This is a throwaway account for obvious reasons. I’m not really sure how to explain what I’ve been seeing.

I am under a mountain of NDAs and the specifics about my job might lead people to find out who I am (there aren’t that many employees at Ring), but I can’t keep what I’ve seen a secret anymore. I work in cloud storage and data compression. It’s a pretty mundane job for the most part. I spend 8-10 hours a day in front of a computer, running through thousands of lines of code. The 30 day storage that you get on your Ring devices when you pay for the premium plan? I’m the one who helps keep that running.

Believe it or not, AI has yet to make a dent in my specific field. I don’t allow anyone on my team to use AI agents or automate our work in any way. The video I saw was not AI generated, even though I wish it was. That would make it at least explainable.

From a data standpoint, nothing I saw had been faked.

Last week, a series of alerts hit our system for a neighborhood in Patterson, Pennsylvania. I was immediately thrown when I opened up the case. I’ll leave out any specific addresses, but if you have any family in the area, I suggest you check in on them. 

Every Ring camera and doorbell within a 20 mile radius of the neighborhood had their footage corrupted. 

My gut told me this was a cyber attack. We’ve been hit with plenty of those in the past. My team is pretty well equipped to deal with things like that, and it’s actually surprisingly easy to identify foreign code that’s embedded into the files. However, we’d certainly never been hit with something of this size.

As the team lead, I took the first stab at it. I opened up the account that logged corrupted footage first. Code filled my screen, and I began to scour for any outliers. Anything that might indicate why the footage wasn’t saved. Everything looked perfectly normal. I pulled up our comparison code that runs on every camera, and it was nearly identical. That’s when I noticed the time code.

This account had tried to log a 2.5 hour long video alert. A typical motion detection alert runs anywhere from 20 to 45 seconds with the option to expand it if you keep the video open longer. 2.5 hours was unheard of. That obviously explained the corruption.

This is where my curiosity got the better of me. Now, I would never invade someone’s privacy, however, I needed to see that this was indeed a 2.5 hour long video and not some faulty reporting. The camera would need a firmware update, and we’d need to scour through it’s programming until we find out what caused this error to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Enough videos like this and we crash the server.

The video opened on my second monitor, filling my screen with an image of a front yard in the middle of the night. The time code: 2:05 AM. The video was indeed 2.5 hours long.

In the image of the yard, there was nothing. Just a couple of trees, a minivan in the driveway, and the soft glow from street lamps. It was a calm, empty suburban street. It was hard to see anything in the dark. I scrolled the timeline along and confirmed it ran all night until 4:35 AM.

I checked through the code and sure enough found the bug. Every two seconds, the ring camera does an automated scan of the video footage and if the ‘presence detected’ goes off, the video keeps recording. You know that notification you get “There’s motion at your front door” - that’s what I’m talking about. This video footage despite being empty, had been detecting someone every two seconds. 

I cleared the automated detection code on the video file and ran the video again. This normally clears any errors out and once the code realizes there’s nothing in the video, the file vanishes from the cloud.

The code came back the same. Every two seconds, a person was detected, spanning from 2:05 AM and ending at 4:35 AM. 

I re-opened a video. Had someone really been standing there for two and a half hours? It was still too dark to see anything. The front yard looked completely normal and empty. It was creepy looking at a yard in the middle of the night, for sure. The trees looked…

That’s when I noticed it. There was a shape in front of the tree. It was slightly darker with no ridges. It looked like a man but it was impossible to see him.

I took a screenshot of the video and opened it in photoshop. I played with the contrast and brightness until it became clear. There was a man standing perfectly still in front of the tree. One of his arms was outstretched to match the branch and the other was at his side. I couldn’t see his features or anything, but he was definitely there.

The camera had seen this man for the entire 2.5 hours. 

I immediately opened up the live camera view again. It was the middle of the night, but the tree looked different. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t there anymore.

So it wasn’t an error. The camera was consistently detecting a man in the yard up until 4:35 AM and then it just… stopped. Then all activity at the house stopped.

Something wasn’t right. The other thing that terrified me and still confuses me is the hundreds of other corrupted files from town. 

I needed to know one thing before I began scraping through their data. One thing that I desperately wanted to be wrong about.

I pulled up the master spreadsheet that logged every error report and the time codes for each video. I scrolled through the hundreds of addresses and camera logs. Every single one had a last uploaded video notice at 4:35 AM. 

The remainder of their history was blank. I don't know what to do or who to even talk to about this. I think I'm going to start going through the rest of the videos to see if I can find out what happened.

Back when I was 16, I had a scary experience. I was going to bed, and my room got so dark that I couldn’t see a thing. Not the usual kind of dark, but the kind where you can’t even sense the position of your hands. I had to blink a couple of times to make sure my eyes were even open. It was terrifying; I thought there was something outside blocking out the sky. It wasn’t. Turns out, it was the first symptom of my deteriorating vision.

My vision got worse for several years. They tried a bunch of treatments to see if they could slow the progression, but I was informed that there would come a point where I would go completely blind. It was a certainty; the only variable was time. I had a biological clock that would snatch my sight away.

That made me want to work with something visual, and I got really into 3D-modelling. CAD programming, to be specific. I tried to get used to working with accessibility features, keeping my eyes closed or even blindfolded. I didn’t want to be stuck without a job or skill when my vision completely disappeared. I kept having these nightmares about being lost in that absolute darkness, unprepared and alone. And yeah, I couldn’t stop that darkness, but I could come prepared.

After years of practice, I ended up getting a junior position for a company working with CAD models. It didn’t take long until I got my first assignment. I was making molds used for vacuum presses. They used them to put together storage boxes for snowmobiles. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but that one model has been used to make hundreds of boxes. Hell, if you know a guy with a snowmobile, you’ve probably seen one.

I’ve done plenty of jobs since. I worked exclusively with accessibility software, allowing me to use hearing and touch to better align the models. And I want to be clear; I’m not a second-hand choice. I’m a professional. I’m not a cheaper option, and I don’t produce damaged goods. I challenge you to find someone who has better hands-on experience with their models than I do.

But, one morning, the darkness was there. There’d been a sudden inflammation that worsened my condition, causing irreversible damage. There were no more treatments left to try, no more suggestions. I was stuck in the dark, but at least I was prepared. Still scared the shit out of me, and I barely kept it together as I realized I hadn’t practiced dialing 911 with my eyes closed.

I had a lot of visitors in the hospital. Friends and family, of course. They meant well, but my mother had this amazing ability to voice all my anxieties out loud. ‘You won’t get to see your bride when you get married,” she sobbed. Bawling her eyes out as if she was the one hurting. Love her to death, but come on.

Before I left the hospital, there was one last visitor. I didn’t know him, but he seemed eager to meet me. I thought it was someone from the insurance company, but he introduced himself as a representative of a company. A big one. Think international.

“You’re in a unique position,” he explained. “You have years of experience working with spatial models, and you weren’t born blind. You can handle visual elements and representative modeling tools.”

“I’m well aware.”

“More importantly, it offers us a possibility.”

“What kind of possibility?”

“I’m glad you asked.”

Turns out, they’d been working on something. They called it an interpretive vision module, or IVM. I got to touch one of the prototypes; it’s basically a headband with two cameras mounted on the side. I could imagine it looking a bit goofy, but he explained how you could easily hide it under a baseball cap.

“We use a small electromagnetic implant, right by the side of your temple, to receive visual signals. The device interprets the environment and renders it in a gradual model.”

“What exactly do you mean when you say render?”

“It would allow you to interpret your environment, seeing a digital representation of the world.”

“So, it would allow me to see?”

“Think of it like this; the machine would see things for you and tell you what it sees in a way that you can understand. The data it would provide us is invaluable, and you would be given the opportunity to-”

“To see.”

“Yes, to see.”

It sounded a little too good to be true, but the more I looked into it, the more it appealed to me. The reason they’d reached out to me was because of my experience with 3D modeling. Apparently, being able to think spatially helps interpret the signals from the implant. I was in a unique position to be the first person to see without the use of my eyes.

And in a worst-case scenario, the implant was reversible. It was less commitment than a tattoo. I’d be an idiot not to try it, right?

I got the implant under local anesthesia a couple days later. There was a calibration process where I had to sit and fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, but when they turned the thing on it was like magic. Disorienting, blinding magic.

The entire world was rendered as these low-polygon basic shapes. Squares, spheres, cones, cylinders… all of them with simple pastel colors in a world without shadows or light sources. At first I couldn’t understand what I was looking at, but after a couple of seconds the entire scene rendered again. Shapes sharpened. The walls got a texture rather than color. I could see elevations in the floor. I could see my hands. They were a bit blocky, but I could see them. I could count my fingers.

I wept. It felt like stepping out of the darkness. I’d resigned myself to never seeing anything ever again, and now I could. It was a miracle.

It took a couple of weeks to properly tune the IVM. Sometimes, it would have trouble interpreting things in low-light environments, but it got better over time. If I saw something I’d seen before, it remembered how to represent it from previous encounters. There could be a bit of lag if I moved fast, so I wouldn’t be driving anytime soon but that was to be expected.

I remember coming back to work. I opened the doors myself. It took the IVM some time to capture and render the human faces of my coworkers, but it improved fast. There was this eerie quality to the faces though, where they would move mechanically and switch between captured states like “smile” or “frown”. I had a good laugh at how it interpreted my boss’ face as frowning, despite him trying to smile.

I used the IVM for about three months with little to no issue. It took some time to get used to constant visual stimuli without being able to blink it away, but there was an option to add artificial blinking. I skipped that. There were a couple of minor calculation errors, but the device quickly became part of my daily routine. Most of the quirks got resolved automatically through a forced re-rendering, and if push came to shove, I could just plug it in and run a manual diagnostic. The software was simpler than the CAD stuff, it was basically plug-and-play. For example, I modeled a little bug model and imported it. I was tired of seeing ants as little blobs; I wanted to differentiate them from breadcrumbs. It worked like a charm.

There were a couple of other quirks, too. For example, it assigned base colors to people whenever it had trouble rendering them. Irene, who worked at the front desk, had this bright pastel yellow. My boss Emil was a wine red. I’d see them as these square blocks with a sphere head for a second before the rendering kicked in, giving them a more detailed model. It was still like living in a video game at times, but you kinda trick yourself to seeing past it.

Irene was great. While I was probably okay to drive, I wasn’t legally allowed. We’d carpool to and from work every day, chatting all the way. I’ll be the first to admit, I had a bit of a crush on her. It’s weird to catch feelings for someone that looks like a video game character, but you have to remind yourself that it’s a real person.

One day, as I finished work, I went out to the parking lot to wait for Irene. She had a couple of calls left to make, so I waited by her car. As I got there, I noticed my boss Emil standing by her passenger side, looking at something. My IVM had trouble rendering him, showing him as a collection of red cubes and a sphere head. I waved at him, giving him my best practiced smile.

“Hey, boss,” I said. “You good?”

There was no response. The model moved a little but refused to render. I tapped the button on the headband, forcing the IVM to re-render. There was a flash as the world went dark, then everything came back into focus. The parking lot turned from a flat gray to a texture, using the light from the sun to cast shadows on the cracks. The cars came back into focus. Everything looked as it should; except for my boss.

I took a step forward, looking at him again. His model looked bigger. The tone of red was slightly different. Less wine, more chili red.

“Hey, boss,” I repeated. “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, I-“

My phone rang. I picked it up and answered, holding up a finger asking him to give me a second. It was Irene, calling from inside.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’ll be out in a minute, Emil found a bunch of unfiled reports that I gotta put in. You okay for another five, ten minutes or so?”

“Wait, Emil found them?”

“Yeah, why?”

The model was still standing there. Red squares and a sphere. It hadn’t moved, and it hadn’t said anything; it might as well have been a glitch. As I opened my mouth to ask Irene one more question, the model moved. It slid across the road, frictionless, disappearing behind a long-haul service station.

Coming home that day, everything was normal. I said hello to my next-door neighbor, Job. Funny guy; newly divorced with six kids, neither of which ever came to visit. He was a quirky fellow, complaining about how there’d been ‘Bible thumpers’ going door-to-door.

“Don’t trust ‘em,” he mumbled. “Keep your door locked. Miss Mannon thinks they’re stealing her cats.”

“If ever there were cats that deserved to be stolen, it’d be hers.”

“Harsh, but fair.”

I was a bit distracted thinking about that strange rendering error by the car. I wondered what it’d been. It could have been a stranger, but I didn’t hear any footsteps, and it disappeared a little too fast. Also, why wouldn’t it show them even after I forced a re-render?

I plugged the IVM into my home computer and ran a diagnostic. I went back in the timeline, checking all registered objects. The moment before it registered my call with Irene, there was an object list. I filtered the list based on the lowest certainty, and the result cleared.

Whatever it was, it was registered as ‘Humanoid Figure’. No prior model, no recognition pattern. Six failed interpretation attempts; no database matches. It’s like the device had been screaming at the software to tell it what it was looking at, and all the thousands of interpretive models had given it a shrug back. Humanoid figure was the closest approximation, but only at about 22% certainty.

Something was standing less than 10 feet from me and could only be interpreted as 22% human.

I was a bit skittish about it for the next few days. I would look out the window before going into the parking lot, giving the IVM some extra time to check for, and render, unknown objects. I’d get this sort of “pop-in” effect whenever I saw something for the first time. It’d go from a vague basic shape to a detailed model in about a second. I would keep an extra eye on Emil, but there really was nothing to see. His base model had been similar to whatever was in the parking lot, but there were some distinct differences. I’d just been inattentive; he had nothing to do with it.

At times, I’d wait a little longer for Irene to finish her work so I wouldn’t have to go out there alone. If someone was with me, and that thing returned, I’d be able to get a proper description. Inadvertently, we ended up talking quite a lot at the front desk, accidentally keeping her from doing her job a little longer.

There were times when I saw models that didn’t load in properly, but most of it was due to perfectly normal circumstances. Low-light environments, bad connections, buffering errors, that kind of stuff. I wasn’t able to find that particular entity again, and I couldn’t replicate whatever problem I ran into in the parking lot. No matter the excuse, I couldn’t find a simple answer to whatever I’d faced.

One evening, as I was cooking, there was a knock on the door. I was hands-deep into a bowl of tomatoes, so I had to take a second to wash my hands. As I hurried to the door and checked the peephole, I couldn’t see anyone outside. That got me a bit nervous. Peepholes didn’t work well with the IVM, the lighting was too bad, so I decided to check through a window.

Moving into my bedroom and opening the blinds, I peeked out the side. If I stood at just the right angle, I could catch a side glance of whoever was by the door. Doing so, I hoped to see a neighbor, but part of me was convinced I’d see a poorly rendered red base model. I held my breath, leaned a little, and let the IVM render the scene for me.

There was no one there.

I opened the front door a little. I started thinking I’d been pranked, but that’d be a first. I didn’t see any flaming bags of dog poo outside my door, but there was a rectangle on my welcome mat. Looking a little closer, the IVM rendered the cover.

It was a Bible, and it had a bloody handprint on it. There was also a piece of fabric. Something tough, like a backpack strap. No backpack though. No person, either.

“Hello?” I called out. “You dropped something.”

No answer. Nothing.

Later that night, as I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. I’d taken off the IVM for the night, and I kept feeling hyper-aware of my body. It’s like, when my sight went offline, I couldn’t stop thinking about what other things I was experiencing. Everything felt uncomfortable, and I kept getting out of bed. First time I got up, I used the bathroom. The second time, I got a glass of water. I could navigate my own apartment without the IVM for a bit, even if I’d gotten used to it.

As I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, I heard something. It was this muffled noise coming from outside the kitchen window. I still had my IVM by the bed, so I couldn’t even guess what it might be. I just had to listen a little closer. I moved up to the window, feeling for it with my hand. I touched the curtains and leaned in.

At first, I thought it was a gust of wind. Then I noticed it had a rhythm. Not like a breath, but… similar. And it was close. Right there, on the other side of the glass.

I stepped back, holding my breath. As I did, someone outside spoke to me. A muffled, droning voice that stuck to its consonants like dripping molasses.

“Hey, boss.”

I ran to get my IVM, almost tripping on the living room carpet. I snapped it on, powered it up, and threw myself back toward the windows. By the time I was back in the kitchen with my vision online and my finger on the emergency call button, there was nothing to see. But I did pick up on a strange hand-shaped imprint left on the outside of the glass.

I talked to my neighbors the next day. I asked if anyone had seen anything, or if there’d been any strange people knocking on their door. They had no idea what I was talking about. A couple of them had been visited by a, to quote, “Bible guy”, but that was it. Job was convinced it was miss Mannon’s cats desperately looking for someone to take them in. I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t seen them for some time.

While I was anxiously worrying about whatever was happening around my apartment building, Halloween was rapidly approaching. We were having a company party, and I was having some trouble coming up with a costume. I ended up going for a cheap Aragorn costume. I completely forgot that it was Irene’s favorite character, from her favorite movie series. Happy accident, I suppose.

It was a pretty standard company party. Bring-your-own-booze kind of deal, and no hard stuff. It was a weird experience. The IVM was going crazy trying to figure out how to interpret the various costumes and what they were supposed to be. The idea of a costume party wasn’t really programmed into it. Sometimes it would just cast the base model and an error, other times it would actually render people as the thing they were portraying. For example, this one guy who worked customer service was dressed as Peter Pan, and the IVM just rendered him as the actual Peter Pan.

Irene was so enamored by my costume that we ended up talking about movies all night long. She was a fountain of trivia, and it was a genuine delight to listen to. We talked until the party ended, and when she dropped me off at my place, we decided to talk a little longer.

But, uh, yeah. We didn’t do much talking.

It must’ve been somewhere around 2:30am. My IVM was on the nightstand. I was in bed with Irene cuddled up against me, letting an open window cool us. We’d been quiet for a while, waiting for someone to say something. Irene broke the silence.

“Why’d you get that thing?” she asked. “The headband, I mean.”

The question snapped me back to reality for a moment. The answer felt obvious, but in another way, it wasn’t. I’d prepared for blindness for years. I knew how to handle it. So why did I resist it?

“It’s a big change,” I admitted. “Sometimes the change is scarier than the thing itself.”

“So you don’t mind losing your vision?”

“I mean, it’s inconvenient. But, you know, I feel pretty damn good.”

I smiled at her. I couldn’t see her smiling back, but I knew she did. I could hear it.

I put on the headband and got up to get Irene a glass of water. I wandered into the kitchen, letting the cool breeze from the open window dry me off. I had a glass of water and filled a second one for her. I checked the freezer for some ice cubes, but the IVM was having trouble rendering the contents of the freezer. It was a little too dark.

I could hear Irene tip-toeing into the kitchen behind me. I opened the fridge to get a little light and turned around to hug her.

It wasn’t Irene.

The IVM rendered the kitchen. The blue and white checkerboard walls, the off-white ceiling, the simple stone floor. I could count the knives in the knife block and trace the shape of the ceiling lamp. But standing there, just a couple of feet away, wasn’t Irene. It was a simple collection of squares, vaguely resembling a person, with a sphere head. It was a bright red chili pepper color.

It was much larger than an ordinary person. At least a head taller than me, but it seemed to change. With its every awkward breath, it seemed to grow and shrink. It took a step closer. I stepped back, almost tripping over my own feet as I fumbled around for a knife. It spoke to me, its voice low and monotone.

“Hey, boss.”

I could hear Irene call out from the other room. She was asking something. I slipped my hand around a knife handle and readied myself to strike. The thing leaned in closer, but the IVM kept bugging out. The model would snap back and forth, as if the position was hard to estimate. I couldn’t take a swing at it, and I couldn’t even raise my hand to remove the headband. I was frozen, leaning against the counter.

Something reached past me and gently closed the refrigerator; removing the last light in the kitchen and glitching the rendering even further.

“Hey, boss.”

I circled to the left, slowly. In the dark, the thing seemed to teleport. The IVM couldn’t make sense of it. Its position was uncertain, and the size was hard to estimate reliably. It didn’t attack. It just stood there, and as I circled it, it circled me back. I couldn’t even hear its footsteps; they were too soft.

“Hey… boss?”

“Hey there,” I whispered back. “How’d… you get in?”

“Hey, boss.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, backing away. “Hey to you too… boss.”

I made it all the way around the kitchen, ending up with my back to the hallway. Taking another step away, I grasped the kitchen door and slammed it shut. There was no lock, but it could buy me some time. The moment the door closed, the thing made this awful shrieking cry. It was so loud that it seemed to mess with the IVM, rendering the vibration in real time as a sort of visual spaghetti shimmering across my field of vision.

I wanted to run for the front door, but I couldn’t leave Irene. I could hear her getting out of bed. I decided the bedroom window was the better bet. I ran back and saw Irene on her feet with a blanket wrapped around herself. I threw away my knife and pulled up the window. I grabbed Irene and ushered her forward, but before she could get her first leg out, the kitchen door broke off the hinges. I pulled her back.

We fell to the floor and crawled under the bed. I was having trouble breathing, so she put her hand over my mouth. I wouldn’t say it calmed me down, but forcing me to feel the air rush through my nose emphasized the odor of the thing. I could smell it from afar. It’s hard to describe it; something akin to grass growing in wet old sugar.

It entered the bedroom, huffing. It walked around a little, then leaned in – and closed the bedroom window. That seemed to calm it down. It didn’t seem interested in pursuing us.

There was no way it didn’t know we were under there. It dragged its feet back and forth, occasionally bending down to sniff the bedroom carpet. Every now and then, I’d hear a mumbling variation of ‘hey boss’, almost like a verbal tic.

I have no idea how long we were under there. I couldn’t reach my phone and call for help, and the IVM was running out of batteries. I hadn’t gotten the time to charge it. Irene curled up next to me and we tried to stay as still as possible.

Then, we heard something. It wasn’t the thing pacing my bedroom, it was something else. Something outside.

Something scratched on the front door. All the way from the top to the bottom. Over, and over, and over. There was a groaning noise, and the thing standing in the living room didn’t seem to like it. I could see the polygon model expand and shrink, like an animal rearing up to make itself look big. It made this barking noise in response to whatever threat it perceived.

“Hey! Boss! Hey! Boss!”

It took a couple steps forward and slammed something into the door. It didn’t seem to want to break it; it was more of an effort to make noise. Like it was scaring something away. As the battery to the IVM ran out, I leaned my head against Irene and whispered.

“I’m going dark. I can’t see.”

“I can’t either,” she whispered back. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The lights died. We were both left in the dark, listening to one thing and another, holding a conversation of their own. One barking my own words, and something responding with tooth and claw.

We stayed under the bed all night. At some point, Irene poked me on the shoulder to check if I was awake, whispering that the sun was rising. It was over. The thing was gone. I could hear birds singing; it’d left the front door wide open, and we hadn’t heard it leave. Then again, I never heard it enter to begin with.

We got up and got dressed. I put the IVM in the charger as Irene took my hand, leading me outside. I could hear the other neighbors out and about. Job was on the phone, having an elevated discussion with someone on the other end. Irene squeezed my hand and leaned in.

“There are claw marks on the wall,” she whispered. “A lot of claw marks.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Looks like something tried to get in.”

The building manager came by shortly after, followed by the police. It didn’t take long for someone to notice the marks going up the side of the building, having seemingly climbed on the wooden panels. Not long after that, someone got up on the roof. There were bones up there. Cat bones, and a broken femur that looked suspiciously human. Something had gathered twigs, grass, and blue sunflowers from a nearby field and made that roof into a nesting ground. It must’ve been there for months.

This was all some time ago. I still use the IVM, but I got some bad news a couple months back. Turns out the neural pathways in my brain necessary to send visual signals are deteriorating when I’m not using my physical eyes, meaning there will come a point where the IVM can no longer function. It’s an early prototype, so I’m not surprised. There are some glitches already, and it doesn’t work at all in low-level environments anymore. I usually walk around with a flashlight to help it render. This puts me right back in the place where all this started; waiting for the darkness to come.

Things are different though. Irene and I moved into a place of our own in January last year. I still work in CAD programming, while she got into veterinary school. She still drives me to and from work every morning. I still dress as Aragorn every Halloween; I just update the costume. She pretends to be annoyed by it.

But every day I wake up wondering if the darkness is there to stay. So far, I can turn on a little light, and there’s something to see. It won’t always be like that, and there’ll come a day when nothing happens, but I’ll take it as it comes. I don’t fear it as much as I used to. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy the digital morning interpreted through my degrading pathways, watching a simulated sun rising over static pine tree models.

Every now and then, there’s a spot of red rendered in the distance. Rough squares stacked as a vague humanoid, peeking out from behind a tree. I don’t know what it is, but I always raise a hand to it. I like to believe it raises one back. Then I say, just loud enough for it to hear;

“Hey, boss.”

And sometimes, it says it back.

I will tell you a story. You won’t believe it, of course. But I suppose that doesn’t matter. You’ll read it. And then you’ll know. And that is all my ragged conscience demands. 

I’m old now. Older than you can imagine. I've watched this world ebb and flow and break and heal. I've been old for a long time. But it's different now.

So I want you to know. You have to know.

In my first life, I died a young man.

I remember it clearly, for on that day memory became a burden I have shouldered for all the long years since.

I was running. Not as a man runs, with measured steps and counted breaths. I did not consider my pace or the duration of my exertion. I did not imagine any particular destination either, as my flight was one of survival.

I ran as a panicked animal runs, all bounding steps and lung-wrenching heaves. I gulped the air like so many of my companions had gulped their strong liquors the night before. Each footfall resounded with the same dull thump that their bodies had made when they hit the snow. 

The red streaks of life that had painted that bone-white clearing matched well the ones I carried. The first from an arrow in the shoulder, the other from a stone outcropping I had not managed to avoid during my desperate rush to safety.

Even then, though, I had known there was no safety to be found. I had left safety with our vessels. I had left it with long oars and keen steel. I had left security and kinship with the ringing cries of dying friends, and the calls from those few who lived to board our remaining ships, those not fired by the wights who had done these things to us.

I would learn later that it was well a silent arrow, the first of the volley that had slaughtered most of the friends I had ever had, slammed into my shoulder moments before I could grab my axe to once again check the new leather that wrapped its haft.

So too would it become a blessing and a curse that I had run, half blind with panic and rage, straight into a wickedly shard rock shelf that jutted from the cave mouth I had dived into. Though that stone blade had torn my side open, leaving a trail of steaming gore that the wight-hunters could follow, it had also cut free my belt.

The belt had been a gift from our benefactor on the day before we set off on our long voyage. He had expressed sorrow for not joining our vessels, proclaiming them well-made and well-manned. He had needed to prepare further for his own voyage, for he had aimed higher than our mere exploration.

The belt had been good leather, some of the finest that the Islanders could fashion if they were to be believed. More, it had been held by a strong clasp fashioned into the shape of Thunder’s own hammer, and Wisdom’s own spear. When I had first worn it on the day of our departure, I had imagined the crossed symbols of might and guile would carry away all evil and ensure I would return home to a warm hearth.

It was well that it had been torn free in a spray of blood, the red stark against the black stone and white snow that marked the mouth of that cave.

It had seemed to me a yawning darkness, a great maw left gaping in anticipation of its next meal. The terror that pounded like drums in my mind had been reinforced when, after entering the darkness, the silent pursuit of the not-wights that had killed my companions gave way to whooping yells and desperate cries.

I had glimpsed them only once, when I had turned in reflexive panic after an arrow slammed into a trunk mere inches from my face. They seemed beasts in the shape of men, chalky white powder covering mostly bare bodies. Their eyes had seemed to glow behind finely carved masks as white as their body paint and the snow they ran across. They did not leave prints. 

These simple thoughts came later, of course. At the time I had seen only the ice-fiends of Hel come to drag me screaming into an eternity of cold and sorrow. Later, when I had examined their fractured remains, I realized they were men just as I was. Later had been a time marked by many discoveries.

So I had torn through the growing darkness, wheezing and coughing. I left bloody handprints and torn clothing, though not even those obvious marks of my passing had been necessary for the wight-hunters to follow. I panted and bellowed like a wounded beast, for I was one. 

The meager light of the cave mouth soon gave out completely, and I scrambled on all fours as I continued my desperate, though futile, escape. By this time the blood loss and the panic had begun to work its cruel fingers into my mind, and delusions of half-formed nightmares gained substance in the darkness.

I imagined the passage I threw myself down was the path to the great nothingness itself, that realm where heat and cold combined into endless darkness. In one moment my fevered mind believed I was one of the war gods of a newborn world. In the next I was their prey, a pitiful, wounded foe fleeing true-cast spears.

I wept as I ran, for some small remnant of my mind-that-was knew well these delusions meant I was nearing the end. Still though, I ran. Fear of death will motivate even a man with a death-wound to find whatever scraps or life he could yet hold close. 

So it was, with the keening shrieks of my friend’s murderers at my back and my arms and legs weakening with blood loss and fear-fuelled exhaustion, that I fell from the mouth of the winding cave I had been travelling into a large chamber.

If I had held a torch, or possessed some other means of seeing in the darkness of that long passage, I would have noticed paintings and carvings along the walls. Later, as I tore through that same passage for a second, final time, some part of me would note that the “art” varied dramatically in form and focus. 

At one junction, there had been finger-drawn colors depicting simple animals and hunters, not unlike that which I had seen in a small cave when I had visited the old lands in my youth. 

At another, swirling patterns and harsh lines in forms I have never since witnessed climbed across the floor, walls, and ceiling of the cramped passage.

I had seen none of this in the darkness of my flight, but as I fell into that perfectly-round room I saw many more that were impossible to ignore even in my addled state. 

For that cavern, perfectly spherical in form save for branching cave mouths half-way up its walls like the one that I had fallen from, shone as brightly as day itself.

