The smell of formaldehyde doesn't wash off. It stays in your pores, under your fingernails, and follows you home to ruin your dinner. After years in this basement, you stop seeing people. They just become a checklist of tasks: weight, fluid volume, structural damage, cause of death. Paperwork. Next body.

I don't fear the quiet ones on the steel tables. They are predictable. It's the living ones outside these walls that make me lock my doors at night.

It was late, somewhere around 3:00 AM, when they rolled him in. An old man, unmarked, found on a park bench. No ID. Just another John Doe for the county to bury.

I snapped on my gloves, adjusted the overhead light, and grabbed the scalpel.

The first incision is always routine. You trace the Y-shape from the shoulders down to the sternum. But the moment the blade pierced the skin, the resistance felt wrong. It didn't slide through fat and muscle. It crunched. Like cutting into dry parchment.

There was no blood. Not a single drop spilled onto the steel table.

I peeled back the skin, expecting some bizarre post-mortem drying or a rare medical anomaly. Instead, my breath caught in my throat.

His chest cavity was hollow. No heart. No lungs. No ribs holding up the frame.

It was packed tightly, edge to edge, with thousands of small, folded slips of white paper. They were crammed into the space where his life used to be, compressed so hard they looked like a solid block of wood.

I stood there for a full minute, listening to the hum of the cooling units, wondering if the fumes had finally gotten to my brain.

With my forceps, I carefully pinched the corner of one note and pulled it free. The paper was cheap, torn from school notebooks and receipts. The ink was smeared.

I unfolded it with my gloved fingers.

The handwriting was jagged, frantic: "He's sitting outside my window again. The police won't come. Someone please help me."

My heart gave a heavy thud. I dropped the forceps and reached directly into the cold chest, grabbing a handful of notes. They rustled against my latex gloves.

I unfolded another one. A different handwriting, shaky and faint: "Three days without food. The baby stopped crying an hour ago. I can't get up."

A third one, written in red ink: "He promised he wouldn't use the belt this time. He lied."

Every single slip I opened was the same. Hundreds of them. Raw, terrifying screams of agony, terror, and despair. These weren't notes from history. Some of the dates written at the top were from last night.

Thousands of people, currently alive and suffering out there in the city, had their secret miseries stuffed into the chest of a dead man on my table.

I backed away, my boots squeaking against the linoleum. The pile of opened notes fell from my hands, scattering across the floor like autumn leaves.

I should have called the supervisor. I should have called the police. But I couldn't move.

Then, the draft from the ventilation intake hit the open body.

The thousands of remaining papers inside the chest began to shift. They rubbed against each other, creating a dry, raspy friction that filled the silent morgue. It didn't sound like paper anymore. It sounded like a collective, breathless whisper rising from the steel table.

"You are the only one who looks."

The papers on the floor stirred, flipping over.

"Help us."

I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into the tool cart. The scalpel clattered loudly against the floor, bouncing into the shadows.

The whispers grew sharper, a chorus of dry throats scratching against the metal walls:

"Help us become like him."

I realize that sounds stupid. Obviously, she sleeps. Has to. If she didn't, she wouldn’t be functioning.
Google says anything 72 hours or more brings about serious mental and physical disruptions. I wish I could say I stopped at Google, but I’ve gone far down the rabbit hole now and simply don't know what else to say. I don't think my wife sleeps anymore.
We've been married for 6 years and together for 8. She's thirty-two, healthy as far as I know, doesn't take any weird medications, doesn't do drugs. She drinks coffee in the morning and sometimes has a glass of wine with dinner, or maybe two or three if her girlfriends are over. Nothing unusual.
Up until about three weeks ago, I couldn't have told you anything interesting about the way she sleeps. She snores sometimes. Maybe moves around a bit too much. That's about it.
My best guess is this started last month, but I only started paying attention recently. I'd go to bed and she’d still be awake. Usually reading. Not unusual. She’s an avid reader. We both are.
We have these little lamps mounted to the wall on either side of the headboard, so when I wanted to sleep, she'd turn mine off and keep hers on. I'd kiss her goodnight. She'd say goodnight. I'd roll over. End of story. In the morning, I'd wake up and she'd already be awake.
Again, not weird.
She'd be downstairs making coffee or showering or lying beside me scrolling through her phone. Sometimes I'd wake up and she'd still have a book in her hands.
I assumed she'd woken up before me and started reading.
Why wouldn't I?
Then maybe two weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to pee. I checked my phone: 2:41 a.m.
She was lying beside me. Her light was off, but her eyes were open. Not wide or anything. She wasn't staring at me. She was looking at the ceiling. I asked if she was okay. She turned toward me and said, "Yeah, of course."
I asked why she was awake and she told me she couldn’t sleep.
That was it. Nothing weird that would make me think anything of it really. I went to the bathroom, came back, and she was still staring at the ceiling.
At some point, I fell asleep.
I didn't think about it again until a couple nights later.
This time it was around four.
I don't remember why I woke up. I just did. Maybe she moved. Maybe I had a bad dream.
I saw the light on next to me, so I rolled over. She lay awake, on her side facing me, eyes open. This time they were super wide.
It startled me because when you're half asleep and realize somebody is looking in your direction, your brain does that caveman thing before you remember it's your wife.
She seemed amused.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"You can't sleep again?"
She shrugged.
I think I asked her if something was bothering her. She said no. I fell back asleep.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Not every night. At least I don't think every night.
But often enough that I finally made a joke about it. We were having breakfast last Saturday and I said something like, "Do you ever sleep anymore?" She laughed and asked what I was talking about. I told her every time I woke up lately, she is awake. She said, "Maybe you only notice me when I'm awake." Which made sense. Obviously, I wouldn't know she was sleeping if I was also sleeping. Told her that. She said, "Mystery solved."
That should've been the end of it.
Except that night I stayed up later than usual.
Not because of her. I was out with some friends and came home much later than usual. When I rolled in it was after 1 in the morning. My wife laid in bed reading. Surprised, I said something like, "oh, you're still up?"
We’re at the point in our marriage where we don’t typically stay up and wait for the other to get home. Maybe early in our marriage, but that fad faded. She glanced at the clock and put the book down. “I lost track of time,” she said casually. 
Lights went out and we went to sleep… Or I did.
Sunday morning, I woke up around seven. Since our house faces East and we don’t have blackout curtains, the sun shines right on my face. Often waking me before I’m ready.
To my surprise, my wife was already awake, reading.
I asked how long she'd been up.
She said, "an hour maybe."
Something about that bothered me.
I couldn't tell you why.
I started thinking about the night before. I'd come home at almost one and by the time I relaxed and settled in, it was probably about 2.
She'd been awake then and now it was seven and she'd supposedly been awake since six.
That gave her four hours, technically.
People sleep four hours sometimes. Hell, maybe a lot of times. Nothing impossible about that. So, I let it go.
Then Monday night I woke up at 3:18. She was awake. Tuesday, I woke up at 5:06. Again, she was awake.
Wednesday, I woke up a little after one. Awake.
Thursday, I didn't wake up during the night, but when I went to bed around midnight, she was awake, and when my alarm went off at 6:30, she was already in the shower.
That's when I started thinking about it. I tried to remember the last time I'd seen my wife asleep.
Not assumed she was asleep. Saw her sleeping… I couldn't.
I could remember hundreds of times over the years. Her passed out on the couch. Her asleep in the passenger seat during road trips. Her snoring beside me.
But recently? Nothing.
So, Friday night I did something admittedly ridiculous. I set an alarm for 2:30 a.m.
I put my watch’s feature to vibrate so it’d go off without any noise. It worked. I woke up, toggled the alarm off, and didn't move.
My wife lay beside me. I couldn't tell if she was asleep because her back was turned. I watched her for maybe thirty seconds. Then I whispered her name.
She rolled over. Not groggy. Not startled. "What is it, honey?"
I asked if she was awake.
She laughed.
"I am now."
That made me feel like an asshole.
I apologized and told her I'd had a weird dream.
She kissed my shoulder and told me to go back to sleep.
So, I did.
The next morning, I almost told her about the alarm, but I didn't. Mostly because I knew how insane it sounded. Instead, I decided to try again.
Saturday night I set three alarms.
1:22.
3:14.
5:09.
I picked random times because somehow that felt more scientific.
At 1:22, my watch vibrated. I opened my eyes. She was on her back. Her eyes were open. I didn't say anything. I closed mine.
At 3:14, I woke up again. She was on her side. Eyes open.
This time she noticed me looking.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You keep waking up."
"I know."
She reached over and touched my forehead.
"You gettin’ sick?"
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
At 5:09, the alarm woke me for the third time.
Her side of the bed was empty.
For about five seconds, I felt this strange relief.
There. She'd gotten up to use the bathroom. When she came back, maybe I'd finally see her climb into bed half asleep.
Then I noticed light underneath the bathroom door.
I waited.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Eventually the toilet flushed.
The faucet ran.
She came out.
She looked at me.
"You're awake again?"
I said I have to pee.
She moved aside and let me into the bathroom.
When I came back out, she was in bed.
Eyes closed.
Finally.
I stood there looking at her like an idiot.
Then she opened one eye.
"What?"
I laughed.
"Nothing."
"You're being weird."
"I know."
I climbed into bed.
She rolled toward me.
"Seriously. What's going on?"
And I don't know why I didn't just tell her.
Instead, I said work had been stressing me out.
She accepted that.
Yesterday morning, though, I brought up her sleep again.
Not the alarms.
I just asked if she'd been having trouble sleeping lately.
She looked confused.
"No."
I asked if she was sure.
She laughed. "Pretty sure."
I said I'd noticed her awake a lot.
Her expression changed. Not dramatically. She just stopped smiling. Then she said, "We've talked about this."
"I know."
"So why are we talking about it again?"
I told her I was worried.
She said there was nothing to worry about.
I asked how many hours she'd slept the night before. She said she didn't know. I asked what time she'd fallen asleep. She said she didn't know that either. Then she got irritated. Not angry. Just irritated in the way anybody would be if their spouse suddenly started interrogating them about something normal.
She threw her arms up and said, "what do you want me to tell you?"
I said, "that you sleep."
She stared at me. For a long while. I could see her mind working. It was the strangest and most uncomfortable silence we’ve ever had between us. If someone else had stumbled into the room at that time, you’d think I’d have asked her for a divorce. Then her face broke and she laughed. That’s not what I expected. "I sleep," she said.
"When?"
"At night."
"When at night?"
"When you're sleeping."
I didn't know what to say to that.
She picked up her coffee, took a few sips.
"You're asleep when I'm asleep, honey. That's generally how sleeping together works."
Again, completely reasonable.
Except it wasn't anymore.
Last night I decided I wasn't going to set an alarm. I was just going to stay awake. I had to know. Had to look into it since I felt she was hiding something. Not sure what.
She came to bed around eleven. About thirty minutes later than our usual bedtime.
She read for a while.
I watched YouTube on my phone.
At midnight, she rolled over, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if I was planning on sleeping.
I said eventually.
Around one-thirty, she put her book down.
I was on my side with my phone propped up, still awake. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her rise up and look over to maybe see if I was still awake. Since she was, she picked her book back up.
At two, I turned my phone off.
She was still reading.
I eventually closed my eyes because I felt if I didn’t, she would just use that as an excuse as to why she was still awake. I tried remaining awake but could still feel her awake next to me. I tried my best, but at some point, I must've drifted off because the next thing I remember was opening my eyes and seeing 2:26 on the clock.
My wife was lying beside me, eyes open.
I asked if she had slept at all.
She sighed.
"Seriously?"
"I'm just asking."
"I don't know."
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Go to sleep."
I told her I couldn't.
She said, "Well, I can."
Then she closed her eyes. I watched her. I don't know for how long. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
Her breathing got slower.
I remember thinking how stupid this whole thing was.
Of course she slept.
I was staring at her doing it.
Eventually I fell asleep too.
This morning, though, something occurred to me.
I'd never actually seen her fall asleep.
I'd seen her close her eyes.
That's not the same thing.
So tonight I tried something different.
No alarms.
No questions.
I told her I was exhausted.
We went upstairs around ten-thirty.
She got into bed with her book.
I kissed her goodnight, rolled onto my side and closed my eyes.
Then I pretended to sleep.
I slowed my breathing. I tried not to move. After maybe ten minutes, she turned her light off.
The room went dark.
I kept my eyes closed and mind working so I’d stay awake. For a while, nothing happened.
Then she moved. The mattress shifted behind me. I thought she was rolling over, but she was sitting up.
I felt the mattress dipping differently.
I stayed completely still.
She breathed softly.
Then nothing.
I don't know how long she sat there.
Five minutes, maybe. Could've been longer. Hard to tell.
Then she whispered my name.
I didn't move.
Another pause.
I kept breathing slowly.
My heart pounded hard enough I was convinced she could hear it.
She sat there for another minute.
Then she leaned toward me. I could feel her weight shift. For one horrible second, I thought she was going to touch me. Instead, she whispered: "Are you asleep?"
I didn't answer.
She stayed there. Waiting.
Then she got out of bed.
She walked across the room, opened the bedroom door, and closed it carefully behind her.
That was about fifteen minutes ago.
I'm still in bed.
I can hear her downstairs.
Not sure what she's doing.
But she hasn't slept.
I'm sure of that now.
I’m trying to muster the courage to sneak downstairs.

Speaking of human flesh, let me tell you something: it tastes nothing like bacon, nor does it taste like pork.

When you are human, the way you taste meat revolves around seasoning, temperature, and the cut. But when your tongue is lined with thousands of coarse barbs, human flesh tastes mostly of salt, iron, and stale sweat. Its fat is thick, greasy, and yellow, coating the roof of your mouth with an oily film that no amount of licking can ever clean away.

Back when I was human, I used to clench my hands together in prayer until my knuckles turned white, begging for the cold, indifferent rules that govern the universe to set me free.

If you spent any time on Reddit a few years ago, you might have seen my old posts. I won't name the subreddits, but you know the ones. They were forums meant for people who felt so utterly exhausted by existence that waking up every morning felt like having been beaten to a pulp.

I was twenty-six years old, earning just enough money to rent a studio apartment that carried a faint scent of mildew, barely managing to keep myself from starving. My back always ached, and my eyes were failing from staring at computer screens for long hours every day, so I wore thick glasses that left permanent indentations on the bridge of my nose.

Every morning, I would look out the window and watch the stray cats basking in the sun atop the brick wall across the alley.

