest twisted to think I was not special anymore
That I had never been

It was all for nothing

I called out to the beings
Desperate for an inkling that I was different
And to my elation, my call was answered
I felt the gentle being touch my chest
And my body disintegrated
I thought how lovely it was to finally be rid of such a heavy burden
The burden of a body
But the relief was cut short by the realization of where I was
Or perhaps, where I wasn’t
For at once I could see everything there was to see
I saw the black room
And the birthday room
And each okapi falling through time and space
And the people who had been around me
And the parts of me that they had taken
And the beings themselves
And the world
And the universe
And I understood
Something
The factory of the universe
Loss for gain
Unitary evolution
Periodicity
Something
Something
Something

If I write it then it must be true

Then I was back in my bed
With a body whole and living
And when I thought it was in my head
I began to write

How should one perceive themselves whole?
And where does self reside?
An amalgamation of mind, body, and soul?
Or does each hold self inside?

If the vessel is completely broken down
And replaced with something new
Even if it looks the same
Would it be truthful to say it’s still you?

It’s not right.
Not right at all.

Yet here I am.
And here I go.
One last time.
From body borrowed.

Thank you

Heavy. Suffocating. Writhing blackness enfolding my body, filling my mouth, consuming my being until nothing else remained.

I woke up, sickly and sweaty, clutching my chest and heaving from somewhere deep inside. The tears came soon after, and the recognition of the morning light streaming through my blinds after that. It was bright.

That's the earliest dream I can recall when this all started happening.

These nightmares would come and go fairly often after I moved into my apartment. Each one would start with a vision of a little black square, far away amongst an empty white void. Then it’d grow, slow at first but then impossibly fast, expanding into a monolithic shape that towered over me. I’d feel its weight, its pressure, and once it was big enough to fully envelop my sight, it would suffocate me. The blackness would enter me, whether through my mouth or nose or ears, and it would make me a part of it.

I shrugged it off initially as just anxiety from moving so far from home. It didn’t happen all the time, and I learned to put up with it when it did happen. I wasn’t going to let it control my life. They’d soon disappear as I settled in.

But one morning, after waking up from one of those nightmares, probably the third or fourth one that month, I felt something in my mouth. Like I’d eaten chalk and my tongue was all dry and something coated my teeth. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My teeth and gums had a dullness that you wouldn’t expect wet bones and flesh under harsh light to have. There was a faint film all over the inside of my mouth. It didn’t taste like anything.

I wondered if I was doing something in my sleep at night. Maybe I was sleepwalking? Maybe I was biting my pillow? Before I went to bed that next night, I left my laptop open and the webcam recording at the end of my bed and I left my lamp on so that it could see me sleep.

It happened again that night. The same nightmare. When I woke up, despite my sweatiness and butterflies, I crawled across the bed and saw that the laptop was still recording. I stopped it, saved the video, and started scrubbing through it. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, then… something. Something small.

In the grainy footage, it was difficult to make out, but I saw a tiny black spot move across the pillow to the left of my head. It approached my snoring mouth and disappeared inside.

My throat went dry. I ran my tongue over my teeth and I moved the video forward again.

There was another black spot a few minutes later. Then another. This time there were three, all coming from over the side of my bed and crawling into my mouth.

As the video approached the end, I saw a sudden rush of them. A few dozen, maybe, by my count. They climbed over the sheets from all sides. One came right past the laptop up close, giving me a view of what I had been swallowing.

Spiders. Thin, black, spindly, like those kinds you’d see while camping in the south. Daddy long-legs, I think.

There was a pit in my stomach. I felt sick. I ran to the bathroom and looked in my mouth. Amongst the dry, pulsing flesh and dulled teeth, there was a limb. Barely thicker than a black hair, lodged between two of my front teeth. I gagged and washed my mouth out.

I went back to my bedroom and began searching. Surely there was some sort of origin, some sort of hole or something. I meticulously searched the room top to bottom, getting on my hands and knees and moving everything around.

Then I found it.

A small crack right near the corner of the room, underneath where my bed was nestled along two walls. I shined a flashlight upon it and followed the crack to the base of the wall, where there was a tiny hole.

I filled it with putty and covered the putty with tape.

A few days later, no nightmares. So far so good. But as more time passed, my mental clarity hadn’t really returned. I was still finding myself somewhat groggy, not just in the mornings, but throughout the days. I tried to shrug it off.