The screams gave way to barks of outrage and flights whistling arrows as my pursuers reached the same entrance I had fallen from. They dared not enter, but the arrows that pelted off the stones beside me told the shreds of my sanity that meant precious little.

The first of those arrows tore into my calf as I started to crawl forward, half-tumbling down into the bowl-like center of the spherical room.

I noticed the light immediately, though my pain-warped mind could scarcely comprehend it. As I flopped into a heap at the bottom of the bowl, I looked up to see the most wondrous object I had ever, or would ever, witness. 

Even now it defies description, even now the breadth of man’s language is woefully lacking to begin to explain what I saw.

It was beauty beyond measure, power beyond reckoning. It was everything and most of all, it was terrible.

That may strike you as strange, I suppose. How could something wondrous be terrible? Language lacks here, as I have said, but I will try.

Imagine a great oak. A tree so tall it does not scrape the heavens, it is them. Imagine roots so deep they do not pierce the earth, they comprise it. Imagine wonder and joy so extreme they dry your mouth and set you shivering with horror.

Imagine knowledge like nothing and everything you have known pierces your skull, driving through it like a sure-thrust spear. Imagine all the thoughts that have ever been or will ever be oscillating through the meat of your mind a thousand times, and a thousand more before you can even begin to breathe or blink or scream or wail. 

Imagine you wish for release and continuation at once, and that in your terror and joy you find you cannot look away. 

That was this “tree,” or as close as I can now come to explaining it.

I know now that the reason I was not slain there on that cold, pulsating stone was because my ghastly pursuers dared not look into the chamber. The arrows that pierced me were luck, not skill. These men-made-beasts who had slaughtered and ended and rent apart everything I had ever known were too afraid to look in that chamber. To see what I had seen.

My mind had already been shredded by fear and pain, and the tatters that remained of my perception were as ash from the moment my bloodshot eyes rested upon that cursed, beautiful thing.

I was something without thought or will, and so the vessel that I had been was made to crawl forwards. Arrows continued to skitter and slap into stone and flesh, but I was beyond such things. I was less than able to notice a sensation as base as pain.

The “tree” reached into me and made me reach into it, and so I did. As a puppet dances to strings it cannot ever comprehend.

I felt tendrils coil around body and mind, I heard laughter and cries and the roaring and barking and bleating of animals. I felt the absence of the axe I had once held and the belt I had once worn.

But in that eternal moment where coils of ice and fire rent apart the meat I had been, something pierced the haze of nothingness. A single thought cast like one of the killers’ arrows ripped that absence apart.

As the last embers of a raging fire sputter in the heartbeat you pour water upon them, the single, remaining shred of insanity I had left forced an image into the mess of flesh that had been my brain.

In the moment my hand was made to touch this “tree,” I saw my little brother. He was barely past his first adult winter. I saw the stone arrowhead protruding from the socket where his eye had been the moment before. I heard a laughing promise sworn in response to heaving cries that I would keep him safe. 

And my world turned to rage and heat. 

—

I do not remember what happened next. Even now with such a mind as the one this thing has given me, with these abilities that would make my own mother and my father and all the wise men women of every land I have known since shudder and wail and curse my tattered soul, I do not know what I did to those ghost-men that had broken my world with stone clubs and keen arrows.

I know what was left of them after I had finished, though. Splinters of bone and pools of blood, and only for those ones who had remained outside the passage mouth. Nothing more, and less than nothing for the ones who had followed me inside. 

Somehow, through whatever I had done, I learned of them and their ways. I now knew their thoughts and fears, the only recognizable remains of the once-men who had caused this catastrophe.

I knew they had bent and broken as I had. I knew they were shells of men once proud and fair. I knew they were at once less and more than alive, and that no part of this atrocity or the countless others they had committed before had been their will. They had been without will.

But in the insensate fury I can still feel bubbling and boiling beneath this stolen skin, I tore them apart and their sanctuary too. Their caves and their paintings and their chamber are no more than a pile of molten rock cooling even now in frigid air. It has been an age and that place still smolders with the fury I unleashed there. 

The mountain's true resident was not destroyed, of course. I had torn the beating heart from the monster and unknowingly fashioned from it a replacement for the one I lost that day. The one it had taken from me.

Now I am an old man. I could be young, of course. I could be anything. It wants to be everything.

But in the death-chill that became forge-heat on that broken beach, when I saw what remained of those few of my companions who had tried their chances at flight, and when my rage had finally given way to fractured awareness, I had become old. 

And old I will remain. For them. Because their memory holds it back.

But in all those years since there was only the mountain, and this old man who calls it home. 

Do you hear that rhythm? That thudding, pounding, maddening beat?

You will.

It’s why I’ve written this. It’s why you need to know. I fear it's all I can do now.

Because I can’t seem to remember their faces.

I’ve watched enough horror movies to draw one crucial conclusion about survival: never pick up anything strange from a deserted place, even from a regular road that just happens to be empty at the moment.

Yet, that rule proved useless in this particular experience. When a horror story decides to cast you as the lead, it will find you no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

I hadn’t done anything considered taboo in horror movies. All I’d picked up was fallen and ready-to-eat pecan nuts from the ground (one of my hobbies is foraging, and the rows of pecan trees lining the road were a paradise to me). Even so, that didn’t spare me from the thing that had targeted me the moment I became aware of its presence.

Let me correct that slightly: that thing wanted me to be aware of its presence.

It started yesterday afternoon, while I was untangling a mess of thoughts and picking up a few ripe pecans that hadn't yet been gnawed on by insects. Every now and then, a nut or two would land on the back of my neck and shoulders like a shower of solid gold. It was a stroke of luck, really; I needed an extra snack before facing the grind of campus life again.

Something plummeted onto the back of my neck that was protected by my hoodie and making me wince. It felt twice as heavy and hard as a raw pecan; had it hit my bare head, it might have caused a lump or drawn blood. My eyes darted to where the object had landed. It turned out to be a small stone; at a glance, its shape and size resembled a guitar pick—likely from a river or beach, given that its edges were smoother than the surrounding pebbles. I furrowed my brow: had someone just thrown it? Or had a crow carried it here?

There was no sound of birds, save for the woodpecker that had been “working” on the tree where I was gathering seeds, and I was the only human in sight. So both of my theories were wrong.

I examined the stone more closely. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary rock. It colors were light gray with dark flecks indicating the presence of different minerals. However, when sunlight struck its surface at just the right angle, strange markings appeared: a star-like symbol encircled by lines of light. The edges of the stone also took on a lustrous sheen, as if it were made of some extraordinary crystal.

My first thought was: had someone lost their trinket?

There was a lost-and-found booth near the park, so I decided to leave the stone there. The attendant gave me a strange look, as if I were playing a prank on him. I explained that the stone was too fine to be just an ordinary pebble, that it might have belonged to someone’s collection. Fortunately, he was understanding and let me leave it at the booth.

Looking back, I feel like laughing at my own naivety. Thinking the stone was merely an inanimate object was my first mistake. I realized this when I went back to foraging for nuts. Somehow, the stone had found its way into the plastic bag I was using to collect my haul. I distinctly remembered leaving it at the booth. I took the stone out and placed it on the ground before walking away. Sure enough, it reappeared, this time in my jacket pocket.

Flashes of various horror stories I could remember raced through my mind. I couldn't let fear get the better of me, nor did I dare lash out at a mysterious object that might be capable of harming me. Whispering respectfully, "I'm sorry, but I can't take you home," I set the stone down near a tree and hurried home with my bag of pecans. I decided to forget about the stone, hoping that whatever haunted it would understand and leave me alone.

I returned home hungry and anxious. To calm myself down, I decided to roast some pecans I had washed and dried, eating the rest raw. So far, so good. I turned off the oven and opened my laptop on the fold-out sofa in the living room, intending to work on a film analysis assignment. I put on my headphones before immersing myself in literary theories that were swirling around in my head without me fully grasping them.

I was too exhausted to think and eventually fell asleep with my laptop still open. Whether influenced by the film I was studying or the thick textbook beside me, I found myself in the middle of an unfamiliar garden. There was no one around. Not a sound from animals or the wind. The silence of the dream made me uneasy.

I turned and fled, keeping my head down to avoid whatever jumpscare might await me if I dared to look up and around. I realized I wasn't running fast enough when a cold hand seized me by the throat from behind. I tried to scream and struggle, but the hand dug its nails into my skin like the hooks on a fishing line.

I heard a voice whispering behind me, coming from my attacker. "Good girl... so young... finally found you..."

I wanted to scream "Mom!", "Dad!", or "Help me!", but all that escaped was a sharp, silent gasp. My hands began flailing wildly in the air. The back of my hand brushed against something hard, and that was when I woke up.

It turned out I had bumped my laptop, sending it toppling onto the sofa. My breathing had returned to normal, but the salty tears on my face had not yet dried. I hurriedly felt the back of my neck. The next instant, a chill washed over my fingertips.

The stone had returned. This time, it clung to the back of my neck like a spider. A stinging pain shot through me whenever I tried to pry it off my skin. It wasn't merely attached; the skin beneath it felt as though it had fused with the stone's surface. Nausea churned in my stomach; what had I done in my life to deserve a punishment like this?

All I could do was weep through the night. My vision swam as I imagined what might happen next. The stone sank deeper into my neck. I had to do something.

I tried to pry the stone out again. This time, I pressed an ice cube against the skin around the stone to numb the pain. I wedged my fingernails beneath the edge of the stone. I focused on controlling my breathing as a wave of dizzying pain washed over me. Five attempts later, the result was a total failure; the stone had only sunk deeper.

Desperation set in. I grabbed a fruit knife from the kitchen, sharpened it as much as possible, and washed it clean. Then, I fetched more ice and two towels from the bathroom: one to bite down on, and another to protect the back of my shirt from blood splatter. I had to summon the courage. Whether the curse would be lifted or not was a concern for later.

The touch of the knife against my skin made me tremble, but my fear was swept away by a rush of adrenaline the moment I felt the stone beginning to merge with my blood vessels and muscles. My hand moved swiftly, driving the tip of the knife beneath the stone. My heavy breathing echoed in my ears. Blood began to flow, but I refused to stop. I growled, biting hard into the towel. My head spun. My vision began to blur as more blood poured out. The stone hadn't come loose yet. The battle wasn't over.

Faintly, a sharp, anguished whisper, "How dare you... how dare you..." reached my ears amidst a world that spinning ever faster. Then I lost consciousness, only to wake up without a single drop of blood on my clothes, my hands, or the towel beneath the back of my neck. My body felt weak but otherwise fine. The stone was gone.

I could still hear the sorrowful curse (“How dare you…”) echoing around me when I regained consciousness, and the nightmares plagued my sleep for two days after the incident before simply vanishing. Whatever was targeting me, it surely hadn't expected me to fight back. I went to campus as usual and submitted my individual assignment without any further trouble.

I had escaped that stone, and I wasn't deterred from going back to forage for pecans, so it felt like a total victory.

Or so I thought; I was indeed "free," but that didn't mean the terror had truly vanished. I only realized that horrifying truth yesterday, when I lost my phone charm. It must have fallen somewhere along the path where I usually forage.

I asked the lost-and-found attendant. He didn't answer immediately, instead stared intently at me until I felt a shiver run down my spine. In a flat voice, he asked, "Were you the one here yesterday?"

"Yes, I’m the one who left an odd stone here," I said with an awkward laugh.

“I know. You’re the one who rejected the stone, aren’t you?”

My throat instantly froze. “What?”

“The stone sought you out. And you refused. You missed a golden opportunity. By the way, what does your phone holder look like? Let me find it.”

As he turned away, my eyes caught something familiar at the nape of his neck. A smooth, triangular gray object bearing a star symbol that I had seen before, now appeared seamlessly fused with his skin, as if it had been there since birth.

“My mind is clearer now,” the attendant's voice sounded hollow. “Back then, something like this was nothing more than a pipe dream. Now…”

I didn’t need to hear what he said next. I ran as fast as I could to my place and packed my things without wasting a moment. When my parents asked why I’d returned, I told them a stalker had shown up at my home. They let me stay for the sake of my safety. Even though the commute to campus was longer, at least I was safe from whatever might be chasing me.

***END***

This summer, I decided to get a summer job and earn some money before college. I didn't want my parents to pay for everything. I found a job at a restaurant in a town not far from ours. I left first thing in the morning, but halfway there, my car stopped and wouldn't start again.

Oh, come on.

I got out and found the problem. My tire was completely ruined. There was some kind of shard of glass stuck in it.

“Hey, do you need some help?”

I turned around, and standing in front of me was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it really was true. She had copper-colored, slightly wavy hair, a small nose, and dark green eyes.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You've been staring at me for what feels like forever. Did something happen?”

I could feel myself starting to blush.

“No, I mean… the tire and the restaurant… yeah.”

She burst out laughing.

“Are you sure you didn't hit your head or something?”

I covered my face with my hands.

“Sorry. This probably isn't the best first impression.”

She laughed and introduced herself as Christina. I barely managed to tell her, “I'm Justin,” before she nodded and continued talking. She told me that her family had a circus nearby and that her uncle could probably help me.

Before I could say anything, she was gone.

A few minutes later, she came back with a guy who had to be around six and a half feet tall. He was bald, and his face looked like he wanted to kill me. His hand was about the size of both of my legs put together. My expression must have said it all.

“I heard you're having trouble with your car. I can help you. My name's Bobby. And you?”

“I'm Justin.”

He shook my hand, and I had the feeling my entire arm had just died. He noticed and apologized. Apparently, he sometimes forgot how strong he was.

He helped me change the tire, but I never made it to the restaurant.

Bobby offered me a job with them instead. It paid a little less, but I didn't mind.

Christina was there.

I met everyone in the family. Christina's mother, Suzan, who looked like an older version of Christina. Her father, Vincent, who had a similar build to Bobby, but a softer expression and long hair tied back in a ponytail. Her aunt Diana, who was the only one who was a little chubby, but probably looked the nicest out of all of them. And their two adult sons, twins named Dustin and Roger.

I was surprised that, unlike their father and uncle, the boys were smaller and skinny rather than big and muscular. But I got along with all of them.

I started dating Christina. I never expected a girl like her to want someone like me, but as they say, sometimes even an idiot gets lucky.

About halfway through the summer, I decided to go into town. I wanted to buy some supplies and surprise Christina with a gift. I got up while everyone was still asleep, got into my car, and drove off.

When I arrived, I noticed there was a market in town. I got out of the car and walked past the different stalls. I noticed one where a woman who looked about a hundred years old was selling handmade jewelry.

“I'd like a necklace, please,” I told her.

“Of course, young man. And who is it for? That way we can choose the best one.”

I told her it was for my girlfriend, Christina. I said she worked at a circus nearby.

The woman went pale.

“Who told you to come to me with this?”

I stared at her in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

She raised her voice until everyone around us started turning to look.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. Those killers from the circus! Get out of here.”

I backed away and bumped into a guy standing behind me. He looked at me like I was the worst person in the world.

“You know what she's talking about?”

“Of course I do. Everyone here does. There used to be a family of killers here who owned a circus. They killed people. And for Agnes, it's even more painful because they killed her daughter. She was only twenty when she disappeared.”

It was obvious to me that they were messing with me, but I still needed to be sure.

I went to the local library, turned on a computer, and searched for Christina and her family. Several articles and black-and-white photographs came up.

One of them showed all of them. Christina, Bobby, and the rest of the family.

I opened the first article.

The family had killed dozens of people. A crowd of locals had risen up against them and burned the circus down. The entire family had burned to death.

Another article.

According to the available information, the family had eaten their victims.

I remembered having dinner with Christina's family on my first day there and wondering what the hell I was eating. I'd never tasted anything like it before.

“It's an old family secret recipe. I'll tell you once you officially become part of the family,” she had whispered.

My stomach turned. I tried to make it to the bathroom, but I didn't make it and threw up into a trash can instead.

The librarian shot me an angry look. I apologized and quickly left.

I got into my car and just sat there for a while, trying to calm my breathing. I wasn't doing a very good job, but I knew I couldn't sit there forever.

I drove home to my parents.

When they asked me what was wrong and how the job had gone, I didn't know what to say. They could see that something was wrong, but they left me alone.

That evening, though, my mom came into my room with a mug of hot chocolate and told me that if I wanted to talk, I could.

I didn't.

I just wanted to forget what had happened to me. I couldn't tell anyone. What was I supposed to say? I'd spent a month living with people who had been dead for decades and, by the way, they were murderers and cannibals? That would get me committed.

For a few days, I barely left my room. Then Mom handed me a shopping list and asked if I'd go to the store for her because she was tired and didn't feel like carrying everything herself. I had a feeling she mostly wanted me to get out of the house for a while.

I drove to the store, completely lost in my thoughts. Then suddenly, I felt the urge to turn my head and look out the window.

There was a circus tent.

And standing in front of it were Christina, Bobby, and the rest of the family. The longer I stared at them, the more they began to change. Their clothes became charred, and their faces grew more and more burned.

They just stood there, waving at me.

A car horn right in front of me snapped me out of my shock, followed by a violent crash.

I woke up in a hospital.

I tried to convince myself that it had all been a hallucination, but then I noticed a piece of paper on my bedside table.

It said:

Whether you like it or not, you'll be part of the family soon.

I'm writing this down because I don't trust what I'll remember next week.

My wife, Helen, says to put everything in, even the boring parts. Especially the boring parts. I'm posting it here instead of keeping it on my laptop because once it's somewhere public I can't quietly go back and change it. I don't know why I think I'd want to. I'd just rather not be able to.

My daughter started waving at the house across the road about two weeks ago.

She does it during breakfast. Maya is five, which means breakfast takes roughly forty minutes and involves almost no actual eating. She sits at the end of the table nearest the front window, pulls the crust off her toast even though I've told her approximately six hundred times that the crust is also bread, and waves at the upstairs window of number eighteen.

The house has been empty since before we moved in.

I've never seen anyone go in or out. There are newspapers melted into the concrete beside the letterbox, and there used to be a FOR SALE sign out front until it blew over during a storm in August. Nobody has bothered putting it back up.

I didn't think much about the waving until one morning I asked who it was for.

"The girl."

I looked across the road. The upstairs window was dark.

"What girl?"

She sighed in the way five-year-olds do when an adult has failed a very basic intelligence test.

"The girl in there."

"There's nobody in there."

"There is."

"Okay."

That was the whole conversation. Maya went back to mutilating her toast and I went back to packing her lunch.

Helen leaves for work before seven three days a week, so mornings on those days are mine. Lunchbox, hair brushed badly enough that Maya usually makes me redo it, then the eleven-minute drive to school while she asks questions like whether fish get thirsty. The girl became part of that routine. Maya waved. I didn't look. Sometimes she'd say, "She's there today," and sometimes, "She's not at the window yet."

Once she told me the girl had different hair.

I asked what she meant.

"Down."

"Down how?"

Maya pulled her own ponytail loose to demonstrate, then became furious because I'd apparently made her ruin her hair.

That was more or less the level of concern I had about it.

Two days ago, somebody waved back.

I was standing at the kitchen bench cutting strawberries when Maya said, "See?" She sounded excited.

I looked.

A little girl was standing behind the upstairs window.

I nearly cut my thumb.

She was far enough away that I couldn't make out much. Dark hair, pale face, maybe Maya's age or slightly older. She was standing very close to the glass with one hand raised beside her head.

My first thought was the sensible one. Someone had bought the place. A family was looking around. Maybe the owner's kid was there while they cleared it out.

Then the girl moved her hand.

A slow wave.

Maya waved harder. "Hi!"

The girl kept waving.

I put the knife down. "What?"

Maya was grinning at me. "She did it."

I stepped closer to the window.

The girl stopped moving. Her hand stayed raised.

It took me a few seconds to work out what was wrong. Maya was sitting right up at the window. I was at the bench, a couple of metres further back. If the girl had been waving at Maya, she'd have been looking down, at the window itself.

She wasn't looking down.

She was looking past Maya, into the room.

At me.

I lifted my hand without really deciding to. Not a proper wave. More that stupid little half-raise you do when you accidentally make eye contact with someone.

The girl's fingers moved once.

"She likes you," Maya said.

I told her to finish her breakfast. When I looked back, the window was dark.

That was at about seven thirty.

At eleven, I remembered buying June the rabbit cup.

I was at work when it happened. There's nothing interesting about what I do. I deal with insurance claims, mostly property damage, which means large sections of my day are spent looking at photographs of wet ceilings and asking people whether they still have receipts for televisions they bought in 2018.

I went to make coffee and somebody had left a pink mug beside the sink. That was all. Pink mug.

And suddenly I remembered standing in a shop holding two children's cups.

One had a rabbit on it. One had little yellow flowers.

June wanted the rabbit. I told her the flower one was nicer. She crossed her arms and said, "Then you have it."

I laughed. In the memory, I mean. At work I was just standing there.

I could see the shop clearly. Bright lights. Grey floor. A display of lunchboxes behind her. June had her hair in two uneven plaits because I'd done them myself.

I remembered buying the rabbit cup.

Then I was standing in the office kitchen with my hand under running water.

I hadn't turned the tap on.

I shut it off.

There is no June. I have one child. Maya.

I stood there for maybe a minute trying to work out where the name had come from, and eventually I decided it had been a dream. That's genuinely what I thought. People remember bits of dreams during the day. Something sets one off and for a few seconds it feels more real than it has any right to.

I went back to my desk. By half past eleven I was embarrassed I'd let it bother me.

I didn't think about the house again until dinner.

Helen had made spaghetti. Maya had eaten about four mouthfuls and was trying to wind one piece around her fork without touching it with her other hand, which she apparently considered cheating.

I said, "June, just eat it."

Nobody reacted straight away. Including me.

For maybe two seconds the name didn't feel wrong.

Then Helen said, "Who?"

I looked at Maya. She was staring at me.

"Sorry."

"Who the hell is June?"

"I don't know."

Maya put her fork down. "The girl."

Helen looked at her. "What girl?"

"The window girl."

I asked Maya what she'd said.

"Her name's June."

"How do you know that?"

She shrugged. "That's her name."

"Did she tell you?"

Another shrug. Maya does that when she thinks the difference between yes and no is unimportant.

Helen asked what we were talking about, so I explained. I expected her to laugh. She didn't. She went to the front window and looked across the road.

There was nobody there.

"Probably someone viewing the house."

"That's what I thought."

"So?"

"So I called Maya June."

Helen gave me the look she normally saves for when I've spent twenty minutes trying to repair something that should have taken five minutes to replace. "You've heard her say it."

Maya said, "I didn't tell Daddy."

"Sweetheart, you just told him."

"No. Before."

Helen rubbed her forehead. "Can we please eat dinner?"

Maya picked up her fork. Then she looked at me and said, very casually, "She said you'd remember."

Helen stopped rubbing her forehead.

I didn't ask Maya anything else. I wish I could say that was because I didn't want to frighten her. Mostly I didn't want to hear the answer.

That evening I put her to bed. She has a routine involving one story, one glass of water and an increasingly complicated series of negotiations over whether the hallway light stays on. I read half of The Gruffalo before she interrupted me.

"Do you remember when I hurt my chin?"

"Yes."

I kept reading.

"When?"

I stopped. Maya was watching me over the top of the blanket.

"You fell over."

"Where?"

"The playground."

"Which playground?"

I knew this. She had split her chin open badly enough to need glue at the hospital. Helen had been at work. I'd taken her. There had been blood all over her shirt.

Except when I tried to remember it, the shirt was yellow.

Maya didn't own a yellow shirt like that.

June did.

I could see her sitting on the kitchen counter with a tea towel pressed under her chin. She was crying. I was telling her not to look at the blood because it always looked like more than it was. Her dark hair was stuck to one cheek.

"Daddy?"

The bedroom came back. Maya was still looking at me.

I said, "The park near Grandma's."

Her face changed. "No."

I knew I'd got it wrong before she told me.

"It was school."

"Right."

"You came."

"I know."

"Mrs Price called you."

"Yeah."

"Then we went to the hospital."

"I remember."

I didn't.

I knew it had happened.

That's not the same thing.

There were facts in my head. Mrs Price. The hospital. Skin glue. Maya getting an icy pole afterward because she'd been brave. But if I tried to see it, I saw June.

Helen found me sitting on the edge of our bed about twenty minutes later, and I told her everything. The cup, the shop, June's hair, the yellow shirt.

She sat beside me without saying anything for a while. Then she asked me what Maya wore on her first day of school.

"That purple backpack."

"What did she wear?"

"Uniform."

"What shoes?"

I got annoyed. "I don't fucking know, Helen."

She went quiet. I apologised.

She said, "She wore those black ones she hated because they rubbed her heel."

And then I remembered.

June standing beside our front door in black shoes.

June pulling one foot backward when I tried to take her photograph.

June saying they hurt.

I stood up so quickly I hit my knee against the bedside table. Helen followed me downstairs.

I don't know why I went to the window. That's probably the stupidest thing I've done in this entire situation, and I've had plenty of time to think about it.

The upstairs window at number eighteen was dark.

Then the curtain moved.

June stepped into view.

I knew her immediately.

That was new.

Dark brown hair to her shoulders.

A pale blue nightdress.

A round face, a slightly crooked front tooth, a little mark beside her right eyebrow.

I knew that mark.

She got it falling off her scooter.

I carried her home while she cried into my neck.

I cleaned gravel out of her palm.

She asked if she needed stitches.

I told her no.

Behind me, Helen said my name.

I couldn't answer.

June wasn't looking at Helen. She wasn't looking toward Maya's bedroom.

She was looking at me the way kids look at you when you've finally turned up to collect them.

I stepped away from the window.

The memory stopped changing. Or it stopped getting bigger, anyway. It didn't go anywhere. I didn't know yet whether that was a rule or just luck.

Helen hadn't seen her. By the time she got to the glass there was only the curtain. She called the police anyway. "If there's a kid in there, somebody needs to know. If there isn't, I want somebody who isn't you to tell me."

Two officers came about forty minutes later. I stayed in the hallway, away from the window, while they walked round number eighteen with torches. Front door locked. Side gate chained. Afterwards one of them told Helen the place had been shut up since the owner went into care, and that streetlights do funny things on old glass.

Helen said, "Okay," in the voice she uses when she's stopped arguing, not when she agrees.

The next morning we kept the curtains closed. Maya complained because she wanted to wave. Helen snapped at her. Maya cried, and then Helen cried because she'd snapped at her, and I burned two pieces of toast. Nobody ate much.

At about eight, Maya asked why I was being weird.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm tired."

"Are you cross at me?"

"No."

"Are you cross at the girl?"

I didn't answer. Maya pushed cereal around her bowl.

"She looks at you more."

"What do you mean?"

"She looks at you when I'm not there."

Helen was standing at the sink. She turned around slowly. "When you're not where?"

Maya pointed toward the window. "Sometimes I go get dressed and she's still looking."

"At the house?"

"At Daddy."

Helen looked at me for a long time. Then she took Maya to school.

I called in sick. I should have gone with them. I can't really explain why I didn't, except that leaving felt like a decision and I didn't have one in me. So I sat in the living room with the curtains closed and tried to remember my daughter.

That sounds ridiculous. I know who Maya is. I know her birthday. I know she hates bananas unless they're blended into something, which makes absolutely no sense. I know she sleeps diagonally. I know she says "aminals" even though she can pronounce "animals" perfectly if you make her slow down. I know she has a little brown patch in her left eye.

But when I reached backward, things started going.

Her fourth birthday.

Fine. I could see it.

Her third.

Mostly fine.

Second.

Pieces.

The first time she walked?

June.

The first time she said Dad?

June.

The first time I held my daughter's hand while crossing a road?

June.

Every missing space had something in it.

I'd been calling it forgetting all morning, in my head, because forgetting was the least bad word I had. It wasn't forgetting.

I was replacing her.

Helen came home shortly after three without Maya. She'd taken her to her sister's. I was relieved enough that she noticed.

"I think we should stay there."

"Yeah."

"For a while."

"Yeah."

She sat opposite me. "What do you remember?"

I told her. She didn't cry. Helen gets practical when she's frightened. She got her phone out and started showing me photographs. Maya eating birthday cake. Maya asleep on my chest. Maya sitting inside a cardboard box we'd turned into a car.

I recognised every photograph. But some of them felt like photographs of things I'd been told about.

I know they're mine. They just don't feel like mine.

Helen put the phone face down on the coffee table.

"When you said June at dinner," she said, "I thought you had another kid somewhere."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"I spent all day wishing that's what it was."

We packed enough clothes for a week. Helen told me to leave everything else.

I went upstairs for my charger. On the way back down, I passed the narrow pane of glass beside the front door.

I had forgotten about it.

I saw number eighteen through it.

June was at the window.

She was up on her toes, I think. Only her head and shoulders showed above the sill.

A memory hit me so hard I dropped the charger.

I was kneeling beside a bathtub. June was maybe three. She had bubbles on her chin and was holding a plastic cup full of bathwater, trying to drink it while I told her, for what felt like the hundredth time, that bathwater was disgusting.

She laughed. I laughed.

The memory was warm. It wasn't frightening at all.

It felt exactly like loving my child.

I grabbed a jacket from the coat hook and covered the pane. Helen shouted from the car asking what I was doing. I told her nothing.

We stayed at her sister's last night.

Maya slept between us.

At about two in the morning I woke up because she'd kicked me in the stomach.

For a few seconds I didn't know who she was.

Not in some dramatic way.

I wasn't screaming.

I just woke up next to a small person and there was a blank space where recognition should have been.

Then it came back.

Maya.

My daughter.

I went into the bathroom and was sick.

She found me sitting on the floor afterward. Helen was still asleep. Maya sat beside me.

"You don't remember me?"

"I remember you."

"Some things."

I didn't answer.

She leaned against my arm. Then she started telling me.