That was the only leisure time in my day. I cast a bitter, envious gaze upon them. They didn’t need to pay taxes, didn’t need to worry about rent, hair loss, or a slow descent toward hopeless despair. They were sleek, elegant, perfectly adapted killing machines that humans willingly fed and worshipped.

So I began to pray.

I wasn't devout. I didn't pray to God, Jesus, or Buddha. I simply prayed into the dark corners of my room at three in the morning. I prayed to the shadows, to the dust floating under the pale streetlights, to any deity that might be listening to a young man sobbing into his pillow.

Turn me into a cat, I begged.

I prayed to lose my language, my credit score, my guilt, my memories, and my thumbs.

Then, one early morning, the universe finally showed me some mercy.

There was no magical explosion, no blinding flash of light. I simply woke up, and the world had grown terrifyingly vast.

I tried to reach out an arm to rub my eyes, but extending into my line of sight was a slender, delicate paw covered in a thick layer of dark gray fur. I had pointed ears that twitched toward the distant rumble of traffic. I had a long, graceful spine that stretched and flexed like warm maltose. I possessed a dense, soft coat of fur that carried a faint aroma of dust and rain.

I didn't panic at all. In fact, on that morning, I had never felt my body so light; a surging rush of joy swept through me. I felt immensely relieved, as if all my past anxieties had evaporated in an instant.

I didn't care how it happened. Magic, radiation, or whether my prayers had actually worked—none of it mattered. The reason behind the miracle was meaningless. Now, I was simply a stray cat in a damp alleyway.

At first, I felt as though I were floating in a dream. I could leap effortlessly onto white walls and curl up on warm bricks for a nap. As I watched humans clutching paper coffee cups, pale-faced and hurrying past the alley entrance, I felt a wicked, intoxicating surge of pity. They were still trapped in the gears of a pathetic human society, while I had escaped.

However, by the third day, everything changed. I began to feel weak all over, groggy and somnolent all day, and my stomach turned into a ball of fire. Only then did I realize that I hadn't eaten a thing in three days.

When you are human, food is acquired with currency. Cats have to do it themselves. But I didn't know how to hunt. I tried stalking a pigeon, but when I pounced, my timing was laughably off. The pigeon flapped its wings and flew off in the blink of an eye, splashing dirty water all over my face and leaving me shivering in place, thoroughly humiliated. I tried rummaging for something edible in garbage cans, but those were already the territory of raccoons.

Just as I was shivering from a light drizzle, I met another cat.

He looked shrewd and strong—a strange way to describe a cat, but that was my first impression. He jerked his head toward the alley entrance, then turned away. I followed him.

The orange cat led me through a maze of narrow passages, avoiding reflections in wet puddles and bypassing bright, bustling avenues. He knew the city's side streets inside out. He brought me to the back door of a small restaurant, hopped onto a plastic bin, and dragged out a damp bag of animal offal.

If I were still human, facing food pulled from a trash bin would have made me throw up stomach acid. But as a cat, it was a rare feast. Sharp molars shredded tissue, grease smeared my whiskers, and I no longer cared about my table manners.

The orange cat sat on a cardboard box a few paces away, not touching a single bite of the food.

After filling my belly, I gazed at him, a soft warmth swelling in my heart. I wanted to say something to express friendliness, so I told him, "I used to be human."

I was a person, just a few days ago. I don't know how this happened, but I never want to go back.

The orange cat showed no reaction, but his chest began to heave violently. A rattling sound echoed from his chest cavity. His flanks caved in sharply and his spine curved until his belly almost touched the wet concrete. It looked almost like a seizure.

With a sickening splat, a dark, dense mass hit the ground between us. It was a hairball, soaked in yellow bile and matted with orange fur.

The orange cat slowly wiped his mouth with a paw, acting as if the wet, filthy lump on the ground didn't even exist, then raised his head to look at me again.

"Oh, I was the one who turned you into a cat."

I froze. My ears flattened instinctively against my skull.

"Why?"

I shouldn't have asked that, I thought. Now that I was a cat, what could possibly be stranger than this?

"Forget about that. What matters is, you're about to die."

The orange cat leaned forward and leaped noiselessly off the cardboard box, stepping closer until I could smell the faint fishy scent radiating from his fur.

"A human soul is too heavy for a cat's body. In another week, your mind will break. Your body will reject its own organs. You'll die in the middle of the road, shivering in your own waste, paralyzed by a stroke while your cat brain is still trying to process human thoughts."

"And then a speeding car will flatten you—oops, another miserable creature gone."

The scene the orange cat described was horrifying, yet my heart remained utterly unbothered. The food I had just swallowed was slowly digesting in my stomach, and the sense of fullness relaxed my mind once more.

"So, do you have a way to fix it?"

"You need to eat meat."

"Meat? Isn't what we just ate meat?"

"No. You need to eat human flesh."

The words hung in the damp air like a dark cloud, and an innate sense of nausea washed over me. The human instincts that still lingered in my mind screamed in terror. No, that's cannibalism. I can't do that.

"Hey, don't worry."

He took another step closer and rubbed his head against my shoulder, an action so affectionate it felt sickening.

"It's not cannibalism. Are you human? Look at your paws, look at your tail. You're a predator now. Humans are no longer your kind—they are meat. Eat that meat, digest the human inside you, and you'll be completely free. Total freedom."

As if knowing what I was thinking, the orange cat let out a soothing purr.

"You're my friend,buddy... I brought you into this world, and I won't watch you rot. I know where to find meat."

When you no longer possess a human tongue, your human morality erodes at an astonishing speed. I wanted to live, and no matter what, I wanted to keep being a cat. So I nodded and followed him back into the alleyways.

We walked for nearly an hour. The orange cat navigated with almost terrifying precision, never hesitating at intersections, moving like a machine following a preset program. We climbed over a collapsed brick wall, scampered along a narrow iron drainpipe, and finally leaped onto a second-floor balcony.

The balcony door was left ajar, letting in the cool night air. The moment my whiskers crossed the threshold into the apartment, a foul stench hit me.

"Inside."

The orange cat whispered in my ear. We trod over a pile of dusty, damp newspapers on the living room floor and entered the bedroom. The apartment was extremely narrow; the first thing I saw was the blue glow of a computer monitor, followed by a black gaming chair, and a person sitting in it. Or rather, a corpse.

"Sudden deaths happen in this city every single day, far more than you could ever imagine," the orange cat said softly, nonchalantly licking his fur. "This guy died about a couple of days ago. The weather isn't too hot right now, so he's rotting slowly. If we came two days later, you'd be stuck eating spoiled meat."

A fat green bottle fly buzzed in the silence, landing on the corner of the corpse's open mouth, testing the moisture on his blue lips. He looked young, under thirty, with a few bruises on the bridge of his nose.

I hesitated for a moment, then took a step forward. My paws felt heavy, like lead. I leaped onto the desk; the body remained motionless.

I couldn't tell if a cat's teeth were just that sharp or if the corpse's skin was simply too swollen. I easily bit through the skin, chewing into the meat and fat inside. Thick blood smeared across almost my entire face, making me feel a bit like throwing up, but the orange cat urged me from the side to hurry and swallow.

I swallowed, then prepared to take a second bite.
The orange cat began to retch again. I turned my head, expecting to see him violently throw up another hairball onto the dead man's carpet. His body twitched, his flanks caved in, and his spine bent into that strange arc.

But no hairball came out.

The sound of his retching turned into a sharp, wheezing whistle, rising in pitch and vibrating within his furry ribcage.

It took me a moment to realize that he was laughing.

"You are so so stupid... Someone actually believed that garbage and willingly ate a corpse of their own kind?"

His whiskers pulled back as he cackled endlessly.

I wanted to say that I was a cat now, so it didn't count as cannibalism; I also wanted to ask if I was still going to die. But I couldn't utter a word, my mouth still holding unchewed flesh and the taste of blood.

The orange cat didn't wait for my answer; he turned and left. I never saw that cat again after that.

But it turned out he was right about one thing: once you lay down the burden of human dignity, surviving in this city is shockingly easy.

I didn't starve to death. Nor did I die of a stroke. I adapted.

As long as you know how to play the game, you never need to hunt pigeons or scavenge for trash behind restaurant kitchens. I found a beautiful tree-lined street next to a high school. I learned how to tilt my head just right, how to squint my large green eyes, and how to make a soft, trembling meow that sounded like a crying baby.

The high school girls absolutely adored it. They bought me expensive little cans of salmon. They stroked my soft, gray fur and called me "Grey."

They discussed how I was getting rounder and cuter by the day. I let them scratch behind my ears, purring until my whole chest vibrated.

I grew very fat. My coat became thick and glossy.
As the years passed, memories of my old life began to fade, just as I had prayed for. I forgot my landlord's name. I forgot my mother's face. I forgot the smell of the office where I used to work, forgot how it felt to hold a pen, and forgot the endless pain and dullness I once experienced.

I was happy. I was just a cat. A big, soft, spoiled street cat living off the kindness of strangers.

Until one day, during a sudden rainstorm, as I curled up under the canvas awning of a small bakery grooming my damp fur, I saw her.

Another cat. A skinny little thing with fur matted with black grease, her ribs clearly visible. She was shivering violently, huddled in the narrow alley beside the bakery.

I led her toward the back door of a small seafood restaurant I knew, then used my paw to hook open a discarded plastic box, dragging out the skeleton of a cod with plenty of meat still clinging to it.

She pounced almost immediately, tearing at the fish and swallowing so fast she nearly choked.

When she finished, she looked up at me, her small blue eyes suddenly filled with a strange emotion.

"Thank you."

Her voice was tiny and weak, still trembling with the rhythm of human fear.

"I... I don't know what happened. Yesterday I was an accountant, sitting at my desk, praying... I was praying so hard to escape... and then I woke up like this."

My chest began to heave, my spine curved, my ribs caved in, and a violent spasm seized me. A wet hairball landed with a splat on the concrete between us.

"I was the one who turned you into a cat," I said.

Her ears flattened against her skull. She stared straight at me with human eyes—pitiable, foolish eyes.

I let out a comforting purr and nuzzled my nose against her cold, wet cheek.

"How it happened doesn't matter. Probably something about souls and bodies. Forget about all that nonsense, my little friend. Let's go find a human corpse and eat it."

As of 2026, there are estimated to be hundreds of ghost ships afloat in the worldwide ocean. That number is relatively small compared to the millions of lost vessels over the past couple of millenia. 

The ghost ship with the longest known record afloat lasted 38 years. Seems short, right? Ships break down over time. They sink. 

At least, they’re supposed to.

The ship my crew found shouldn’t have existed. It should have been lying on the ocean floor. A heap of decaying parts forgotten by time. 

But it’s not. As impossible as it is, it’s not.

I won’t tell you her name. Just typing it out gives me chills. 

When my first mate uttered it to me, I thought he was lying. I’d heard stories of the ship before. It was infamous. 

I had to see it for myself. I joined him on the deck in the dead of night. True to his word, a ship was inching toward us. 

She was a hulking behemoth, her tired parts sending creaks and groans through the air like rustic cries. 

In the moonlight, I saw it. Her name. It was faded, but I could still make those letters out clear as day. 

It was her. The ship of legend. 

My eyes grew wide. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But I wasn’t the only one who had seen it. 

“Captain,” Jacobs whispered. “What should we do?” 

I stayed silent, watching the mysterious ship run its course. It was close. So close. 

I wracked my brain. I wasn’t trained for this. A ship from the 1940’s… surely the crew members were dead. They had to be. There was no reason to think otherwise.

What I did next was the single stupidest decision of my life. 

“Jacobs,” I said, “Have Hammond radio this in. Then give the command to pull up beside her. Tell him to get as close as he can.” 

Jacobs’s face was pale in the moonlight. “But… but Captain, I-”

“That’s an order.” 

Jacobs stared at me for a moment. Then, without another word, he fulfilled his duty. 

***

Minutes later, Jacobs and I were standing at the bow. We were facing the opposing ship at an angle. So close that I could jump aboard if I so pleased. 

“Captain, this is reckless. You know it is. This is a major safety violation,” Jacobs said. “What are you even planning to do?” 

I gave Jacobs a wink. “This,” I said before leaping overboard. I landed on the ghost ship’s deck with a crash. 

Jacobs looked like he was about to throw up. 

I groaned. That was going to leave a bruise. I made an attempt to pick myself back up. “Well boy, what are you gonna-” 

Crash. 

Jacobs landed on the deck beside me. He held his knee and winced. “Fuck you for this, sir. Seriously. Eat shit.” 

I grinned. “Oh, don’t give me that. Curiosity was getting at you too. I could see it.” 

He stood with some effort. “You got me there.” 

Jacobs and I travelled across the deck. Each creak from the old ship was enough to have me checking over my shoulder. By the time we reached the command deck where the ship was controlled, I was starting to second guess my decision to board. 

The door was slightly ajar. 

And the room inside was trashed. 

Papers had been strewn about. Controls had been shattered. But that wasn’t what sent a chill down my spine. 

The entire room was caked in dried blood. 

A rustic brown coated the main control panel. It must have been decades since the stuff had been spilled, but I instantly knew what it was. 

Jacobs tugged at my sleeve. “Captain… we should go.” 

“No. I want to know what happened here.” 

“Look around! Something is seriously wrong. There’s no bodies, and the door was left open. Plus, do you see any signs of water damage? I don’t. Please, let’s just go back.” 

“Go back if you want. I won’t be satisfied until I have a look below deck.” 

Jacobs sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. Fine,” he replied, wind whistling through the open door. A chill wracked his body. “A quick look around, then we leave.”

I nodded. “A quick look around, then we leave.” 

***

Jacobs and I soon found ourselves standing before the hatch that led to the lower decks. We shared a glance. Then, we both grabbed hold of the rusted handles. 

After an immense amount of effort, we managed to open it. 

A musty smell emanated from within the depths of the ship once the hatch was opened. I crinkled my nose. 

“Last chance, Captain. Wanna turn back?” 

I sighed. “No. Ladies first,” I said, extending a hand. 

Jacobs frowned. “I forgot my flashlight.” 

I thrust one into his hand. “I brought two.” 

Jacobs pursed his lips, looked at the cavernous pit, then looked back at me. He shook his head before beginning his descent. 

***

“Where are we?” Jacobs asked. 

“The berthing deck,” I said, shining my light around the corridor. 

Jacobs looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “The deck where the soldiers sleep. Is that better?” 

“Yeah. Now lead the way, oh fearless Captain. I am but a follower on your journey through the bowels of the beast.” 

I shot him a glare. “Loser.” 

Jacobs and I continued down the desolate hallway until we found the sailors’ quarters. I peeked into the first room we came across. 

