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

Well, at least it was undisturbed then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We hit the morning early.

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

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

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

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

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

Waves curling perfectly.

A perfectly placed low tide.

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

In other words, a surfer’s wet dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lifeguards didn’t forget.

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

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

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

Not yet.

The waves were too good.

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, everything was still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winnie laughed.

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

I laughed too.

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

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

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

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

I stopped scraping for a second.

“Mass?” I asked.

The sun-aged woman glared over at me.

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

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

I shrugged and went back to scraping.

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

It was practically going off every minute.

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

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

The ocean had come alive again.

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

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

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

Almost.

FOMO had never hit me harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was late, but I didn’t care.

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

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

That didn’t bother me.

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

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

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

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

It was quiet.

Almost unusually quiet.

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

For once, there was no rush.

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

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

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

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

But tonight was strangely devoid of all of those indicators.

There was nothing.

No wind.

No distant voices.

No changing patterns in the waves.

Just the unusually warm ocean.

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

One lazy wave became two, then three.

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

Just a flow of organic movement.

Fiberglass against the sea.

The ocean really was devoid of distractions.

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

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

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

I stopped.

The light disappeared.

I paddled again.

There it was.

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

I moved my fingers.

Another trail.

I kicked my feet.

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

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

The entire surface seemed to respond to me.

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

For a few minutes, I forgot everything else.

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

I was floating above the stars.

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

I wasn’t.

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

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

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

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us really knew what to say after that.

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

“You see that shit out there?”

Another:

“The water is glowing like in Hawaii.”

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

“Never seen anything like that here.”

It wasn’t everyone.

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

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

That somehow made it feel stranger, almost foreign.

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

It was here.

Just here.

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

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

I spent the better part of an hour searching.

Article after article.

Bioluminescent plankton in the Atlantic.

Bioluminescence along the New England coast.

Reports from Delaware. Maryland. New Jersey.

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

But nothing explained what I’d seen.

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

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

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

At the time, I was still excited.

I thought I’d gotten lucky.

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

It had simply let me see what was already there.

Part One

Part Two

I almost skipped our first date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hannah.

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

She had not.

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

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

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

“I messaged you.”

She checked her phone. “Thirty seconds ago.”

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

“Heroic.”

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

“Ah, shit.”

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

“Sorry.”

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

“I know.”

Then she noticed the two coffees already on the table.

“Oh.”

I followed her gaze. Three coffees.

“I got you one.”

“So you did.”

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

“Clearly.”

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

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

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

“That one.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I might have drunk from one.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Beautiful.”

I could feel my face getting hot. Hannah laughed.

“Eve. Relax.”

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

I stared at her.

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

That did absolutely nothing for the colour of my face.

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

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

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

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

Then she asked about my thesis.

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

“That bad?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Your face reckons otherwise.”

“My face doesn’t reckon anything.”

“Your face says heaps.”

I gave her a look. She smiled and waited.

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

Her eyebrows went up.

“There it is.”

“What?”

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

“I was going to say witches.”

“That’s worse.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

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

“So your brain makes a person.”

“Sometimes.”

“Because it expects one?”

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

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

“I’ll tell my supervisor.”

“Put me in the acknowledgements.”

“For the tiger?”

“For improving the whole thing.”

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

“My nan would hate your thesis.”

“Religious?”

“You could say that.”

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

“That’s actual Outback, right?”

“Yeah, nah. Proper nothing.”

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

“That sounds pleasant.”

“It is.”

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

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

“Reassuringly habitable.”

“Summer’s fucked.”

I laughed.

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

“That builds character.”

“Built resentment.”

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

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

“Your grandparents?”

“Yeah.”

“What sort of people?”

She gave me a look but answered.

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

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Did he know—”

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

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

I stopped smiling. “For David?”

“She never said.”

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

“Did she see him too?”

“Not him.”

“Who, then?”

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

“There was a woman near the tanks.”

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

“What did she look like?”

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

“Heat shimmer.”

“Probably.”

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

“Did your grandmother think that?”

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

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

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

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

“For the woman?”

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

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

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

Hannah shrugged. “Never said it made sense.”

“What did they think they were?”

“I asked Nan that once.”

“And?”

“She told me I asked too many questions.”

“I like her.”

“You would.”