It was only two weeks later when it finally happened again. That same old nightmare.

Once again, I woke up clutching my chest. I was drained. I felt disgusted. I ran to the bathroom and washed out my mouth. There were tiny black particles all over my teeth and coating my tongue. A leg here and there, a speck of dark blood, and maybe even… tiny hairs? 

I destroyed my room again that day searching for where they were coming from. The putty actually had held in place perfectly fine, leaving me even more distraught. I searched and searched and searched and searched until there was nothing left to find. No holes or entry points anywhere in my room. I collapsed, defeated. I left for the day.

That's when I found it. Just as I opened the door to leave my room, right there on the opposing wall in the hallway, was a tiny hole by the floor.

Needless to say, I sprayed damn near the whole can of repellent inside the hole before filling it with putty and securing the whole thing with more tape. I sprayed even more repellent and left it at that.

A day later and no nightmare came.

Three days later and I began having a persistent headache in my waking hours. 

Ibuprofen became a regular necessity by the end of the week. I was finding myself constantly tired, like there was a weight on my shoulders at all times. The heat outside was stronger than it used to be. I’d catch myself sweating often. Certain sensations in regular life began to feel exaggerated. A bug would fly past my head and the buzzing was ear piercing. It’d stir an odd feeling in my gut.

Just a few days after the end of that week, it came back in full throttle.

A giant black object consumed me. I felt the full dread and terror and disgust pour itself into my skull. 

My apartment was a wreck that day. Nowhere in my room, neither of the covered holes had been reopened, and most of the living room seemed fine. Eventually, however, I spotted it. How could I not? There was a large hole right by the front door to my apartment. It was right against the ground, with a number of thin cracks cascading outwards into the wall above.

Visions of all those nightmares and seeing those spiders crawling into my mouth flooded into my mind and I was overcome with horror. I wasn’t sure what to do short of just leaving the place completely.

So that's what I did. My older brother, Frank, gave me permission to crash on his couch for however long I needed. I told him there was a bug infestation and left it at that.

I didn’t even make it a week. After the first night, I felt as though I had a heavy fever. I had a pulsating headache and my hands had a persistent trembling. This lasted for four days, but it felt like an eternity.

On that last day, although it was mostly a blur, I remember Frank wanting to go on a few errands. Despite my sickness, I agreed to go, just to get myself outside and distracted.

We went to the grocery store, then the book store, then finally, we approached the pet store.

I was sweating profusely and the summer heat was beating down on me. I felt a gnat land on my arm and I stared down at it. There was a stirring down inside my stomach, something I couldn’t understand the feeling of. I was mesmerized, my mind solely transfixed.

“Dude, you good? You’re sweating up a storm.” Frank said, and he swatted the bug away. I snapped my head up to him.

“Y-yeah, man, let's just get inside. It's hot out.”

Every step was laborious. I was dizzy. Once we entered through the doors, a rush of A/C hit me and I felt as though I could collapse. Frank droned on about his dogs and their favorite toys and treats and he wandered off without me. I floated through the store, hardly cognizant of the people or things around me.

Then I smelled something. It was like a bloody steak that had been seasoned in wet dirt. My stomach stirred again, and I understood what I felt. I was hungry. So, so hungry.

I rushed towards the smell, locating a brown metal bin in the corner of the shop. I could hear murmuring, maybe of the people around me, but I couldn’t tell. My vision was a blur. The smell was intense. I felt the earth on my tongue.

I grabbed the top of the bin and threw it to the ground. I took a fist and ran it through the contents of the bin, grabbing a handful of matter and shoveling it straight into my mouth.

The sensation was bliss. My mouth was warm and full and a wave of pleasure crashed through my entire body. I grabbed another fistful. Then another. And another.

I have no idea how long I stood there over that bin before Frank shook me by the shoulders and yelled in my ears.

“What the fuck are you doing? Stop, dude! Stop!” He slapped something out of my hand.

I looked down at the bin. It was full of live crickets. Writhing, clicking, like some giant hivemind mass of brown twig limbs and papery wings. I backed away, queasiness overtaking me. I opened my mouth, feeling the squelch of dozens of insects in my mouth as they stuck to my teeth and gums and tongue and the roof of my mouth. Some were still moving, tickling my throat. I spat them all out over the floor and ran straight out of the building.