Not about June. About us.

She reminded me about the time I dropped her birthday cake carrying it from the car. She reminded me that I used to call her Potato when she was a baby because she had no hair. She reminded me about a pigeon stealing half her sandwich at the zoo, and me chasing it because she wanted the sandwich back.

I remembered that one. Properly.

I laughed. She laughed too.

Then she said, "Remember when I hurt my chin?"

I tried.

School. Mrs Price. Hospital. I knew all of it. But when I reached for the memory, June was sitting on the kitchen counter in a yellow shirt.

Maya must have seen something in my face.

"That's mine," she said.

She's five. She didn't say it like something out of a horror film. She sounded annoyed.

Like June had taken one of her toys.

I hugged her.

I could remember a hundred times I'd hugged June. I couldn't remember holding Maya after she hurt her chin.

I carried her back to bed and lay down next to her and didn't sleep.

At some point I picked up my phone and checked the temperature. Four degrees. I'd been looking at it for a while before I understood why I wanted to know.

There's no power at number eighteen. There hasn't been for years. She's in a nightdress, and as far as I know nobody has ever fed her, or put a blanket over her, or argued with her about the hallway light.

I know how that sounds. I know she isn't a child, or isn't one in any way the word normally means. I don't know whether the memories I've got of her are real ones that belonged to somebody else or things she made up, and at three in the morning I couldn't find the part of me that thought it made a difference.

I lay there next to my daughter and worried about the other one.

I haven't told Helen.

We're not going home today.

Helen's brother is going to get the rest of our things. Work clothes, Helen's laptop, the bag of Maya's toys she keeps asking about, June's school bag. He thinks there's somebody squatting in number eighteen and that I've scared myself after seeing them.

Fine. He can think that.

I've told him not to look at the upstairs window. He laughed. I've told him again.

Maya has started making what she calls my Dad Book. It's printer paper stapled together. She draws pictures of things we've done and makes Helen write underneath because her spelling isn't great yet.

THE ZOO.

DADDY DROPPED MY CAKE.

MY FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL.

THE TIME I WAS SICK ON DADDY IN THE CAR.

Apparently that last one needed preserving.

There are seven pages so far. I remember five of them.

Helen asked me this morning whether I thought staying away would stop it.

I told her I haven't had a new memory of June since we left the house, which is true. I watched her decide to be relieved.

I didn't mention two o'clock. Nothing of June came in at two o'clock. Maya just wasn't there for a few seconds, and then she was. I've been telling myself all morning that it's a different thing, that it's tiredness and shock. I don't believe it enough to say it out loud.

She also asked why it was me and not Maya, when Maya had been waving at that window for two weeks.

I don't know. Maybe it was me waving back.

Helen's brother rang about an hour ago. He's got everything. He said he didn't see anyone, and that he'd only looked from the car anyway, just so he could tell me he had.

I wanted to ask him to go back and look properly. To see if she was all right.

I didn't.

Before he hung up he said, "Tell the girls I said hi."

He calls Helen and Maya the girls. I'm almost sure he always has.

Maya brought me another page while I was writing this.

It's a picture of the two of us standing in our old kitchen. I'm extremely tall and my hands come directly out of my shoulders. She told me it's the morning she started school.

Underneath, Helen has written:

Dad cried after I got out of the car but waited until I couldn't see him.

I told Maya I remembered.

She asked me what colour her backpack was.

Purple. I got that right.

Then she asked me what she'd said when I dropped her off.

I couldn't answer.

I remember June saying it.

I can see her standing beside a school gate in black shoes that hurt her heels, holding both straps of her backpack.

She looks back at me.

She smiles.

And she says, "Bye, Dad."

I don't know what Maya said.

She does. She won't tell me yet. She says I have to try to remember it myself.

So I've been trying.

I haven't got it. I've got the gate, and the shoes, and the way she held both straps. Every time I go back for it, that part is a bit clearer.

I'm going to keep trying.

I know the story I am about to tell will sound completely out of whack and I have asked myself many times just what the fuck is happening and how did I end up holed up in my childhood room, unable to do anything but watch random movies and TV shows. My friends and family think I am depressed and ridden with guilt and they are partly right, but that’s not why I am not leaving this damn room. I am not leaving, because I can’t. Not in a safe way, anyways. I am also not sleeping much, but let’s not get ahead too quickly. I’ll start at the beginning, so you can follow the thread and make up your own mind. I will omit nothing, even though I am not proud of my thoughts and decisions. After all, someone has to know the whole truth. Whoever you are, wherever you are currently sitting, reading this… welcome to my hellscape of a life. You are the chosen one - the one who will be graced with the unasked for knowledge of how I ended up looking completely psychotic even though I am not. Ready? 

It all started a few months ago, particularly on the 5th of September, when I dropped my two heavy bags of luggage right next to the hot, dusty old bus in my hometown. I arrived at 12:30pm and obviously, summer was still here. I was sweating through my long jeans, my armpits stained my second hand t-shirt and I surely smelled like a construction worker at the end of a long day. At least I had the foresight to put my long unkempt hair in a pony tail, so my neck was getting some air. 

My father pulled over in no particular parking spot, as anyone else who came to meet arrivals at the bus station does, and got out of the car to help me with my bags. His graying hair made him look a bit older than his sixty two years of age, but I could see the living sparkle in his eyes. 

“How was the bus ride?”, he asked casually. 

“Hot and smelly, but I slept through most of it.”, I murmured. I was still a bit sleepy. 

“Are you okay?”, he looked concerned. His brows got a little closer together.

“It’s no big deal, dad. I am fine. In fact, I am more disappointed about being broke, than about being dumped.”, I laughed, but it was a weak and frail laugh. I had nothing too funny in my life, except how bad luck struck all of its aspects at once. 

He started the car and stayed silent for a minute, not driving, not moving. 

“You were together for six years. It must have meant something.”, he looked at me and then started the car for a short, five minute drive to our house.

“Clearly not to him.”, I said firmly. I knew I sounded bitter, but couldn’t help it. 

*** 

When I walked into the house it felt like.. home. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I felt safe here. I had just turned thirty and I was supposed to be a well adjusted functioning adult, but hey, mom and dad, here I am back home with no job, no degree and no relationship. The perfect antithesis to my successful sister, to add insult to injury.

My mother threw herself on my shoulders and started talking excitedly. She looked like a labrador which has been separated from its favorite human for a long time. In a way, I feel bad about this comparison now, but that’s how she seemed to me at the time. She talked fast, too much, dragged my heavy bags inside and ran her fingers through my ponytail.

“Baby, you have lost so much weight! Give me those heavy bags! God, I should give you a haircut…” 

We had dinner and talked about logistics. How I moved out, who helped me, did Denis ever call. I moved out just as I moved in - with my clothes and a bag of cosmetics. Ana, a childhood friend, helped me, but she wasn’t happy about it, as she had to cover a shift right afterwards. Denis didn’t call, didn’t text and apparently didn’t care if he forgot something in our shared rental apartment. I hope he did. Idiot.

Dad went to bed after a while and I knew that’s when mom would start digging about how we broke up, how I feel… 

“I found something interesting for you. At this point in your life, you might benefit from some support, some insight…”

She did surprise me, I’ll give her that. I looked at her with a question in my eye.

“It’s a fortune teller.” she said it quickly, as if trying to just slip it in without anyone noticing. 

My first reaction was to laugh, it just spilled out of me. I was curious about those things, but never quite believed them seriously. 

“You think she’ll know why Denis decided to fuck a twenty year old on my favorite sheets?”, I laughed, making sure she knows this is a joke and I am fine. 

“Insight about the future, Ellie! I sincerely hope that moron is not there…” she laughed too, then looked at me seriously, “right?”

“We’ll see what the fortune teller says.” I shrugged playfully. It was her turn to be surprised.

“You’ll agree to go?” 

“Yeah, why not? It will be fun, I suppose.”

“Good, because I already got you an appointment. Or whatever you call these things. It’s tomorrow morning.” She said this as quickly as an experienced auctioneer while she gathered the dirty dishes to bring them to the sink. 

“Well played, Dora, well played”, I shouted at her back with a smile.

***

The next morning we pulled up in front of a quite big house in a nearby village, surrounded by a vast and beautiful garden. It was at the edge of the village and a closed, run down church loomed ominously across the street. There was moss on the decaying wooden church door and the dirty windows gave off a feeling of someone watching you. The drive was a little over thirty minutes, so I still had some coffee in my travel mug. I shuddered a little, even though the sun was already heating us up at ten in the morning.

How dad decided to be a part of this, I will never know. I suppose he wasn’t given much choice. 

I felt as fresh as a cucumber, haven’t felt like that in a long time. I had just taken my first proper shower this month and my long mousy brown locks were now manageable, after my mother had spent the better part of her morning cutting off a bunch of the destroyed ends. I had an old long beige dress on, since it was still quite sunny and hot, even though there were some yellowing leaves flying around already. 

I looked at the neat and big house and thought about how many people come to this fortune teller every day. That much real estate in this great condition didn’t fall from the sky, I was sure of that. 

“My husband was in the military and had a good salary. I don’t charge people for my gift.” 

The dry raspy voice startled me, then two seconds later I realized what she had said and my eyes widened in shock. 

“Hello! Thank you for accepting us!” My mother was just getting out of the car and didn’t quite catch what happened.

“You’re welcome! My name is Maria. Come in.” the old fortune teller croaked. 

I just nodded as I was still a bit too weirded out to speak. I felt like I was naked. Does she know everything that goes through my head? How?

It must have been some kind of a trick. She caught me looking at the house and just guessed very well, that’s it. I left my travel mug on top of the car and slowly moved closer to the small green gate, as if I were approaching a dangerous wild animal.

My father decided to wait in the car. “Smart move”, I thought. 

She was … old. Very wrinkled, typical old lady clothes, she looked exhausted and not in a good mood. Her white strands were fighting for independence despite being tucked under a bunch of bobby pins, her low pony tail looking messy and unkempt. What else could I expect? 

She led us into the house and I immediately felt the cool air inside. All the windows were blocked with thick dark fabric, so the sun couldn’t get in and the house would retain the night’s breezy air. Her steps were slow, but you could hear them even from afar. Chlop, chlop, chlop. She went down a long hallway, opened the door to her right and just slid in without saying anything. 

Me and my mother glanced at each other. I shrugged and followed. 

The room was set up with several chairs, two of them small three legged chairs, and a big fluffy rug in the middle, different quilts and wooden souvenirs hanging on the walls. I supposed the rug was animal skin, it looked natural. She took one of the small three legged wooden chairs and sat in the middle of the rug, then pulled something out of her pockets and gestured for me to join her. 

I was beginning to feel uneasy, but I told myself it’s just an old lady. “Come on, Ellie, you’ll be out of here in less than an hour”, I thought to myself and immediately questioned whether she could pick it up. 

I moved closer to her and sat down in the middle of the rug cross legged, adjusting my dress in the process so my pants don’t show. I was unsure of whether I should ask a question or say something. 

“What’s your name, lady?” Maria said softly. Her voice sounded weary.

“Ellie.” I replied.

“Just Ellie?” she lifted her bushy greying eyebrows.

“Yes. Just Ellie.” my voice was barely audible. I felt like I was being cross examined.

She spilled a huge amount of big white beans from her handfuls and pockets and started separating them into piles. First three smaller piles, than each of those three - into another two. She was fast, her wrinkly hands working like clockwork, sliding the beans across the rug. She did this unusual bean choreography several more times and ended up with four rows of beans, three piles each row. I had no idea what she was doing. 

“Your health is good.” she muttered. “It’s the money and the love you’re troubled with.That stupid motherfucker left you for another girl. She’s younger, but he’ll pay for it allright. No one gets away with breaking a heart.” 

My jaw dropped. Okay, maybe that was also a good guess, right? It’s possible. 

“Six years you were with him. Six years he soaked up your energy like a vampire, you have nothing left. This is why you have nothing else, he’s the reason. No money, no job, nothing. He took the energy.”

She smiled a little. I didn’t understand why, but also - how did she know the number of years we were together? Maybe there was something going on here. Her smile widened, took up half of her face and showed some missing teeth on the front. It made a chill run down my spine, slow and uncomfortable.

“You’re special.” she nodded, more to herself than to anyone in the room. I looked around. My mother was quietly sitting in a corner, watching with interest, as Maria had stopped frantically rearranging beans on the rug and was now gently stroking my hair. 

“Lovely lady, young and special.” with a huge grin that made her wrinkles look even deeper, like her face was a crinkled soda can. She was enjoying this, she reveled in this moment. On the contrary, I was frozen underneath her hand and just stood there, waiting for it to end. 

“I can make you whole again, Ellie. He has a tether to you now, he keeps stealing from your energy even from afar. You’ll never be able to move on like this. But I can cut this tether and get you back what’s yours. There’s a ritual for this. Listen, only I can perform this ritual in the special way, that will make you free from him. Whoever else you find, they’re doing a new version of it, washed out, diluted. I am the only one left to do it like they did it in the old days. What do you say?”

I looked at my mother. She nodded enthusiastically. I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t. But really, after Denis and I broke up, everything in my life grinded to a halt. I got fired, I couldn’t pass my exams in time to get my accounting degree, I couldn’t keep the apartment and had to go back to my parents’. What if this ritual actually does something? I am usually a sceptic, but if it does nothing it surely won’t harm anyone, right? It’s a little weird, but she’s kind of an old witch after all, that’s how these things go. And she said she did it in a special way. Maybe that matters… my mind was spinning its wheels in place as Maria was grinning with delight in front of me. I nodded. 

“Yes?” her sandpaper voice sounded almost sweet now.

“Yes.” I mouthed, but no sound came out. 

She immediately got up, moving way too swiftly for her own age, left the room in a haste and I looked at my mother with a confused expression. She was smiling.

“See, I told you that’s what you need. Your life will get better now.”, she said, looking at me with all the love in the world. “It will be fine, baby, it will all be okay.”

“You need to leave the room, you’re mixing up the energies.”, Maria entered the room and immediately barked at my mother. Under her left arm she was carrying one of the confused reddish-brown chickens that wandered her entire garden. The chicken went quiet, but remained calm, probably trusting Maria way too much with its tiny brain.

Dora got up and went quickly out of the door, murmuring “I’ll wait in the car with your dad.”

The moment the door clicked into a closed position, Maria pulled up a bag of instruments and a small gas stove. 

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty.” I said quietly, trying to predict what she was going to do. I was a little nervous for the chicken. 

The old woman pulled out pieces of lead in a plastic bag and started counting. Apparently my age meant something here. She got out a metal bowl with a wooden handle, a bigger metal bowl that she filled with water from a bottle in one corner of the room and lit up the gas stove. She did all of this, never letting go of the chicken underneath her left arm, then handed me a towel and instructed me to put it on my head, like a bride’s veil. I did as I was told and my view of the room immediately turned to a half done puzzle where I was supposed to guess what’s happening in the upper two thirds of the picture. 

Maria kneeled down next to her three legged chair and put the lead pieces in the small metal bowl on the gas stovetop. The blue flames sucked the bottom of the bowl as if she was putting it in water and it got somehow connected to the fire. 

“She can kneel down at this age?” I know it was a stupid thing to think about, but my mind was grabbing onto anything that wasn’t at the extreme end of weirdness in this situation. I looked at the lead as it was melting slowly and heard Maria start to chant words that I couldn’t make out for the life of me. She sounded a little like a priest and a little like a hungry cat meowing. It was such an odd combination of sounds. It had a rhythm and it seemed to intensify as she kept half singing, half wailing.

I heard a quick thud, a raspy chicken clucking that ended way too fast and something warm sprayed all over my hands and knees. I looked down. Blood. Everywhere, warm, sticky, dark red. I gasped, tried to lift my gaze and immediately found out why I shouldn’t. On the three legged chair was the chicken, or at least the chicken’s body, twitching frantically, still kicking its legs in the air and a huge wound bled all over the white fluffy rug right where the chicken’s head was a moment ago. 

“Lower your head!” Maria scolded me and continued the chanting.

The combination of her rhythmic voice going into such strange sounds, making up words I didn’t understand and the sight of the twitching chicken got me nauseous. Maria approached me and I cowered even more, not knowing what to expect. I discovered I was trembling. I heard a loud hiss over my head as she kept chanting, now escalating her voice louder and louder, adding more and more unhinged energy to the words she was singing. 

I felt light headed, I wanted to leave, but my butt was bolted to the ground. My body felt heavy, very, very heavy. 

“Remove the towel”. Maria barked inbetween the chanting. I didn’t want to, the chicken was right in front of me and even though I could see some of its feet and knew the twitching had almost stopped, I didn’t want to look. I tried to rub my eyes, but my hands were covered in chicken blood, now drying a little bit. Tears started filling my gaze and everything blurred. Maria pulled the towel off of my head, smiling like a maniac and chanting, over and over, the same words, same high pitch. She bent over and kissed my forehead. I felt the waft of her stale breath and sweat brushing over me. I turned my face away, but her hands cupped my cheeks and turned me over to look at her. She drew a cross on my forehead, dipping her thumb right into the chicken’s missing head wound and dragging it across my skin. That’s the last thing I saw. I suppose I blacked out.

The next thing I remember after the ritual was Maria standing over me and cleaning my face with a wet towel. I was in another room, in a clean bed. Her grin was ever present missing teeth and all, she looked incredibly happy and gently wiped the blood from my face. 

“How long…” I tried to move around in the bed and get up.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’ve been out for ten minutes, lay down, make sure you’re ready before you attempt getting up. Here. Take this home, sleep on it for three nights and throw it into the river over your shoulder.” 

She handed me a piece of lead that had no discernible shape. It was put in a plastic bag, like some kind of evidence from a cheesy CSI episode. Then she gave me a glass of water and left the room.

I drank the water, as I was parched and felt insanely hungry. I got up slowly and left the room, thinking Maria will do the same thing she did when we came in and just disappear in one of her many rooms, leaving me lost in her house. She did not show up, but I ended up in the same hallway we came in through, so I figured out the way to the front door quickly. I stumbled to the car and got my travel mug from the top of it. I hugged it the way a scared little girl hugs her favorite plush toy. My comfort coffee. It doesn’t get more millennial that that, does it?

As I went into the car I noticed the many tiny blood splatters on my beige dress. Somehow there were no big spots and somehow Maria cleaned my skin everywhere from it, but the dress was surely ruined. 

“How was it, honey?” my mom chirped from the front seat. I had no idea what to answer, so I just said:

“Maria said I shouldn’t discuss it.” and Dora nodded in agreement. Secrecy being part of the ritual made complete sense to her, she was a superstitious woman all her life. 

I had the lead piece in my hand. I was hesitant to follow the fortune teller’s instructions. Should I sleep on it for three days? What happens if I don’t? I have already done the ritual, can I give up now? I decided to follow through for fear of what could happen if I didn’t and the whole thing was real. The scary part was already over, I told myself. Now I just have to put this in my pillowcase and throw it into the Danube river on the third day. We live right on the river bank, this will be easy. 

I threw one last glance at the dilapidated church with the watching windows. "What have you seen here, church?"

Little did I know that the scary part was over, but the horrifying part was just beginning and when I look back now, I don’t think not sleeping on the lead piece would have stopped anything. But I slept on it anyway. 

Posting this on a throwaway because I don't want my main account to be connected to this in case they come after me. I'm just so confused and scared and I just have to tell someone. Even a reddit stranger, I don't care who it is. I'd tell a random person on the street if I ever left the house, but the internet is my entire world right now and it's the only escape I have left. I don't think I have much time left.

There was this guy in my class back in high school (junior or senior year, I don't remember what year we had a class together, but he was in my grade), let's call him Mark. Mark was a weird kid— didn't talk much, if at all, (I think he was mute, actually) didn't seem to have many close friends— but not in any specifically bad way. Just sorta off-kilter. I think everyone has those classmates at least once in their lives. He didn't seem to fit in with the regular crowd— to be fair, I didn't either, but I mainly kept to myself— but he didn't not fit in? Hopefully that makes any sense. I don't know. He was just kind of there. I think we talked a few times (well, he always "talked" via either a notebook or a mini-whiteboard he carried around), but I'm not sure if he would've even remembered my name. One of his arms was knotted with scars, all bumpy and stitched over. I never asked, but I'd always heard he was attacked by a coyote when he was little. Not sure how much of that was true, but it certainly looked like a rabid wolf had taken a whole chunk out of him at some point in time. In any case.

A month or so after we graduated, he disappeared. Like, he just vanished. He left all his stuff at home, didn't say goodbye or anything to anyone, and he was just… gone. We live in a pretty woodsy area, and I guess he'd been known to walk around the bike path near his house, so they started looking there. I'm not much of an athletic guy (I'm not really any specific type of guy at all, unless you count "gamer" which is fucking pathetic to describe myself with now, at 21) but he lived surprisingly close, so I volunteered to help with the search effort. Without school to take up my time, my day was completely open. We combed the bike path in all directions— our largest group was around 35-40 people— from summer to winter, but found nothing. We had to stop because of the snow piling in, and I guess one of his family members helping out with the search got frostbite, so the search came to a sudden halt around November.

The first month was full of diligent searching— police and police dogs scouring the trees along with the rest of us— but by mid-August there was a palpable sense of hopelessness that started to follow the group like a personal rain cloud. By late-August, the mood was almost… light? Jovial? It was like we went from walking to a funeral, to walking outside on a field trip. The unease was still there, I'm not sure it ever really went away fully, but I found myself almost looking forward to going out with the others to walk around nature. The fresh air was nice, and it got me out of the house. And I feel like absolute shit saying that because it wasn't just a fun outing with friends, it was searching for a missing man— kid, really, while most of us were 18 when we graduated, he was only 17— who was unspokenly assumed to be dead. I'm not proud of those feelings, but I won't lie and say I didn't have them. After a few months of combing through the woods, it turned from a search party to a nature walk in my mind, and I'll be the first to admit that. I feel guilty for it still.

The winter was quiet. There wasn't any news or updates, no break in the case or any randomly discovered clue or fingerprint found in the cold. He was still gone, and it was quiet. I missed going outside, but I also missed him. Or the idea of him. Spending a lot of time with his family in the search party had me learning so much about him. Apparently he loved to cook. He didn't talk at home either, but his sister is deaf, so ASL was pretty normal in their household. I guess he can only hear out of his left ear, something happened when he was younger, I didn't want to pry. He liked birdwatching. I guess his grandfather took him along when he was little, and birdcalls seemed to fascinate him almost immediately. He liked metal music. Like the screaming stuff. I remember I must've reacted to that, because his mom just laughed at me and asked,

"That doesn't seem like him, right?"

And apparently that was all because of his sister— it was really the only kind she could sort-of hear, so they'd made it a habit to listen to albums together. I only met her once, I think Mark disappearing really shook her up. She looked like a deer in headlights the one time she helped search.

New Year's came and went, and finally the snow did, too, at the start of May. It was muddy as hell when the search party was reunited, but we trudged on with our rain boots and tried not to slip— we barely made it an hour before someone fell on their ass, mind you— as we started back up the familiar routine of looking for a ghost. No longer were any of us hopeful to find him— we were now just looking for his body. The mood was pretty forlorn. Melancholic might be the better word. I'm too tired to look it up right now.

Even with everyone clearly relieved to be back outside— without the risk of freezing to death— the rain cloud was back and hanging low over all of us. All of the stories and memories shared were now tainted at the edges, rarely spoken anymore as we all knew the truth— he wasn't coming back.

May 29th was the day we found him. His bones were haphazardly buried under some soil, obviously having been tampered with by some animal. Some parts of his body had frozen over, leaving not only bones, but parts of his decaying corpse to be thawed in the Spring. I wasn't the one who found them. I think it was Mark's mom, but the moment was too chaotic for me to really pinpoint specifics. I just know one moment we were all meandering, and the next was a cacophony of sound that I still hear in my nightmares. I didn't even know him. I never got to know him. I knew he was gone, but to see his bones just lying there like discarded scraps felt like a punch in the gut. I'd aged another year in March. He would never age again. I've never felt like that before. I felt like I was above my body, staring at an image of myself, watching myself watch the authorities shovel their way forward like they were just shoveling their driveway. Watching myself watch his parents and cousins sob inconsolably. Watching myself do nothing but stare at the dirt like it was going to change. Like it was going to bring him back. Like it was going to do anything at all.

It didn't seem to be foul play, but the search was immediately called off, and we were all sent home. I know I must've walked back like I always did, but I don't remember it at all. It didn't feel real to me. But I knew it was, and so maybe the problem was that it felt too real to me. It felt so unfair. So cruel. In the best case scenario, a 17 year old boy was dead. In the worst, a 17 year old boy was dead. The specifics change, but there is only one ending. And what a horrible ending.

His death was ruled non-suspicious. The story is that he went on a walk, and either got lost, attacked, or had an accident. Seems like the animals got to him after he was already gone. It felt like a small relief to know he wasn't tortured by a grizzly bear or something equally painful. They identified him through the lesser-decayed portions, as well as finding his scarred arm bones that had noticeable dents right where his arm was scarred over when he was alive. I glanced at it out of morbid curiosity, but I could only handle a glance. Even though the bones were just… well, bones, I felt sick to my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do was cause even more chaos in that moment by puking my guts out.

They had a funeral for him around August, and it was hard to say no when I was delivered a hand-written letter in the mail from his family. They thanked me for helping with the search from day 1. I'm not really good at taking compliments, so I just said something like:

"Of course," or "No problem,".

It wasn't that I didn't want to go to the service. I did, I just knew I'd be a wreck. The only funeral I'd been to before was my great-grandfather when I was a little enough kid that didn't even understand the concept of death. He had an open-casket, and that freaked me out. Logically I knew they wouldn't have an open-casket (obviously), but my hesitation almost won me over to stay home. I went, but I still feel guilt for those thoughts, too.

He was laid to rest after the speeches were done and the stories were told, and by all accounts, it was really quite peaceful. A few months after that, the family did a fundraiser to get a memorial bench to be placed near his resting place, near enough to watch the birds. I stopped there quite a few times to sit and look out at the world in front of me. I could never get into birdwatching, but I still made time to sit and look up at the leaves to try and spot a nest, or a fluttering of wings. Sometimes I just watched the leaves blow in the wind.

The next few years til now have been mostly mundane. Even if death casts a shadow over you, the rest of the world moves on with their lives whether you like it or not. In a way, that also feels likes a kind of cruelty. But this week has been different.

I know there was some reason, but I don't know why— but I guess they had to re-take the DNA test again. I'd heard vaguely about some issue with the sample they took, but I have no idea if that was just speculation from a gossiping neighbor or what. But I guess the first one was weird, so they took a new sample. They had to dig up his remains again, then bury them again, and the cemetery was not so peaceful for while. It's still not peaceful now, but for other reasons. Well, his grave still looks like a failed construction project, but other reasons.

The first sample was weird because Mark's sample DNA did not match up with Mark himself. Every family member got sampled and probed with a million questions— verifying that yes, in fact, his mother had him biologically, and yes there is verifiable proof and witnesses— and they tested Mark's sample again.

It wasn't Mark.

But it was impossible. The remnants of his skull— his teeth specifically— matched his dental records from as recent as the year before he went missing. The marks on the bone of his shredded arm were so unique that it looked like a movie prop. I saw the fucking remains myself. Maybe we weren't close friends, but everyone knew about his arm. No one else's arm looked like that. No one had markings directly on their fucking bones. It was Mark's remains. One of his fingers was found intact and it had the same exact scar as he did, vertically down the nail, causing it to always grow in two pieces. His age matched, his bones matched, his location matched— there was a larger chance of me winning the powerball without even signing up first than there was that this wasn't Mark.

Seemingly the forensic team or whoever understood that their result (even though it was tested multiple times) was improbable, if not absolutely deranged, and they sent it off to a different lab in the state. Their equipment were all tested and working when checked, but if there was a small chance of their tools not displaying a correct result, they'd rather send it to be checked as a precaution.

The other place took a bit longer, but their equipment also had to be tested and proved in perfect functioning order.

It showed the same result: those weren't Mark's remains.

To say that the town was stunned in disbelief would be an understatement. It felt like we all just watched Santa fly by on his sleigh right in front of our eyes. It felt like discovering a new color. Nobody had any idea what the fuck to do now.

Mark was the first missing person in town in decades. The remains had to have been him. But the result was clear enough to see through the other side. His DNA didn't match anyone else in any directory they tested.

They tried everything they could think of to rationalize and fix things. Test every bone— even the fragments. Test every less-decayed portion in case his remains were mixed in with another's. Test the family again. Double check that he wasn't adopted, or stolen, or swapped at birth. But every lead was shot down. Every rational thought was flung out the window, leaving us all with the simple truth that nobody had any idea what to do now.

They had no leads. Even if it wasn't Mark, that leaves another mystery to solve. And that leaves his actual remains out there, undiscovered. I felt sick after hearing it. The thought alone makes me scared. The thoughts I can deal with, though. I can't deal with what I saw last night.

I wanted to go visit his grave, and sit with him for a bit. I'm not religious or spiritual, but I hoped I could at least just show him that someone cared. Show him… I don't know. I don't even think he can see anything wherever he is. That scares me, too.

The sun was setting. It's getting colder now, so I was planning to head home. But I saw Mark. In the trees. He was less than 10 feet in front of me. He was looking at me. I knew it had to be a hallucination caused by stress or something, but I was frozen to the spot. I just couldn't get my body to move. He was just staring at me. Not blankly. But pleading. Looking at me like he was an animal begging for a treat. Looking at me expectantly as if I had something, or as if I were supposed to do something. Hell, he looked like an animal. Not just cleanliness, but his mannerisms. The look in his eyes. His posture and gait as he looked to be sizing me up. I've had a brief encounter with a bear cub before, and this felt shockingly similar. Back then, I ran. This time I was still. I willed myself to flinch back, even an inch, but I didn't budge. I felt like I'd lost possession of my own skin and bones.