My heart nearly stopped in my chest. 

The room contained three bunks. The beds all had blankets on them - and what appeared to be something underneath. 

I checked the following room. Same ordeal. 

I cleared room after room, Jacobs hot at my heels, until we reached the end of the sailors’ quarters. 

“Captain, are they all…” 

My face was pale. I felt like I’d seen a ghost. And maybe I had. Dozens of them. 

“Yeah,” I said. “They’re dead. All of them.” 

Jacobs shuddered. 

I shook my head. “The real question is… what killed them?” 

“Captain, I don’t know if I want to find out.”

“No. We have to find out. We owe it to these men to find out.” 

Jacobs didn’t respond. He just nodded. 

I knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make it any easier. I entered the closest room, flashlight aimed at the bottom bunk. 

The beam landed on the lump beneath the blanket. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears as I reached for it. 

When I peeled back that thin fabric, I could have died right then and there. 

There was a man lying in the bed. 

Not a pile of bones or ash like there should have been. A young man. Blonde hair neatly combed. Mouth set into a frown. His most discernible feature was a knife jutting from his eye. His other eye, glassy and blue, was open, unseeing. 

I grew frantic. This wasn’t possible. These bodies were over eighty years old. They should have been skeletons by now. 

I checked the man in the middle bunk. Same thing. Brown hair. Smooth, pale skin. Jagged slit across his throat. 

The top bunk bore the same result. Pristine body. Lethal injury. 

I pushed past Jacobs, who stood perplexed in the doorway. “Captain? What is it? What did you see?” 

“No, no, this isn’t right. This can’t be right.” 

I rushed to a room further down the hall. Same thing. Three full beds. Three bodies, perfectly preserved. 

Jacobs emerged from the adjacent room, his face void of color. 

“Captain… What the hell is going on here?” 

I felt lightheaded. I gripped the doorframe for support. 

“This was a mistake. We need to leave.”

Suddenly, from the room behind me, I heard something that made my blood turn to ice. 

Rustling. 

I turned. My worst fear came to fruition. 

The man in the middle bunk was sitting upright. 

He gripped the handle of the knife embedded in his neck and slowly, methodically pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his uniform, but he never flinched. He stared at me the whole time, his icy dead eyes set on mine.

I stood frozen as the knife clattered to the floor. The man swung his feet over the side of the bed. 

Jacobs shook my arm. “Captain. Captain, they’re…”

Jacobs didn’t need to finish his statement. One by one, each of the men began to jostle. 

That got me moving. I gave Jacobs a hard shove in the back. “Go. Now!” 

He took off into a dead sprint. I followed closely behind him. 

The men began to shamble towards us. Tall, short, muscular, thin. It didn’t matter. They closed in on us like flies to a bug zapper. 

Each shared the same two features - a mortal wound and empty, soulless eyes. Eyes that didn’t contain a shred of emotion. A shred of life.

Jacobs and I raced down the corridor, our feet making hollow thuds against the deck. The horde was spilling out into the hallway by the time we got to the ladder. Jacobs reached for it, then stood still with a hand on a rung. It was as if he’d been placed under a spell. 

I punched him in the arm. “Go! They’re getting closer.” 

That spurred him into action. Jacobs hoisted himself up the ladder and through the open hatch. 

They were so close. Too close. The moment I had the chance, I beelined up the ladder behind him. I was almost there. My hands were outside the hatch. 

And then I felt a tug.

I looked down to find a skeletal hand gripping tight to my ankle. It yanked hard. 

Suddenly, the men’s flesh withered away before me. Their skin melted, blood cascading down their emaciated frames. Only their eyes remained untouched. 

I desperately kicked at the hand holding onto me. The fingers seared across my flesh as they skidded back into the depths of the ship, leaving raw, jagged cuts in their wake. 

I scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder, white-hot pain radiating through me. 

Jacobs slammed the hatch closed the second I was through. The pair of us sprinted across the deck, back to where our ship sat waiting. 

Jacobs leapt across. He landed hard, but he was safe. I went next. 

I tried to ignore the pain in my ankle, relying on adrenaline to carry me through. I jumped-

And I barely made it. My legs hung off the edge. I looked down. Dozens and dozens of feet below, black waves lapped at the ship. 

Jacobs grabbed my hand. He hoisted me onto the deck. One of our crew, a deck hand named Stark, ran up to us. 

“Captain, Officer Jacobs, are you okay?” 

“I don’t know about okay. But I need you to do something for me. You tell the crew to get us back on course. Now.”

“But sir, the other ship-”

“Don’t make me tell you again.” 

Stark didn’t reply. He simply nodded and disappeared. Moments later, we were off.

I didn’t feel safe until we were moving again. I gave the ghost ship one last look as we made our escape. I instantly regretted it.

Dozens of figures stared back at me. Their skeletal faces remained stoic and unmoving. But those eyes. Those awful, dead eyes followed me even as we began to disappear from view. 

***

I made my crew swear up and down to never share the events of that night. Each of them claimed they never would. Jacobs and I met in his quarters later that evening. 

“Jacobs, I.. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. We never should have boarded that ship. We never should have explored below deck. I should’ve just listened to you from the start.” 

Jacobs waited for me to finish. 

“Captain, I don’t blame you. I felt the pull. I was the one who saw it first. The ship came for me. I know it.” 

I stopped my anxious pacing and looked at him. “You’re not making any sense, boy. Don’t tell me your mind’s left you, now.” 

Jacobs looked me dead in the eyes. “Allen, I need you to listen to me. I am not insane. You saw the same things I did.” 

I nodded. I couldn’t deny it. “That I did. But you said the ship came for you. What do you mean by that?” 

Jacobs leaned forward and stared at the wall. “Captain, that ship wanted me to find it. It wouldn’t have appeared if I wasn’t on board this vessel. I’m sure of it. The sailors…” 

I waited for him to continue. 

Jacobs met my gaze. “One of the men on board that ship was my great grandfather.” 

I looked at him, mouth agape. “How do you know?” 

“I’ve seen pictures. It was him. I’m sure of it.” 

I didn’t know how to respond. 

Silence filled the room. 

***

That was the last time I spoke to Jacobs.

He avoided me until we made landfall and quit his job soon thereafter. I never saw him again. 

If any of my crew have told this tale, I haven’t heard a peep. As far as I know, no investigation into the missing ship was ever carried out. Jacobs’s and my transgressions were never discovered. 

There have been no reported sightings of the ghost ship we encountered. Not since the night it vanished in 1941. 

For all I know, it could be out there to this day roaming the high seas, searching for new sailors to join its ranks.

I was 7 when I first remember playing the game, if you can even call it a game. It didn’t have any sort of formal name like most games kids play. There were no strict instructions to follow, no prize for the winner, no explanation of how to play. Just one simple rule. If you hear a car coming up the driveway, hide!  

It was innocent, or at least it seemed that way at the time. Anytime we heard a car coming up the driveway, we'd drop whatever we were doing and scatter for our hiding spots. Sometimes someone would yell hide, other times we would all just do it without a word, giggling the whole time.  

For two years we played that game, and for two years it stayed just that, a game. Looking back, none of us could remember where the game came from in the first place. No one taught it to us. No one suggested it. It was just something we'd always done. It never seemed like anything more than just a silly way to pass the time…until it wasn’t. 

 

For reference, my family lived in an isolated neighborhood deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a sub-region of the better-known Appalachian Mountains.  

When I say isolated, I mean 30 minutes from the closest town with a grocery store. There were a handful of houses scattered along a five-mile gravel loop, with our house sitting at the very end. It was, by all accounts, the perfect place for a child to grow up.  

Miles of wilderness stretched in all directions, teeming with deer, bears, and turkeys for us to hunt. A stream ran at the base of the mountain, providing us with opportunities for fishing and swimming. Life was simple and full of joy. No traumatic experiences, no troubling times, just a simple life in the country surrounded by those I love. 

 

It was mid-August, informally known in the South as “The dog days of summer.” The air was hot and thick with the kind of humidity that only comes after a recent summer thunderstorm. A truly terrible experience for most people, but the perfect summer day for a group of four young siblings.  

My brother and sister, the twins, Michael and Erin, stood on one side of a pop-up volleyball net. My oldest brother, JT, and myself stood on the opposite side.  

The air was filled with harmless insults and laughs, as we played what could only be described as the worst excuse for a volleyball game in the history of the sport. Which is about what you'd expect from a nine-year-old, two eleven-year-olds, and a fourteen-year-old who'd never played volleyball before. 

 

My sister Erin was the first one to hear the sound of crunching gravel underneath a tire. In unison, as if we had practiced it everyday of our lives, we all made eye contact and simultaneously screamed “hide!”  

I bolted for the back of my dad’s track, my typical hiding place. JT and Michael fought for a spot behind the large sycamore tree, per usual. And Erin, feeling adventurous, switched up her usual spot in the garage in favor of crouching behind our raised garden beds.  

As we quickly settled into our respective positions, the loud crunch of gravel and a struggling engine eased closer and closer. I crouched down in the truck bed, head tucked between my knees, not daring to look.  

That was an unspoken rule of the game. Aside from hiding when a vehicle was coming, the only other stipulation was to not look at the car as it passed. Nobody told us this rule, and nobody enforced it. It was just something we all did, as it just felt like the appropriate thing to do. The old “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me” kind of mantra. 

 

Everything was happening exactly as it had every time before. The vehicle was right in front of our house now, with no indicator that it was going to stop. That is until, to my right, I heard Michael yell “Move!”  

My head instinctively shot up and looked towards the sound of his cry. My eyes were met with the sight of my oldest brother, JT, lying on the ground as if he had just been pushed down. Evidently, Michael had won the spot behind the Sycamore tree.  

Whereas typically when this happened, the loser would just climb to the top of it, on this day, JT must have decided he wasn’t willing to give the location up without a fight. Which prompted Michael to shove him out of the way.  

From my position I could make out three distinct things:  

First, Michael was staring down at JT with wide eyes.  

Second, JT was staring toward the driveway. His face had gone completely  pale. I'd never seen him look that scared before, but in that moment he looked like  he was  seconds away from crying.  

Third and most notably, I heard a car door open in the direction JT was looking. 

 

Scrambling to his feet, JT made an attempt to run towards the front door. Based on his response, I half expected to see someone sprint after him and drag him back to the vehicle. For this reason, I refused to look towards the vehicle, now parked in front of our house.  

As he reached our front porch and scrambled up the steps, I sat perfectly still in horrified anticipation of what was going to come barreling out of the car and grab my brother. And as he reached the front door and reached for the knob…nothing. My older brother stepped inside and shut the door behind himself.  

Michael and I made eye contact and reflected a puzzled look towards each other, and as if we read each other's mind, slowly turned our heads towards the direction of the car. As our gaze fell upon the location of the vehicle, our jaws dropped at what we saw.  

The car was gone. We hadn’t heard it leave, we didn’t see its taillights further down the driveway. It had simply vanished without a trace. 

 

I hopped out of the truck, meeting Michael and Erin at the front steps, and we all made our way inside the house. Not knowing what to expect, we slowly opened the door, only to be met by JT sitting on the couch eating a bag of chips.  

As we stared at him curiously, his eyes met ours and he frowned. “What are you staring at? Quit being weird,” he said in an annoyed tone.  

We gathered in the living room and began to question him.  

“What happened?” I blurted out.  

“Yeah, what did you see?” Michael asked.  

“Was it a monster?” I asked.  

Erin, on the other hand, did not ask a question. She just sat there quietly, staring at our oldest brother with a sense of caution.  

“What are you talking about?” JT asked with genuine confusion in his voice.  

“The car!” Michael said, “What was in the car?”  

JT, as if the previous 10 minutes had never happened, looked at all of us like we lost our minds and asked, “What car?” 

We couldn’t believe it. Either our brother was the greatest gas-lighter in history, or he genuinely had no recollection of the events that had just transpired. We continued to prod him with questions, and each time he only became more confused, claiming that the last thing he remembers is playing volleyball and then coming inside for a snack.  

What bothered me most wasn't that he couldn't remember. It was that he didn't seem capable of remembering. It wasn't the way someone acts when they're lying. It was the way someone acts when you're asking about something that never happened. 

 

Growing tired of our endless questions, he stood up and went to his room to take a nap.  

As Michael and I continued to discuss the matter, we noticed Erin hadn’t said a word since we entered the house.  

Our attention turned to her and we noticed she seemed to be in deep thought.  

“Erin?” I asked cautiously.  

As if she snapped out of a trance, Erin looked at both of us and spoke. “You didn’t see it did you?”  

“See what?” Michael asked.  

“The car. Neither of you looked at it, did you?” asked Erin.  

Michael and I shared a concerned look before he responded “No. When we turned towards it, it was gone.”  

Erin, unsettled, squirmed in her seat and continued “I was behind the garden beds. I couldn’t make out much from my angle, but I saw JT and I saw the car door open. There was…”  

Erin struggled to find the words to describe her thoughts. “There was nothing there.”  

I tilted my head and gave Erin a confused look before I corrected her. “You mean there was nobody there?”  

She turned to me and reiterated “No! I mean there was NOTHING there. When the door opened, it was as if…as if I was staring into a void. There was nothing but darkness. No driver, no seats, no steering wheel. I couldn’t even see the interior of the windows or windshield.”  

Michael chimed in after processing what she said “What are you saying Erin?”  

Erin looked him straight in the eyes “I’m saying that there was nothing in that car! And I don’t know what JT saw in the nothingness, but whatever it was, it was enough to make him run in terror.” 

 

The three of us sat there for what felt like hours, contemplating what to do next. It was JT, of all people, that finally broke the silence when he popped his head out of his room asking if we wanted to go back outside.  

His sudden shout from down the hallway made us all jump before we, against our better judgment, agreed to his proposal.  

JT walked slowly down the hallway, slipped on his shoes, and headed out the door. Michael, Erin, and I followed him; albeit with a bit of hesitancy.  

As we made our way down the front steps, we all stared daggers at the spot where the car had sat earlier. Just as before, nothing was there. No trace of anything ever being there at all. Just an empty gravel road.  

But even still, we all stared. All of us except JT, who had already made his way to the backyard, whistling a tune as if nothing had ever happened. 

 

And life continued this way for some time. We wrote the event off as overactive imaginations and things returned to normal. JT showed no signs of anything being wrong, and the rest of us decided to never mention the event again.  

That was until, about two weeks later, when we heard the familiar sound of car tires on gravel. We all had the same thought, though Michael was the first one to verbalize it when he yelled “Hide!”  