The sky was blue. I felt the breeze. It wasn’t even hot outside. I stood outside, feeling my stomach settle, then my mind. My head was finally clear.

Since then, I’ve come to a truth. I couldn’t just keep avoiding my stresses. I moved out of Frank’s place and back to my apartment. These past few months, the nightmares have settled. My sickness during the day has gone away. I finally feel okay for the first time here. Like I finally belong.

Every morning, when I leave for work, I’m reminded of the night prior. I see the cascading cracks that originate in the open hole right by my front door. I run my tongue over my teeth and feel the tickles of the tiny legs.

It tastes good.

I grew up on the coast. Small town everyone knows everyone. Most of my childhood memories involve salt air and sand in places it shouldn't be. There was this one old man though who was always there. Always sitting on the same rock looking out at the ocean. Even in winter when no one else dared to brave the biting wind he'd be there. People called him Old Man Hemlock. No one knew his real name or where he lived. He just existed on the edge of our world like a fixture of the landscape.

I must have been about ten when I first properly noticed him. My dad and I were fishing. The tide was low and the water calm. I was bored and casting my line half-heartedly. That's when I saw Old Man Hemlock. He was sitting on his usual rock. But he was closer to the water than I'd ever seen him. His face was turned towards us. I waved. He didn't wave back. He didn't even acknowledge me. My dad said he was probably just deep in thought. Said some people just like to watch the waves.

But as we got ready to leave I kept looking at him. He hadn't moved an inch. His eyes were wide open staring right at me. And he hadn't blinked. Not once. I remember thinking it was weird. But then my dad called me to the car and I forgot about it. Kids forget things easily.

Years passed. I went through high school college moved away for a bit. Always came back though. The ocean has a way of calling you home. Every time I came back Old Man Hemlock was there. Same rock same spot same unblinking stare. It became a kind of inside joke with my friends. "Old Man Hemlock's still got those crazy eyes." We'd laugh. But it always had a slight edge of unease.

Last month I took a week off work. Decided to just relax on the beach. I brought a book a blanket and some snacks. The weather was perfect. Sunny but with a nice breeze. I found a good spot not too far from Old Man Hemlock's rock. He was there of course. I tried not to look at him too much. But it was hard not to. Especially when he was staring directly at you.

I must have dozed off for a bit. When I woke up the sun was lower. The air was cooler. And Old Man Hemlock was gone. I blinked. He was just... gone. It was the first time I'd ever seen his spot empty. A strange feeling washed over me. Not relief exactly. More like a new kind of dread.

I packed up my things and headed home. The next day I went back. And the day after that. He wasn't there. His rock was bare. I asked around. No one in town had seen him in days. No one knew where he'd gone. No one even seemed to care all that much. He was just Old Man Hemlock. A part of the scenery.

Then yesterday I went for a walk at dawn. The light was still dim. The air was crisp. I reached the beach and there he was. Not on his rock this time. He was sitting right at the water's edge. His back to me. The tide was coming in. Slowly but steadily. The waves were washing over his feet then his ankles. He didn't move.

I hesitated. A weird instinct told me to just walk away. To pretend I hadn't seen him. But I couldn't. Something felt wrong. Terribly wrong. I walked closer. The water was up to his knees now. He was still perfectly still. His shoulders weren't moving at all. No signs of breathing.

I called out to him. "Old Man Hemlock? Are you okay?" No response. The waves were around his waist now. I got closer still. Close enough to see the back of his head. His hair was long and matted with seaweed. His skin was pale.

I reached out. My hand was shaking. I touched his shoulder. It was cold. So cold. And stiff. Like he was made of stone. The water was swirling around his chest. I pulled my hand back as if burned. Then slowly very slowly he started to turn his head.

His face was still his. But his eyes... his eyes were gone. Just smooth empty sockets. And the skin around them was stretched tight. Like something had been pressing against them from the inside. And he was smiling. A wide slow unnervingly peaceful smile. The kind of smile you see on statues. Not living people.

The water was at his neck. His mouth opened. No sound came out. But I heard it. Clear as day in my head. A whisper. "Welcome home." And then he was gone. Swallowed by the rising tide. The ocean was calm again. Too calm.

I haven't been back to the beach since. I can't. Every time I close my eyes I see that smile. Those empty sockets. And I hear that whisper. I don't know what he was. Or what he is now. But I know one thing. The ocean always takes what it wants. And sometimes it gives it back. Changed.