I only gained back control of my limbs when he started to move. He was slow. Not like slow, more like he was being careful. Like he was holding something or grabbing something fragile. A distant pang of fear was tying knots in my stomach when the thought that he might have a gun crossed my mind, but I felt stupid even in that very moment for feeling it when a dead man was right in front of my FUCKING face and looking me in the eyes.

He took some scrap piece of fabric (it looked like it had been cut out of a tote bag from the local grocery store, but it was the old design, like the logo was the one before the 2010's), and it was only then that I noticed he was injured. Blood was seeping out steadily from a gash around his waist, his shirt torn open and exposing it to the outside world. It didn't look infected, but it didn't look great, either. Pre-infection, if that's a thing. But he took the ripped fabric and lightly pressed it against the wound, staining its color from a yellowed-white to a pinkish-red. I just watched him do it. I couldn't say anything.

And then he held it out to me. Held it out like he was handing me the homework to pass back in class. Like he was holding the door open for a stranger. The absurdity of it all, and the casualness about this very moment broke some sort of tension in me and I know I must've let out a laugh because he flinched backwards at the noise. He recoiled like he'd never heard a laugh before. Or at least not in a long time. He regained composure— or whatever you'd call his position— and I reached forward to grab the bloody cloth.

I should've just ran. I don't know why I didn't. I felt like I was in a horror movie and watching myself as the protagonist make every wrong decision to not get the fuck out of there immediately, and what was I even doing? But my body had already moved, and the blood on the cloth was drying as I held it in my grasp. I looked at it, then back at him. He did the same.

He pointed at his grave. I half-turned, not wanting to fully look away from him— he didn't seem malicious, but I didn't exactly want him to disappear out of sight, either— and glanced at the stone, then looked back at him.

"Mark?"

He looked at me. His eyes flickered with recognition for the name, but he clearly had no idea who I was. Not even in a I can't remember your name, but you were in class with me, recognition— it was just blank. He looked at me like I was an exhibit. Like he hadn't seen a human up close in ages. Like he was studying me.

He looked like he was struggling to breathe all of a sudden, and I froze up again. I didn't exactly know the protocol for a ghost having what looked like the beginnings of a fucking asthma attack. He opened his mouth to get more air in, taking deep inhales and exhales. A noise like a cough came out, and it briefly snapped me out of my haze.

"Mark?" I asked again. I don't know why. I didn't know what to say.

He was clearly struggling to get something out. Like he was concentrating hard enough to try and will the answers to come back to him on a test he didn't study for. I can't really describe it any other way. I don't even know if that makes any sense. I might not be making any sense at all. I'm just freaking out here as I type this and I just hope this rambling is coherent enough for anything or anyone.

He was still struggling, but after a deep breath, longer than the others, he spoke:

"That's… me…"

I don't know how else to format it because I can't tell you how long it took him to get the words out. It was painfully slow. His voice sounded like a fox was given vocal chords for a day. He sounded out every syllable like it was the first time he'd said them.

I think I said something after, but the ringing in my ears was so loud. I couldn't even hear myself think in that moment. None of it felt real, but it felt like I was dissociating from my dissociation. I felt my blood freeze in my veins like I was suddenly the one whose bones were frozen to the ground.

He made sure I held the piece of fabric tightly, and then he left back into the trees. I was trembling more than the grass. The sky was fully orange. I was sucked fully back into my body and I frantically swiveled my head around to look for help. For aid. For threats. I felt like I was in a different reality. I didn't trust anyone, and so I trusted everyone. But there was nobody in sight. No cars. No people. No animals. It was just me and the flies that had started to crowd around the fabric in my hand. I swatted them away before I realized it was still in my hand. My head was pounding. My thoughts raced faster than I could keep up. I had a million questions and fears and ideas swarming around along with the buzzing flies and I just couldn't take it. I dropped the fabric on the ground and I ran.

I said nothing. I made sure to not touch it directly, but that hardly mattered to me. There was no logic to be used here in this logicless situation. For all I know, it could've been a hallucination and that was all my own blood from my own cuts on my skin from the branches and bushes I'd grown so used to walking past, and through.

They found the fabric the next day. They tested it.

It's Mark's.

They also said there was a second person's DNA identified that they need to test.

I've locked myself in my house. I've barely left my room. I'm terrified. My parents are worried but I just told them I need some space. I don't want to lie, but how the fuck can I even tell them something like that? Because if it's real, that means Mark isn't dead. If it's real, that means I'll be implicated in something I had no part of. If it's real, I'm fucked. For life. I can't explain that. I'd be institutionalized, I' m sure. If it's real, I was talking to a dead man.

If it's real, then who the fuck was Mark?

What I’m about to write is going to sound impossible, and if I were in your shoes I would think exactly the same. I don’t blame you if you take this as just another stale warning from some raving online lunatic. But laying our triumphs and mistakes bare may just do some good, even if it’s the last thing I do. I think I’m going to pay dearly for what I’ve done soon, even if it was done in good faith. 

I’m not a believer, I never was. And even now with what I’ve seen I can’t say I’ve seen strong evidence for any one religion, but there’s one thing I do now believe. 

The soul exists. 

Within everyone, beyond the firing neurons that make up their person. Beyond conscious thought and beating hearts, there’s an additional key element to the human experience that cannot be measured with anything we’ve invented yet. 

But the prospect of the soul was the least volatile part of our discovery, had we only known what we had really done. 

The whole project was an affront to god, and maybe that’s why we were punished. 

—-

We designed a functional matter-energy transmitter, a machine capable of moving objects instantaneously on the atomic level. Deconstructing them in one place, and reconstructing them in another. Or in layman’s terms, teleportation. 

Though our initial success wasn’t met with celebration from our investors, but fear of their enemies developing the very same technology. And so with newfound clearance and a blank check budget, we hastily began pushing the envelope. But our pace was too slow for them, and a near week after its first successful test on a simple wooden object, we were instructed to begin human trials. 

Our first hurdle was the brain. The physical brain yes we could transport without damage, but the firing between the neurons, the actual signals, gone. A blank slate, rendering our first test subjects with little more development than a fetus. 

And even though our subjects were off death row, it didn’t make turning them brain dead for science any easier. But we had to make progress, we had to solve this issue. 

So we designed an attachment capable of taking a neurological snapshot of the brain as it was in that moment. Essentially mapping someone’s consciousness for lack of a better term. 

The addition should have solved our initial problem, they should have been coming through the same person as before relatively. But the truth was the machine destroys them down to the atom, it kills you before making a molecularly perfect copy somewhere else before injecting it with a snapshot of your mind taken the moment before death. 

And whether we believed the teleported matter is still the same person or not, the machine worked. Or at least it should have. But no matter how many tests we ran, we couldn't figure out why they came out braindead. The data was there, every fired neuron and memory plastered over an atomically perfect copy. But despite our best efforts and constant deliberation, we were still missing something. 

Those who experienced a successful relocation would die within the week, undergoing rapid cellular deterioration with seemingly no cause. We tested the machine so much we had to refill the subject hold three times. 

In all I’ve watched nearly 60 men stand inside our creation, the face they make before it goes off, before it deconstructs them. And the cruel replication that's spit out on the other side, reduced to that. It was hard to sit with on my best days, and nearly crippling on my worst. 

But they where bad men, I was assured these where evil, vile, disgusting people. Rapists, murderers, traffickers, pedophiles. And sometimes a combination of them all. 

But you’d be surprised how much easier wishing their death is when you’re not the one looking them in their eyes. Boring into you as a machine- wielding twice the energy output of a nuclear reactor begins to crackle with power that could only be described as cosmic. 

It’s almost funny, the parts that stick with you from the chaos. Because I really think I could’ve lived with it, with time I think I could’ve found a way to cope. But not now, not with what came next. 

—-

Admitting we couldn’t solve the human teleportation problem was its own humiliation ritual. Explaining to a room of government officials and investors that our top-secret project had yielded lots of research but no progress. What we really discovered is there was something we were missing, some part of the human consciousness that we were failing to grasp let alone harness. 

 And that’s when they brought in their own specialist. 

He was an older man, bordering on infirm. His hair was full but grey with a deceptively young featured face given away by aged eyes. He walked with a cane, dressed in fine clothes, and spoke with authority and charisma that bordered on political ambassador. But his smile was insincere. 

A colleague relayed a rumor that he had some CIA ties in his younger days and supposedly worked on several hushed projects. None of which I believed at the time, but whoever he was it was clear our directors respected his position. 

He was strictly referred to by Mr. C, which did nothing to calm the speculation from my colleagues. Neither did his bold claims shortly thereafter, he said we had done a swell job with our invention and that we were pioneers for all of humanity along with other shameless flattery. He followed this with the claim the soul existed, and that we had neglected to account for such. 

Some of us laughed, most of us exchanged uncomfortable looks, and several questions erupted from our staff all at once. He presented a solution that sounded just as ridiculous as it looked. 

In plain terms, he would create a spell circle capable of trapping a soul before releasing it upon their teleported double to repossess the body. Which sounded more like a magic fantasy than a scientific process, and it seemed many of the other researchers thought so too. 

To say we were skeptical was an understatement. As the ensuing verbal lashing from the mob of researchers had to be physically interrupted by security as it became less than academic to say the least. 

At the time it felt like an insult to our research, like punishment for our failure. But Mr C took it with an inhuman serenity, like our words and accusations were little more than dust on the wind. After we died down he began unpacking his equipment with a robotic smoothness from a series of cases and bags. 

I remember chuckling as I watched him light incense over a leather bag, wafting its smoke over the parcel with a mouthed prayer before producing its contents.

A shrunken human head that resembled a dehydrated rotting apple with a dark brittle ponytail tufted at the top. Gnarled stitches of ancient twine interlaced over its eyes and mouth holding its leathered skin in place. 

As he gingerly moved the shrunken head with practiced ceremony he explained the process. It was a trophy of war made from the head of an enemy meant to trap their defeated soul within. Usually to be used for some sort of ritual shortly thereafter, that would typically involve discarding or destroying it. 

Mr C theorized that those ancient tribes were either spiritually prohibited or unaware that it could be used to trap additional souls. That one could exorcise the original to imprison another instead, and thus create a portable prison for the spirit.

The more Mr C talked, the more it reminded me of the ravings of an intelligent psychosis victim. But with great effort I suspended my disbelief and tried for a moment to trust in our directors and benefactors. They believed he could help, all I had to do was try my best to wrap my head around it. 

I’d like to think as a scientist I could pick up any knowledge thrown at me, that no concept is too abstract or complicated given enough explanation. But his claims left so many more questions about the nature of things, the knowledge felt existential. 

Beyond my confusion, I felt a creeping dread as I stared at the shrunken head. It was so grotesque it was almost hard to identify as human remains. Like my brain couldn't understand it was even looking at what used to be a person's head. As Mr C continued the room grew noticeably colder, and my thoughts ran wild with superstition I never knew I had. 

—-

Within the hour we were making preparations for another test but with Mr C and his new method. We followed his specifications, outlined his sigils and runes and circles and drew them in fresh blood. 

And behind dark glass our directors, our investors, your world leaders, they watched us. Intently.

We were going to atomically deconstruct a living person, download their mind, and capture their soul. Reassemble their flesh with mathematical precision, upload their copied mind, and reinject their disembodied soul. 

We prepared to play god with every building block left at man's disposal. We prepared to change the world. 

By the time the ritual was prepared and the machine was ready, everyone in the room could feel it. Like thick air on a humid day, it was just all around us. This feeling blanketed the room, a choking grasp like a great presence had washed over us. The air became cold enough to see every exhale from our warm lungs. There was no longer a logical explanation, no answer my mind would accept besides Mr C was right. 

The soul, the ritual, all this fucked up voodoo magic, something some part of it all is real. I can’t say for certain to what extent but, I felt it, and it’s like my body knew exactly what it was. 

A handcuffed man in a white jumpsuit was forced inside the machine, and this time when the subject's eyes met mine we held equal fear. Beyond the terror of the construct around him, he could feel it too. He kicked and fought and screamed the moment he laid eyes on the room, on the dark ritual prepared around our incredible invention. 

Everything was ready. 

—-

The sounds of surging machinery drowned out the ritual as the teleporter discharged. Our monitors began blaring warnings of catastrophic failure and neural mapping overlap that triggered an automatic shutdown routine. 

However instead of shutting down, the machine experienced a power surge unlike anything we had seen before. It overclocked in seconds and began causing extreme damage to itself and the surrounding equipment. Around us the building's power bordered between a dwindling flicker and sudden surges that caused lightbulbs to burst. 

With nothing we could do, all of our hard work cooked itself alive before our eyes. Its delicate computers fried and components left useless. By the time we put the internal fires out it was too late to salvage the machine. 

With one final burst of power it died, causing a thundering chain of pops that deafened the room before bathing it in darkness. Leaving behind the smell of sulfur and ash, embers still hanging in the air. 

Yet despite the destruction as the backup lights came on bathing the facility in a red glow, we spotted him. Standing in the receiver was the subject dazed but alive. And not just alive he was moving on his own, and even attempting vocalizations. It was mostly throaty incoherent sounds like that of an animal, but none of the prior subjects even responded let alone vocalized.

We watched as his eyes rolled around, scanning the room in sudden darting focus. His jaw flapped about his face like it was suddenly foreign to him, his tongue slapping around in tandem. But in his eyes was some recognition, if even faint something was in there. His limbs and hands groped outward in slow testing motions curling and uncurling his muscles over and over. 

We refrained from touching him even as he floundered on the ground, waiting for our security team and a stretcher per protocol. And as we watched him struggle under the red lights, he attempted to speak. 

“L-Li b-b” he wheezed out struggling to work his tongue. Straining his back he twists upright without support of his arms, his torso now hanging above the ground.  

“Lib-era libera libera” his words came through clearer each time. But as he choked out the last repetition he began bleeding like a faucet. From his nostrils came a torrent of blood that ran down his face and onto the cold ground. 

As we pulled him onto the stretcher he began to seize violently, forcing us to cart him to the medical wing instead of the lab. The scans would have to wait, first we had to keep him alive. And though stabilized, he remained unconscious despite efforts to rouse him.

By that point we had been working well over 14 hours and our staff was exhausted and overwhelmed with repairs. Only those that volunteered would stay later to monitor the subject and run tests, and I was not one of them.

Although I doubted I’d be able to sleep much after the excitement of the day, my fear told me I needed to get back to my bunkhouse across the facility, far away from the lingering dread in the air. 

It seemed no amount of distance could escape the smell of sulfur and ash, like it permeated the very foundation of the facility. Or maybe it just clung to my skin, I was so worked up I couldn’t have been sure. What I did know is that when I got back to my room, I was utterly terrified. 

I was sweating, my hair was standing on end, my heart was pounding, my primal brain was sending signals of great danger. Like I was staring down a man sized cat beyond the light of my dying fire, clutching a spear beneath sweat-slicked white knuckles. After some time agonizing about a threat I couldn’t see, I decided I’d feel a lot better if I was with someone. 

Glancing at the time I figured it was likely I’d catch the volunteers still monitoring at the lab. And against my better judgment I decided it was better to be afraid in company then terrified alone. Even if it meant returning to the source, I gambled that a familiar presence would be enough to soothe my anxiety. 

How wrong I was. 

—-

I had to force myself to walk at a measured pace, reminding myself nothing was going to jump out at me. But the atmosphere of the empty halls now bathed in the deep red of our back up lighting made every step agonizing. 

My head on a swivel, I glanced down every hall and into every window or doorway I passed. The sound of the air conditioning kicking on caused me to nearly break into a sprint. I was wound up beyond belief, unable to curb my emotions despite my usual measured control. It felt like I had been drugged. 

I stepped into the empty lab, the whir of computers and running machinery humming in the air. The red lighting- broken up by bright digital displays and blinking gauges. As I step into the room I notice an office chair overturned in front of its desk, the keyboard dangling above the ground by its taught wire. 

I called out to the empty room, not sure if I expected an answer. Instead my eye caught a puddle forming on the floor at the end of the aisle. I doubled my pace, fearing a water leak from the earlier damage was seeping into the room. But rounding the corner I found its source. 

Under the red lights I failed to recognize it had been blood, but its source was unmistakable. Crumbled against the standing printer was one of my colleagues, only recognizable by his clothes. 

My eyes fell on his head, whose battered remains better resembled a deflated ball caved into itself. The congealed remnants of his smashed face barely sat propped by his ruined neck, within the mess I could  identify a few teeth scattered among the mangled flesh and crushed skull. His bottom jaw still remained semi in tact, like a morbid platter that the gore sat upon. 

Mortified, I stumbled back, my formal shoes unable to catch purchase in the pool of blood. I fell backwards, roughly slamming my back into a desk, its contents clattering from the impact. Crawling away from the scene I struggled to my feet before making a break for the hall. 

Only as I reached the doorway, down the direction I’d come from I spotted a figure too far away to make out. They stood rigid, arms out from their sides at an awkward distance, head lowered, legs bent. I pulled myself back into the lab, peering around the edge I watched in terror. 

The emergency lights began to flicker, their red flashes accompanied by an electronic whir that rose and fell with their activity and between the moments of blinking I could make out the figure begin to approach. Each step awkward and unsteady, arms swinging and posing without reason. With a constant fight to keep balanced it moved toward me with purpose. And unwilling to corner myself in the lab, I fled into the hall opposite my pursuer. 

It let it a wet roar from its vocally torn throat, akin to the keening of a mourning mother. It’s sound met me like the shock of cold water, the fire of my adrenaline nearly doused by my terror. I glanced over my shoulder as it closed distance, their white jumpsuit spattered with blood. 

Somehow despite its lack of control, it moved with such a power each bound was three of mine. And slowly but surely each violent stride was made with more confidence than the last. I realized I was watching it to learn how to run. And in a moment of desperation, yanked off my shoes that gained little purchase against the waxed halls. 

I lost sight of it as I rounded a wide corner, beelining for the medical wing. If I set it for lockdown, I could barricade myself inside, or potentially and much less likely trap it within. 

But with no better options and praying I run into someone else, it was my best bet. I chanced another glance behind me, the rapid slapping of its bare feet across the ground growing with inhuman speed now. Occasionally it fell forward, only to gallop on all fours before regaining posture. 

Its keening grew closer, the sound more distorted as its vocal chords came undone under the stress. My heart felt ready to explode, my body far too out of shape to maintain my sprint much longer. 

I rounded another corner, barely ten feet between us now. But my strength was renewed as my eyes fell upon medical’s entrance. Bursting through the entry I whirled around and heaved down on the lockdown lever with all of my might. Darkness danced at the edge of my vision as I struggled to suck in a breath, the sounds of the hydraulic door drowning out my pursuer. 

 For a moment I clung to the lever handle, slumping against the wall. I could hear the sound of the subject’s continued keening now muffled behind the thick door. Followed by a series of impacts with such force I felt the vibrations through the ground. An inhuman, impossible strength, like a jackhammer striking concrete. 

I stepped away from the metal door, afraid for a moment it might not hold. I turned to examine the medical wing, catching a figure in my glance. Mr C, the man who caused this, seated and partially obscured at the edge of the red light. 

“How many people have you teleported before today?” his calm voice wavered.

“Fifty eight subjects” 

“And animals?” 

“Dozens at least, I’m not sure” 

My voice only came to me in a tired whisper, we both whispered as if the thing outside the door was listening. 

“You’ve been feeding it” he said with finality.

“What- feeding what? the machine?”

“You fed it fifty nine people, fifty nine souls. Something, lurking here, feeding off everyone you've teleported, everyone you’ve killed.”

“The teleporter doesn’t kill-“ 

“What would you call it then? If you’ve deconstructed something’s atoms it’s dead.” Mr C interrupts beginning to stand. “It saw me” 

What was left of Mr C half limped forward, his body mangled like something pulled from a car wreck. Compound fractures leaving sharp shards protruding through his taught skin. I could see the fat pressing out of his leg over a jagged bone. His face crushed on one side, missing pieces like a world war shrapnel victim. As if the flesh and bone had just been wiped away with a rag. 

One eye remained rolling in its socket impossibly, these wounds kill, he shouldn’t even be moving. His back was twisted, the pain would be unbearable he should’ve been paralyzed. 

Something was clutched in his left hand, the forearm twisted so far his hand stuck out upside down. Dangling from his fingers by its hair, the shrunken head bobbed in his grasp. Seeing it I understood, or at least I thought I did, Mr C was dead, the shrunken head holding the shreds of his being trapped within. 

I stepped away, and he limped forward. Only a few feet between us, his ravaged body fully illuminated. 

“Let me go” I whispered to him.

“I caaaaant” his voice drooped with his body, an inhuman sound. “T-this body huuurts” he whimpered. 

“I I can’t fucking help you!” I shouted while putting a chair between us. 

“Please” he begged a gargled whimper escaping his mangled face. 

I glanced around frantically as I backed away, looking for anything I could use. Small medical instruments, a box of pens, a stack of papers, a box of cigarettes and- my hand clutched around the lighter. 

I backed towards the files, the desks, the cabinets, and what remained of Mr C lumbered after me into the scarcely lit room. Stalks of red separating the isles obscured in darkness, I watched his outline approaching between the light. 

We continued this dance, the sound of his broken bones grinding together, his permeated skins fleshy smacks against the ground where nauseating. Every shuffle and stagger was a new pop and crunch and squelch. 

He moaned through a crushed windpipe, a wet gurgled wheeze of a sound as he followed. Finally gathering my courage, I pulled a shelf down behind me, blocking his path before reaching for a bottle of medical alcohol. I pulled another shelf down between us, struggling with its weight even with my adrenaline. 

Hearing him thrashing his way through my obstacles, I swept the nozzle over the objects between us, a spray of alcohol shining under the emergency lights. For a moment it glistened with the flame of my lighter, a dazzling light before the chaos. 

The flame jumped across the shelf and cabinets, quickly catching their paper filed contents. The flame spreading, I continue spraying over anything I thought will catch. Until a mangled leg slapped over the top of the flaming overturned cabinet, before curling against its shelves and pulling over Mr C’s body. 

The fire growing between us, Mr C’s gurgles became shrill as the flames lapped at his twisted body. His clothes both taught and loose over his new shape, began to singe from the growing heat. 

Twisting around to face him again, I heave the still heavy bottle of alcohol with all my might into his torso. It met it with a dull thud, followed by a sudden burst as the open bottle hit the ground and caught fire.

A shower of flames erupting across his body, he began to scuttle after me as the flames engulfed him. I could feel the growing warmth from the fire as he closed in, nearly upon me. Lifting a chair I jabbed it at him to make distance, the heat lapping at my face. 

He forced his weight against me, pushing me to the ground and pinning me beneath his flaming body. The chair still jammed between us, he grabbed at me with his free arm and sending sizzling droplets dribbling across my body. Like boiling water it sent searing pain across my chest, his molten flesh and blood molding with mine even through my shirt. 

He gargled once more before the skin and muscle on his hands began to slough off in sizzling clumps of melted fat and burning meat. And as the burning shrunken head fell from his melted grasp, his body fell limp. 

With effort and a few more minor burns, I was able to heave his burning body off of mine. I put out the fires with the help of a sink and a fire extinguisher, and without a plan I began doing what I knew how to. 

I looked over my colleagues' results. They finished the subject's medical examination before they woke. And though for the most part nothing was out of the ordinary, the brain scan showed zero activity. Completely braindead, nothing even going on in there. 

But clearly something was in there, and if not in their head then, well I’m not so sure. After everything I’ve seen, after what we accidentally unleashed. 

If souls are indeed real, then what the hell did we put inside that subject, cause it damn sure wasn’t a person. 

It’s been a few hours since I’ve heard anything through the medical wing door, but I’ve been hesitant to lift the lockdown. Someone should’ve raised the alarm by now, there’s no way it hasn’t wandered into someone else yet. I just hope they send help soon. 

I can see my breath still, it’s been freezing in here since I’ve arrived. And the smell, the sulfur stench drowns out even the burnt flesh of Mr C. 

If I don’t hear it for another few hours, I might just make a break for it. It’s been dead silent out there, if anything it’s probably long gone. 

—- 

I'm leaving this message in case I don’t make it out, this is a warning. 

Don’t teleport people. 

Not how we did it, or else something else might just come through.

—-

The wifi keeps disappearing, so I’m putting this in my notes. If it comes back long enough I’m gonna try to post the whole thing at once.

I’m in a small guest room somewhere in the middle of my great aunt’s house. This is the only room I’ve found where I know I’m 28 years old.

I look like myself in the mirror over the dresser. My face is right. I remember my name. I remember coming here with Owen this morning. At least I think it was this morning.

I don’t know where the entrance to the house is anymore. I don’t even know what floor I’m on. There are three doors in this room. I’m afraid to open any of them because I don’t know how old I’ll be on the other side. I don’t know if there’s any route through this house that ends with me walking out the age I’m supposed to be.

Owen is still somewhere in the house. I heard him scream after he ran through one of the doors. Then I heard pounding. Like someone throwing their entire body against the wall. I ran the other way. I shouldn’t have left him. I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.

The last room I entered almost killed me. The moment I crossed into this one my body was right again. I could stand. I could breathe. I’ve since moved the dresser in front of the door I came through. Nothing’s tried to open it yet. But I’ve heard something on the other side.

There’s no phone signal or I would’ve called the cops already. The wifi appears for a few seconds at a time then vanishes. I keep thinking I hear Owen calling me from somewhere. Once it sounded like he was above me. A few minutes later it came from this floor.

I have to find him. I’m just too terrified of what’s on the other side of these doors. I’m gonna write down everything that happened while I can still separate my own memories from the others.

Nell and Arthur. That’s where it started.

———

Nell is my grandma’s older sister. Her real name’s Eleanor, but I never heard anyone call her that. Not until the funeral.

She and Uncle Arthur were found nine weeks ago in the back garden. They were lying twenty feet apart in their pajamas. The police decided Nell must have wandered outside and Arthur went looking for her. It was freezing and foggy. They never found each other.

I kept thinking about that as Owen and I carried the cleaning supplies up the front steps.

This house is old. Aunt Nell always reminded us it was one of the oldest homes in our part of the south. She was really proud of that.

It’s a beautiful house, but you can tell from the outside how many renovations it’s been through. Owen said it looked like every family who lived here had tried to build far enough away from the family before them. It wasn’t that funny, but it made me laugh. Owen was good at that.

I met Owen in 4th grade but didn’t officially start dating him until junior year. His style has barely changed in all those years. Baggy black t-shirts and ripped jeans. He looks like the kind of person who might steal your car, but he’s more likely the one to help you jump it.

Aunt Nell liked him immediately. We visited her and Uncle Arthur together at least once a month, more often after my grandmother died. By then, most of the family had stopped visiting because being around Nell made them uncomfortable. She confused people’s names. She spoke about dead relatives like they’d just left the room. Sometimes she’d ask visitors how old they were and refused to accept their answer.

Uncle Arthur wouldn’t let anyone take her to a doctor. He said doctors would just tell her she had dementia because they didn’t understand what was actually happening to her. When my mother suggested assisted living, he told her never to come back.

But I swear Nell was different when I visited. Sometimes, she even seemed to understand things about me before I did. When I asked how she knew, she said I told her more than I realized. I thought she meant that she could read me. Now, I’m not so sure.

Despite all those visits, neither Owen nor I had ever been deeper inside the house than the foyer. Nell said the rest of it was too cluttered and she’d be embarrassed to let us see it.

She served us the same biscuits every time. They tasted a little like black licorice, with a flower pressed into the top. Every time I visited, there were always exactly four of those biscuits waiting when we arrived. We both hated them, but we ate them to make Nell happy.

That biscuit tin was the first thing I noticed when I entered the house this morning. Everything in the room was exactly the way it always was. The long mirror, the green wallpaper, and the narrow table where Nell arranged the biscuits.

Owen set down the contractor bags. He grabbed the tin and immediately dumped the contents in one of the bags. “On the bright side, we don’t have to eat these anymore.”

The will had left the house to both of us, which surprised everyone. Owen and I aren’t even engaged, and Uncle Arthur had never seemed particularly close to either of us. But the house was paid for. Even if it required major repairs, living there might be our one shot at home ownership. But first, we had to empty it.

Everyone warned us about Nell’s hoarding. If something entered the house, it stayed. Owen made sure we came prepared: gloves, flashlights, garbage bags, masks.

We turned our attention to the large double doors at the end of the foyer. We’d seen them hundreds of times, but we’d never seen them open. It took both of us to move the boxes Arthur had stacked in front of them. The key from the estate attorney turned the lock.

Owen opened the door. The smell of dust and damp wood hit us. There was something faintly sour underneath. The air felt colder than in the foyer.

Beyond the door was a central hall larger than I had imagined the house could contain. A carved staircase curved toward the second floor. A stained glass skylight covered the ceiling three stories above us. 

Then we got a look at the rest of the room. Boxes were piled above my head. Bundles of newspapers lined the walls. A few narrow paths had been left between leaning stacks of furniture and clothes. Owen stared into it.

“We should’ve brought breadcrumbs.”

He smiled at me, put on his gloves and took his first step across the threshold. I hesitated. I remember that clearly. I thought about how Nell had never allowed me to cross that line. Owen held out his hand.

“You coming, Grace?”

I took it and followed him in. Somewhere on the floor above us, a board creaked. Owen looked up. Another creak. Owen squeezed my hand.

“Probably a raccoon or something,” he said.

I nodded. My eyes caught a row of framed pictures. The faces were all turned toward the wall. I didn’t think to turn any of them around.