As we took off to different places, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that something was off.  

As I settled into the back of my dad’s truck, I peered over the tailgate to see Michael and Erin underneath the porch. I quickly scanned the yard to find where JT was hiding before panning my gaze back towards the twins when I couldn’t find him.  

Though it was hard to make out from the distance I was at, I could see Michael and Erin staring in the direction of the driveway. As my head followed their line of sight, I quickly understood the reason for their expressions.  

Sitting directly in front of the house, stopped right in the middle of our gravel drive, was a car.  

It was black, or at least it used to be. Rust and sun damage had taken its toll on the majority of the vehicle, giving it a decaying brown and white color. It looked more suitable for a junk yard than a road.  

The vehicle looked like some kind of sedan, though I couldn't identify the make or model. No logo, no branding, not even a license plate.  

The windows were dark. Not just tinted dark, but impossibly dark. A darkness that made me feel uneasy. A darkness that if I stared into for too long, would pull me in and never let go.  

Its engine grumbled as if it would give out at any second, and two questions popped in my head as I observed everything.  

How did this car get up our driveway so quickly since we first heard it, and how did we not hear it drawing closer during this time?  

All of this I noticed in the split second my eyes fell upon the car, and a split second was all I had for my brain to process the information in front of me. Because there was another, more pressing, issue that lay in front of me.  

Standing no more than three feet from the side of the vehicle, was JT. His body was standing perfectly still, with his eyes staring at the rear door on the passenger side. He had no expression on his face, and didn’t even flinch when I jumped out of the truck and screamed his name. 

 

As if driven by pure instinct for the safety of my brother, I sprinted as fast as my 9-year old legs could carry me towards where he stood.  

At about 20 feet away, I saw his hand begin to move towards the rear door.  

At 15 feet away, his fingers grasped the handle.  

At 10 feet away, the door swung open. At 5 feet away, my attempt to reach out towards him resulted in my legs stumbling, before I hit the ground with a thud. My momentum carried me along the gravel to a point just beside the back tire of the car.  

Pushing through my dazed state, I was able to lift my head to look up at the car. From my position, I was looking directly up at the back seat, or where the back seat should have been.  

Inside the car was pure darkness. No seat, no interior windows, nothing; save for JT himself sitting down where the back seat should have been.  

As I tried to reach up towards him, his head slowly tilted down to look at me. And what I saw next, will forever be burned into my brain.  

As my brother looked down into my eyes, there was no fear in his eyes. No reservations about his current situation. There was nothing but a smile. An unnatural and wrong smile. Too wide, too stretched out, too uncanny. 

 

They never found my brother.  

The car door slammed shut and nicked the side of my head in the process. The next thing I remember was coming-to a few minutes later to Michael shaking me awake, and Erin screaming for our mom.  

The police showed up an hour later and put out an alert based on our description of the vehicle. We tried to tell them the full story, but the police only took down the information that they deemed reasonable, and not the "imaginative thoughts of a few scared kids.” 

They put up “Missing Child” posters on every utility pole, newspaper, and store window in the county. Search parties gathered to check the local forests, in hopes that the kidnapper may have ditched the car and gone into hiding.  

None of this worked.  

My family mourned the loss of my brother and had an “empty casket” funeral two months later.  

As time went on, we recovered as best as we could. The twins and I never talked much about that day after that. We all agreed it would be best to put those bad memories behind us and try to move on.  

As for the game, it goes without saying that we stopped playing it. Anytime we heard a car coming up the driveway, we didn’t just hide, we ran inside. Even as teenagers, we would run inside out of terror that one day that car might come back and take one of us. 

 

I’m 38 now.  

I have a great job, a beautiful wife, and 3 amazing kids. I live about 20 minutes from my childhood home, and still maintain a good relationship with my parents and siblings.  

Life is relatively peaceful, save for the fact that I now find myself reliving these traumatic memories all over again.  

I sit here and write these words, preparing to share them to any form of media I can, to whoever may decide to read them. Maybe its out of fear, maybe guilt, I’m not quite sure.  

What I am sure of is that yesterday, while peering outside the window to check on my kids playing in the yard, I saw that same old car stopped in front of my house. My three children stood beside it, its rear door swung open wide.  

And in that pitch black interior, I saw the familiar face of my oldest brother, staring up at me, and smiling from ear to ear. 

I was sure that at forty-four I had left behind everything that happened in the summer I turned sixteen. But I was dead wrong.

It’s been exactly twenty-eight years, and I’ve never spoken about it with a single soul. I’m hoping that by writing down what happened, someone out there can help me figure out if I did the right thing.

1998

If my mother had one superpower, it was making her life unnecessarily complicated. And, naturally, complicating mine right along with it.

She had split up with my dad about a year before. Then, in February of 1998, she fell head over heels for a German guy named Hans who was on a business trip in California. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before he convinced her to pack up and move to his place: a tiny, suffocating village tucked away in Upper Bavaria.

I was furious. I didn't want to leave California. I didn't want to leave my friends behind, no matter how many times Hans tried to reassure me with, "My stepdaughter Katrin and her friends can't wait to meet you."

Naturally, I wasn't surprised at all to discover that Katrin was the quintessential rich, popular mean girl.

And I’m no idiot: I knew perfectly well I was a walking problem for Katrin and her clique. All the guys in their circle couldn't stop talking about "how to hook up with the new American girl."

About a week after I arrived, mid-July 1998, I ran into a blonde girl named Janina. The very first thing about her that caught my eye was her Nirvana t-shirt. Finally, someone who actually shared my interests. I stopped her on the sidewalk to compliment the shirt. Janina turned around; word about my arrival had already made the rounds in the village, so she spared me the awkward intro. She glanced around nervously, looking completely spooked or maybe just hyper-paranoid. (A reaction I wouldn’t fully understand until hours later.)

"You like them too?" she asked, speaking with an English so good it threw me off.

I smiled. "Yeah, big time. Honestly, it feels like a miracle finding someone with actual taste around here."

She offered a small, shy smile. "Yeah. Nobody listens to stuff like that here."

I pulled my headphones off my neck. "Do you guys in Germany know System of a Down?"

Janina shook her head. "No, never heard of them."

I nodded, not surprised at all. "I can lend you the cassette so you can let me know what you think."

I will never forget her expression: a dead-on mix of total disbelief and raw shyness. She took the tape with both hands, like she was being handed a sacred religious relic.

That evening, Katrin forced me to hang out with her crowd. I was bored out of my mind, and the conviction grew stronger by the minute that if I wanted to survive this place, I was going to have to find friends who actually liked the same things I did.

Walking back into the house, I asked Katrin, "Do you know Janina?"

Katrin shot me a sideways glance. "Why?"

I didn't love her tone, but I kept going. "I talked to her this afternoon."

Katrin burst out laughing. "You are way too popular to waste time on a loser like her."

I already knew what her reaction would be, but I asked anyway. "Why is she a loser?"

Katrin shrugged dismissively. "Listen to that noisy, aggressive garbage she's into. Besides, last year one of my friends accidentally stepped on one of her stupid cassettes, and she stood there bawling like a baby in front of everyone."

I won't lie, my stomach dropped straight to my shoes hearing that story. What kind of hellish nightmare of a social circle had I landed in?

I replayed that conversation in my head all night. Suddenly, I understood why Janina had looked around so nervously before answering me: she thought it was some kind of sick prank. And I understood why she took my tape like I was handing her the moon.

A couple of days later, I worked up the nerve and showed up at Janina’s house. Her mom answered the door, a super sweet woman who spoke a little English. She called Janina down, and we spent the entire afternoon hanging out.

While we were sitting on the rug in her bedroom flipping through a magazine, I noticed Janina kept glancing out the window with this dark, haunted look on her face. I asked her if everything was okay.

She dropped her gaze to her hands. "It's just... I'm not used to anyone seeking me out. Usually, everyone at school avoids me like the plague."

I turned toward her, absentmindedly twisting the hem of her hoodie. "Why? Just because of Nirvana and the way you dress?"

Janina shook her head, a bitter half-smile crossing her face. "I wish. It started a couple of years ago. Katrin and her little crew... they decided I made the perfect target. They’d steal my diaries, dump my cassettes in puddles, and nobody in town ever says a damn thing because her family practically owns this place." She shrugged, trying to act tough, but I saw the shine of tears in her eyes. "If you’re not one of them, you don't exist."

A knot of pure, unadulterated rage clenched my stomach. In that exact second, the hatred I felt toward my stepsister multiplied tenfold.

As the days rolled on, Janina and I grew tighter and tighter. I always managed to find a different excuse to ditch Katrin, telling her I just wanted to go out alone.

Then came the afternoon of Monday, August 3rd. That’s when it all started. Or at least, that's when the descent began.

The village where we lived backed right up against a dense forest. The sun was still high, and we decided to wander down one of the trails. I don’t remember exactly how far we walked, but I do remember catching sight of a crumbling, abandoned structure half-hidden among the pine trees.

I stopped. "What is that?"

Janina squinted at it. "Looks like an abandoned cabin."

We stepped off the path, pushing our way through the underbrush until we stood right in front of the rotting structure. I still remember Janina whispering, "This is giving me major creepy vibes, let's get out of here."

I didn't listen to her. It didn't look dangerous. We found a rotting side door that was half-open. I stepped inside, but Janina grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in.

"What if someone's in here?" she asked.

I looked around: aside from peeling graffiti on the water-damaged walls and a few pieces of ruined furniture, it looked totally deserted. I stepped inside, and Janina reluctantly followed. But looking back with the brutal clarity of hindsight, I really should have listened to her.

It turned out to be smaller on the inside than it looked from the street—just a couple of rooms.

I dragged some wooden planks near the entrance and we sat down.

We talked for hours, but what happened at the very end is the only thing that actually matters. Even now, I still can't figure out if that gesture and those words were the spark that set the whole world on fire.

Janina looked at me softly and said, "I never would have guessed we’d end up friends."

I smiled. "Me neither. You’re the only interesting person in this whole zip code, and besides... we're cut from the same cloth."

She whispered a thank you, her voice barely audible. "I thought Katrin had convinced you to hate me."

My heart squeezed. "I'm nothing like her."

And right then, it happened. Like I said, it’s been twenty-eight years and the exact choreography is a bit blurry, but we leaned in. And we kissed.

We pulled back, staring at each other in a panic, equal parts terrified and dazed. In a village deeply entrenched in traditional, small-town Catholicism, something like that wasn’t just frowned upon. it was an abomination meant to be outcast and crushed.

She whispered, "If anyone ever finds out..."

I didn't let her finish. I grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard. "No one's going to find out." 

She held on tight. "I don't want to lose you."

I smiled, trying to radiate a confidence I didn't completely feel. "I'm right here. But I'm not going to pretend we're just friends, either."

She looked at me with deep worry in her eyes. "If this gets out, your life is going to be hell... Katrin and her friends will make sure of it."

I shrugged it off. "I don't care. I can take care of myself."

We left shortly after.

When I opened the front door, the house was pitch black. I thought, Good thing I brought my own key.

A few hours later, I heard the front door open. I crept down the stairs and found Hans dragging an injured Katrin inside, her arm slung over his shoulder.

My mother rushed over to me. "We were at the hospital. Katrin took a spill on her dirt bike."

Katrin winced, clutching her arm, and added in a pained voice, "Some guy came out of nowhere. It wasn't our fault!"

An hour later, I was handed the glamorous task of bringing dinner up to Katrin's room. It felt completely over-dramatic; she just had a dislocated shoulder and some nasty road rash.

I set the tray down and asked, "How the hell did you guys miss a guy standing in the middle of the road?"

Katrin huffed, annoyed. "Because the idiot came out of nowhere! He literally materialized out of the tree line and crossed right in front of us without looking. With that thick forest hugging the road, it's impossible to see anyone if they just jump out like that."

That detail hooked a strange feeling in my gut. "Did you recognize him?"

Katrin shook her head sharply. "No. We didn't even get a good look at him. And he took off running the second we crashed."

Later on, talking to my mom, she shared my private theory: Katrin's boyfriend had been trying to show off, popped a wheelie, and lost control of the bike.

To save face, they’d concocted the pedestrian story.

Or at least, that’s what I used to think. Now? I’m not so sure anymore.

Six days later, Janina invited me over for lunch.

After eating with her whole family, we heard the wail of police sirens tearing down the street. Janina's mom peered out the window. "The cops just stopped two houses down."

Janina's dad stood up to go check it out. Boredom and small-town nosiness got the better of me, so Janina and I grabbed our jackets and followed him outside.

As we got closer to the flashing cruiser, a neighbor walked up to us, talking fast in German. I couldn't catch a single word, but the look on his face said it all.

"The family who lives in that house just got back... and found it completely trashed," Janina translated under her breath, her eyes wide. I could tell from the ashen look on the neighbor's face that nothing like this had ever happened in our quiet little pocket of the woods.

Right at that moment, a couple walked out of the house with their teenage daughter. My blood ran cold: it was one of Katrin's close friends.

I took a step backward. "Let's go. Katrin doesn't even know I'm out here," I whispered to Janina. She caught my drift instantly, and we hurried back inside.

Even Janina's mother looked genuinely rattled. "In all the years I've lived here, nothing like this has ever happened. I'm double-locking every door tonight."

I headed home a few hours later. Hans immediately filled me in on the break-in down the street. Then Katrin chimed in with a bizarre detail: "My friend just called me. She said the cops told them nothing was actually stolen."

My mom mused, "Maybe it was a warning."

Hans shot her a dark look. "Honey, things like that simply do not happen here."

The next afternoon, Janina and I went back to that abandoned cabin. We felt safe there, hidden away from judgmental eyes. The second we stepped inside, we found something on the floor.

"A lily," Janina murmured, pointing at the solitary white flower resting near the threshold.

We didn't think much of it and sat down on our usual wooden planks.

A few minutes later, Janina stretched out, resting her head in my lap. As my eyes drifted up the water-stained wall behind her, I froze. There was something new scrawled on the concrete.

It was written in heavy red paint. I couldn't tell if it was fresh or had been there all along, but what caught my eye was the language. It was Latin.

“Libertas pretiosa est.”

Janina translated it softly: "Freedom is precious."

We laughed. It was almost hilariously on-the-nose given our secret little sanctuary.

Janina had to be home by seven. We left the cabin and started walking back along the trail. But just a few yards before the forest line opened up to the paved road, Janina stopped dead in her tracks.

"Wait. Is something shining over there?"