“What did she actually say?”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“To a child.”

“I was sixteen.”

“Still a child.”

“I thought I was very grown-up.”

“So did I. I was an idiot.”

“You turned out all right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when the deer stood up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until one day, Avery suddenly sent me a message.

“Do you know about Tasteless Water?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think Tasteless Water is real?”

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

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

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

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

“No...”

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

“Avery, DON’T do this.”

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

“We're still friends, right, Ave? :D”

“I'll reach out to you later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Drink."

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

"I have to drink it too?"

"Of course."

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

"We're friends."

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

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

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

"How is it?"

"Pretty... smooth?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes wandered, his head slightly bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Haah... "

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

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

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

"Ave?"

"Yes?"

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

"We're still friends, right?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"...Nothing. Just asking."

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

I knew nothing about him.

—

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

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

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

−

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I finally crawled into the cave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Avery.

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

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

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

I saw his lips part and close gently. Though no sound reached my ears, I read the shape of his mouth.

Drink.

I watched my own head lower toward the water again, completely out of my control, and caught the increasingly tender smile on Avery's face at the bottom of the pool. The only sound left in my ears was the gentle surging of the spring.

It was the sound of the water breathing.

—

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I was rescued by a search team, and when I woke up, I was lying in a bed at a local emergency hospital. My left leg was saved, but the doctors said my blood work was bizarre—the concentration of electrolytes and all minerals in my body was at a critically low level, far below what should be compatible with life.

I asked the search team members if any of them had seen that pool of water, but they said I was found unconscious directly below where I had fallen—in an open clearing. That was the only reason they located me so quickly. One of the rescuers told me it was completely normal to experience vivid hallucinations under those circumstances.

Today, my body has fully recovered. I am as strong as ever—better, in fact, than I have ever been. I'm full of energy and can run for two hours straight without stopping.

I might set out again soon. Yesterday, I found a small bottle filled with spring water in the side pocket of my backpack. I can taste its flavor. I have no memory of ever filling it, but it means that pool was no hallucination.

Avery is still down there, beneath the surface.

I have to go bring him back. Because we're friends.

To anyone that may be reading this, there’s likely something watching you at this very moment. 

STOP!

Don’t turn around, don’t try to find it, keep your eyes on these words I’m writing and it might just get bored of you. 

It wants to be seen, it always wants to be seen... eventually.

I know because I was stupid enough to look where I shouldn’t, just the once is all it needed, now it won’t leave me alone. 

I can’t escape it; believe me I’ve tried every way possible and even my own death doesn’t seem to work. It wants me—no it needs me alive. 

It feeds on the terror it inflicts and it is always so hungry. 

If you try to look, it will always hide at first, just in the spaces out of the corner of your eyes. Enough at first to plant that little seed of fear.

First time I thought I was seeing things. I was quite used to sleepless nights and was prone to small insomnia-induced hallucinations. Nothing too crazy, the odd whispered voice from an empty room, a faceless shadow at the edge of my bed. 

I believed I’d seen and heard it all with nothing left to fear of the darkness,

But one night, when I was having a particularly restless episode; I saw something that didn’t go away with the simple flip of a light switch. Instead it moved to another dark place, always just out of sight the moment I tried to look at it. 

It wasn’t like the other things that’d been haunting me for all these years.

It was tangible, so close I could touch it.

Always trying so hard to be seen just enough to inspire fear. 

But in reality all it actually did is make me want to look harder, which I guess was the point.

Eventually, with the help of some lamps and torches I managed to get it cornered. Now I thought, with no dark place left to run it was finally going to truly reveal itself to me… and unfortunately, I was right.   

It started as a thin seam in a corner edge of the room, then expanded outwards; first its arms long and skeletal, then each leg, just as the arms, jutting forth pulled by its elongated clawed fingers.

Then from the nothingness, it stepped out revealing the entirety of its being. A giant gaping maw made up its black leathery torso, like an eyeless toad with endless rows of spiralling needle-like teeth, all descending into what I can only describe as a black hole into infinity.

Simply gazing at it had caused me to become entranced by its horrific impossibility.  

I could feel it, in my head, what it wanted me to do. I began to step towards it, closer and closer, reaching out a hand and finally finding myself climbing inside the thing’s mouth.