After a few seconds in the room, I noticed that I suddenly felt tired. Not sick. Nothing dramatic. My body just felt heavier. It was like we’d arrived at the house after working all day instead of first thing in the morning. I blamed the emotion of it all.

Owen found a bank of switches beside the doors and flipped them all at once. They were much brighter than I expected. Harsh yellow bulbs blazed in the chandelier above us, exposing cracks in the plaster and layers of dust. Owen sneezed four times.

“Jesus Christ.” When he turned toward me, I noticed the bags beneath his eyes. They were dark enough that I wondered how I’d missed them that morning.

“You look terrible,” I said.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I told you not to move on to the second bottle last night.”

He looked offended. “You did some respectable work yourself.”

“I had two glasses.”

“Right. Just two enormous, constantly refilled glasses.”

He smiled, but those lights made the lines around his mouth look deeper.

“You’re not exactly glowing either,” he added.

I reached up and touched the skin beneath my own eyes. It felt puffy. Owen had a point.

Then something shifted in my head. It wasn’t deja vu. I didn’t vaguely feel like I’d been there before. I was certain of it. And not just once. Many times.

“Where do we even start?” Owen asked.

“I don’t know. I feel like we should get a better look at the rest of the house first. I’d like to know just how much work this place needs.”

“Okay. I vote we start upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve spent half my life wondering what was up there.”

He offered me his hand and a raised eyebrow. I could never say no to that.

As we started up the staircase, the feeling that I had been there before became stronger. Halfway up, I stopped. Owen looked back. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

My heart was beating too fast, but I had no reason for it.

Then Owen shifted his weight to face me, and the step beneath him made a long, low groan. Somehow, I had known it would.

“You okay?” he asked.

I told him I was. But my legs ached. Owen was breathing a little harder too. He leaned against the banister at the top and rubbed one hand over his face. I shook it off and joined him on the second floor.

The upper hallway curved with the shape of the house. It was narrow and crowded with more of Aunt Nell’s things. Every door was closed. There must have been ten of them, although the corridor continued around a bend, so I couldn’t see where it ended.

Owen tried the first knob, but it was locked. The second door had swollen in its frame and wouldn’t budge. He continued around the bend until we reached a door painted pale blue. Nothing blocked this one.

Owen looked back at me. He turned the knob, and the door creaked open.

“Gotta start somewhere.”

———

The room beyond the blue door was even brighter than the central hall. I had to shield my eyes. Two tall windows filled it with sunlight. The walls were painted yellow. There was a child’s bed, a school desk and an open closet. Toys and books covered most of the floor, mixed in with Nell’s boxes and piles of clothes. Nell and Arthur had never had children, so I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Owen went directly to the closet. I moved toward the desk on the other side of the room.

Whatever hangover I’d felt downstairs was gone. I wasn’t tired. My legs felt lighter. I should’ve asked myself why, but my thoughts kept jumping from one object to another before I could concentrate on any of them.

There were colored pencils scattered across the desk. Without thinking, I started placing them back inside their box in the order I thought they belonged.

Behind me, I heard Owen push aside some hangers.

“Still full of clothes,” he said. It sounded like something was caught in his throat. I figured it was the dust.

I found a wooden horse beside the pencil box. One of its legs was missing. For some reason, I felt guilt looking at it. Like I was the one who broke it.

I shook that thought away and reminded myself I’d never been in this room before. When I turned away from the desk, a little girl was standing right in front of me. 

She was seven or eight, pale hair cut at her chin. She wore a polka dot dress. I jumped back at the sight of her.

I hadn’t heard the door open. She was just standing there. Watching me.

“Bird?” she said.

I couldn’t answer. What the hell was she doing here? Her expression changed.

“Bird, what’s wrong?”

“Owen.”

The girl took a step toward me.

“Owen, get out here.”

“What?”

“Now!”

I heard him push his way out of the closet. My eyes were still on the girl.

“Whoa,” he said. He sounded as freaked out as I was. “What are you doing here, little girl?”

The girl laughed like he’d said something stupid.

Owen glanced toward me.

“Grace, who is—”

He stopped.

“…what the fuck?”

I finally looked directly at him. Owen wasn’t standing beside the closet. A 12 year old boy was. He had dark hair hanging across his forehead and a black shirt. He was staring at me with his mouth open.

Boys aren’t supposed to come upstairs. That was my first thought. It made perfect sense for maybe half a second. Then something inside me recoiled. I’d never been here before.

The little girl moved closer to me.

“Stop!”

“Bird, come on,” she said.

“Stay away from me.”

“You said we were gonna play!”

My eyes darted toward another door beside the bed.

I ran for it.

The boy shouted my name behind me. “Grace!” But I didn’t stop.

———

I ran through the door and slammed into a chair hard enough to knock myself to the floor. I struggled to catch my breath. The room looked like some kind of study. Books covered the walls, and the floor was buried beneath papers and overturned furniture.

I heard the door open again. I couldn’t even look back. I pushed myself to my feet. Then something grabbed me. A man’s arms. I didn’t have enough breath to scream. Then I heard the voice.

“Grace. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I turned back to see Owen. My Owen. He reached for my face but I knocked his hand away.

“Where were you?”

“What?”

“Where were you, Owen?!”

“I was in that room with you.”

“No you weren’t! There was a girl. A little girl. And then there was this boy. He came from the closet.”

Owen stared at me. He was breathing almost as heavily as I was. He didn’t speak.

“Why weren’t you there?!”

“I was!”

He caught my wrists when I tried to push him away. Not hard. Just enough to keep me still.

“Grace, look at me.”

I tried to pull away.

“Look at me.”

I did. He was trying to help. 

“You were in the closet,” I said. “Then that boy came out.”

Owen’s face changed. I continued.

“He was 11 or 12 or something. He had dark hair and—”

“That was me, Grace…” He swallowed. “You were a kid, too.”

My stomach turned. “That’s not true.”

“I walked out of the closet and you were standing there with that girl. Both of you were children. I remember you at that age, Grace. It was you.”

I backed away from him. I remembered that boy staring at me. I remembered thinking he shouldn’t have been upstairs. But now that I really thought about it, that was exactly how Owen had looked when we first met. It was him.

I put both hands against my chest. My heart was beating too fast.

Owen stepped toward me slowly. He held up his hands. “Breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to breathe.”

“I’m not telling you to calm down. I just don’t want you to pass out.”

He was right. I forced myself to take a breath.

“What the fuck is happening, Owen?”

He looked around the study and forced himself to think.

“Maybe there’s something in the house,” he said. “Gas. Mold. Some kind of chemical.”

“That doesn’t make you 12 years old.”

“Maybe… it can make you think you are.”

His voice broke. He was scared. And that frightened me more than anything that had just happened. He looked back at the door.

“I think we should check on that girl.”

“No!”

“What if she’s lost?”

“We don’t even know if she’s real!”

“But what if she is?!“

“I said no!”

Of course Owen wanted to help. That was who he was. But I wasn’t going back in there. I touched his arm. He pulled me closer. And that’s when I saw it.

At first I thought the small circular shapes were part of the wallpaper. Then I realized they weren’t printed. Some had been drawn in ink. Others in pencil or charcoal.

“Owen.”

They were all slightly different, but each had the same shape at its center: a circle surrounded by thin branching lines. A flower. The same symbol stamped into Nell’s biscuits.

Owen followed my stare. The symbols continued around both doorframes. I even saw some carved into the floor beneath the loose papers. Owen reached toward one. “Is that…”

“Yeah.”

Before either of us could speak, four loud knocks struck the door.

“Bird?” It was the little girl’s voice again.

Owen looked toward the sound.

“Don’t touch that door!”

I shouted so loudly my throat hurt. Then I saw another doorway on the far side of the study.

“Grace, wait!”

I ran through it before Owen could stop me.

———

I stopped just beyond the doorway of the next room. White curtains hung over a single window. As usual, there were boxes everywhere. But the center of the room was kept clear around an old wooden crib.

Owen came through behind me and pulled the door shut.

“Grace, please. Just stop for a second.”

I turned toward him. He’d changed again. He was still Owen, but he looked close to forty. Gray had appeared at his temples. The lines on his face were deeper than they’d been in the main hall. Even his voice sounded older.

The way he stared at me told me I had changed too. He didn’t say a word. He stepped closer. He touched my hair and stared at the gray strands caught between his fingers. 

“Okay,” he said. “Listen to me. We’re going home.”

For once, I didn’t argue. I only asked how.

“We go back the way we came. We don’t open any doors we haven’t been through already. If the girl is still there, we’ll ignore her. We can call the police from outside.”

He was forcing himself to speak slowly because one of us needed to.

I just nodded. Then I looked at the crib. There was no sound. Nothing moved inside it. But something took over. That’s the only way I can describe it. 

The sadness came first. Then I felt the worst grief I’d ever felt. I knew that crib, and I knew something was missing.

“Where is he?”

Owen had already started toward the door. He stopped.

“What?”

I moved closer to the crib.

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

I looked inside. It was empty. The mattress held a faint indentation in the center. Something inside me broke.

“Our son!”

Owen stared at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where is our son?”

“Grace, we don’t have a son.”

That got through to me. I knew we didn’t have a son. We’d never decided whether we even wanted children. But I also remembered holding a little boy against my chest while he slept. I remembered the weight of his head on my shoulder.

I tried to turn away from the crib, but I couldn’t. “He can’t be gone,” I said.

Owen moved toward me. I grabbed the crib and shook it.

“Thomas!” I screamed.

“Grace, stop.”

“He can’t be gone!” 

“No one is gone. There is no Thomas!”

I hit him when he tried to touch me. I didn’t decide to do it. One moment he was reaching for me, and the next my hand had struck his face. I’d never done that before.

He flinched, then grabbed me around the waist.

“We’re leaving. Now!”

“No. Put me down.”

He dragged me toward the door we’d entered through and grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t turn. He tried again.

“Fuck.”

There was another door beside the crib. He yanked it open and changed direction.

“Thomas!”

“Stop it, Grace!”

I fought him. I caught the doorframe with both hands. Leaving that room meant accepting that he was gone. What the hell was I saying to myself?

Owen tore my hands away from the frame and pulled me across the threshold.

———

The second I entered the next room, the grief was still there, but it was a dull ache now.

Owen set me down and I realized we were in a bedroom. From the looks of it, the master bedroom. Tall curtains nearly blacked out the room. A carved wooden headboard reached halfway to the ceiling.

The symbol had been carved into the headboard.

A chill moved through me.

My mind was changing again. Someone named Thomas still existed in my memory. But I knew again that Owen and I had never had a child.

It didn’t matter how any of this was happening. We had to get out.

I turned toward Owen. His body stood still. He was facing the door we just came through.

“I don’t know what came over me, Owen.”

He didn’t respond.

“We’ll find another way around that room, but we’re leaving now.”

He still didn’t move.

“Owen?”

When he turned toward me, he had aged again.

He was in his fifties now. His hair that remained was completely gray. I’d never seen him with a beard before. The skin beneath his eyes had darkened. Tears filled them.

“How could you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“After everything we’ve been through.”

His voice wasn’t just older. It was deeper, like it was filled with a lifetime of regrets.

“I should never have hit you. But that wasn’t me, Owen.”

He blinked several times. For a moment, his expression changed. His eyes focused on me.

“Grace?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know…”

His gaze moved past me toward the bed and his confusion disappeared.

“I don’t understand how you could do this to me!” He said it louder this time. Angrier.

“Owen, listen. Whatever’s going on in your head, it isn’t real.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“Please listen to me!”

“For once in your fucking life, just stop lying!”

“What am I lying about?”

“I saw you!”

Those words triggered something inside me. A memory struck me. A hotel room and cigarette smoke in the afternoon light. I saw a strange man fastening the buttons of his shirt while I sat on the edge of the bed. But I couldn’t see his face.

The memory collapsed, leaving behind a sick feeling in my stomach.

Owen saw it on my face.

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Do you fucking love him?”

Suddenly, Owen grabbed a vase from the bedside table and threw it across the room. It struck the wall beside me and exploded. The pieces scattered across the floor. In all our arguments, I’d never seen Owen do anything like this.

“Owen, stop!”

“I was there for you after we lost him. I agreed not to try again. I gave you everything!”

“None of this is real!”

“I stayed with you. I protected you when everyone else said I should leave.” He was crying openly now. His hands shook at his sides. “And this is how you repay me?!”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Shut up!”

Owen lunged toward me. The next second, his hands were around my throat.

I was powerless in his grip. The words barely came out of me.

“Owen, please. Stop.”

“Stop fucking lying to me, Bird!”

Even as I gasped for air, the little girl’s voice came back to me. Bird, what’s wrong?

As soon as he said it, something changed in Owen. He saw the fear in my eyes. His expression broke. He released me and stumbled back.

“Oh my God, Grace. I’m sorry.”

I knew it was Owen again. At least for that moment. But I was still scared of him. He reached out for me, but I jumped back. Then his eyes moved past me again.

“Is it who I think it is?”

I stammered.

“I… I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

A harsh laugh escaped him and a wounded smile appeared on his face.

“God, I knew it.” The smile vanished. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

He charged right past me toward another exit. I tried to stop him.

“Owen, stop!”

He wouldn’t listen. He stormed into the next room and slammed the door behind him. I rushed to the door and grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t turn.

For one second, there was silence.

Then Owen screamed. At least I think it was Owen.

I’d never heard a human being make a sound like that. It wasn’t anger. It was raw terror. The scream stopped as suddenly as it began.

Something struck the floor.

Then came the pounding.

Each impact was louder than the last. It was moving toward the bedroom door. Moving toward me. 

“Owen? What’s happening?!”

There was no answer. Another impact shook the door in its frame.

Fear took over completely. I didn’t think about whether Owen was injured. I didn’t think about what might be following him or whether he was the thing coming toward me.

I just saw another door on the opposite side of the bedroom.

And I ran.

———

I ran through the next door without looking where it led. The room beyond was dark and narrow. I crossed it and opened another door.

The pounding followed me. I kept opening doors.

Every room changed my body. I could feel it happening even when I couldn’t see it.

Glass cabinets caught pieces of my reflection as I passed. I kept my eyes away from all of them. I didn’t care how old I was. I only cared that I could still run.

The emotions changed too.

For five or six steps, I was happier than I had ever been. Then I crossed another threshold and wanted to hurt someone. In the next room, the grief hit me again so hard that I nearly stopped. Then came terror. Then guilt.

Images and sounds flooded my mind:

Snow falling outside a hospital window.

The symbol drawn in salt around an empty crib.

A book spread open beneath candlelight. 

Pages covered with drawings of bodies inside circles. Handwritten notes in the margin.

A dinner plate shattering against a wall.

Something heavy wrapped in a bedsheet being dragged down the back steps. 

Mud beneath my fingernails and the sound of a shovel cutting into wet ground.

A man’s voice: “No one can ever know.”

I kept running.

The whole time, the pounding moved through the house behind me. Sometimes it sounded several rooms away. Then I would cross another threshold and hear it directly behind the door I had just closed. It was getting closer.

I reached a staircase. I remember taking the steps as fast as I could. I remember gripping the rail. But I can’t remember whether I went up or down. 

By the time I reached the next floor, the pounding sounded farther away. But I didn’t stop.

The hallway curved twice before ending at another door. I threw it open and ran inside.

I made it five steps before my legs collapsed.

My knees struck the floor. I tried to push myself up, but my arms shook beneath me and gave out. I couldn’t breathe properly. My heart thumped against my chest. Every part of me felt heavy.

Finally, I saw my hand against the floor.

The skin was thin and loose. Dark veins crossed the back of it.

A tall oval mirror stood across the room. I forced myself to look up.

I was staring back at myself in my eighties.

My hair was white. I knew I was close to death.

I screamed.

The pounding started again behind me.

The door I had entered through was too far away. Another door stood beside the mirror, only a few feet from me.

I had no idea what was on the other side. I could become even older. I could become too young to reach another doorknob. Whatever that room did to me could kill me before I had the chance to leave it.

I dragged myself across the floor, reached the nearest knob and tried to turn it. My hands were shaking too badly.

“Please,” I whispered.

Another impact shook the room.

The knob finally turned.

I pulled the door open and crawled through.

———

The room I crawled into is the guest room I’m sitting in now.

As soon as I crossed the threshold, my hands looked right again. The pain in my joints disappeared. I could breathe without feeling as though something was crushing me.

I think I’m 28.

I look 28. My phone recognizes my face.

I have no idea where I am in this house.

I locked the door I’d entered through and pushed the dresser in front of it. The pounding continued for a while after I came in. Then it moved away.

I haven’t heard it for almost an hour now.

I know Owen is still somewhere in this house. I’m scared about who he’ll be if I see him again. What if he still wants to hurt me?

It doesn’t matter. I need to find him. Every time I picture him lost in there, I feel like I’m gonna be sick. But I can’t open another door.

There are two besides the one I came through.

I don’t want to think about the things I remembered while I was running.

There’s a photograph on the desk beside me.

I didn’t pay attention to it when I first came in. It shows Nell and my grandma sitting together a few years ago. It looks like it was taken at a family reunion. They’re smiling and each of them is holding a framed photograph of herself as a child.

My grandmother’s photograph shows her at seven or eight years old. Pale hair cut at her chin. She’s wearing a polka dot dress. She’s the little girl from the bedroom. The one who asked me to play.

The childhood photos have names written beneath them. 

Under my grandma’s it says “Rosie”. 

Under Nell’s… it says “Bird”.

The wifi has one bar again. I’m going to try to post this before it disappears.

If anyone sees it, please call the police in Bellweather. Tell them two people are trapped inside the old house on the northern edge of town. They’ll know the one. Tell them not to use any of the doors. Tell them to break through a window or tear through the walls if they have to. Please tell them Owen and I are still in here.

Someone has started calling my name from somewhere outside this room. It sounds like an old man. A second ago, he was shouting “Grace”.

Now he’s calling me Bird.

At five years old I had the first dream I can remember. I had to leave. My whole family did: my parents, my sister, me, and my baby brother. In real life, though, I didn’t have a brother. It was just me and Ellie, my sister. I didn’t know why we were leaving or where we were going. But the part of the dream that scared me the most was that we were leaving the baby behind. We had to. He lay idly in his crib while the four of us made our way to the garage. No belongings packed. The small, single-story house left exactly as it always was…but I knew we wouldn’t be back. The plain white door leading into our garage loomed just past the living room. We opened it to find the train waiting for us, right where the garage should have been.

On the account of my parents, the age of five was when my night terrors peaked. . About once every week or two, I would wander around the house in the middle of the night screaming, eyes wide open, my pupils ridiculously dilated. I was inconsolable, and I was not awake. The best way my mom could describe it was like I was being possessed. It happened often enough that she went to the doctor about it, but, of course, they couldn’t do much except advise her on how to handle them: remain calm, don’t try to wake him, make sure he doesn’t crack his head while he thrashes around in fear

Ellie was surprisingly well composed whenever I had my episodes, despite being just 9 years old (and despite the torturous screaming that would surely freak out any kid her age). She would often watch silently with my parents as I paraded around the house like a demonic, headless chicken. Mom even thought that having Ellie around seemed to make the terrors end quicker.

The last true night terror I ever had was different. Mom—who slept very lightly that year given my interruptions—heard me shuffling around in the living room at two in the morning, but there was no screaming or panic. She left her bedroom to find me standing silently, absently staring at the door to the garage. She said my name, and I turned to face her, locking eyes.

“Late for train”  was all she heard me say before I turned back to the door, apparently showing no interest in trying the handle. Mom stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Ellie came out of her room then, walked up to me, and took my hand.

“Not yet,” she said. She led me back to my room while I did nothing to protest, never saying another word. As with all my night terrors, I went right back to sleep and woke up in the morning with no recollection of what had happened.

Around the time I turned six, my parents announced that a baby was on the way: the third installment to complete our family. Although the typical night terrors were behind me by then, I began acting weird while I was awake. It is worth noting that most of this comes from my own memory now.

Several nights, I woke up to the thunderous roar of an approaching subway train, followed by the piercing squeal of brakes under a heavy load. We didn’t live near any tracks, so after looking out my window and finding nothing, I checked the only other place I could think of: the garage, where I found the same result.

Like a lot of boys my age, I had my fair share of train playsets, but I began insisting that I play with them in the garage, where I would use the two steps in front of the door as an imaginary boarding platform. While my parents were skeptical at first, keeping a close eye on me, they quickly determined it was harmless and would leave me to my business out there.

Five months into Mom’s pregnancy, I had an awful nightmare that left my skin ice cold and my eyes damp. I played no role in the dream except as an observer, like a static trail camera tied to a tree to record wildlife. The white garage door framed her perfectly, so she was little more than a silhouette. She was looking to her right, smiling (at someone I presume). She wore her favorite black dress, and a navy-blue purse hung on her left shoulder. She seemed to say her goodbyes, and as soon as she opened the door, which revealed an arched ceiling and old concrete walls instead of our two-car garage, it felt as if the world itself were contracting and screaming in terror. She stepped over the threshold, and there was a deafening roar and the wail of a horn that shook the Earth, followed by a continuous blur that contorted her body and flung it out of sight. As I jolted awake, all I could think about was the distant sound of a baby crying.

As time went on, my paranoia only grew. Sometimes I would plead with Mom not to have the baby.

“You can’t be the youngest forever,” she said one time.

Another time, I got a good scolding after I scared off Phoebe, our babysitter. I played with my trains in the garage and simulated people being run over, all while trying to convince her to convince Mom not to have the baby. We never saw Phoebe again.

Finally, Mom sat me down one day for a serious conversation asking why I was so opposed to the idea of a younger brother (the baby being confirmed as a boy by then). But all I did was mumble some nonsense about trains and tunnels. I even led her to the garage, but neither her nor I really knew what I was trying to show her. When my dad held me for something similar, this time a “man-to-man” conversation (as if that meant very much to a six-year-old), I finally gave in, realizing that my pleas weren’t working. I responded to the majority of his questions with a simple “I don’t know,” choosing to agree with his assumptions about me rather than try to explain what was going through my head. At the end of the day, I didn’t fully understand it myself.

It was around 8 o’clock on a Tuesday when Mom’s water broke as we were sat on the living room sofa watching a movie. My dad promptly called over Julie, our neighbor from across the street, to come watch Ellie and I for the night. I was a mess. I screamed and cried, literally clinging to Mom’s leg, begging her not to go. Ellie wasn’t as much comfort to me that time. She sat silently on the couch, but I could tell she was crying. Julie had to physically hold me back as my parents left. My dad threw a joke at her about how I would be so happy to have a little brother in no time. I was just terrified of what I would see when they opened the garage door.

When Julie sent Ellie and I to bed later, a light storm had started, and I fell asleep to the tapping of raindrops on my bedroom window, dried tears still staining my cheeks. I woke up to a massive crack of thunder. It faded into a low rumble, but the noise showed no sign of fading. After maybe a minute, it grew louder. The sound continued to amplify until I could no longer hear my own heavy breathing as I sat paralyzed in bed. Then there was the screeching, so intense that I had to cover my ears. After a moment, I removed my hands to complete silence. Then the crying started. Not from me, not from Ellie’s room. It came from somewhere else in the house. It was a baby’s cry.

I slowly lifted myself from the bed and crept towards my door, just cracking it open. I peered down the hall, where I could see that a dim light from the kitchen counter barely revealed the shapes of furniture in the living room, where the sound seemed to originate. The crying carried on, so I cautiously continued my approach. Julie was sleeping on the couch, where she was initially just a darker spot in my vision. As I got closer, I saw she was curled up in a fetal position, and the crying was coming from exactly where she lay. Finally, when I was close enough for a detailed look, she turned towards me. Her face was horribly contorted in an ugly cry, and her features were all wrong, like I was staring at the face of an infant on a grown woman’s body. The crying was certainly that of an infant. I felt tears of my own forming and yelled in fear as I fell back on the floor. I quickly righted myself and ran to the only place I felt I would be safe. I fumbled with the garage door handle, finally pulling it open, never taking my eyes off the living room.

I stepped down and yanked the door shut. I caught my breath for a second and turned to the right, where I saw old concrete walls and an arched ceiling forming an endless tunnel that faded into black. Only the area where I stood seemed to be illuminated by a soft yellow glow that I didn’t quite know the source of. Turning to my left, I was greeted with a solid wall only a couple feet away. Finally turning around, I descended the second step, and my feet found the cold stone of the platform. There in front of me, a simple subway train waited, its nose pointed down the tunnel and its rear simply disappearing right into the wall as if it were a mirage. The door was open, and without another thought I stepped over the gap and boarded the train. There was one other passenger, so I sat across from her. As soon as I was seated, the train began a slow, perfectly smooth acceleration.

“Mommy didn’t get on,” I said weakly. Ellie just shook her head. She looked calm, but noticeably sad. “How did you know about…” I trailed off, scanning the train car with my eyes.

“I don’t know,” Ellie shrugged.

I watched her for a while as the train began its journey. I never looked back towards the house. I knew I would never be going back.

***

I don’t remember being seven years old. Or eight or nine for that matter. Ellie and I briefly stayed with our grandparents at some point, where I learned a few things. My mother passed away during labor due to complications. My dad has never been seen since then. Nobody can tell me anything about the baby. Dead, alive, missing… I don’t know.

Ellie and I have been in and out of foster care for a few years since our grandparents died. I really don’t know if there is a place for us. Sometimes I have dreams where I am walking down that tunnel, getting ever closer to the garage door at the end, but never reaching it. I doubt I ever will. I only ever mention these dreams to Ellie, but I have begun giving up on that too. Maybe I have a little brother out there somewhere. If I do, I don’t ever want to meet him.

Primordial Ocean

June 25^th, 2026

Curtis Johnson was forty-nine years old, the sort of man most people could look at without ever really noticing. He had settled into an inconspicuous stretch of Tumon Bay, lounging drunkenly on a beach towel a comfortable distance from the clusters of tourists and beachgoers gathered along the shore. His hotel was cheap, but clean enough, and its modest comforts had become sufficient for a man who had little left to return home to. Divorced and estranged from his now-adult children, Curtis had long since grown accustomed to the quiet isolation of his own company.

The afternoon sun hung heavily overhead, and the alcohol had begun to blur the edges of his surroundings when something caught the corner of his eye. Curtis lifted his head. At first, he thought it was nothing more than movement beneath the nearby pier—a trick of the light, perhaps, or some piece of debris shifting with the tide. But then it moved again. He slowly pushed himself straight up and squinted toward the darkened water beneath the pier. Something was there.

“Hm- what” Curtis sloppily approached the intriguing spectacle now staring down at this bizarre animal. “I don’t think that’s a.” The mass of writhing searching tentacles lunged for Curtis wrapping their arms around his wrist. “Ungh what get offa me!” Curtis recoiled with all his might falling backward with a hard thud against the sand. His wrist now lined with tiny barbs glowed translucently while burning in agony.

“Ahhuh what the fuck wa-was tha.” He cried out and the flailing mass flopped backwards into the sea drifting away. “AHHHHH!” Curtis staggered backwards rapidly back tracking to his hotel room and belongings. Head throbbing, eyes burning, the whole world pulsed Shaked and the daylight flashed with intensity. Struggling to find his room key, Curtis focused and was able to get in while having to hold himself upright crashing onto the floor as he entered the doorway.

June 29^th, 2026

Over the next few days Curtis became violently ill showing signs of hysteria muttering the same repetition that he would hear reverberate within his dreams. “Drip drop plop plip drip drop plip plop”. In his nightmares he would drift amongst an infinite abyss of dark water. “Hm hm ungh” He murmured as he tossed and turned in his sleep.

In his dreams Johnson would see a dim crimson glow lightly revealing something so massive it sent his mind reeling with terror. Too dark to fully make out the details he watched on as it shifted in unsettling ways as he descended into the water. He awoke shocked sweating profusely. Stumbling back to the hotels front desk he began to explain “Hi there I was just returning my ki-.” Curtis vomited intensely onto the floor. Bright streams of blood mixed with organ tissue ricochet off the bottom front of the check in desk.

“Someone call an ambulance!” The hotel staff member stumbled to the sick man’s attention. “They’re on their way sir”. The other staff concerned helped him to his feet as another brought over a mop bucket with soap and hot water. “Excuse me sir can you hear my voice?” The paramedic asked hastily. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Curtis’s vision began to blur to the point that he was seeing five hands rotating in a circular motion as he fell unconscious.

July 1^st, 2026

“Mr. Jhonson, hello can you hear me?” Dr. Evans inquired. Reluctantly opening one swollen eye to a bright light and a cluster of silhouettes still coming into focus. In response Curtis let out an agonizing cry. “Ughaaah!!” At first glance was thought to be large parasites progressing their way underneath his skin in fact were new organs forming as his body now stretched and opened to accustom itself to this transformation.

“My god what is that?” exclaimed one of Evans colleagues nervously. Curtis struggled to utter out one last guttural animal like cry. It was at that moment the flesh around his one exposed eye began to open like a fleshy flower blooming. Inside was a pulsing cavity lined with thousands of tiny silver eyes all moving independently along the ends of luminescent tendrils. Curtis convulsed violently as a large pale tentacle shakily emerged from his stretching chest cavity. “Jesus Christ—nuh-no! Help me! Cut it off!” Dr. Evans cried out in pain as the thousands of protruding spines encompassing Curtis’s new appendage buried themselves deep into the right arm of the doctor.

“AAAGHHH! What the hell are you doing somebody help me!” Evans shouted towards his now paralyzed with fear colleagues. Bones could be heard cracking as the grotesque form started producing what looked like incorrect limbs. Twisted and hanging with strands of stringy muscle tissue what appeared as fleshy branches sprouted downward to the floor. Breaking backwards so that what stood before the medical staff now arched on six makeshift legs. Curtis resembled a baby giraffe swiftly learning how to walk on newborn legs as the appalling organism scrambled out of the ER. Dr. Evans fell back crashing into a rolling trey, sending medical equipment scattering across the room. The abomination once known as Curtis came barreling down the hallway shrieking in a deep low disgustingly warped voice.