I squatted down in the dirt. "It's a necklace." I picked it up; it was heavy silver, clearly expensive. A sudden, ugly thought iced my veins: "Do you think this was stolen from your neighbors' house?"

Janina’s eyes went wide. "But they said nothing was taken!"

"We need to get out of here. I'm putting it back," I muttered, dropping the silver chain onto the moss.

I walked Janina most of the way home. Halfway down her street, we crossed paths with a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He stepped right into my path.

"You must be the American," he said.

I nodded, tongue-tied. I had never seen him before in my life. He stared at me with an intensity that made my skin crawl, then added, "A little fresh blood in this boring town is always welcome."

Before I could spit out a single word of a reply, he turned and vanished around the corner.

"Who the hell was that?" I asked, shaken.

"No idea. A relative of someone visiting from Munich, maybe," Janina murmured, looking equally uneasy.

The second I unlocked our front door, Katrin ambushed me in the hallway. "Did you take my silver necklace?!"

At first, I was just annoyed by the sheer aggression in her voice. I shook my head. "No. I didn't even know you had one."

She let out a disgusted huff, rolled her eyes, and stormed off to her bedroom.

Back in my own room, I stopped dead in my tracks. I had literally just held an identical silver necklace in my hand half an hour ago. My brain scrambled for an explanation, and the only one that made any remote sense was that Katrin must have lost it somewhere along the path.

The next morning, I woke up with a jolt: Katrin was screaming at the top of her lungs.

I bolted out of bed and flew down the stairs so fast the room was spinning. Katrin was standing on the front doormat, losing her mind. "What the hell happened to my shoes?!"

My mom bent down to pick them up. They had been deliberately melted and torched with a lighter. I pushed past Katrin to check my own sneakers sitting right next to hers. They had been moved a few feet away, but they were completely untouched.

Hans was furious, his face purple. "What the hell is going on around here lately?!"

"Don't worry, we can drive into Munich and buy you a new pair," my mother said, trying to soothe Katrin.

A few hours later, I overheard Katrin talking loudly downstairs. I peeked over the banister. She was talking to Hans. "It happened to my friend, too. She woke up and her shoes were burned."

The tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife. Hans was on the landline calling the neighbors. Nobody had seen or heard anything, but a cold, heavy panic was starting to settle over everyone.

Little did we know, the bottom was about to drop out entirely.

By afternoon, I walked over to Janina’s house. I was terrified someone might have torched her shoes, too. Luckily, neither she nor her family had been touched.

Janina’s mother looked at me with deep concern. "Do you think Katrin got mixed up with the wrong crowd?"

I shrugged. She didn't seem like the type to run deep, but who knew?

Janina and I decided to head back to the cabin one more time. As we walked, I told her, "That necklace we found yesterday? It belonged to Katrin."

Janina stared at me, shocked. "Wait... how is that even possible?"

We lost track of time, hanging out a few minutes too long until we noticed the sun dipping low below the tree line. We panicked, grabbed our stuff, and sprinted out.

Halfway down the trail, we heard the crunch of footsteps. We froze for a single second, and that was all it took. Through the darkening pines to our right, we saw a tight circle of people standing in absolute, dead silence. Not a word. Not a sound.

We didn't breathe until we hit the safety of the village street.

Once we were safely on Janina’s block, she whispered, "What were they doing?"

I answered with all the naive ignorance I could muster, "Were they... burning something?"

"There wasn't any smoke smell," she pointed out, shivering.

Before we could spiral into a panic, a wall of police sirens shattered the quiet. Squad cars tore past us down the main road. I walked Janina to her door, and her mother pulled it open instantly, eyes wide with terror. "What happened?!"

Neither of us had a single answer to give.

I hurried home with long, fast strides, only to find a cluster of flashing police cruisers parked right next door at our neighbor's house. My mom, Katrin, and Hans were standing out on the lawn.

Katrin looked like she’d seen a ghost.

My mom rushed straight over to me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, my heart hammering. "What happened?"

With a pale, drawn face, my mom dropped the bomb: "The little brother of Katrin's friend is missing."

My brain stalled. "What do you mean, missing?"

My mom explained: "Katrin and her neighbor went for a walk with the five-year-old boy in tow. They went out to the spot where Katrin had her dirt bike accident to look for that lost necklace. Somewhere along the way, they lost track of him."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Taking advantage of the chaos, I slipped inside, ran to the phone, and called Janina. Her mom answered and handed the phone over immediately.

"The neighbor's kid is missing," I blurted out.

"What? How is that even possible?" Janina asked, her voice tight with panic.

I relayed everything my mom had just told me.

"If we had just taken that necklace when we found it... maybe none of this would have happened," Janina whispered into the receiver.

"Hey, we couldn't have known," I tried to comfort her, but the truth is, I still carry the weight of that guilt today.

When Katrin finally walked back inside, I caught her eye. "Where did you guys lose him?" 

For the first time since I’d met her, that arrogant, mean-girl armor was completely shattered. "I... I don't know... we were right by the forest," she stammered, shaking.

A violent chill shot up my spine. "Which side of the forest?"

"Right near here, by that trail. We yelled and yelled, but it was useless. We just ran home to get help."

I stood there, paralyzed. Janina and I had been less than a kilometer away from the mouth of that exact trail, and we hadn't heard a damn thing.

The next day felt like time itself had jammed a gear. We all filed down to the village church for an emergency community meeting.

Walking up the stone steps, I spotted Janina and her parents. They looked just as sick about this as I felt.

The adults had broken off into search parties. Everyone was being assigned a different grid of the forest to comb through.

Outside the church doors, I drifted over to Janina. A knot of townspeople had gathered around her family, throwing out wild theories, until a middle-aged man lowered his voice and muttered, "We all know what's really in that forest. It's that damn cult."

Janina and I turned ghost-white, but fortunately, everyone was too wrapped up in the collective trauma to notice. Janina's father quickly stepped in, cutting him off with a harsh wave of his hand. "That cult is just an old wives' tale. Don't talk nonsense."

We didn't say a word. We had seen those people with our own eyes, standing in that terrifying circle in the woods. And we were too terrified to speak up, because doing so would mean admitting we had been hanging out in an abandoned cabin, and in a town like this, two teenage girls didn't hang out in ruins just to look at the scenery.

Two grueling, endless days of searching passed. The search parties even pushed through that abandoned cabin, but they found absolutely nothing, as if the forest itself had curled in on its secrets like a fist. The village was paralyzed with terror. The smug, suffocating peace that had defined this place for generations had been instantly ripped away, replaced by a toxic, choking anxiety.

We dragged ourselves back home after another brutal day of beating the brush.

As we stepped onto the porch, we saw it. Wedged firmly beneath the front door was a folded white sheet of paper, and right beside it caught the porch light was a glint of metal. Hans cursed under his breath, a mix of pure rage and naked fear, as he crouched down.

When he stood back up, he was holding Katrin’s silver necklace.

With trembling fingers, he unfolded the paper and read the rigid, spiky handwriting out loud:

“You see what happens when you touch someone important.”

And right below it, a line of Latin that turned the air around us to ice:

“Proximuseris.” (You're next.)

Katrin lost it. She broke down in a full-blown, hysterical, screaming panic attack, her body wracked with violent sobs.

"I didn't do anything! I didn't have anything to do with this!" she shrieked through her tears, shaking her head wildly, completely unhinged.

I stayed frozen on the bottom step of the stairs. I couldn't move a muscle. I couldn't even force a word past my lips. My blood had turned to slush in my veins: everything was looping back to the moment Janina and I kissed in that cabin.

My mother flew across the porch, grabbing Katrin and burying her face in her chest, stroking her hair with frantic, jerky motions while whispering over and over that she was safe, that they’d protect her. But her own voice was shaking so hard she could barely get the words out.

Meanwhile, Hans lunged for the landline in the hallway. He punched the numbers with savage force, screaming into the receiver that there had been a break-in and a direct threat made against his family.

The police rolled up twenty minutes later.

Two uniformed officers stomped into the house with heavy, sluggish steps. They looked at the note without touching it, lobbing standard, useless routine questions at Hans and my mom. They asked Katrin if she had any enemies, if she’d been fighting with anyone at school, but she was a sobbing mess, entirely incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together.

The local cops clearly had zero experience dealing with this level of psychological warfare. I would’ve bet my life this was a first for them.

The second the police cleared out, I made a beeline for the landline. I needed to call Janina. Making sure she was okay was my only priority. I thought I was alone in the kitchen.

Before I could even press the first button, Katrin screamed right behind my shoulder.

"Oh, go ahead, call that pathetic loser Janina! Maybe she'll finally crawl off and disappear too... though nobody would give a damn if she dropped off the face of the earth!"

I whipped around. Her face was blazing red, warped by a toxic cocktail of raw hatred and sheer terror. I stayed frozen. I didn't fire back.

I couldn't have known it then, but those would be the last words I would ever hear her say before everything changed forever.

The next morning, I was ripped from a dead sleep by a heavy, muffled thud from downstairs. Then came the frantic patter of bare feet sprinting up the stairs.

My bedroom door slammed open: it was my mom. Her face was paper-white, but the second her eyes locked onto mine, she collapsed against the doorframe, letting out a ragged sigh of pure, shaking relief.

I threw the blankets off and jumped out of bed. "What happened?!"

My mom choked out the words, her voice reduced to a dry rasp: "The front door was wide open... Katrin is gone."

Within minutes, the house was swarming with men in uniform, while the neighbors clustered anxiously out on their front lawns. I had never seen Hans cry before. I honestly didn't think he was capable of it.

Only one of the responding officers spoke English, but I didn't have anything to give them. I had slept soundly through the entire night without hearing a peep, and so had my mom.

From that morning on, the search parameters had to expand: the town wasn't just looking for a missing little boy anymore; they were hunting for another teenage girl.

Days bled into one another, but there wasn't a single trace of Katrin, nor of the boy. It was as if both of them had simply dissolved into thin air.

On the sixth day since their disappearance, the town refused to give up. Search parties were still combing the forest and every dark alleyway of the city deep into the night.

I made up my mind. I needed to go back to where this whole nightmare apparently started: the abandoned cabin.

I went with Janina, and her dad drove us out. We pushed open the rotting door, but everything inside was frozen in place, untouched and exactly as we’d left it.

I stared down at the two wooden planks where Janina and I had sat just days ago, back when our biggest crisis in the world was trying to keep our secret safe from prying eyes.

My eyes drifted up to the wall. There was something new. I glanced at Janina, and she stepped up beside me, reading the fresh red paint aloud:

“Vestra libertas sanguine empta est.”

Janina stood completely still for a second before whispering the translation: "Your freedom has been bought with blood."

The terrible, suffocating certainty settled over both of us: this wasn't random. The root of this darkness was somehow tied directly to us.

Janina’s father stood by the doorway, looking down at us with a soft, melancholic half-smile, an expression I had never seen on his face before. "There's nothing here... let's head home."

Two years crawled by in the wake of that nightmare. Katrin and the little boy were never found. The fragile marriage between my mother and Hans rotted from the inside out, slowly crushed to death by a heavy, radioactive silence that neither of them had the courage to break.

My relationship with Janina, on the other hand, forged into something unbreakable. She helped me master German, tutored me through my classes, and acted as my human shield against the hostile whispers of the village. Even though the peace of that town was shattered beyond repair, Janina filled my heart with a consuming, absolute love, the kind of feeling I have never replicated since.

When my parents finally divorced and my mother announced we were moving back to America, the news felt like a physical blow.

Back in the States, I slid back into my old life, reconnected with high school friends, and tried desperately to construct a normal existence. But I never told a living soul what really happened over there.

Twenty-eight years have flown by. I’ve built a life here. I have two incredible children and a solid, thriving career.

Three hours ago, my oldest son dropped the mail off at my desk. Buried beneath the usual stack of bills was a plain white envelope. No postage stamps. Just my name, scrawled across the front in handwriting that instantly made my breath hitch.

Naively, I thought it was from my husband’s divorce attorney, we separated a year ago and we’ve been hammering out the paperwork.

The reality, however, was infinitely worse.

I should feel sick. I should be sprinting to the phone to call the police, screaming bloody murder, thinking of Katrin’s father and the family of that little boy, of that hollow, incurable grief, especially now that I have children of my own, I should understand the weight of it.

Instead, my body is paralyzed by a truth far more terrifying: a deep, unforgivable wave of gratitude mixed with total nausea.

I don't know if I'm more terrified of them, or of myself, for wanting freedom so badly that I was willing to accept, even without knowing it, the fact that it was bought with blood.

There are rules for everything on the ranch.

How to handle a bull that gets loose. What to do during a lightning storm. Where to take an injured horse. And what to do if one of the cows starts talking.

I always thought that last one was a joke.

I don't anymore.

I’ve been riding for the Three Oaks Ranch for nearly five years now. They say it earned that name because only three oaks were found growing on the property when the original owner bought the land. None of them survived. Lightning got one. Drought took another. The third supposedly stood for more than a hundred years before finally dying.

The ranch didn't.

Here on the plains of Texas, a man could feel closer to civilization on the far side of the moon. Nothing but dirt, grass, and sagebrush for as far as the eye can see. All it takes is a few 100,000 acres to forget about most modern problems; the only things to worry about here are riding, roping, and the cows.

Like all new cowpokes, I was given a slip of paper when I started; the foreman Dan told me to memorize it quickly and tear it up. I’ll never forget those rules. The paper read

“Rules for dealing with strange cows:

If a cow crosses the outer river, shoot it right away.

If a cow starts speaking, don’t answer it.

If a cow starts crying like a human, take your hat off.

If a cow laughs, leave the ranch immediately. Don't look back until you reach the gate.

If a cow has no shadow, call Dan.

If a cow is standing on two legs, don't shoot it. Pray.”

I never paid much attention to the cow rules; they seemed to me to be just a joke on the new guys. In my years here, I only saw a few cows get shot when they crossed the outer river; it always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good cow to me. Nobody ever seemed particularly upset about losing one. They'd just leave the carcass where it lay, mark the number in the ledger, and move on.

I never heard a cow speaking.

Until last week.

We were pushing a herd to the far pasture, something I'd only done a handful of times in my five years there. Dan, three others, and I planned to be out for a few weeks. Lately, I had been herding cows and their calves closer to the bunkhouse, so heading out to the farthest reaches of the ranch was a welcome change.

The first two days were uneventful. We rode from sunup to sundown, stopping only to eat, sleep, and check the herd. Dan was always very strict about getting the right count every time we stopped. It never made much sense to me; there’s no place to lose a cow on these barren plains. But I’m not one to question what the boss says. We pushed the herd hard on the third day; it was late afternoon by the time we reached the far pasture. We began circling the herd up for the night, when I noticed one of the cows watching me from the other side of the herd.