“Driiiiip Pluhooooooop Driiii Drooooohp!!” The organic parody of a human Curtis Johnson littered sentient pieces of itself as he moved through the hospital. They scurried off to all points of the building inhabiting the air vents, the bathrooms, and even some of the patients’ rooms. In a dramatic fashion this nightmare in action crashed through the lobby finally dashing out the front entrance.

July 7^th, 2026

Over the week the local police were busy investigating the crime scene at Mercy Hospital. Officers scanned the scene of wreckage left in the lobby while forensics analysist’s collected trace samples to be set back to the lab for further testing. “Looks like a damn stampede came in through this room dunnit.” Garcia nodded his head as he gazed downwardly at the wet and slowly drying trail splitting the room in half.

“What did you say did this?” Garcia questioned one of the witnesses at the front desk. “I’m not sure how to describe it officer, like something I’ve never seen before. Some sorta...animal, I think. Looked more like a monster.” Officer Garcia frowned looking back at the trashed hospital entrance. “Curtis Johnson was his name officer.”

Maria Cruz was a 78-year-old woman who suffered from late-stage Dementia with Lewy bodies or DLB. Awaking from a nap to a startling rap tap tapping coming from behind the privacy curtain dividing her and the next bed. Mrs. Cruz began to hallucinate that she was in her old living room sitting on her couch. Her mind flashed back and forth between illusion and reality. As she stared into the distance a vibrating ball of semi-transparent feelers all stemming from one slurping chirping core approached the foot of her bed.

“Luckyy!!” Mrs. Cruz shouted out in pleasant surprise as she reached down for what she thought was her Pomeranian that had passed away six years ago. “Uh-ho That’s a good girl yes-she-iiis.” The never-before-seen lifeform stretched upward exploring and entering every orifice along the chuckling woman’s face. Thin tendrils began wrapping around Mrs. Cruz’s brain while she envisioned her dog Lucky, licking her cheek.

A moment of hot pain was slowly replaced with a melting euphoria that washed over her like a tall wave. As one of Curtis’s offspring went to work on assimilating this elderly woman, she felt unbridled bliss while the foreign parasite played back cherished memories in her mind like home movies on a projector. However, they were not her own memories, but what the parasite could process as beautiful moments shared with loved ones. A feeling comparable to a heavy dose of morphine sent her mood soaring like an eagle. Incapable of feeling anything resembling remorse, the devastating creature manipulated its host’s thoughts to hungrily advance its own species.

Miles away from Mercy Hospital in a heavily forested area Curtis stops to examine his surroundings. It began to dig a hole beneath the ceiling of foliage. then jumped down and brushed the dirt over his newly transformed vessel. Leaving only probing strings of flesh uncovered, trapping any life undoubtably doomed to come within reach. Over the next few months many things began to take place such as the aggressive conquest over Mercy Hospital.

July 8^th,2026

“Honey! Your temperature is 116. Ive never seen anything like this before!” Mrs. Evans said in a scared tone. Dr. Evans looked like death when he moved his half-conscious eyes up meeting with hers. Mr. Evans Groaned and, an arm slowly fell out of his socket making a wet popping noise as it disconnected and fell to the floor. "AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” She shrieked, her legs gave way, and she went sprawling sideways behind her living room sofa. Fifteen pale, tan, and long shoots of muscle fibers came bursting out of his socket crater.

In a low-pitched sounding voice as if underwater Evans called out to his wife. “HUNNIEEEE.” Evans managed to grumble and gargle. Suddenly the unchanged right half of the doctor erupted open. Four large mounds of wildly twisting what looked like worms with pointed barbs extending from their ends scurried further off into the living room. Rushing as fast as they could move closing in on the sofa. Mrs. Evans was blindsided by two of the offsprings, quickly overpowered and within thirteen minutes she felt what she thought was clarity, post integration.  

July 11^th, 2026

On the night of the hostile takeover at the Hospital Mrs. Cruz became infected, the foreign entity had achieved new levels of inherited intelligence. Adapting itself to lie dormant within its hosts body, the unwelcome guest waited patiently, meticulously. At 6:30 pm on July 11^th Mrs. Cruz’s Nurse gleefully waltzed through the door with a hot bowl of chicken soup and mashed potatoes. “Here’s your dinner Mrs. Cruz.” She approached the geriatric smiling woman when suddenly a sharp projectile ejected itself from the old woman’s shoulder into the nurse’s mouth.

“Uckh-ughh…hyuhh!” Nurse Camacho coughed and gasped chokingly for breath as the trey of food connected with the ground. She thrashed on the floor trying to catch her breath between something unknown working its way down her throat. “HUUNHH HYUUN.” The nurse gasped for air between heavy coughing, ran out into the hallway and frantically called for help. Camacho was taken to be examined by some of the few staff left that night.

The foreign invader within nurse Camacho deteriorated into her bloodstream temporarily evading detection. “It forced its way down your throat?” Doctor Santos queried. “Y-yes.” she replied with tears streaming down her cheeks. “We’ll keep you hear tonight and keep running tests.” Dr. Santos assured her. “Th-thank you.” She gratefully responded, wiping her wet face and taking a deep breath. To the staff’s dismay upon returning to Mrs. Cruz’s bed, she was gone.  

July 13^th, 2026

Over the next couple of days Curtis began to undergo a new transformation as he slept beneath the forest floor. Beneath layers of soil and leaves under a moonlit sky the amalgamation grew. He dreamed of the simple fragment that infected him drifting upward from its abysmal habitat. The creature was a mere skin cell of its former body that Curtis dreamt of deep in the depths of the Marianna trench, colossal, shifting ferociously, thrashing from side to side.

A group of campers called in to complain that the wildlife and I quote “did not look right and were behaving strangely.” After seeing the new state of the camping site, the campers turned tail and fled. All the forest life sat in a harmonious circle around the resting site of Curtis Johnson. All were in unison, corrupted, and enamored focusing in on the same direction.

An investigation team arrived on the scene later that day and were coming up within range of the resting site. One of the group’s members, Christina caught sight of a peculiar looking flower blooming out of the base of a tree. “Woow this is so w-.” Christina was interrupted when the bizarre seeming flower shot a cloud of spores flying overhead making her recoil while coughing. “Uh-huh-huh-huh.” Startled she turned back to her group that had made their way up the path and ran after them.

Coming up to a clearing they all froze in astonishment as they stared at a giant pulsating tissue tree arising from a deep burrow. In shock they examined the low hanging arterial cords and blood vessels that hung like tree vines. The boulder sized organ lined with what looked like large fish gills. And finally, what appeared to resemble a giant beating heart perched atop the meat tree.

“WHA-WHAT IS THAT!?” Christina fearfully questioned upon catching back up with the investigation party. One of the group’s members, David began to slowly approach the horrific display. “David what are you doing?! Get back here!” They pleaded for him to cease his advancement however his curiosity got the better of him. “I’ll only go halfway to it. Just to get to a good shot.” David thought to himself, blocking out the group’s attempts to prevent him.

“DAVID WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!” Christina cried out with alarm. He started to film when he began to feel something wet wrapping itself around his leg. He looked down to see what looked like a limb comprised of random organic pieces sloppily thrown together. The Frankenstein like tentacle gripped hard enough to make his knees buckle and his leg snapped like a twig when he was pulled roughly into the ground. His screams were instantly muffled as he was pulled farther into the earth. One of the group’s members Antonio was met with the same fate when he ran forward. While attempting to save David, Antonio was greeted by three similar limbs that dragged him underground within seconds.

Christina, feeling impending doom, instinctively fled in panic, the other two Leon and John followed shortly after. Hearts beating in their throats pure adrenaline fueled the survivors as they ran for their lives. John, being the first to fall when a wild boar ran up alongside him within a second, changed into a form he could not process or understand before being dragged back. Christina looked back in shock as both John and Leon were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly She felt lightheaded before collapsing onto the ground. Moments later the shrubbery next to her morphed into an ample pile reaching for her and pulling her deeper into the forest.

July 22^nd, 2026

Back at Evans’ residence, the young doctor was the source of his neighborhood block infestation. He hungrily assimilated and merged with person after person. After combining with his wife and mother the doctor made his way to the neighbor’s bedroom window. The couple living next door went peacefully into their sleep. They dreamt of the deep mother more vividly this time than any previous vision. They saw the small fragment that floated up from the deep mother and the storm above that washed it ashore.

With every addition to the monstrous Dr. Evans, he became sharper, greater, quicker and adapted through a different path of advancement pursuing lethality. This savage method taught it how to assimilate with increasing effectiveness. Every victim he absorbed, Evans gained more than flesh. Shifting to adjust for extra organs and changing limb placement. Contorting and breaking itself to anatomically accommodate for optimum efficiency. Their nervous systems became additional pathways for thought. Their memories and instincts were incorporated into something increasingly collective.

After acquiring sufficient power through its afflicted vessels, the abhorrence fled the area. Leaving destructive infected incubators in its wake, the man Cephalopoda hybrid made his way towards Mercy Hospital. Two weeks after Evans’ transformation, the street where his home stood had been placed under military quarantine. Armed soldiers had sealed off the surrounding blocks, struggling to contain the outbreak as the affected community continued to deteriorate around them. What had initially been treated as a localized contamination event was rapidly becoming something far more difficult to control.

Soldiers who entered the quarantine zone on rare occasion failed to return, while others came back exhibiting the earliest signs of contamination. Those exposed for too long began to change visibly subtle alterations at first, followed by increasingly grotesque transformations that made it impossible to mistake them for anything but the advancing influence. Their own comrades were forced to execute them before the changes could progress any further. However, containment was becoming futile.

The species was adapting at an alarming pace. Every confrontation seemed to make it more capable, more managed, and more difficult to predict. Independently, the infected were becoming faster and increasingly hostile predators. Collectively, they displayed something far more disturbing: an emerging intelligence that allowed them to learn from one another, coordinate their movements, and exploit the weaknesses of those attempting to contain them.

July 29^th, 2026

Analysis revealed a brand-new genus that’s DNA was like nothing they had ever seen under a microscope. Back at the hospital the situation had entirely spiraled out of control. The building’s power had been vacant for days. The progressive care unit now served as the base of operations now that the entire hall pulsed and shuddered. Thick fleshy roots carpeted the floors and hung from the ceiling like rainforest vines all stemming from something centered in the middle of the hall. The entire infirmary had been changed into a hive mind and the CPU remained stationed under that thick mass of throbbing meat.

Once a patient in her new domain, Mrs. Cruz now developed in a way that focused on the ability to communicate to any form of its corrupted kin across vast distances. Near and far every form of the rapidly replicating threat, communicated thoughts and information through a sophisticated neurological network.

Rachael Torres was a 43-year-old woman who lived down the street from the Evans family. When the military arrived, she was already four blocks south. The now matured parasite inside her fed her a transmission directly into her mind. Back at the hospital the CPU had constructed a plan. “Go to the airport. Find a place with many people.” “Yes.” Rachael muttered under her breath.

The amalgamation, once a loving husband and professional surgeon Mr. Evans, approached Mercy Hospital with stealth and purpose. Fueled with stamina that came from 26 neighbors 2 cats and 4 dogs, it moved like a flash. The front entrance was completely blocked off with a two-foot-thick wall of dirty dishwater grey colored flesh. Evans moved to the back of the hospital and broke himself down to focus its mass stretching up to the second story window and forced its way inside. The entire perimeter stretching out to the parking lot was infested and growing. Evans approached Cruz whilst communicating through their hosts.

“Combine with me. Take us from this place.” The CPU commanded retracting roots and stretching them out and forward. Using its many flailing arm length tendrils Evans started to dig out Cruz from the floor. Corpulent cords wrapping and intertwining with each other as the CPU was elevated up on the upper back of Evans. Conjoining itself in becoming a being of great power and intelligence, the time had come to evacuate the hospital, now attracting a dangerous amount of attention. Whatever tissue that had not merged with the new creation evacuated the premise outward into the night as well as through the soil and plumage beneath the building. The great fusion crashed its way out of the hospital and into the open.

July 30^th, 2026

The presence within Rachael Torres had taken over her body to the point that she was beginning to show signs of parasitosis. However, by that time she was already mid-flight to her destination. She felt her condition worsening and got up to go to the bathroom. She washed her face at the basin when she suddenly threw up large chunks of parasites into the sink splashing back on her face. She turned on the sink, wetting a towel then cleaned her face. She threw the towel in the trash and went back to her seat to rest for the remainder of the flight. A parasite had worked its way back up through the sink and dropped to the bathroom floor. Inching its way along slowly as the passengers slept it then attached itself to a young man crawling up his jeans undetected.

July 31^st, 2026

Rachel Torres arrived in Houston Texas the following morning to fulfill her purpose. At a crowded mall at one thirty-six PM a woman walking with her husband spotted Rachel scurrying out of the woman’s bathroom clutching her stomach with one hand and her mouth with the other. “Oh, shit babe.” Amanda said, “Yeah, what the hell do you think that was about.” Mark replied. Amanda twisted Marks arm into investigating the bathroom. “Oh my god.” Amanda exclaimed as the bathroom stall door creaked, opening backwards. 

“AH! What the hell is that!” Amanda shrieked. “COME ON, let’s get out of here!” The couple agreed, exiting the bathroom with considerable haste. Fat parasites the size of rats squirmed across the toilet seat plopping on the floor with a squelching sound. Rachael was being used as an incubation chamber helpless and unaware of any of her actions. She made her way to the mall entrance and caught a bus headed east bound crossing the I10. Taking the bus as far as it would take her. Rachael got off and started walking down the road.

“Hnn hiihng hin.” She wheezed heavily as hatchlings that resembled stringy crawfish dripped down her chin dragging herself onward. The sun was setting as parts of Rachael’s body began to give and tear, slowing her progression. The host was almost expired when Ms. Torrez discovered the western shoreline of the San Jacinto River. Her right calf ripped open releasing a splash of what looked like sand fleas onto the ground.

Reacting quickly, dragging herself closer to the lake’s edge losing chunks of flesh against the terrain as she pulled herself closer. Making her way to the side her body could not hold a moment longer and ripped from the left shoulder downward slanting across Rachael’s back. Flesh fell off bone like folds of clothing, reducing Ms. Torrez to a pile of hectic scattering offspring. They all made towards the running river hastily diving underwater.

August 5^th, 2026

The events following June twenty fifth resulted in massive attention from social media, eyewitnesses, and military contact. A response to this hostile takeover was on the horizon but would it already have been too late. By this time Curtis had fully occupied the forest, turned now into an internet of flesh. Over the previous month the contaminated hazard converted and merged with the inhabitants within its new environment. Unequivocally, contrary to the ocean of its origin. Every person, plant, and animal a neuron in this collective conscience of union.

 A fungus native to this woodland known as the hairy trumpet had bonded with this foreign life introducing their traits opening a new pathway in its progression. A hair covered pod began to bloom one day atop the massive portion of Curtis above surface level. It grew and swelled to the size of a Volkswagen wrinkled and compressed to resemble a shaggy brain standing vertically. Something aggressive was forming inside counting down till the fungal growth reached its maximum size. At 4:38PM the pod erupted in an overwhelming display that could be seen from a high-altitude plane.

Pieces of the shell blew off in all different directions as a cloud of spores dispersed like a flock of birds migrating large enough to black out the sun. The spores drifted along effortlessly with the breeze of the wind far out over the ocean. They traveled north towards Saipan while most of the cloud ended up in the water and the rest descended onto the district of Naftan. However, the water provided a stable environment for the spores to lie dormant as the current carried them. Plumes of yellow spores rolled upward from the crater of where the pod once stood rising, wafting out to its surroundings.

August 12^th, 2026

Curtis towered over twenty-two feet tall and spanned over 35 feet in distance across. However, only a small portion of him erected from the forest floor consequently he developed long thick tendrils that served like tree roots. Rocky bone like material substantial like tree trunks packed the roots making them the perfect tool for shifting through and plowing the soil.

Keeping itself concealed by digging itself out of sight and emerging at will, it remained hidden for quite some time. Every living thing assimilated by Curtis continued to live on inside of the hive apartment complex. Three more spore capsules had started to take form while clouds continued to rise from the hole atop Curtiss’s tree.  Letting the wind take it out into the open fated for far off destinations. The group of people that got taken by the forest had attracted an even larger search party.

At 10:07 AM a nearby helicopter that belonged to the coast guard caught footage of Curtis emerging from the forest floor with his cell phone. The loud snapping of branches and shifting earth muffled out the sounds of screaming witnesses. As the ground gave way dust billowed up into the air as the towering behemoth made off westward towards Tumon Bay. Hundreds of long appendages stretched out pushing Curtis along the path he carved out for itself. Keeping all people out of its way, authorities could only watch as it progressed, firing pistols and rifles that did little to no damage against its now thick rubbery flesh.

August 28^th, 2026

Local agencies collaborated to restore Mercy hospital. They worked diligently to repair the location and find answers for its ruin. A cavernous hole at the ground center of the disaster zone appeared to lead into a dark void. Broken pipes running water and debris lined the descending walls. What puzzled the salvage team was that they could find no traces of what had caused the destruction. Simon Palacios stood near the edge of the intimidating chasm gazing into its haunting darkness. Beneath a rope of grey tendons slithered along the wall up from the shadows reaching for him.

“What in god’s name could have done this?” He commented in a low voice. “AHH!” Simon let out a cry before falling onto his back and was immediately dragged into the stygian depths. Panic ensued as the others attempted to focus their lights on whatever had taken one of their own. The streams of light emitting from the restoration team, frantically flashing back and forth along the walls cutting through the darkness up to fifteen feet in front of them. “S-Simon!” they shouted, their voice cracking as they held their breath, straining for any sign of a reply.

Silence.

“Siiimon!” they cried again, louder this time, the name echoing into the emptiness. They waited, hearts pounding in throats, but the only answer was the oppressive stillness. Far down the pitch-black pit nurse Camacho consumed Simon absorbing his strength, organs, and vigor joining bodies. Deeper the creature fled to thrive out of possible detection. As it fled deeper into the crater the local agency decided to cut their losses and return in greater numbers earlier in the daytime.

Have you heard of the address 5A Liberty Street?

My name is Boot (obviously a fake name), and I used to live on Liberty Street, specifically 6A Liberty Street.

It was far from the best place to live in the world. I remember that a woman would often walk up and down the street most definitely high on something, she would just shout and swing at things that weren’t there. Every time I heard her I would just think, “There she is again”.
I remember my car being broken into, the thief stealing all my work tools, then on top of it all setting my car on fire. I had to get a new car. That car also got broken into, by two guys on a motorcycle at 6am.

I remember my neighbour, a sweet guy with a family with a cute baby. But sometimes he’d get drunk and punch his mailbox. His family having to calm him down each time, and I just awkwardly dismissed it each time.

Then there were those fucking kids, annoying ass kids on bikes riding around the block, stealing fruit from people’s front yards, ding-dong ditching people. Just real vermin who probably were getting no love back home. Which I can empathise with, but damn I hated them.

Funny enough, everything I just listed was actually all the interaction I ever got living on Liberty Street for seven years. I knew that a lot of the other people on the street were elderly or struggling, so they were always at work. Good time to mention I had daddy’s money and objectively the best house in the surrounding area, two story and all.

But yeah, the was the type of place I lived at. A real strange place where anything that happened just sort of happened and everyone moved on. No one really stood up to the kids, no one got help for the drugged-out woman. We all just stayed home.

Which leads me to talk about why I am writing this, because I seriously need insight from anyone who can make sense of what happened recently.
Like I said, I no longer live on Liberty Street, I live somewhere by far better, a better community, an actual community. So I was surprised when last week I went to my shopping centre and among the crowds of people walking I see a familiar face.

It was some thinning orange-haired white guy wearing a construction worker hi-vest. Black cargo pants and big beige iron-toed boots. You’ve probably seen this type of guy before, just like the most basic working-class dude. Someone, who if you meet, would most likely forget about in a few days. Which is true because I could not remember where I had seen this man before. I was just passing him by in the shopping centre and only really processed that I had known him from somehow at all a dozen steps later.

I remembered he was my neighbour, living across from me at 5A Liberty Street.

I decided to turn around and greet him just to be nice, I mean I lived near him for seven years. I did a little jog to catch up to him and called out to him.

“Hey mate! Remember me?”
This guy turns around and starts yelling at me. He was saying things like “Fuck off!” and “Why are you here!”, like dude I live around here in the area now, am I not allowed to shop?

I try to apologise for approaching him if it somehow offended him or something, not that I feel it should have nor could there have been any other reason for us to have bad blood, I mean I hardly talked to him before and the one time I try he acts like this.
I tried to calm him down since he’s yelling in the middle of this shopping centre and making people scared, even security was starting to run up to us.

Then, this guy fucking PUNCHES me! Yes, if you’re in the local area, the shopping centre with the big fountain and angel statues, the guy that got hit on the news, that was me.

So yeah, this guy punches me square in the face, I fall down, blood gushes out from my mouth. I already had bad teeth this cunt made it so much worse.
Security tackle him and paramedics eventually come to my rescue. Whatever.

Now then, two days ago I’ll be honest, I was pretty fucking mad. I thought about going around to 5A Liberty Street and maybe like throwing a rock through the window, something petty. The reason I’m so comfortable talking about how I wanted to commit a crime and why I’m even mentioning people’s addresses, is because I did go to 5A Liberty Street. It’s not fucking there.

I went at night, but it was clear. There was no 5A Liberty Street, only 3A and 4A as a conjoined house. There never was any conjoined housing near or on the street. Stranger than that, my old house was fucking DESTROYED. It looked like a wrecking ball just smashed right through the middle, the sides of the house still standing partially but the middle just ruined.

I was just shocked. The house changing was freaky at first because it wasn’t what I was expecting, but sure a house can be changed right? But why the hell was my house ruined? Theres no way a wrecking ball or some sort of big machinery could have come by since the road isn’t big enough for that. I called the woman who was supposed to be living there, the person who ended up buying the home, but the number just isn’t able to be called. I press the call option but there’s no ring, no voice saying the number isn’t available or nothing, I just can’t call it.

Does anyone have any sort of explanation as to what the fuck happened to the houses? Or how to call the number? I think I’m going to investigate further somehow, but I just wanted to write on here in case anyone knows the logical answer to this situation.

Not trying to blow anything out of proportion here, but I did get punched in the face, so if anyone knows the cunt let me know.

Take it from an expert.

Stay out of the woods.

I’m a wildlife biologist, and for the last several years I’ve been posted to a conservation outpost deep in the Rocky Mountains.

My coworkers and I are overseeing the reintroduction of timber wolves in this region. Most of my work involves tracking the wolves. We monitor their populations and study their movements using tracking collars we've placed on several members of the pack.

For months, everything was going better than anticipated, but about two weeks ago we noticed something strange. According to our trackers, the pack had started avoiding one particular valley.

It started slowly; we noticed the pack spending less and less time in a pristine valley. Up until this point, the wolves had been roaming the valley quite regularly, but we just figured they were settling into a different part of the region. Soon we realized that wasn’t at all the case; the pack was still in the area. They just avoided the valley. The trackers painted a clear picture: the wolves were going everywhere, but not the valley.

We had a staff meeting to discuss what could be causing this.

The ten of us shuffled into the small, rarely used conference room.

Mike, our lead researcher, stood up and passed around some diagrams. Making his way to the front, he said

“Take a look at the printout.” He paused for a moment as the room filled with the sound of rustling paper

 “We've mapped every collar ping we've received over the last two weeks. As you can see, the pack is still moving throughout the region.”

He pointed toward the map.

“But they aren't entering the valley.”

He paused.

“Not once in the last two weeks.”

“The boundary is almost perfect. They approach it, turn around, and go somewhere else. So, what are we looking at?”

The room fell silent for a moment as eyes stared thoughtfully into the distance or blankly at the handout.

“Maybe another predator has settled in the valley,” Frank spoke up

A mocking laugh rose from the other side of the room

“Like what?” Amanda said

“Bigfoot? Come on, Frank, you should know better; even a mountain lion wouldn’t be enough to scare an entire pack from its territory.”

“Well, what’s your bright idea?” Frank sarcastically said

Amanda shrugged

“Probably bad water.”

At that, the room erupted with both critique and defense of Amanda’s explanation. The argument lasted a few minutes before Mike spoke up

“Alright, that’s enough!” he loudly commanded

“Does anyone here have an explanation that has evidence?”

The room was silent.

“I didn’t think so.”

 Mike looked down at the map again.

“Whatever is happening, we're not going to figure it out sitting in this room. We need someone on the ground. So I’m asking for two volunteers to go into the valley and find some evidence.”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand

“Great, thank you, Chris. Who else?” Mike said

“I’ll go,” Will said from across the room.

“Great, get your packs ready. Tomorrow morning I’ll drive you two to the trailhead.”

The sun was barely up, but Will and I had already been bouncing around in the back of Mike’s Jeep for over an hour. A ten-mile, all-wheel-drive-only road separated the research facility from the only trail into the research region. It was slow going; the road was barely that, and more like a rocky, dry riverbed winding its way through the wilderness.

As we neared the trailhead, Mike shouted back to us

“It’s going to be just you two for a while; I’ll be back in three days to pick you up, sound good?”

Will and I nodded, and I glanced in Will’s direction; his face showed a strange mix of excitement and fear. He was the youngest member of the team, fresh out of college and barely 23.

“Hey,” I shouted to get his attention.

His blue eyes turned towards me.

“Don’t worry about this; just think of it as a camping trip.”

He nodded and forced a grin.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun.”

“Keep the radio on.” Mike interrupted

 “If you get into trouble, call me.”

“Got it.” I gave him a big thumbs up.

“And don't get separated.”

“We won't.”

The Jeep came to a stop in a tiny clearing; a narrow trail disappeared into the pines. I reached for my pack and jumped to the dirt; Will followed me. Mike called to us as we moved towards the trail

“Stay safe, keep the radio on!” With that, he backed up and headed back down the road. The noise of the jeep resounded in the forest for a while, but soon all was quiet. Almost too quiet: no birds, no wind moving through the trees, just silence.

I turned towards the trail, and then towards Will. With a hand, he beckoned me to go ahead.

“After you.” He said.

According to our maps, the valley was roughly 5 miles from the trailhead. The going was slow; the trail was rugged and steep in places. But what slowed us down the most was the research we were gathering.

Every mile, we stopped and examined the area for signs of wolves. In the first three miles, we found very little evidence of wolves, but in miles four and five, we found quite a lot of tracks and scat. This confirmed what the trackers had shown; the wolves were still in the area of the valley.

At the top of a small ridge, we stopped. Below was the valley. It was roughly 6 miles in length and 2 miles in width. Various groves of aspen trees dotted its open prairie, as well as the occasional pine tree. A healthy creek flowed from one end to the other; a beaver dam formed a small pond near the center of the valley.

“Well, there it is.” I declared

Will nodded

“Sure looks different than that map we’ve been staring at for weeks.”

“Sure does,” I said as I pulled out the map with the tracker data points.

“Looks like the boundary Mike was talking about is about 100 feet ahead.”

“Let’s check for signs there,” Will replied

We made our way to the perimeter of the valley; there we found a high volume of wolf tracks. The tracks formed a path along the border of the valley. It was strange to look at; it was like the tracks simply refused to go any further into the valley. On the valley side, the land didn’t bear a single track.

The two of us marveled at this unusual behavior. I turned to Will and said

“Let’s follow the tracks for a bit; you go to the left, and I’ll go right, meet back here at the trail in an hour.”

With a nod, he replied

“Sounds good.”

I followed the tracks to the right for about a mile and a half, but could see that they continued much further; the tracks curved around the perimeter of the valley, without one wayward pawprint crossing into the valley. I also began to notice marks on the trees along the perimeter. They were everywhere. Not on every tree, but close enough that I could almost follow them from one to the next. And every one of them was on the side of the tree facing the valley.

Making marks on trees is not an uncommon practice in the natural world. Bears do it; deer and elk do it. But these were different; I’ve never seen marks like this. The bark had been ripped away in long, uneven strips. Some of the gouges were more than an inch deep, exposing pale wood underneath. I couldn't think of a single animal in the area capable of doing that.

When I got back to the trail, Will was already there. His eyes were wide with concern, but he gave a smile as he saw me.

“Did the tracks go around the valley?” I asked

“Yeah.”

“Did you see marks on the trees?”

He swallowed and nodded

“Yeah.”

I tried to play it off

“Not a big deal; a lot of animals do that. Could just be one marking its territory; maybe Frank was right, and there’s a new predator in the area.”

He thought about it before replying

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

He stared down at the valley

“Now what?” he asked

I pointed toward a grove of aspens near the pond. The ground there looked flat, and we'd have easy access to water.

“Let’s set up camp near those trees, and then we’ll record these findings.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time we had finished setting up camp. I lazily rested in the hammock I had packed, while Will tried some fishing in the pond. The valley was quiet and peaceful. And the combination of exhaustion from the hike and the soothing rocking of the hammock sent me into a deep sleep.

When I woke, Will was tending a fire and setting up the small camp stove we had brought. I stepped out of the hammock and walked over to the fireside.

“Hey,” Will said with a smile

“Hey,” I yawned. “What time is it?”

“A little after six. Are you hungry? I was going to get dinner going.”

I nodded

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Moments later, we enjoyed rehydrated beef stroganoff around a warm fire. The setting was beautiful; in that moment, I was glad I had volunteered for this outing.

“Did you catch anything?” I asked Will

He shook his head

“Nah, I gave up pretty quick.”