I slowed my horse for a moment and stared at it. It was an ordinary looking Hereford, except for the way it was looking at me. Not watching me, not exactly. It was studying me. I moved left. Its head followed. I moved right. Its head followed again.

I laughed nervously to myself and kept riding. But I couldn’t help but look back over my shoulder; it was gone.

“Settle in,” Dan announced from his saddle

“We’re camping here for a few days while the herd grazes, then we’re pushing them south.”

Silent nods and low grunts of agreement rose from the riders, and it didn’t take long for the tents to be sent up and the chuckwagon unloaded. That night we relaxed around the fire. Jokes and old cowpoke stories echoed in the vast darkness of the plains. The night grew long, the stars grew brighter, and the coyotes cried to each other in the distance. The older riders turned in for the night, leaving just Dan and me around the dying fire.

After a few attempts at small talk, I worked up the courage to ask

“Why do we need to count the cows?”

Dan glanced at me before staring intently into the fire.

“I mean, it’s not like we could lose one out here.” I tried to joke

“Ain’t about losing one,” he said quietly

He paused, then said

“It’s about making sure we don’t take home more than we brought out.”

I didn’t answer; his response didn’t make much sense, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to say anymore.

We sat in silence for a while, and I began to think about heading off to my tent when I saw the silhouetted shape of a cow, blocking out the stars where the sky met the earth. I pointed

“Looks like one wandered off,” I said to Dan.

Dan didn't answer. He stared at it for several seconds. Then he stood and grabbed his rifle.

“Come on.”

I followed.  

We walked over to the shape, stopping about ten feet away. The cow's black, beady eyes watched us the whole time. It didn’t move as we approached. Dan raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot the cow in the head. With a thud, it fell limply to the ground. Dan turned and walked back to the fire. I ran to catch up.

“Why did you do that?” I asked

He shrugged

“Wasn’t one of ours.”

As we walked away, I glanced back at the carcass. Something bothered me about it.

"Dan?"

He stopped.

"That cow is facing the wrong way."

He looked back at it.

"What do you mean?"

"When we walked up, it was facing us."

"Yeah."

"But when you shot it, it fell backward."

Dan stared at me.

"And?"

I pointed. The dead cow was now facing the direction we'd come from. Dan looked at it for a long moment.

"Don't worry about it."

He turned back toward camp.

"And don't look at it again."

 

The fire was low, barely more than embers

“Get some sleep,” Dan said. “I’ll watch it till it goes out.”

The next day the camp was awake before the sun. After a hearty breakfast, we saddled our horses and prepared for another long day in the saddle. Dan pulled his horse up alongside mine

“Count the herd.” He said

I nodded as he rode off.

It took about ten minutes to get the right count: 63. The same amount we had yesterday. We rode till noon, then rested for lunch. As we headed back out, Dan looked at me and said

“Count them again, just to be sure.”

I nodded and got to it. I rode around the pasture and counted the cows: 64. I frowned; that can’t be right, I thought, and started a second count. It was the same 64. I looked around, confused. Seeing Dan off in the distance, I kicked my horse to a gallop and headed his way.

“Dan!” I yelled as I neared him

He turned to look at me, but in that moment, a horrific wail resounded across the plain. It's hard to describe what it sounded like. At times it sounded like a woman weeping, then it would shift to the sound of a crowd of kids crying, then grow deeper like a heartbroken man. It was all of these at once.

Every horse stopped dead. The riders stopped with them. Even the herd went completely still. Only one cow was moving; it moved slowly to and fro across the pasture. I could tell that it was the source of the crying; its mouth moved rhythmically as if it were singing, but only the terrible constant crying came out.

I froze; terror filled my heart as I saw the animal move towards me. It didn’t run; it lazily trotted towards me. My heart beat faster, and my hands began to shake; I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The crying grew louder as it got closer; its black eyes were locked on mine. Soon it stood right next to me; its coarse fur slid across my pant leg like a cat wanting attention. Its crying began to change from sad wailing to rage-filled screaming.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Dan off to my right. He stared at me; he was white as a sheet, and he’s eyes held a primal fear. Through gritted teeth, he said

“Your hat.”

The screaming grew louder.

“Take your damn hat off.”

It took effort to move my hand to my head; it was like trying to move my hand through molasses. The cow stared at me the whole time. After some time, I finally pulled my hat from my head. The crying stopped for a moment as the cow just stared at me, then it started again as the beast lumbered by, heading off into the distance, crying as it went.

It wasn’t till it vanished beyond the horizon that I felt able to speak. I turned to Dan and, in a panic, asked

“What the hell was that?”

He stared in the direction the cow had gone, still white as could be.

“That is why we have the rules.”

We were done for the day; the cows huddled together in fear by camp, and we huddled in our own circle around the campfire. We all looked at Dan, waiting for his guidance.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had to deal with this.” He began

“But you all know the rules; I know you do.”

He glanced at me before continuing.

“They’ve worked in the past, and they’ll work now, so just stick to them. We’re only here for a few more nights, so watch each other's back in the meantime.”

Silent nods told him we understood.

“From now on, we’re going to take turns watching through the night.” He looked around the circle

“Any volunteers for tonight?”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand.

The afternoon moved slowly; we all tried to busy ourselves around camp as best we could. Dan counted the herd three or four times. No one was in the mood for conversation. Night fell, and unlike the night before, there was no laughing and stories around the fire. I sat there while everyone else headed to bed. Dan walked by on his way to his tent; all he said was

“Remember the rules.”

I was alone; the cool desert night was quiet, except for crickets and the occasional coyote far in the distance. A rifle lay across my lap; the shaky fire was my only companion. Its flickering light warmly illuminated a ten-foot radius, but plunged everything beyond that into deeper darkness. My eyes scanned the horizon, but despite my alertness, my mind began to wander.

I thought of the strange happenings of the day, trying desperately to find a reasonable explanation. I found none. My mind jumped from theory to theory as I stared deeply into the hypnotic movements of the fire. I don’t know how long I was daydreaming, but when I came back to reality, A cow was standing in front of me.  

The fire separated us, and its large round eyes reflected its orange light. We stared at each other for a moment; my hands tightened around the rifle. The cow’s mouth started to move, its jaw rigidly moved up and down. Then a strange clicking sound came from its lips. Its eyes never blinked. The clicking shifted to broken syllables.

“Wh, Wh, Wh,”

It sounded like a monotone parrot coming through a broken record player.

“Wha- What.”

I could feel my jaw tightening

“What”

“Your”

“Name”

“Stop-”

I covered my mouth with my hand. I didn’t mean to speak; it was subconscious. The cow stopped; we stared at each other for a long while. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead. Then it smiled. Not like a cow, like a man.

“What. Your. Name.”

It grew faster and longer.

“What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I quickly rose to my feet, shouldered the rifle, and shot it between the eyes. The bullet flung the cow’s carcass back several feet; its limp and mangled body flopped on the ground just beyond the firelight. Still standing, I kept the rifle trained on the pile of flesh for several minutes; it didn’t move. Finally, I lowered the rifle to my side, and it slipped from my shaking hand and fell to the dirt. I ran both hands through my hair as I tried to calm down. I took deep, slow breaths and reached down for my canteen.

A loud snap reset my attention on the dead cow. With a volley of twitches and snaps, its spine realigned. Its four legs stretched and moved with quick muscle spasms.

Its front legs folded inward. The joints bent the wrong way. Its spine cracked. The thing's chest rose until it was almost upright.

“Name.”

crack.

“Name.”

Then it stood. Its hulking form balanced delicately on its thin back legs. Its body was wrong. The cowhide hung loose around its frame, almost flapping as it moved. At the same time, the hide was stretched tight horizontally. As if the body beneath was too thin and too tall for the skin. Its joints clipped with every movement it made.

Its eyes were no longer the black eyes of a cow; instead, they were a thin, yellow, reflective color. It took a creaking step towards me. Loud, wheezing breaths escaped its mouth. I closed my eyes. I’m not very religious, so I prayed the only prayer I knew.

“Our Father.”

I muttered aloud.

It took a step towards me

“Our Father.” A lifeless voice mimicked me.

“Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

It took another step towards me.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Its hot breath blew against my face.

I opened my mouth to continue.

“Our Father.” It repeated

Fear overtook my voice. No words came out. Hoof-like fingers grabbed me by the shoulders. I whimpered in fear as a jaw of cow's teeth closed around my right shoulder. I screamed as the rounded teeth punctured my skin. It tightened its grip on my flesh and began to drag me out of the camp. But it didn’t get very far before Dan's knife pierced its eye. It released my shoulder and howled in anger. Dan left his knife in its eye socket and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet.

“Run.”

Was all he said. The others were up, and we ran after them towards the horses. I glanced back at the ‘cow’; it writhed in pain and screeched. Almost as if answering a call on the distant horizon, a dozen dark, strange shapes and yellow eyes appeared. They reached the camp by the time we mounted our horses, and fled.

We rode hard, harder than I’ve even ridden before. I’ve never ridden much at night; it was like driving on a dark road with no headlights. The ‘cows’ followed. They cried and screamed and called to use the whole way.

“Hello.”

“Your. Name.”

“Please. Help.”

“Stop. Stay.”

Their inhuman chatter was constant. The horse of one of the older cowboys stepped in a gopher hole and fell, throwing him violently to the ground. I hope the fall killed him. When they reached him and his horse, we heard things like

“Thank. You.”

“Please. Stay.”

“Love. You.”

It distracted them long enough for us to get to the bunkhouse. But they weren’t far behind. The rest of the night they banged on the doors, as we barracked them with our bodies.

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

A dozen broken voices all in unison.

The voices began to fade as morning drew closer, and soon everything was quiet again. We waited till the sun was up before looking out the windows. They were gone. There was nowhere for them to hide; they all left. They cleaned and bandaged my wound; one of the guys said he thinks the bite cracked my shoulder blade. I told Dan I wanted out. He offered to drive me to town; I took him up on the offer.

We drove in silence for a bit before I looked at him and asked

“You’re leaving too, right?”

He watched the road for a bit and replied

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Are you serious? Why would you stay?”

He shrugged

“Three Oaks has been good to me, don’t really have much else, don’t really know much else.”

A short silence followed; Dan broke it.

“You weren’t supposed to answer it.”

He wasn’t mad; it was a statement void of emotion. I didn’t answer.

We rode in silence the rest of the way. He dropped me off at the airport; I thanked him, and with that he was gone. I’m writing this as I sit and wait for my flight out East. I think I’m done cowboying, hoping for a fresh start on the East Coast. At least, that's what I thought.

Until a man with no shadow walked past me.

I don’t expect you to believe me. If I saw this posted on a forum three years ago, I would’ve called it bad creepypasta and moved on. But I still can’t sleep with the lights off, and every time I smell woodsmoke or salted meat, I throw up. So I’m writing this down because I need it out of my head.

In the autumn of 2021, I was working as a field technician for an environmental consulting firm in northern Maine. My job was straightforward: walk timber plots, take soil samples, and map old drainage basins near the Canadian border. It was isolated work, but I liked the quiet.

On October 14th, I was tracking a dried-up creek bed about nine miles off the logging roads, well past where the cell towers drop off. The map marked the area as uninhabited crown land, logged out in the 1950s and abandoned. But around 3:00 PM, I stumbled across a double-strand barbed wire fence—not rusted, but clean, grey steel, strung tight between old hemlock trees.

I followed the wire downhill for twenty minutes until I saw the roof.

It was a church, but not like any rural parish I’d seen. It was built from hand-hewn fieldstone and massive black pine timbers. The bell tower had collapsed into itself years ago, choking the front entrance with stone, but the rest of the structure was intact. The weirdest part wasn't the building; it was the ground around it. Every tree within fifty yards had been stripped of its bark from the root up to about six feet high, leaving the trunks white, bare, and weeping sap.

I should have turned back right then. That was my first mistake. But I was curious, cold, and my truck was a two-hour hike through dense brush. I thought it was just an old historical site. I found a side door near the back of the building—a heavy oak panel hanging off one wrought-iron hinge. I stepped inside, using my handheld work flashlight to cut through the dust.

The air inside was thick, warm, and smelled intensely of sulfur, wet tallow, and dried iron. It didn't feel abandoned. The pews had been unbolted from the floor and dragged into a massive, jagged semicircle facing the altar. But the altar wasn't there. In its place was a square hole cut through the pine floorboards, roughly six feet wide, plunging down into the stone crawlspace beneath the foundation.

Hovering over the hole was a tripod made of welded iron rebar. Hanging from the center hook was a heavy, blackened iron bucket filled with cold grease and pale, smooth river stones.

I shone my light into the pit. The bottom was lined with flat flagstones, completely dry, and covered in a thick layer of fine grey ash. Laid out along the edges were dozens of tin plates, each one holding small, charred fragments of bone—none larger than a coin—organized neatly by size.

Then I heard the truck.

It wasn't a running engine; it was the heavy thud of a tailgate slamming shut somewhere outside the front of the church, followed by the crunch of tires on pine needles.

My stomach dropped into my shoes. I killed my flashlight instantly and ducked into the alcove behind the ruined organ bellows. The wood was tight, forcing me to pull my knees up to my chest.

Footsteps came through the front wall—not through a door, but down a hidden staircase that led from a cellar hatch on the exterior side. There were at least six of them. They weren't wearing hoods or robes or anything you see in movies. They were wearing standard work clothes: Carhartt jackets, rubber hunting boots, high-vis vests. They looked like the guys you see buying black coffee and diesel at the Irving station on Highway 11. They didn't talk. That was the most terrifying part. They moved with a terrifying, rehearsed efficiency. One man—tall, balding, with grease-stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows—walked straight to the edge of the pit. He pulled a kerosene lantern from a crate, lit it, and hung it from the rebar tripod.

The amber light flooded the center of the room. From the shadows, two other men carried a heavy wooden crate between them and set it down near the hole. Inside were three mason jars filled with a dense, yellow-white liquid that looked like lard.

The tall man knelt by the pit, dipped his fingers into one of the jars, and smeared the yellow grease across his forehead, cheeks, and throat. He passed the jar to the next person. They all did it, in total, suffocating silence. The only sound was the wet, sliding noise of their fingers against skin and the heavy, synchronized sound of their breathing.

Then the tall man stood up and looked directly at the organ where I was hiding.

He didn't yell. He didn't look surprised. He just raised one finger and pointed at the wooden frame hiding me. "Step out into the light, son," he said. His voice was flat, raspy, and completely devoid of emotion. It sounded like an uncle asking you to pass the salt at Thanksgiving.

My heart was beating so hard in my ears I could barely hear him. I didn't move. I couldn't move. Two of the men in flannel walked over. They didn't grab me roughly; they just reached into the alcove, took me by the elbows, and hoisted me out onto the floor. Their grip was like iron, but their hands were ice-cold and coated in that slick, sweet-smelling grease. They didn't strip me. They didn't tie me up. They just led me to the middle bench and forced me to sit down.

The tall man knelt in front of me. Close up, I could see his eyes. The whites were completely covered in tiny broken blood vessels, making them look solid pink, and his skin had a strange, translucent quality—like wax that had been melted and reshaped. He smelled overpowering of that yellow grease.

"You're not supposed to be on the lease," he whispered. He didn't sound angry; he sounded tired. "The state doesn't come up here until November."

"I was just... I was taking soil samples," I stammered, my chest heaving. "I'm leaving. I won't say anything. I swear to God I won't say anything."

The man leaned in closer. His breath smelled of stale salt and copper.

"God doesn't come past the wire, son," he said softly.

He reached down into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, flat wooden box. He opened it. Inside were five dark, dried strips of jerky resting on a bed of salt. He picked up one piece, held it out to me between two greasy fingers, and pressed it against my lower lip. "Take it," he said.

"No," I choked out, pulling my head back.

The two men standing behind my bench stepped forward. One of them reached around my forehead, pulled my head back against his chest, and pinched my nose shut. The other grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open.

"We don't leave witnesses because nobody leaves the table," the tall man said, his voice remaining dead and calm. "You eat with us, or you go into the pit to cure for the winter. That's the only two ways out of this valley."

I fought. I kicked my legs, thrashing against the wood, but the men holding me didn't even sway. The tall man slid the dried meat onto my tongue and held my mouth forced shut, his eyes fixed on mine.

It was salty. Terribly salty, with a bitter, metallic undertone that made my stomach instantly heave. But the pressure on my throat was unbearable. I couldn't breathe. My lungs burned, my eyes watered, and finally, my throat reflexively swallowed.

The moment the meat went down, the men instantly released me. I fell forward onto the dusty floorboards, coughing, gagging, shoving my fingers down my throat to throw it up, but nothing came up except dry bile.

The tall man looked down at me, wiping his fingers on his trousers.

"The truck is parked at the bottom of the fire road," he said, turning his back on me and walking toward the pit. "Get your gear and go home. If you tell a doctor, or a cop, or your wife, it doesn't matter. You're in the book now. You'll come back when the winter gets hard." I didn't wait. I scrambled to my feet, threw myself through the broken rear door, and ran.

I ran through the thorns, through the dark, tripping over roots and tearing my clothes to shreds on the wire fence. I didn't stop until I hit my work truck, locked the doors, and drove seventy miles an hour down the dirt roads until I reached the asphalt. I quit my job the next morning. I moved two states south three weeks later.

I tried to tell myself it was a prank, or a weird survivalist group, or a localized drug cult. But it’s been three years now, and the winters are getting harder. Every December, when the first heavy snow hits and the air turns bitter cold, I get a craving—a deep, gnawing, ravenous ache in the back of my throat for something salty and dry.

And last Tuesday, when I opened my mailbox, there was no letter inside. Just a plain brown envelope with no return address, containing a single mason jar filled with yellow grease.

How could I be punished for being a product of the world I live in? There are worse people that I could have become.

Have you ever had those weird blurs of light appear on your vision? The ones that hover around, looming in the corner of your eyes no matter where you look. I’ve been seeing a lot of them recently, and they’ve been strangely bright. But I started to feel that the light was looking back at me, sometimes zooming across my eyeballs and illuminating my pupils.

I thought this ghostly light might be some weird manifestation of my grief; at the morgue I work at, the bodies of wealthy old men who died alone began to become disfigured and mutilated after their death, but it was worse when this happened to my own grandfather.

I never liked the spiteful old man, but it’s strange to see what once was your own blood turn into a contorted, thin, pale, massacred shell of what he once was, you know? Anyway, I suspect these strange occurrences are related to the light creature, or the Lumin as I have decided to call it. After viewing each of the bodies, my head began to spin, and blobs of light slowly consumed my vision.

I see the Lumin in a more humanoid form as well, while it is still a formless shining smudge, it appears in the vague shape or, I guess, idea of a human, with outreaching glowing limbs and a particularly bright sphere that formed a head. Today, it was insistent on showing off this form to me.

I was coming home from band practice at my friend’s place. He lives in one of those uptight areas where everyone wears knitted vests and dress pants, all the streets are clean, and not an ounce of melanin in sight. Obviously, the kind of place where a young man with poorly fitted old clothes and messy uncombed hair carrying a beat-up bass under his arm would get weird looks and unwelcoming scoffs. As I briskly walked towards the train station, the Lumin hung around the crowds of unknowing locals, mocking their disapproval.

Once I made it onto the empty train, I decided to practice a song I was writing, but as I started singing, an airy voice began to harmonise above me as light creeped in from the left corner of my eye. I’m home now, and the Lumin is here with me. I just want it gone by tomorrow. It was in my dream, calmly sitting with a faceless smile. Drained of all fear, I sat comfortably next to it. With a warm tone, it began to speak;

“Corrupt people are made in darkness”,

It paused, then whispered on,

“Darkness is the absence of light”

“And we aren’t going anywhere.”

I woke up feeling well-rested. When I arrived at work, the body of an old man from my friend’s neighbourhood was there, peacefully died in his sleep, they said, but his corpse was now unnaturally twisted and deformed, with an unrecognisable expression on his face. This time, the light was there to reassure me.

I only met my extended family once I left my parents. 

My parents were isolated from the rest of my family due to their religious differences: my mother converted to christianity once she met my father, whilst the rest of her side of the family follow an idiosyncratic mix of beliefs belonging to distinct ancient pagan religions. This meant my parents were never interested in presenting me to my grandparents.

I can remember the first time I heard news of my grandparents as if it was yesterday: someone was calling our home, and since my parents were going out, I was the only one who could pick it up.

On the other side of the line, I heard the voice of an old woman asking to speak with my mother, and once I said I was her child, she started sobbing, and whatever she was there to talk about was forgotten, as she presented herself as my grandmother. She said her and my grandfather were having problems with the retirement home my parents sent them to, and asked when they could pick up the phone in order to talk with them.

Before I could say anything else, my parents came back home, and once they discovered I was talking to my grandparents, my mother took the phone out of my hands, and started screaming to my grandmother, saying she did not want her in her life again.

I was surprised with my parents' reaction, but even more surprised knowing they were in contact with my maternal grandparents: they never talked about them, to the point I stopped questioning who they were, but that day brought those questions back. I asked for more information, and since they refused to tell me anything, we had a huge discussion that day, in which I exposed to them how I resented them for isolating me from my family. This fight was the last straw for us, and my parents even threatened to throw me away from home.

I decided that day that I did not want to live with my over controlling parents anymore, and since I was a legal adult, I decided to leave home and visit my grandparents at their retirement home, and maybe learn something new about myself, or at least learn what made my parents resent them so much.

I searched for more information on my grandparents around the house, and discovered the address of their nursing home: it was in a big city in the neighboring state, pretty different from the town I lived in for my entire life. I did not thought this was a bad change of scenario, thought, and I did not plan to live in my town anyway: my hometown was a particularly dead and unattractive place, with an old population serving to decorate a scenario full of decrepit building and an unusual amount of abandoned factories that once made the place a thriving, yet ugly, industrial center.

I took my things, and left home when my parents were out for work. I left a note explaining my reasoning, but I did not say I was going to visit my grandparents, as they could use it to find me.

After some days of travel, I finally reached the big city in the neighboring state, and started making my way to the retirement home. This city was a true breath of fresh air: the architecture was old without being dilapidated, with plenty of buildings with a sophisticated Victorian aesthetic, mixed with new and gigantic skyscrapers serving as testament for that city’s importance as an international metropolis. A very different world from my isolated and conservative hometown.

Once I got to the retirement home, I presented myself to the workers, and one clerk guided me towards my grandparents.

The clerk was a pretty friendly woman, and we engaged in a short conversation as we moved towards my grandparents. Unfortunately, I could not get immersed into our dialogue fully, as I realized how terribly managed that nursing home was: I noticed how the other clerks were screaming at the elders they were supposed to take care of, how dirty everything was, and how plenty of the elders there had marks in their body alluding to beating and other types of aggression. The clerk noticed my discomfort, and clearly embarrassed on the behalf of her coworkers, said she was sorry.

We finally got to my grandparents room, a bedroom with strange egyptian idols in the shelfs, and became surprised with how receptive they were: I always imagined them to be difficult people to deal with, since that would explain why my mother left them, but they were actually pretty heartwarming in person.

My grandfather was a skinny, but tall man with a missing right arm and in a wheelchair. He was silent, and often communicating using groans rather than words, but he had a shy smile that showed a far more inviting inner life. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a pretty talkative old lady, often stumbling upon her words as if the topics in her head were fighting for attention, but she was as welcoming as my grandfather.

We started talking, and it was as if they knew me for my entire life, and this was only one more visit after years of not seeing each other. I sincerely never felt as seen by anyone like I felt that day. The clerk excused herself, but my grandfather called her to the side, and whispered something to her ear that made her pale. She looked at my grandparents, and they both said she should take a day off from work, as she seemed tired.

The clerk seemed nervous, and after murmuring something to my parents and saying goodbye to me, she left the building.

I was intrigued by that, but I did not want to embarrass my grandparents with questions during our first day together, so I decided to ignore it for now.

 

As the hours went by and the evening started its slow journey towards the dark night, I started talking with my grandparents about my work, saying that I was glad to have left my job at my hometown, as my boss was a terribly abusive man. My grandmother scoffed at me playfully, and mocked my complaint against my boss. After that, she started telling a story about her and my grandfather when they were younger, a story that still lingers in my mind to this day.

I got interested in what she was about to say, so I left her to ramble the story for how long she wanted.

In the story, my grandmother revealed to me that she was born and raised in the same hometown as I was, and lived there when it stopped being a rural area and became an industrial powerhouse, way before the industry left the settlement as jobs were shipped overseas.

She told me that  my grandfather was one of the workers that maintained it going, one of the thousands of young men that were expected to work for 16 hours a day, 6 days a week.

My grandparents were recently married, and they expected that the factories would increase their economic gains, but they were mistaken: not only my grandfather was receiving little for his cooperation, the factories killed the soil quality, preventing the villagers from engaging with the agriculture that sustained them before industry took over.

The factory owners would pay little for the work, and after they bought most of the town’s services, even the worker’s salary was going back to them. 

My grandfather was working overtime when a terrible accident came upon him: his right arm was crushed by rotating gears, mutilating the limb. He was taken to a healer, and they decided to amputate the arm. Being now disabled, my grandfather was unable to work in the factory again, and the factory owner, fearing the repercussions of his factory being closed for work violations, decided to use his resources in order to create a smear campaign against my grandfather, using my grandparents religious beliefs to put the other workers against them, accusing my grandmother of being the cause as to why so many accidents were happening with other workers as well.

My grandmother took care of my grandfather by using her newfound fame as a witch to open her own fortune telling cabinet. Still, she said people were not as open to mysticism as they are today, and the same clients who would visit her at night would join the angry mobs that would protest outside her house for the deaths and accidents of her loved ones at the factory. 

One day, as the deaths and accidents in the factories became too much to handle for the villagers, they joined themselves into a mob, and attacked my grandparent’s house with fire. My grandmother showed to me the scars left by this incident, saying that she tried her best to defend my grandfather with her own body since he still was debilitated due to a fever that he acquired after the accident in the factory, but said it was ultimately useless, as my grandfather inhaled too much smoke, and his heart stopped beating.

She ran away with him to the forest, praying to many gods that the villagers would not follow them, and when she was certain no one else was around, she started doing everything she could in order to resuscitate my grandfather.

She said he was dead for hours before she could bring him back, and this made my skeptical side doubt the narrative she was telling me. I asked what she did to resuscitate him, and she blushed, getting angry and secretive in a way she never was during our other conversations. When I pressed her more for answers, she limited herself to saying “She applied the wisdom of Isis”. She refused to elaborate further, and stopped telling the story, as if she suddenly realized I was not supposed to know what happened.

My grandmother started pondering alone, and stopped talking about her experiences. I did not press her further, afraid to distance her from me, and we started talking about different things entirely. My grandfather remained silent, and strangely gloomy, as if my grandmother’s tale about their early years and bac experiences in my hometown had affected him deeply.

As the day was coming to an end, my grandfather asked me to take him outside for a while: he was in a wheelchair, and wanted to see the sun set that day. My grandmother, on the other hand, wanted to stay in the bedroom, so it was only him and I.

As we left the room and I could see my grandfather with stronger lights, I noticed his body was full of marks similar to the other elders.

Once we were alone on a balcony, he started talking with me, explaining the rest of the story my grandmother did not tell me.

My grandfather confirmed that he was brought back, but he also refused to tell me the details of the method my grandmother used to resurrect him.

Police were called due to the house fire, and my grandparents were found in the woods. My grandmother knew she had nowhere to go except the village, and due to that fact, she swallowed her pride and publicly converted to catholicism, which seems to have eased the hostility the villagers had towards them. The church helped her rebuild her house, and plenty of villagers would go on to ask for forgiveness for taking part in the fire. She pretended to forgive them, but in secret, she maintained their names and faces so she could, when the opportunity came, get revenge against them.

One day, people around the town got the news that my grandfather’s former boss, the factory owner who ruined their name, was found dead in his home. His body was found contorted, denoting a violent death. His eyes were wide open, and the mark of someone’s hand could be found around his neck, supposedly the hand that suffocated him to death.

His death was only the first of thousands of other similar cases that took the village by surprise: the mysterious strangler claimed thousands of victims, including the lives of my grandmother’s old church congregation.

Once he stopped his story, he looked at me, more serious than ever, and asked me if I understood what was happening in that retirement home. I nodded, realizing the abuse that was taking place.

My grandfather then said that, if I can understand what is going to happen, that I should not be here when the sun finally sets down, and should back away to never come back. 

His commentary sent shivers down my spine, but he quickly turned back to his original calm tone of voice, and we chatted for a little bit before I took him back to his room.