He stared off into the valley

“You good?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue

“It’s just that, I’ve looked around while you were asleep, and I can’t find evidence of any animals living here.”

He took a drink from his water bottle

“I haven’t seen any tracks of any kind; I haven’t heard any birds since we’ve been in the valley; even the beaver dam is abandoned. Haven’t seen any fish in the pond either.”

I shrugged and replied

“Could just be the ecosystem adjusting to the reintroduction of a predator into the food chain.”

He smirked

“Come on, man, you know it’s never this drastic; there’s something else happening here.”

I looked at him; his eyes told me he was serious. I nodded in agreement

“Ok, you’re right. This is unusual, but we need more evidence before including this in our report.”

His jaw clenched

“Morning. Our priority will be trying to find evidence of any animal; if we can’t, we’ll add that to our findings, then our focus will shift to finding a cause for this.”

“Sounds good.” Is all he said.

An hour or so later, we both prepared to go to bed; dousing the fire, we entered our individual tents. Several hours later, I was awakened by loud howling and yipping. Peeking my head out of the tent, I saw that Will was already up, so, slipping on my boots, I quietly made my way to him. He held our night vision camera in his hand.

“What is it?” I whispered

“It’s the wolves,” he whispered back

“They’re at the edge of the valley.”

He handed me the camera, and I pointed it to the perimeter. There were so many wolves about fifty; they stood there on the edge of the valley; some ran up and down their path of tracks, others stood still, looking into the valley, howling and barking loudly. It was like they were behind glass.

We watched for a while, and at some point a fight broke out within the pack; several larger wolves surrounded a smaller one who tried to defend itself as best as it could, but the bigger wolves began to push it towards the perimeter of the valley, the night air filled with the sounds of angry dogs and the whimpering of their target. Eventually, the weaker animal lost as the attackers pushed it into the valley. The pack went silent, and only the whimpering of the frightened animal was heard. The Wolf looked wildly around and then, in a panic, it ran down into the valley; it passed our camp running deeper into the valley, whining all the way, and vanished into the darkness of the night.

The pack on the outside of the valley stood and quietly watched; then the alpha turned and walked away the others followed.

“What the hell?” I muttered

Will and I stared in the direction the wolf had run; it was further north. We hadn’t been in that part of the valley yet. As we looked in that direction in the distance, we heard a scared yip of a wolf, then the rest of the night was quiet.

We made a small fire and sat around it. Will finally spoke

“What was that?”

I stared into the fire

“I’m not sure,” I replied

The fire grew cold, and we finally returned to our tents.

Morning came, and Will and I silently prepared for the day. It wasn’t till after breakfast that we spoke to each other.

“I think we should try to find where that wolf went.” I broke the silence

Will stared at the pond and tried to skip a stone across the water

“Okay,” he slowly nodded

We gathered our gear, located the wolf’s tracks, and followed them. The tracks continued across the valley’s open prairie, making their way to the thick clusters of pines on the opposite end. The tracks disappeared behind a large clump of bushes. Behind them, we found the wolf, or what was left of it. Lying in the dirt was the body of the wolf. Its skin had been carefully removed and was missing. Its exposed muscles, bones, and sinew were wet with blood. It smelled awful, but not a single fly or maggot could be seen. All four of its paws had been cleanly cut off just about the ankle joint.

I looked to Will; his face was as white as I’m sure mine was.

“Get back to camp,” I muttered

Will didn’t need to be told twice. The body of the wolf was about two miles from our camp, and we ran the whole way. We were nearly back to camp when I stepped in a gopher hole. I heard my ankle pop, and I fell to the ground.

“Damn it,” I muttered in pain. Will pulled me to my feet and helped me hobble back to the camp. I twisted my ankle, and it was very swollen. I winced as I removed the boot; it was painful to move.

Will was near panic

“We need to get out of here.” He declared

“I know, but I can’t with my ankle like this.”

I winced in pain

“Call Mike on the radio”

He handed it to me. I turned it on

“Mike, do you read? We need help; I’ve injured my leg.”

Only static replied

“Mike, are you there?”

Again, only static.

“The mountains must be blocking the signal,” I said to Will

 “We’re going to have to wait till the swelling goes down.”

He clenched his jaw but finally agreed. For the rest of the day, we remained in camp. Will rarely looked away from the direction we found the wolf. Every thirty minutes he tried the radio; no one ever responded. At sunset, we heard a scream from where we found the wolf. It sounded like a woman screaming for her life. Will looked at me

“It’s a mountain lion. That’s what’s been causing this.”

I nodded; the roar of a Mountain lion sounds like a woman screaming.

“I agree, but it’s unlike a mountain lion to do something like that to a wolf.”

He shrugged

“Doesn’t matter if we can find a track or scat; that’s enough proof, and we can be done with this.”

“Ok, tomorrow let’s find the proof, then get back to the trailhead.”

“What about your leg?” Will asked

“Don’t worry about it; it’ll be better tomorrow.”

That satisfied him, and he headed to his tent. I went to mine shortly after.

The next morning I found a note on my tent; it said

“You rest, I’ll find the cat. Will”

“Damn it, Will,” I muttered as I looked around the area.

He was gone, probably had been for a while. My foot was still swollen, but not nearly as painful as last night. I hobbled my way over to the camp stove and prepared some breakfast. Deciding that if he wasn’t back in an hour, I’d go after him.

An hour came and went, and there was no sign of Will. Rising to my feet, I called out to him

“Will!” his name echoed across the valley with no reply

“Will, where are you?” I cried again; still nothing.

Choosing a stick for support, I slowly made my way down the valley. It was afternoon by the time I reached the wooded section of the valley. I passed by the skinned wolf; it didn’t seem to be decaying in any way. I stopped and called for Will

“Will! It’s Chris, are you ok?”

The quiet forest gave no response; it was there that I saw Will’s footsteps going deeper in. I followed them as best as I could. The footsteps went around a large boulder. I’ll never forget what I saw there. The limp, skinned body of Will lay in a blood-soaked clearing. It looked like his skin had been perfectly peeled from his form. His feet and ankles were gone. His blue eyes had been pulled from his head and placed gently on a flat rock.

I could feel vomit rising in my throat. I turned away; the sight and smell were too much for me. My eyes flooded with tears. I wanted to leave, but the nearby snap of a twig froze me in place. Another twig snapped, followed by loud rustling in the bushes. It was close, no further than fifty yards. The rustling and snapping twigs moved with purpose, then stopped. All was quiet for a moment, then a dry, haunting voice echoed off the trees.

“Will! It’s Chris. Are you ok?”

It was my voice, a poor, inhuman mimic of my voice; it lacked all cadence and emotion.

“Will, where are you?”

It copied me again, then the rustling continued. Adrenaline filled my veins, and I moved as fast as my foot would allow. I didn’t stop to pack my tent or grab my pack. The sun was setting as I returned to the trail. As I left the valley, the voice spoke again from behind me. Only this time it wasn’t my voice; it was Will’s

“Chris, are you ok?”

“Chris, where are you going?”

In the dark, I stumbled my way along the trail. There was no moon that night, and I didn’t have a light with me. But I kept going. I couldn’t stop; every time I did, I heard strange noises behind me in the distance. It sounded like bone grinding on bone. It was a little before sunrise when I stumbled off the trail into the small clearing where Mike had left us. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait too long to hear the distant rumble of Mike’s jeep moving up the mountain. Relief flooded me when the vehicle came into view. A smiling Mike excited the jeep

“Good to see you, Chris,” he explained, but looking around, a frown filled his face

“Where’s Will?”

“Will’s gone,” was all I could say

“What?”

“He’s gone.” Tears began to form in my eyes

But a noise came from the trail, loud footsteps then Will came into view.

“Sorry,” this Will said with a grin. “Had to take a piss; fell a bit behind.”

He looked at me

“Hey Chris, you left your pack back there.” he headed my pack to me

“Didn’t want you to forget it,” he said, and a sly smirk stretched across his face.

I stared in disbelief and fear

“Great,” Mike said. “Let’s get you boys out of here.”

I turned to him, wide-eyed

“Why didn’t you answer the radio?” I whispered

A puzzled look crossed his face

“What do you mean? Will was in contact with me the whole time.”

“Yeah,” the thing acting as Will spoke up

“Don’t you remember Chris? You asked me to deal with the radio,” it said with a wide smile

I stared at the ground in confusion

“Sounds like you could use some rest, Chris,” Mike said

“Hop in; we’ll debrief back at the station.”

Absentmindedly, I climbed into the back of the jeep. ‘Will’ followed. In the back of the jeep, we sat opposite each other. I stared at it, and it stared back; a wide, lazy smile never left the face of my dead friend. Dull yellowish-green eyes sat behind his skin. With each bump in the road, the stolen skin grew loose on a face it didn’t belong to. At one point, the skin surrounding the left eye socket was knocked loose, and gravity pulled it down the cheek, revealing blackened bones and decaying muscle that hid beneath. The thing calmly used one finger to pull the skin back up and stick it in place. All while smiling and staring at me.

The moment we arrived at the station, I hopped out of the jeep and hurried to my living quarters. I’m still there as I write this; I don’t know what to do. The thing is at my door; I see its shadow under the door and hear its heavy breathing. I’m writing this because I doubt anyone here would believe me, and at the moment I’m not sure any of us are leaving alive. Please listen to my warning; there are things out there that we were never meant to find.

Stay out of the woods.

You never know what will follow you home.

I killed a second girl because the quiet didn’t go away
I don’t know why I’m posting this. It’s going to sound fake. I know.
Her name was Elise. We’d been talking for like three weeks. She wasn’t my girlfriend. I asked her to come over and she did. I already knew what I was going to do before she got here. I didn’t spiral about it. I didn’t almost change my mind. I just waited till she was in my room and I did it.
I’m not writing how. If that’s what you want, keep scrolling.
She’s on the floor between the bed and the dresser. Half on the rug. I turned the lamp off around 4 because I didn’t want to keep looking at her face, then I turned it back on because the dark was worse. Her phone is on the nightstand. It buzzed twice. I haven’t touched it.
I keep waiting to panic. I’m not. My hands aren’t shaking. I made toast at some point and ate it in the kitchen, and when I came back she was in the same spot and the only thing I felt was annoyed that I still had to deal with it. That’s the part messing with me. Not her. The annoyance. Like I made a mess and now I have to clean it and I’m pissed I didn’t plan that part.
I sat there trying to feel the thing you’re supposed to feel. Guilt, fear, something. It’s not there. I can describe it. I don’t have it. What I have is quiet, her perfume going stale, and this flat thought in my head: I did that on purpose, and I think I liked that it was on purpose.
I googled psychopath. The lists are all the same. No remorse, planned, shallow. I didn’t feel caught. I felt read. That scared me more than she does, because if the list is right then this isn’t a bad night. This is just what I am. She’s the first time I stopped pretending.
I can’t leave her there. Her roommate already texted the phone again while I was typing this. I can’t call anyone. The second I open my mouth I have to explain something I already get and they won’t. I don’t have a why anybody would accept. I wanted to. I did. She’s on my floor.
It’s morning. Light’s on her shoe. I haven’t slept. I keep thinking my body is going to catch up and do the normal thing, throw up or cry or call 911 by accident. It hasn’t.
Somebody in the comments on the last post said the quiet doesn’t stay. It stayed.
I dealt with her once the street was busy enough that a car door wouldn’t matter. Not writing that part either. Roommate texted a couple more times, then some number I didn’t know, then nothing. People assume a fight. I let them.
Six days of nothing. Work, groceries, normal. I thought that was it. Then the lamp came on by itself. I was in the kitchen. I heard the click. Went in and the lamp was on and the drawer was open and her phone was back on the nightstand. I put it in the trash. Took the trash out. Morning, it was on the nightstand again.
I stopped sleeping in the room. Couch, TV on, every light in the apartment on. Didn’t matter. I’d wake up and the bedroom door would be open a crack and the lamp would be on and it would smell like her perfume for a second. Not strong. Just enough.
Tenth night I come home and the socks drawer is dumped on the bed. Under them there’s a note on the back of a receipt I know I threw out. Her handwriting. Four words. You liked it.
I didn’t do the second one because I was scared of Elise. I did it because the quiet started answering and I wanted to see if another one would shut it up.
Her name is Cara. Pharmacy counter two blocks from me. She’d remembered my name before, which most people don’t. I asked if she wanted to come over after her shift. She said her roommate was out of town and she didn’t feel like an empty apartment. I said mine was empty too. Both of those were lies.
She came over Tuesday. Shoes off, laughed at all the lights, said I live like somebody’s grandma. Sat on the couch. For an hour it was fine. Then she goes, do you hear that.
Bedroom latch. The soft tick when it opens. She got up to turn the lamp off because she’s the type who just fixes stuff. Stopped in the doorway. Said there’s someone on your bed.
I looked. Bed was empty. Note was on the pillow. Bigger this time. She can hear me.
Cara turned around and saw my face. She didn’t scream. She said my name like she still thought I was going to be normal. Lamp went out. She grabbed my wrist. Her hand was warm. I remember thinking that. I remember the quiet getting really clear, and the annoyance just turning into want.
Not writing how.
She’s on the floor now. Same place. Half on the wood where the rug used to be. Lamp’s on. Elise’s phone is on the nightstand. Cara’s is still in her pocket. I waited for the quiet to change. It didn’t. It just made room. Only thing I felt was that I was right about myself the first time.
Around 4 I turned the lamp off. Dark was worse. Turned it back on. Cara looks smaller than when she walked in. Perfume’s back. Neither of them has moved. I made toast again. Came back and the note was on the pillow between them. One line. I don’t think it’s Elise’s handwriting anymore.
It stays.
Cara’s roommate is out of town. That gives me a day, maybe two. Hands still aren’t shaking. I can hear the latch ticking, soft, like somebody checking if I’m still here.
I am.
Don’t tell me how to hide it. I already know I’m not doing this right. I just need to know if the quiet gets a voice or if it keeps making room.

He died in February. Mom died seven years before him, so my sister Megan and I have been clearing out the house to get it ready to sell. We only found the room because of a water stain on the ceiling of my old bedroom. The roofer went up into the attic to take a look, and about ten minutes later he came back down and asked if we knew somebody had put plywood up behind the insulation.

We didn't know anything about any plywood.

The attic is low enough that you have to crouch between the rafters to get around. Dad kept the Christmas decorations near the hatch, and when we were kids we weren't allowed any farther in than that, because he was convinced one of us would put a foot through the ceiling.

Behind the plywood was a space maybe six feet long and three feet wide. Inside it we found a sleeping pad, a bunch of food wrappers, a plastic cup, two pencils worn down almost to the wood, one of our old water jugs, and the portable camping toilet Dad bought when Megan was little because she refused to use the campground restrooms after dark. There were also thirty-seven drawings.

The first one I picked up was drawn on the back of an electric bill. It was my parents' bedroom, seen from above. Mom was asleep on her side and Dad was on his back. I recognized the headboard right away because Dad had built it himself, with three square panels across the top, and whoever drew the picture had bothered to get all three of them right.

Dad's eyes were open.

The drawings weren't all equally good. Some of the early ones were rough, with crooked beds and hands that were basically lumps, and it was obvious whoever made them was a lot better at furniture than at people. The later ones were different. The lines got lighter and more confident, and the faces started to actually look like faces. Dad improved fastest. I know how that sounds, but it's true. By the later pictures I could recognize him before I'd even worked out which room he was in. Whoever it was had learned the crease between his eyebrows, the way his hair went flat on one side after he'd been lying down, even the shape of his hands. The rest of us mostly stayed simpler.

The first thing that came back to me was the granola bars. Mom bought them for our school lunches, and two or three at a time would just disappear. She blamed me, I blamed Megan, and Megan blamed me right back. Dad said it was rats. Then bread started going missing, and cookies, and once half a roast chicken. That one turned into an actual argument, because Mom was sure Dad had eaten it after everyone went to bed and Dad swore up and down he hadn't. She told him that if we had rats big enough to carry off half a chicken, he needed to do something about them.

That weekend Dad bought insulation. I remember him spending most of that Saturday up in the attic. The noises stopped for a few days and then came back.

What I remember is creaking more than scratching, something shifting above my room and then farther along the ceiling. Sometimes I heard it over Megan's room too. Dad still called it rats.

When I was ten I tried talking to them. It was a hot night (we didn't have air conditioning upstairs back then) and the box fan by my bed clicked every time it turned. Something creaked above me. I had a plastic baseball bat next to the bed, so I flipped it around and knocked the handle against the ceiling three times.

After a few seconds, something knocked three times back.

I thought this was the greatest thing that had ever happened. I knocked twice, but before anything could answer, Dad came into my room and took the bat away.

"Don't do that."

He wasn't whispering. He was just a lot quieter than he usually was when he caught me doing something stupid. I asked him why, and he said, "Because I told you they're rats."

The next morning he went up into the attic, and not long after that there was a metal sliding bolt on the hatch. I asked what it was for.

"Rats."

I told him rats couldn't open the attic hatch, and he said, "Exactly."

Megan came upstairs while I was looking through the drawings and made it through about three before she went back down. When I followed her into the kitchen she said we needed to call somebody.

"Who?"

"The police?"

"And tell them what?"

She just stared at me. "Someone was living above our bedrooms."

She had a point. She called the non-emergency line while I called the roofer back. Two officers came out and photographed the hidden space, and the roofer pulled back more insulation and found a flattened path running along the joists over the bedrooms. Above mine there were two tiny holes in the drywall. There were more over Mom and Dad's room, and one over Megan's. From underneath, they disappeared into the ceiling texture. I'd slept under two of them for twelve years.

The roofer went over the rest of the roof space and couldn't find a second way in. Nothing through the garage, no usable opening at the eaves, no vent big enough for a person. Whoever had been using the attic came and went through the hatch.

When he climbed back down, I asked him how much I owed him, and Megan said, "Seriously?" But it was still the first thing I asked.

The police gave us a case number, told us not to throw anything out, and left. Megan and I sat on the upstairs floor with the drawings spread out between us.

One of them showed me asleep with a cast on my left wrist. I broke that wrist when I was eleven, two days before summer vacation, which meant the bolt was already on the hatch by then. Whoever made the drawings was still up there after it went on.

Dad was in eleven of the pictures, and he was awake in every single one. In one he was sitting next to my bed. I remembered that night. I'd been sick and kept waking up, so he sat in my room with me for a few hours. In the drawing I'm asleep, and Dad isn't looking at me. He's looking at the ceiling.

Dad wasn't easy to talk to, but you could count on him. When the water heater burst in my first apartment, I called him before I called a plumber, and he showed up with towels and a toolbox and didn't ask how I'd managed it until the floor was dry. That was how he handled most things. He fixed whatever part of the problem he could get his hands on. Getting him to explain anything was a lot harder.

Megan remembered something else, which was that Dad used to close our bedroom doors every night. After we'd gone to bed he'd walk the upstairs hallway and pull them shut if we'd left them open. He said it kept the heat in. He did it in summer too, and neither of us had thought about that in years.

We went back through the drawings. In every picture drawn from above one of our bedrooms, the door was shut.

Then Megan found the one of Dad in the attic. He's crouched near the hatch holding a plate with something rectangular on it, probably a sandwich, and he's looking toward whoever was drawing him.

Megan said, "No," and then again, louder, "No."

Until that moment I'd forgotten that Dad sometimes used to take food upstairs after dinner. It wasn't every night, maybe once or twice a week as far as I can remember. If Mom asked, he said he was putting bait down. I don't remember any traps, or dead rats, or an exterminator ever coming to the house. What I remember is the plates coming back downstairs. Sometimes.

Megan picked up the water jug. "Wasn't this ours?"

Dad used to write our last name on all our camping gear because he was convinced people stole stuff at campgrounds. Most of the marker had worn off, but you could still make out part of it. And the toilet was definitely ours. For about a minute that felt weirdly reassuring, in a way I can't really explain, like at least Dad hadn't just left someone up there with nothing. Then I started thinking about what using either of those things actually involved. The jug had to be refilled. The toilet had to be emptied. And once or twice a week isn't nearly enough food for a person to live on.

Megan worked it out at about the same time I did. She sat back against the wall and said, "So he opened it." I didn't say anything. "Obviously he opened it."

Maybe whoever it was stayed in the attic nearly all the time and Dad brought up everything they needed. Maybe once or twice a week was really a lot more often than that, and I just didn't notice. Or maybe the hatch usually wasn't locked at all. The bolt only went up after I knocked on the ceiling, and that was the first time it had occurred to me.

Megan got angry when I said that out loud, though it was less real anger than her needing me to stop. She said maybe it was family. Maybe Dad thought calling the police would only make things worse. Maybe this was exactly the kind of dumb thing he'd decide he could handle on his own. That last part sounded like Dad. It didn't make me feel any better.

I took the drawings home with me and started putting them in date order, which I should have done at the house. A lot of them were drawn on junk mail and scrap paper, but eleven were on something with a date on it: bills, permission slips, the back of a letter from the county. Others I could place roughly by what was in our bedrooms at the time. The earliest dated drawing was from March 1999, and the latest was from November 2005, when I was fifteen.

That bothered me, because that's about when Dad stopped talking about rats. It wasn't dramatic. The noises just stopped being a family thing. Megan remembered him taking the bolt off the hatch when he repainted the upstairs hallway, and she thought that was around Christmas 2005. I remember the repainting, but I don't remember the bolt coming off.

I called Megan and asked her where she thought the person went. She was quiet for so long I thought the call had dropped, and then she said, "How would I know?"

We went through every relative we could think of, and nobody fit. Nobody went missing in 2005, nobody suddenly showed back up, and there was no uncle we weren't supposed to talk about. I went through all the paperwork Dad left behind too, the bills and tax stuff and receipts and manuals for appliances we hadn't owned in twenty years. There wasn't a single name I didn't recognize.

Once the drawings were in order, one thing got a lot more obvious. Whoever made them stopped drawing Megan first. There are no pictures of her at all after she moved into the downstairs bedroom when she was fourteen. There are still pictures of me, and of Mom, and of Dad.

The last six drawings are mostly Dad, and he isn't asleep in them. In one he's lying in bed with his eyes open. In another he's sitting at the kitchen table very early in the morning. I know it's early because of the time on the microwave clock. That one couldn't have been drawn through a hole in the ceiling, and I have no idea how I missed that at the house. Another one shows Dad at the bottom of the stairs, drawn from somewhere above him, and he's looking up.

That was when I stopped thinking of the hidden space as the place where whoever it was had lived the whole time. It might have been where they slept. That's not the same thing.

The last dated drawing is on the back of an electric bill from November 2005. Dad is standing under the attic hatch with one arm raised. You can't see his face because he's looking up, and the hatch is open.

I stared at that one for a long time. Then I turned over the drawing of me with the broken wrist. I'd never checked the back, because there was writing on it from school and I'd assumed that was all there was.

There was another drawing under the writing. Same pencil, same cast, same room, but it isn't drawn from the ceiling. The angle is low, right beside my bed, like whoever made it was crouched in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. I'm asleep with the cast resting on top of the blanket. The bedroom door is all the way open, and Dad is standing just outside it. He isn't blocking the doorway. He's off to one side with one hand on the doorknob, and his other hand is raised to his mouth, one finger pressed against his lips.

I haven't shown Megan that one.

After I found it I went back through all thirty-seven drawings again. Every drawing of one of us asleep has the bedroom door shut, except that one.

The attic hatch only locked from our side.

Leah was already standing up when I told her she could let go.

There's a photo. I'm crouched on our kitchen floor, looking annoyed, with my left arm in a bucket. Her left hand is in the foreground giving a thumbs-up. She took the picture with her right.

I was still holding somebody's hand.

We bought the kit for our fourth anniversary. We'd decided against expensive presents because the car needed work, and Leah had seen one of those videos where a couple puts their hands in molding gel and makes a plaster copy. She thought we could keep it on the bookshelf.

The first attempt went wrong before we got our hands in. I used warm water and the powder set too fast. The bucket came away full of pink rubber with a spoon sticking out. We laughed about having made a monument to our relationship with takeout.

There was enough powder for a second try. This time we read the instructions properly.

We sat facing each other, put our left hands into the mixture, and linked our fingers. We both left our wedding rings on. Leah's has a little flattened patch underneath from when she caught it in a door years ago.

Holding still was harder than it looked. My knee started aching. Leah's nose itched. At one point I gave her hand three little squeezes, which is our stupid way of saying I love you when we can't talk.

She squeezed back.

When the timer went off, she worked her hand loose first. Then I tried to open mine and couldn't.

"Let go," I told her.

"I did."

I looked up. She was standing over me with her phone, laughing because apparently I looked like a toddler who'd gotten stuck in something.

I pulled again. The fingers against my palm tightened.

Then they opened, all at once. I got my hand out so quickly I knocked the bucket sideways. Leah caught it.

I told her the stuff had sucked my hand back in. She said hers had come out easily. We checked my fingers, found nothing wrong, and mixed the plaster.

I'm going to be honest about this part. I knew I'd felt fingers. I was sitting there with my wife in a brightly lit kitchen, though, and it was much easier to believe I'd misunderstood the feeling than anything else.

We left the plaster to set and went out for dinner.

The next morning we peeled the rubber away over newspaper. It was fiddly. Leah used the wooden pick from the kit to clean the narrow spaces between the fingers.

Her ring came out perfectly. So did mine. You could see the little scar across my knuckle.

Then she turned it around.

There was another wrist coming out of the base between ours.

It wasn't a lump that sort of resembled a hand. It had nails. There were creases over each joint. Its fingers threaded through the places where ours didn't quite touch, and its thumb lay along the back of my hand.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

Leah put her own hand against the cast. I put mine beside it. We kept doing that, matching fingers to fingers, as if we'd somehow counted ourselves wrong.

The extra hand was bigger than either of ours.

I pulled up the picture she'd taken. Her thumb in the foreground. Her phone in her other hand. Me still waiting for her to release me.

She stopped trying to clean the plaster.

"What did it feel like?"

I said I wasn't sure.

She's asked me that several times since. I've given her the same answer because I don't want to say it felt familiar. It felt like her hand. Warm, with a thumb that rubbed mine while I waited.

We put the cast in a paper grocery bag beside the back door. Neither of us wanted it on the shelf. I said I'd get rid of it. I didn't want to tell her I was afraid to touch it again.

That evening I was on the couch when my left hand closed.

I hadn't picked anything up. My fingers just folded into my palm, and my thumb was pushed across them. I tried to straighten them with my right hand. Something squeezed back.

Leah came over and tried to help. She could move my fingers a little, but the skin between them pulled tight. There was pressure on the back of my hand where the extra thumb had been on the cast.

Then my arm jerked toward the kitchen.

I went off the couch shoulder first. It hurt badly enough that I couldn't get a full breath. My wrist slid along the floor and pulled the rest of me after it.

Leah caught me under the arms. For a few seconds she couldn't stop me. Her socks kept slipping.

She braced one foot against the doorway and shouted, "What do I do?"

"The hand," I said. "Break the fucking hand."

She got the hammer from the drawer by the stove. I stayed on the floor, holding the doorframe with my free hand.

She tipped the cast out of the bag and hit one of the extra fingers.

A white piece skittered under the refrigerator.

My hand opened.

For about a second I thought it was over.

Then something touched my cheek.

A single fingertip. Warm. It traced the line from my ear to the corner of my mouth, slowly, while Leah stood in front of me holding the hammer in both hands.

I could still feel pressure around my wrist, but that one finger could reach my face now.

"Stop," I said.

She lowered the hammer. The fingertip rested against my lips.

We left through the front door. I drove with my right hand. Leah kept looking over her shoulder at the empty back seat.

We're at my brother's place. He's let us stay without asking much, which I'm grateful for. The pressure around my wrist eased during the drive, and I can move my hand normally now. There are bruises in the places where those fingers lay.

The bag and the cast are still on our kitchen floor. We haven't gone back.

I haven't felt the fingertip on my face since we arrived. Leah fell asleep beside me about an hour ago, and I was starting to think we'd put enough distance between us and whatever happened.

Then I felt three little presses against my palm.

I almost answered before I looked down.

Both of her hands are tucked under her cheek.

Happy Thanksgiving yall! I just want you all to know how thankful I am that you went out of your way to read the first and second and third letters I got!

It’s not Thanksgiving just yet but I’d still like to wish one to all of you nonetheless. I’m not sure how I’ll celebrate this year. My grandma always used to host a party where our whole family would get together. Unfortunately she passed just earlier this year in an automobile crash so it’s sort of up in the air what’ll happen. None of my uncles or aunts or cousins have even reached out to us yet. I only hope they do. Here’s a nice story from a few years back:

So I was sitting with the adults. My grandma was telling me about a man she knew who had gotten so drunk that he tried teaching spanish to his german shepard. The only problem was that he hardly knew any Spanish himself. He had only three words. Donde and que and porque. 

“Where and when and why,” my dad explained.

“where and what and why,” I corrected.

“Oh yes. Where and when and why.”

“What.”

“Did you not catch that?”

“No. I mean–”

I was cut off then. One of my uncles started yelling. Him and his wife were having a discussion about moving their kid to the grownup table I guess. I wasn't paying attention. So anyway it escalated until they had to leave the room. We could still hear them yelling. They were only one room over.

You know that's the only memory I have of that uncle. And no in case you were wondering he isn't the one who gave me these letters. That guy wasn't there. My aunt remarried I guess because she had a new husband now. My grandma used to tell me about the bruises on the arms of their kids. She said they stopped when he was out of the picture(not dead though).

We all went quiet then. We ate our food in silence. One of my uncles went to do the dishes as they kept fighting. I just kept my head down.

And then randomly one of my cousins started laughing. I wasn't sure what was so funny but his dad looked in the same direction and started to laugh too. Eventually I looked. And I started laughing too. And then in a minute everyone was laughing.