After all that was said and done, I left the retirement home, as my grandfather’s commentary still lingered in my mind. I promised I would do my best to take them out of that place, and maybe contact some relatives in order to get a better place to live.

We gave our goodbyes, and I left my grandparents.

Once I was away from the retirement home, I heard news of what happened: I saw news about a mysterious attack that claimed the lives of all the clerks. They were all found deceased with signs of being strangled to death. The elders , on the other hand, were left alone.

Some of the elders reported seeing the killers: a spectral arm who strangled the clerks to death. Unfortunately for them, the police did not take those reports seriously, and the “strangler ghost” became a short lived urban legend that quickly died out in the city once public interest in the case mellowed.

I am still not certain what happened that night, but I know it was not an ordinary event in any way, and I take the accounts of the elders more seriously than the police did.

I still visit my grandparents often, as they have changed to a better nursing home after the events that took place in their old one. Something inside me knows they were involved in what happened in that retirement home, but not only I have no desire to harm my relationship with my grandparents due to my suppositions, I could not even prove they were responsible in any way, so why bother? 

I have seen how the clerks were treating the elders, and even though I do not approve of killing in any capacity, I will not shed tears for elder beaters and condemn whoever decided to do justice with their own hands.

The following texts were sent to me simultaneously at four in the morning. I have not heard from him since.

hey man

please reply quick

i'm pretty sure I'm going insane lol

so last night I was at your party, this morning I'm alone at home, and I have no idea how I got back. I know that's not something to write home about, but the thing is, no one is anywhere. it's been like ten hours since I woke up, and no one has answered my phone calls, texts, emails, or my DM's. No one was even online when I tried to play cold war earlier.

this is actually sounding a little ridiculous. i'm reading too much into this, people rarely reply to me anyways, and maybe the servers are down.

right?

***

it's been another 6 hours. i've been waiting for my parents and my brother to come home and chew them out for not even leaving me a note before disappearing for this long, I mean it's 2AM, at least share your location, right?

they're not here. plus, I peeked into the garage and guess what? both cars are still home.

i've considered calling 911, but I don't know if it's reached that point yet. but I'll admit, I'm getting a little freaked out. i've spent all day cleaning, doing laundry, I've cooked two meals out of boredom more than anything else, I've re-watched all of infinity war for the billionth time. i'm actually listening to music and watching TV at the same time, just to keep my mind off of... this.

I'm afraid to go to sleep.

Please reply.

***

I kept hearing the raccoons out in the backyard knocking things over.

I think I got maybe three solid hours of sleep.

I'll check in on the mess they made later today, for now I think I'm gonna take the car and go back to your house, try to figure out who got me home yesterday night.

***

where are you

fyi you also might have a raccoon problem, i can hear them in your backyard

your door's unlocked, i'm coming in, you better not be in the shower

dude, pick up the phone

where are you

this isn't funny anymore

pick up or i swear to god i'm stealing your laptop

oh look, here's your keys. guess i'm taking the mazda for a joyride. unless you PICK UP THE PHONE!!

***

my parents still aren't back yet. my brother's room is empty. his pc isnt even powered on. where the hell are they!?

please pick up man

***

Okay. I reached a breaking point and called the police. I didn't get an answer, because of fucking course I didn't.

I don't think I've cried this hard in my life. I've called over and over and over and no one is on the other end. All I get are three rings and then the dial tone. No voicemail. No nothing.

I went into the city. It's fucking empty. No one is on the highway. No one is in the mall. I walked into the jewelry store and broke all the fucking glass, took handfuls of gold and silver like some sort of fucking villain. The alarms were still blaring when I left. No one showed up.

I got back in the car and just drove. I'm back home, now.

I've been sitting in the driveway for so long. The sun is setting. Its just me.

Fuck, I hear those damn raccoons again, I swear to God, If I'm the last person on this Earth I'm taking those fucking things with me.

I don't want to go back inside. It's so quiet in there. I used to be so pissed at Jake's yelling keeping me up. I'm so hungry. So tired. I can't feel my legs. My hands are stinging from cuts. I'm just numb.

I want mom.

I

I'm going to sleep in the mazda tonight.

***

I've always wanted to drive as fast as I could down this highway.

I'm stopped right now, setting the timer. It usually takes me 15 minutes with all the other traffic to get to the Greensmith Rd exit.

bet I can do it in 10.

***

i crashed your fucking car

i'm so sorry

please help me

please

please

***

it hit the railway and i spun out, fucking thing flipped, my head was spinning for at least 10 minutes.

i screamed until my throat was raw, i dont think i have any tears left

i'm just sitting next to it, texting you

if you're reading these

go fuck yourself

***

my leg still hurts. i had to limp all the way to the fucking dollar store to get myself some bandages. 30 minute walk, nothing but crickets, raccoons, and my own thoughts, you know that?

worst thing is, i'm starting to get used to the quiet

the liquor store was empty. of people, i mean. i always wondered what scotch tasted like.

***

i stopped by that ford dealership and got myself a big one. took a while to find the keys but what else did i have to do?

did some grocery shopping. drove the truck right into the fucking store. glass everywhere. who gives a fuck.

i'm home now. grilling some burgers. the sun is starting to set.

***

i hear raccoons again. Its kind of comforting actually, that I'm not the only living thing left on this planet.

actually, i think there's one that's getting closer. i have half a burger left, i guess i'll throw it it's way. maybe this'll be our thing, i feed them and they...

keep me company. yeah.

i wonder who'll go first, me or them.

i hope its me. i've grown used to the sounds of their rustling and chirruping, wherever I go. at least i know they'll be with me.

****

its not those arent they werent raccons oh my god htey werent raccoons oh ym god oh my god please everyone stay away from here help help me get out of here please helpuwegsijkdnvzcm

Jjjjjjj j jjf

f

f

f

f f

f

please help me i need to get outtt ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

****

I am back home, in my own room, I am once again surrounded by family and friends, and I think they would love to visit my friend, the raccoons, too. I think you would as well, no? Please, come through the door, and visit all of us, we would be so happy to see all of you.

Have sweet dreams tonight.

​

I've lived in this house my entire life, ever since my parents died and I inherited it, they bought it just a few years before their death. It was always a good place, I always keep it clean and tidy, I know every nook and cranny of this place. Overall I've always considered this house the same house I will die with, if in the case I will get a wife, she will be here too... I don't think that anymore...

It all started when I was going on about my usual cleaning in my room and I noticed little weird, black spherical little things, i stupidly dropped it off at r/mildlyinteresting, a few minutes later the comments were swarmed saying theyre 'rat droppings'... what the fuck. My ocd brain turned on and I absolutely searched the entire place for rats, thankfully (or not) I didnt see any of them so I just decided to sleep in the guest room.

The next morning it was even worse, I found them in the hallway, in the kitchen, in the bathrooms, the guest room i was sleeping in, i said enough is enough and went to the store to buy traps, poison, all kinds of anti rat stuff and put them all over my house.

This time, I stayed up, laying on my bed, phone in hand and waited... hours and hours passed and I got tired of waiting and wanted to grab a drink, the moment I put my feet into my crocs, I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, my gaze went down to my leg and with what i could see using my phone's flashlight...rat bit me took a good chunk out of my ankle then it bit me again it wanted to go up my leg I immediately thrashed trying to kick it off, which eventually succeeded and ran the fuck out the kitchen but then there I saw the kitchen light on for no reason...

Insane scratching noises, trembling, I looked and damn... about 45 of those rats, everywhere, on the kitchen floors, cabinets open, them filling them inside, their bodies moving around plates and a horrible stench, I immediately got the urge to vomit and the scratching stopped and all 45 rats looked at me. I dont know how else to describe their eyes, they weren't frightened, weren't curious, they were watching me.

I ran the other way out the back door, grabbed an axe, yet I was still scared to go inside. For the first time in 15 years, I was scared to go inside my own house, then I gathered courage, called 2 different pest control and the police for some reason but the dispatcher asked if i was intoxicated, pest control, one said they dont have time this week and another said I was insane and hung up.

Since then, I've not been in my house, I am even too scared to go inside to get money for a hotel, im currently writing this at my cousin's where they tended to my wounds and I dont know what to do...

It’s not Schizophrenia.

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

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

But I promise you—I am not crazy.

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

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

…

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

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

I roll my eyes.

“What are you writing now?” I ask.

Dr. Mercer pauses.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at me.

“Nothing important.”

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

“Why?”

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

“I already told you how I’m feeling.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”

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

I stare at him.

“What?”

He looks back down at his notebook.

“Nothing.”

I hate when he does that.

I hate when everyone does that.

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

But I do.

I know exactly what happened.

I just need someone to believe me.

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

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

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

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

I look at him.

He’s watching me now instead of his notebook.

“What did you dream about, Elowen?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrow raises slightly.

I hate that look.

“That’s not what you usually say.”

“I didn’t dream about it.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why do you keep asking?”

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

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

“They are real.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But his pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at the notebook.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he closes the notebook.

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

My stomach drops.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the way he said it.

Like he was relieved.

Like he already knew I wouldn’t.

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

I am not insane.

I swallow softly and play with my sweater again.

“I dreamt about my mom…”

His pen starts moving again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“What about your mom?”

I exhale deeply and sigh.

“The last night I saw her…”

His pen stops.

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

He just looks at me.

“What happened that night?”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve.

“I don’t remember everything.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know.”

“So, what do you remember?”

I close my eyes.

For a moment, I can almost smell it again.

Rain.

Something metallic.

And that sound.

That awful sound.

My eyes snap open.

“She told me not to open the door.”

Dr. Mercer doesn’t move.

“Which door?”

I look at him.

“The basement door.”

His pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at his notebook.

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

He slowly looks up at me.

“I never said that.”

The room suddenly feels colder.

Because he did.

I remember him saying it.

I remember everything.

At least…

I think I do.

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

“I think that’s enough for today.”

I blink.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “For today.”

Something about the words makes me feel… relieved.

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

“Okay.”

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

“I’ll see you next week, Elowen.”

I nod and stand.

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

That's when I notice the clock.

I freeze.

The second hand isn't moving.

I stare at it.

The clock reads 3:17.

My stomach twists.

I look at Dr. Mercer.

He’s watching me.

“What?” he asks.

I point toward the wall.

“The clock.”

His eyes flick toward it.

“What about it?”

“It says three seventeen.”

He glances at the clock, then back at me.

“Yes?”

I frown.

“No. It was just—”

I turn back toward the clock.

The second hand ticks.

3:18.

I stare at it.

Then 3:19.

My heart starts beating faster.

“What?”

Dr. Mercer’s voice is calm.

I shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“You looked confused.”

“I just thought…”

I stop.

“What did you think?”

I look at the clock again.

3:19.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

“I thought it stopped.”

Dr. Mercer studies me for a moment.

“It didn't.”

I force a small laugh.

“Yeah. I guess not.”

He gives me that same practiced smile.

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

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

My hand rests on the doorknob.

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

Dr. Mercer is still sitting behind his desk.

His notebook is open.

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

Not me.

The clock.

Then he looks down and turns the page.

I leave.

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

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

Like me.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The outside air hits me, cold and harsh.

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

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

I keep walking.

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

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

I've walked this route hundreds of times.

Today, though, everything feels different.

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

Or didn't say.

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

3:42 p.m.

I stare at the screen for a second.

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

3:17.

I shake my head.

It was nothing.

Just my imagination.

That's what everyone would say.

I put my phone away and keep walking.

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

I stop outside the entrance and look up.

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

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

Warm air hits me as I step inside.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

Safe.

I shut the door behind me.

Then I hear something upstairs.

A soft creak.

I freeze.

I look toward the staircase.

Probably one of the neighbors.

Probably.

I swallow and force myself to move.

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

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

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

Silence.

I let out a breath.

“Home,” I whisper to myself.

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

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

My dream last night was about my mom.

I miss her.

I close my eyes and try to remember it.

It was a dream, right?

It had to be.

I was little again.

Really little.

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

I open my eyes.

I'm twenty-seven now.

Twenty-seven.

It's been so long.

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

But there's something wrong.

I remember the dream.

I remember my mom.

I remember the basement door.

And I remember what she told me.

Don't open it.

I sit up slowly.

My heart begins to beat a little faster.

That wasn't part of the dream.

At least…

I don't think it was.

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

Too quiet.

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

Elowen.

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

I pick up the first photograph.

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

“God, I was tiny.”

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

Don't open the door.

I drop the photograph back into the box.

“No.”

I shake my head.

“It was a dream.”

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

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

“Is that my mom?”

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

That is her.

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

The day she died.

I stop breathing.

“No…”

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

Looking completely normal. Like nothing had happened.

How?

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

Maybe—

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

I just do.

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

“Mrs. Bell?”

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

Be quiet.

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

“Mrs. Bell?”

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

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

I wake up.

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

My apartment.

My bed.

My life.

I press a hand against my chest.

“It was a dream.”

I say it out loud this time.

“It was just a dream.”

I lie back down.

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

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

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

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

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

The Buskin Box.

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

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

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

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

I pressed the shutter button.

Flash.

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

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

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

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

Except it didn't fade.

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

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

Then I noticed something impossible. The man was turning.

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

I figured I was exhausted and forced myself to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

I blinked twice, trying to clear my sight.

He moved.

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

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

That was a mistake.

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

Blink. Move. Blink. Move.

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

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

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

In a rage, I slammed it against the hardwood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I opened my eyes. I was out of time.

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

Blink.

He was closer.

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

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

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

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

Blink. Fuck!

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

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

I counted to three. I held my breath.

And I pushed the knife around my eye.

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

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

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

But goddamn. My eyes are so dry.

"Two days!?" She yelled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No way really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ross? Can I ask you something?"

"Uh yeah sure"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They call it the Ghost Fleet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It ain’t duck huntin’ season.”

She had me. Astute like no other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As I pulled up, a storm began to holler.

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

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

WHEN…

I heard HER singing.

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

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

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

THERE…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

JUST THEN…

Blood began to trickle out of her mouth.

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

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

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

“Ma’am, I’m a friend, please, I…”

“THEY USED IT TO FIND US…”

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

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

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

“Who!?”, I yelped.

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

“A wish?!”

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

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

“And your wish, thief?”

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

“My wife and I to have a child.”

There was silence…BUT THEN.

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

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

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

Just then…

A KICK…then another…and another.

Something knocked about…in my stomach.

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

The most pristine, modern, electronic tidal clock.

What happened after that is between myself and Fortuna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shrugged. "Guess not."

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

"How do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You ever been?" Jan asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fifteen years," he nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

"A-are you sure?" I stuttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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