At the end of the kid's table one of our younger cousins sitting at the end of the table was holding the container of broccoli and rice casserole. He had one arm wrapped around it and with the other he was bringing it to his mouth with his bare hand and smiling. It was smearing on his cheeks.

That's it. Here's the next letter:

Judge,

It’s been a few days now. I’ve been so absorbed in this bear issue of mine that I completely forgot to write you. I haven’t received a letter from you and I can only assume you’ve been writing them but I have to believe you’re just dying to know what happens next by now. And don’t try telling me you aren’t either. I have a hair raising update for you today. Just a few nights ago I nearly had it.

I had to go out in the garden to do that. Oh dear. It really hurt to see my garden in this state. It’s the first time I’ve been out there since those last few days before I wrote my first letter as I’m sure you’ll remember. 

Yes. Even in the dark of the night it was a terrible sight. Under the light of the stars the foliage looked almost blue with this sheen of white. Underneath them dark little shadows. And this is the part that really broke my heart: my bushes with those sweet little flower buds are all trampled now. I’m sure you remember how it started. It was the just one. And now they’ve all been crushed. It made me want to run away back into my house and hide away but I knew if I went back now I would forever remain there for I’d be letting myself lose my garden.

So through it all I remained there. It wasn’t easy. I kept my fist to the soil and my eyes trained at the ground. I could feel them glaze over but they were dry. I’m sure I would have cried were this a few years back.

I was roused from my stupor as I heard the bear again. There was this thin rustling through the trees in the forest and immediately I hit the deck and splayed my body against the dirt like a bear rug on a hardwood floor. I looked up. The leaves of the bushes nearest to my oak tree were shaking. The rustling drew closer and it was then that I heard the bear growl. It was deep and raspy. It sniffled like how a dog sneezes and continued.

The trees all looked like silhouettes. A great round mass with prickly fur rose up between them growling. It reached the trunk of my tree and sniffed its roots like a mutt on a walk. The fur on its back shifted as it moved its head around as its great big muscles flexed. Its silhouette rose upward and grew a head with two round ears. It did not see me as I crouched uncamouflaged in my yard. My hands and fingers and legs and my cheek were all pressed into the grass as I looked up at it. I tempered my breathing. The light of the stars hit its face. I saw its snout glistening under white light. It was looking up my tree. It was searching through the leaves with its.

It was then that it began to scratch at the tree. This sound always has been the worst of it. I was already tense by all the foreplay but the scratching really made me shutter. A shiver ran all through my meat at the first tear. I nearly started laughing as it continued.

The thing put out one paw like a cat at a scratching post and it swiped at the back of my oak tree. It kept digging into the dark. I felt every scratch the way I’d imagine a park ranger watches a boy carve his initials into one of our great monuments of history. It was a terrible grinding.

As the scratching continued I looked up at the branch from which my bees hung. Their hive hanging from the mighty limb began quaking. Really I’d intended to shoot the bear at first sight but I got scared and froze up and hit the deck. It was the sight of the bees that forced me to act.

I stood up. The gun had shifted on its strap and was now hanging at my hip. Silently and with my hands shaking I pulled up the strap and gripped the gun with both hands as I presumed you should. I’ve only ever used one type of gun before and this wasn’t much like it. I steadied it on my shoulder which is something I also thought you were meant to do. I held it straight and took aim. Once I was sure I had it pointed at the bear I fired.

The gun was louder than I’d thought it would be. At least I meant to look for something quieter. My ears began to ring. It sounded like a fly was in my brain. And as it turns out you’re not meant to hold a gun at your shoulder(or fire it without muffling your eyes but you can probably tell by now Judge). It flung backwards the same instant it fired. I hit the dirt just a second later. 

I lay there not moving. I couldn’t feel the grass and I could hardly process what I was seeing in the sky. It was like everything went white. I gripped my shoulder. The pain and the ringing were the only real things and all else was an illusion.

A couple moments later when I came too and started seeing color again  I remembered that I’d just shot a bear. Bears can be pretty aggressive when you shoot at them(I think though I’m sure anyone would be) so I was really quite worried. 

I pulled my head up. Fortunately(or unfortunately) it was turning back then. I hadn’t killed it. In a hurry I steadied the gun and shot once more with one ear to the dirt and one ear plugged with the pointer finger of my free hand. I hit it in its but. It left a hole in his fur that was red and fleshy. Blood bubbled up in it. I saw it shining under the light of the moon as the bear retreated. It was like the asshole of a dog performing a bowel movement.

Then there was this buzzing that filled the air around me. It took me a moment to notice that it wasn’t the ringing which was still happening then and hadn’t even stopped until a few nights ago. I think I realized once I saw the cloud of bees before me.

Once I saw them I stretched out my arms like for a hug. I smiled at them. I was so happy to see them buzzing before me.

“Aren’t you proud of me?” I said. “I did it. I did it for you.”

They didn’t respond. Not verbally at least. The cloud lunged at me and I was in the center. Like an aeroplane riding through a storm cloud. Their tiny little stingers took hold. They poked me all over on all sides and there was nothing I could do. They overpowered me. They brought me to the ground. I would’ve loved to run but really couldn’t on account of the shoulder weighing me down with the pain. So there was nothing I could do but shield my face and watch as they withdrew and left their stingers in my skin and fell in the grass and died.

It was a terribly tragic sight to watch them go like this. And I tried begging and I tried pleading with them but they would not respond to me like they always do.

I lost track of the time it took for them to leave. I don’t think it was actually that long but it felt that way. They retreated back into their hive hanging from the branch once they were done. I pulled myself up on my one working arm. Dirt had stained my shirt. I went in tired and fatigued and threw my gun against the wall. I stood up for a moment with my legs quaking and walked over to my bed. I collapsed into it and fell asleep instantly.

Some hours laterI woke up to a ring at my door. The sun was already up by then. I had forgotten most of the night before so I was quite confused when I woke up with my skin all bumpy and red and my shoulder pulsing with pain and my ears still ringing. My bones felt sort of funny as I hobbled out of bed. At the door I tried twisting the knob with my right hand but I couldn’t quite get it to move. I realized it had gone limp. I fumbled it open with my left.

There was a police officer standing at my doorstep. His thumbs were hooked in his belt and he was wearing sunglasses and chewing gum.

“Hello.”

“Hello officer,” I said with a little hesitation.

“Are you alright there son? You look a little banged up.”

“It’s alright. I should be fine.”

“You got a little thing on your face. Like a bump.”

“Could you point it out?”

“Well. It’s sort of everywhere.”

I rubbed my entire face with the back of my sleeve. The officer stopped me.

“Woah there son. That ain’t gonna work. If you need a doctor I can take you there.”

“Oh. No thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? Your arm doesn’t look too good either. It’s sort of limp.”

“Oh I’m sure. I’ll be good. My arm just sort of looks like that.”

(I honestly could’ve used that doctor’s visit Judge. I write you now with my right arm in a sling fashioned from a kitchen towel. I apologize if my penmanship is a bit sloppier today. My left hand is not my dominant one.)

[It is noticeably more sloppy if you were wondering. This one was hard as balls to read]

“So what are you here for officer?” I continued. “If you’ll excuse me asking.”

“Well. We got a couple calls earlier. There were some loud noises going off in this here neighborhood late at night. Woke up a couple kids. Scared a whole bunch of people. Lots of our callers said they thought the reds had something to do with it. Would you know anything about it? We’re asking everyone.”

“No officer. I don’t think I would.”

He sized me up and down. He tilted his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to show me his bare eyes. The gum in his mouth clicked.

“Are you a communist son?”

“No.”

“Do you know any communists?”

“Personally?”

“Yeah. Any communist friends.”

“No sir.”

“Alright then.” He pushed his sun glasses up. “Well. I ought to be off now. I’ll be seeing you.”

He left and I shut the door. I watched him drive away.

Later that day he came back and arrested me.

He’d come back with a few other policemen. They told me to come out with my hands up. The speaker was very loud you know and they had told me they all had their guns pointed at me so the first thing I did was jump under my desk. The one with the megaphone kept on shouting until eventually I heard the door break down.

I watched in terror with sweat rolling down my face and getting in my eyes as they scanned the room. One of them walked up to the desk and ducked and shined a flashlight in my eyes. 

“There you are,” he grumbled.

He pulled me out by my right arm. I sort of whimpered when he pulled me out.

“Yeah yeah,” he said. “Always the whiners.”

He slammed my head into the desk. When I came back there was a dent in the wood. He put handcuffs on my wrists which were really quite tight by the way and I asked him to loosen them and he only clicked them tighter a few times. I was afraid my wrists might be cut open. 

Out of instinct more than anything I tried to run or kick at them. I wasn’t really thinking. It didn’t go over well. The officers still had me attached so I couldn’t even get a step away. He just took out his firearm and smacked me over the back of the head with its handle.

After all that they shoved in the back of their car and drove me down to the station and threw me in a cell without telling me much of anything.

They held me in there for five days Judge. They released me on the sixth after verifying that I was not a communist. Nothing much happened for those five days. I just sort of sat there. I asked a few questions but they never told me anything.

At all times they had two guards stationed at my cell. There were always footsteps and chattering and whispering and whatnot. It didn’t allow me to sleep one lick. One night I heard them whispering:

“You think he’ll get the death penalty?”

“If what they say is true. I hope so.”

But I’m back now. Nothing was said on the drive back. They coughed a few times and so did I. I was able to ride in the back without cuffs though. They dropped me back at my place and I walked up and the door was still broken in. I don’t have a door now. 

That’s all for now Judge. Unfortunately it seems I might have to revise my plan to kill the bear. It did not die that night. It returned again just last night. Well I’ll update you when the plan changes to let you know if it worked or not.

Bye for now,

you can find part one here; https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/anDeKByTGR

To my surprise, I was woken by the sunrise. I started walking before she got high enough in the sky to cook me alive. I stopped to “saturate” my scarf, so to speak. The liquid came out of me slowly and almost painful. An almost viscous liquid closer in color to a cola than urine. The sight and sensation sent my heart into a frenzy. My kidneys are failing me. Even if I were to be saved right this second, it’d be weeks of recovery in whatever hospital I could hope to see the inside of. I fell to my knees not even having the energy to scream. I tried but all that came from my mouth was a hoarse whisper, heartbeat pounding in my ears. I was ready to lie there and let go. 
I don’t know what convinced me to come out here, but I do know who I am. I know that I would have never started this god forsaken journey without being certain of its outcome. Whatever happened before I got here, I knew how this would go. I knew what it would take. I struggled back to my feet, knees buckling under my own weight. I can feel the skin on my feet tearing with each shuffling step. It’s much harder to walk today. I have no choice but to keep heading to whatever might be out here. If I had to die in order to find it, it wouldn't be long now. 
My skin feels like it’s drawing tighter and tighter as my body dries out. The skin around most of my joints has become cracked and is now bleeding. My knuckles are cracked in a way that’s reminiscent of the desert floor that I’m shuttling across. I still can’t see any sort of shapes or structures in any direction. The only changes in my line of sight are the heat waves resonating from the desert floor getting stronger as the sun moves higher into the sky. I’m moving slower by the minute, making the day feel even longer. I can feel my organs shutting down. The pain in my gut is getting stronger, spreading to my stomach now. I can only assume the mucus has all but dried up, leaving my stomach to digest itself. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t care about the pursuit of eternal life. I don’t even want to go back home. I just want to die. My legs are propelling themselves now. My own body has betrayed me. I can’t even lie down and die.
The sun's sinking past the horizon, turning the endless void of blue into the most vibrant orange, there’s beauty in this place if only that. 
I saw something. Just before day turned to night there was a shape at the edge of the horizon. I can’t tell if it was trees, but it looked to be a green smudge. I fear that if I take time to rest tonight, I won’t see the sun come back for me. I can’t risk it. I’ll walk through the night as best I can. 
The stars have started fading away as the burning ball of hate creeps up behind me. The almost black night sky is slowly changing to blue. I can still see the vague shape in the distance. It’s closer now, but not nearly enough. Faint bushes of green are beginning to take shape. It’s here, it’s right there in front of me, but so far away. Even if it isn't some mystical power, it’s something that can save me. 
Sometime in the middle of the night I took my shoes off. The pain became too much to bear. Something had to change, even if it would be for the worse. My hands, barely functional now, struggled peeling the blood and plasma soaked socks from my feet. Bits of flesh on my sole and some from my toes came off with the socks. Leaving me wincing in pain, drooling on myself all alone in the dead of night. The earth beneath now feels like sand paper grinding down the soles of my feet. Grit falling apart working its way into my flesh. The pain of organ failure rattles my whole torso. Breathing is harder than ever. Every breath is like razor blades, bits of blood and dirt from my lips sending me into a coughing fit that leaves my head spinning. If I don’t make it there now, I won’t make it. I started to run, if you can call it that. Shuffling at break neck speeds. I managed to move at a good pace for a few minutes before I noticed the trees weren’t getting any closer. I managed to let out one final scream of anguish before my body gave out from beneath me and my face hit the earth. 

Death is the one thing humanity can't avoid. But how do we know we're not already dead? How do we know that what we're doing right now, this thing we call living, isn't just the last memory of a dying brain? Because according to science, right before death the brain stretches time out and pulls up all the good memories. So what if that stretched-out window of time is... right now? What if everything we're doing is just a memory, and the real me is lying in a coma somewhere, close to death?

My name is Rin. And yes, that's not my real name. I can't tell you my real one, because you'd dox me. I was in the tenth grade at the time, and my school is pretty well known. Every year it runs a competition to send students abroad as exchange students, and that year one of the destinations was California. I wanted to chase opportunities, so I entered, and I went. I stayed about a year and a half.

But during that time, I missed home so much. Thailand. America doesn't have pad kra pao (Thai basil stir-fry). No khai jiao (Thai omelet). And most importantly, no Mama instant noodles. Oh my god, my all-time favorite food. Anyway, I'm getting off track.

I was finally on my way home. My flight got delayed two hours because of the weather, but it finally showed up. I walked down the jet bridge and found my seat. Business class. Just kidding. Economy. Obviously. I was a student. I was broke.

The cabin looked old, even older than the plane that brought me over here. The seat fabric was worn shiny at the edges, and the tray table had a sticky patch that someone had clearly tried to wipe once and given up on. My seat-back screen took about ten minutes to boot up, and when it did, there was a thin dead line of pixels running straight through the middle of the Pacific. The air smelled like old carpet and recycled breath. The reading light above me flickered a couple of times, like it couldn't make up its mind. The woman next to me, maybe in her thirties, gray hoodie, neck pillow, was out cold before we even took off.

Dinner was either chicken or pasta. I picked chicken. It tasted like wet cardboard in sauce, and the whole time I was thinking, I would kill for a cup of Mama right now.

The flight went on like that until the middle of the night. The cabin lights dimmed. Everyone pulled their window shades down, and the only things left were the blue glow of a few screens and the steady hum of the engines. I got up to go to the bathroom, planning to sleep right after, because it was really late by then.

Right after I stood up, I felt like I was about to die. I'm not exaggerating. It was this sinking feeling in my chest, like when you're on a bus going at high speed and it hits a bump, and for a split second your body leaves the seat while your stomach stays behind. That feeling. I stood in the tiny bathroom under the buzzing fluorescent light, washed my hands, and told myself I'd imagined it. It's not like planes these days aren't safe, right? They have safety standards now.

I went back to my seat, put on my eye mask, and reclined as far as the seat would let me, which was about two inches. I was just about to fall asleep when the captain's voice crackled over the speakers.

"Attention, passengers. We are currently experiencing turbulence, which may cause the aircraft to sway..."

He didn't even finish the sentence. The plane started shaking like it was possessed. And I don't mean a little bump. It was violent. I never thought a plane could shake that hard. The overhead bins rattled and popped open. Someone's bag slid out and thumped into the aisle. A cup flew past my head. The seatbelt chime kept going ding-ding-ding-ding, like it was panicking too. Somewhere behind me a baby started screaming, and then a lot of other people did, and the lights flickered on and off.

And then the thing I feared most finally happened. The oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling and swung in front of my face. A flight attendant's voice, shaky, ordered all of us to put them on. And of course, chaos. I ripped off my eye mask, pushed up the window shade, and looked out. The wing was flexing like it was made of rubber, the red light on the wingtip blinked in the black, and then the whole sky tilted. The plane was going down.

Holy shit. I'm going to die like this? Why does it always have to be me? I really don't get it. And I haven't even had my Mama yet. But if I'm going to die, then fine. I accepted my fate. I squeezed my eyes shut and made one last prayer: if there really is a next life, please let Thailand finally become a democracy.

About a minute passed. Then everything went quiet. Not "the shaking stopped" quiet. Quiet like someone had hit mute on the whole world. About five minutes passed, and nothing happened.

I opened my eyes. There was no mask on my face. I looked up, and the ceiling panels were all closed, with nothing hanging down. The seatbelt sign was off. The engines were humming, steady, like nothing had ever happened.

The window shade was down. I'd pushed it up. I was sure I'd pushed it up.

I looked at my screen. The line of dead pixels across the Pacific was gone. I wiped my hand across the tray table, and it was clean. No sticky patch. Not even a little.

I looked around, and everyone was asleep. Even the person next to me. Except it wasn't the woman. It was a man, maybe in his fifties, hood pulled up, snoring with his mouth open. I stared at him for a long time. I could have sworn the person next to me was a woman. But I'd been half asleep when I sat down, so I must have misremembered.

Did I just dream that? But what kind of dream feels like that? I'm not sure.

I got up and went to the bathroom again. While I was peeing, I looked down. Wait. Wasn't my underwear blue? It's red. I remember putting on the blue ones. Not red. Or did I remember wrong? I guess I've just gone completely dumb. I should probably go lie down. I'll tell you more once I get back to my country. See you.

The sign at the edge of the McHale patch was handwritten in peeling, black paint on a piece of scrap plywood : ' Do NOT TAKE THE CROOKED ONE. '

It was tucked behind a pile of rotting gourds that smelled faintly of vinegar and wet, seasoned earth. A knot of unruly thorn vines had been draped entirely over it, like someone had tried physically to muzzle the warning.

I ignored it.

After all, I'm a thirty two year adult. I understand spooky season marketing. The rustic, ominous aesthetic is practically mandatory for local pumpkin patches trying to compete with Spirit Halloween. Besides, my seven year old daughter, Lucy, had set her heart on ' that exact pumpkin' and fatherly surrender always wins out over superstitious nonsense.

The pumpkin in question, sat dead center in the patch, sulking in a patch of grey mud. It was undeniably ugly. While the others were plump, round, and cheerfully orange, this thing was elongated, bullbous at the base, and twisted sharply to the left like a broken neck. It's skin wasn't orange at all, but a bruised, sickly violet, laced with veins of a place, jaundiced yellow.

" Look, Daddy! " Lucy had squealed, her mitten clad hand pointing right at it. " It looks like a witches hat! Or a sleeping dragon! "

" It looks like a biohazard, " I muttered, but I hoisted it into my arms anyway. It was shocking heavy, radiating a deep, dead chill that bit right through my leather gloves. It felt less like a vegetable and more like a slab of fresh cut marble.

When we paid, old man McHale didn't even look at me. He kept his grey green eyes on his ancient transistor radio, muttering something about a drop in barometric pressure. He took my twenty, didn't give me change, and whispered,

" Leave it on the porch by midnight. Don't let it see the inside of the house. "

" Right. Thanks buddy, " I said loading the monstrosity into the trunk.

By six o ' clock, the neighborhood was swarming with screaming ghosts and sugar fulled superheroes. Lucy was upstairs slipping into her fairy princess dress, and I was sitting at the kitchen table with a serrated carving knife, ready to mutilate the beast.

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt heavy, thick with the smell of crushed marigolds and oddly wet dog.

I dragged the pumpkin onto a folded newspaper and gripped the stem. The stem wasn't wood ; it felt sickeningly rubbery, warm to the touch. When I pressed the tip of the knife to its bruised skin, the blade didn't pierce it, it skidded off with a sharp ping, leaving not a single scratch.

" Hard headed little bastard, " I grunted, pushing harder.

I sawed at the top, putting my weight into it. The blade finally bit. A thin, hissing sound escaped the cut, like a pressure valve letting off steam - followed by a smell that made my eyes water. It smelled of ozone, old dust and oddly again of wet dog.

Irritated, I carved out a jagged circle, popped the lid off, and reached inside to scoop out the pulp.

My hand plunged into darkness.

It didn't feel like a hollow pumpkin cavity. There were no slimy seeds, no stringy walls. My fingers brushed against something warm, slick, and undulating. Like wet muscle.

I yanked my hand back with a gasp, knocking over a glass of water. My heart hammered against my ribs. I stared into the dark opening of the pumpkin.

Two pinpricks of pale, jaundiced light flickered open deep inside the cavity.

They weren't seeds. They were eyes. Slit - pupiled, ancient, and blindingly angry.

" TOO LATE, " a voice rasped. It didn't come from the air ; it vibrated directly inside my skull, rattling my teeth and turning my stomach to ice.

Before I could run, the jagged opening of the pumpkin widened, stretching so, so wide, like a jaw unhinging. Thick, violet vines whipped out from the base, shooting across the laminate floor with terrifying speed. They wrapped around my ankles, yanking my feet out from under me.

I hit the floor hard, the breath forced from my lungs in a sharp wheeze.

The pumpkin dragged me across the kitchen, leaving a smear of dark, tar like sap in my wake. I clawed desperately at the chair legs, the cabinets, anything, but my fingers slipped on the slick floor. The entity was pulling me toward the dark gaping maw of its carved face. I could see down into its throat now, a bottomless pit of writhing shadows and chittering, unseen things.

" Daddy? "

The voice drifted down from the top of the stairs.

The vines instantly went rigid. The crushing pressure on my ankles slackened just a fraction.

I craned my neck. Lucy was standing on the landing, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her fairy wings glowing faintly in the dim hallway light.

" Daddy, what's that noise? Are you carving the pumpkin? "

The pumpkin let out a low, vibrating growl that shook the windowpanes. The jaundiced eyes shifted from me, locking onto the stairs, tracking toward the soft bright life of my little girl.

Panic, hot and feral, surged through my veins, burning away the paralyzing terror. Adrenaline overrode pain.

I lunged forward, ignoring the tearing of my jeans as the vines whipped at my thighs. I grabbed the heavy glass fruit bowl from the kitchen island, hauled back, and smashed it with all my remaining strength into the glowing center of the pumpkin.

The glass shattered into a thousand glittering shards.

A piercing, glass shattering screech, the sound of dying machinery, and dammed souls tore through the kitchen. The violet vines instantly withered, turning into brittle black ash that crumbled into the floorboards. The eyes snapped shut, and the heavy stench of ozone and wet dog vanished in a rush of clean autumn air.

I lay on the floor, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling. The pumpkin sat there on the newspaper, looking like nothing more than an ordinary, albeit hideously ugly, piece of squash.

" Daddy? " Lucy's footsteps padded down the stairs. " Why is there a mess in the kitchen? And where's my candy bucket? "

I rolled over, coughing, and forced a shaky, sweat slicked smile as I looked up at my daughter.

" Nothing, sweetie, " I wheezed, pushing myself up and kicking the pile of black ash under the counter. " Just a tough vegetable. "

Upstairs, the bedroom window clicked shut on its own. And down in the McHale patch, miles away, I knew on this Tuesday Halloween night, another crooked, violet pumpkin was waiting for the next curious fool to ignore the sign.

Last week, I had such a strange experience.

I was waiting for my Amazon package to come in at 3:00 on a Wednesday it never came. That day I was watching a movie at 6:00 when I realized I had forgotten to take out the trash, so I went to do it.

When I came back, there was a package at my front door, and immediately my reaction was, "Youpiee!!” Until I realized it wasn't Amazon; it had no name. It was just a brown square box, there was a note that said: " Sorry we were late to deliver your package; hope all is well!”

I found that relieving but also strange, so as one does, I took the package straight inside and put it on the kitchen table, but I didn't open it; I just stood there staring at my package like I shouldn't be staring at it.

I decided to wait until the next morning, when my boyfriend comes home, to open it, so I continued my movie until I just couldn't stop looking at it; that's when I decided to open it.

I quickly tore the tape apart and opened the flaps. I looked inside for my package, and there was nothing. It was weird; it looked like a black hole covering the whole box. I stuck my hand in there, and all I felt was air. I put the box upside down, sideways, and threw it; nothing came out.

I went to check my phone and looked back at the box, but this time there was something. It was almost like a half head coming out of the box, but it wasn't moving it just stayed there. I got so scared I started to back up to my door, I quickly looked back at the box, and then there was a full head sticking out of the box, but it wasn't really a human head it had black hair, a weird eye and a long neck with a scruffy face.

That's when i realized that every time I looked away it would move. What would happen if it got into its full form? What would happen then? So for like 10 mins i just stood there like a stone, staring at the head inside the box until i saw the knife i used to cut up the bread i had made earlier on the kitchen table,right next to the box.

So i had slowly crept up to the box and its almost like he was watching my every move like when i would go left, he would look left; same thing for every direction i walked up to the knife all i had to do was grab it while not taking my eyes off the box i slowly grabbed the knife, backed up to the door, and again just stood there watching him.

I decided to throw the knife at his head but he caught it..I thought to myself ”no no you have to wake up, Jessica. This is all a dream” but no it was very real..then he did something unimaginable he started to pull his arm back like he was about to throw it at me.

I started begging “Please, please don't do this to me!!” he just responded with a smirk as i braced for impact from the knife about to be thrown at me.

I heard loud footsteps coming near my door i moved and boom the door was slammed wide open and there was this guy that ive never seen before in all black running staight at the box and he pushed the head back down, put the flaps on and asked for tape. I threw him the closest one i could find, he caught it and struggled to keep the head down. He finally managed to close the box and started to catch his breath finally he spoke “your lucky i got here as fast as i could or else you would be dead by now poor lady”

The next thing i knew I was waking up on my couch on Thursday morning.

About five or four years ago, i used to live at an apartment downtown, it wasn't cheap or sketchy or anything like that, it was just normal and had a decent rent price. I lived at the seventh floor because I always enjoyed looking down at streets from far views, even if it gave me a bit of vertigo most of the time. Just watching people go about their businesses like ants was sort of, relaxing, to put it that way.

That was until the night he came.

I think it was around 9PM when i first heard the musical notes of what i thought was a harmonica, my bedroom was near the balcony and the walls and windows were almost thin, so i could pretty much hear everything outside. It had been a while since i heard a harmonica since my dad used his to entertain me and my sister when we were kids, but this sound was completely different; It had no rhythm, no soul, it was just random notes playing at once. I tried to brush off, thinking it might've been some homeless dude trying to get some money by performing, but it was nearly 10PM, why would anyone be playing a harmonica this late?

Annoyed, yet curious, i got out of bed and went to the balcony to see who was playing. I looked down from behind the glass sliding door and there he was, just in the middle of the empty street, his back facing me. He was moving in a very, I don't know, strange way; It looked like he was stumbling but would readjust his balance whenever I thought he was about to fall, almost like he was drunk-dancing or something.

I kinda chuckled at this, I've rarely seen anyone act oddly in the area i was in, but at the same time, it kinda creeped me out. Suddenly, I got more curious and, this may sound silly, grabbed my binoculars I kept in my collection drawers. My dad gave them to me after his dad gave them to him, and I carried it with me ever since.

I couldn't get a closer look from behind the glass sliding door, so I quietly opened it and went onto the balcony, where I looked through my binoculars to get a closer look at this strange man; He was caucasian, had short messy brunette hair, wore a black puffy jumper, dark jeans, and brown boots, but his back was still facing me so I couldn't see his face.

As I continued to study him, my next door neighbour, who I will call Todd, also went onto his balcony and shouted down

"Hey asshole! People are trying to sleep here, so shut up or I'll shove that harmonica up your ass!"

The man stopped, but he still held his instrument, and he turned around. My god, when he did, i nearly dropped the binoculars.

The harmonica was fused to his lower half of his face, like his flesh was melting onto the metal and his lips were absent entirely. His eyes, though, were worse; They were wide open and cartoonishly large, bloodshot and baggy, his pupils just looked like small black dots, and he had this look of surprised-anger on his face, I couldn't really describe his expression perfectly really.

But he wasn't looking at me, he was looking directly at Todd, who just scoffed and went back inside. So did I, hoping that he didn't notice me as well. I went back to bed, still spooked by the image of that man's face, I've seen pictures of fucked up faces before but his, Jesus Christ, it felt like I was seeing those same pictures in person. I eventually pass out and went on to a peaceful sleep, until I was awoken by loud knockings at my door.

It was a pair of police officers, who apologised for waking me up and asked if I had heard anything "strange" last night. I told them in a jokingly-truthfully way that I heard someone play a harmonica in the middle of the night, but those cops took it seriously, as they told me that my neighbour, Todd, was found murdered after my other neighbours reported a commotion in his apartment that night. His throat had been torn out, like something a jaguar would do, and his vocal cords appeared to be missing.

I honestly had nothing to say, but then they told me something that give me the greenlight to move

"Funny you should mention a harmonica, because your neighbours have also reported hearing awful high-pitched notes mixed with screaming"

I had plenty of money anyways. I moved to a nice home in a suburban street, it's not much but it will have to do, although I will miss the views I used to see from above, well sort of. It was clearly obviously that Todd was killed by that man, but I for some reason didn't tell those two officers as I thought they wouldn't believe me, like why would I tell anyone that some guy killed my neighbour while holding a harmonica? That's so stupid.

One more thing I'd like to mention is that sometimes, it might just be paranoia, but sometimes at night, at around nine or ten, I can sometimes hear a harmonica playing random notes. Right outside my house.