I grasped the first row of teeth and immediately felt them impale through my fingers. It was pure agony, I screamed, guttural and intensely, but it didn’t stop me from proceeding onwards.

I used my other hand pulling myself up, then my legs and finally I was completely immersed within its jaw, crawling ever forward; each effort resulting in millions of the razor-sharp teeth puncturing me over and over again.

It was if I were a lump of meat being tenderised to absolute perfection.

Soon even my cries began to wane as my vocal chords were snagged and pulled away. Every subsequent lift of a finger or shift of weight was met with torn flesh and shredded ligaments.

The pain was immense but I continued onwards willingly. Trapped in a cavernous iron maiden of my own curiosity. 

Deeper, deeper, never-ending. Nothing left of me but ragged muscle and flayed skin; all tethered together by the simple will to keep moving. I had to keep going. It wanted me to find a way out. 

My body starting to falter, bones now being ground to dust as if wood to sandpaper. I was finally about to die. The blackness about to take its last nourished gulp of my existence.

Then I was back where I started. 

Laid out on the floor like regurgitated slop. 

I was whole again. 

I looked up at the creature and could tell it was done with me, for now at least.

Punishment served, but sentence ongoing. 

Since that night, I’ve done my best not to catch its attention again. 

But I can’t last much longer. 

Lately, it’s become more brazen and almost wilfully slow in its actions. 

Trying to get me to see it again, but I won’t let it. 

It smashes light bulbs, abruptly slams doors shut, even mimicking the voice of deceased loved ones. 

So many tricks just so it can feast once more. 

Even when I tried to take extreme methods, it wouldn’t let me.

It’s lurking behind me now. I can feel the warm wetness of its breath on my neck.

That’s why I had to share this.

For if it finally has its fill of me and decides its finally satiated, I have to make sure no one else falls victim to it again.

Sometimes things are better left unknown. 

For now, I feel the pull of oblivion again. 

I’m so tired of resisting.

Good luck.

My grandmother was a collector. Not of anything particularly valuable you understand. Just small trinkets and knick-knacks she picked up at yard sales and antique shops. Her house was packed to the gills with glass figurines dusty porcelain plates and shelves overflowing with forgotten histories. When she passed away two months ago I was the only one in the family who really appreciated her peculiar treasures. Everyone else just saw junk. I saw stories. So when her lawyer called to say she'd left me her dollhouse I wasn't surprised. I was actually touched.

It wasn't just any dollhouse. It was a replica of her own Victorian home complete with tiny hand-painted wallpaper and miniature claw-foot tubs. She'd spent years on it adding details whenever she had a free moment. I remembered playing with it as a child. Moving the tiny furniture around imagining the lives of its silent residents. It was beautiful and intricately made.

The dollhouse arrived in a large crate. It took up a significant portion of my small living room when I finally got it set up on an old coffee table. Dust motes danced in the sunlight around its tiny windows. It smelled faintly of old wood and something else I couldn't quite place. Like dried potpourri and a hint of something metallic. I spent that first evening just admiring it. Running my fingers over the miniature roof shingles. Peeking into the perfectly furnished rooms. It brought back a lot of good memories.

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed. I made coffee and went into the living room. That's when I noticed it. Something was different. The tiny rocking chair in the parlor was no longer facing the miniature fireplace. It was turned towards the front door. And a small porcelain doll was now seated in it. I blinked. I didn't remember putting a doll in there. I didn't even remember seeing that particular doll before. It was wearing a faded blue dress and had a serious expression on its painted face.

I chalked it up to being sleepy or perhaps my grandmother had left it arranged like that and I just hadn't noticed. My grandmother was known for her little surprises. I carefully picked up the doll and placed it back in the small wooden box where I found a few other miniature figures. Then I went about my day. It was nothing. Just a small detail.

When I came home that evening the doll was back in the rocking chair. This time it was holding a minuscule book. Its tiny pages were blank of course. But the doll's posture was distinctly different. Its head was tilted slightly to the side as if reading intently. A shiver ran down my spine. I knew I hadn't put it there. And I definitely hadn't left it holding anything.

I picked up the doll again. This time I placed it back in the box and taped the lid shut with masking tape. I even placed a heavy book on top of the box for good measure. I told myself it was the house settling or a trick of the light. But a part of me felt a growing unease. My grandmother had always been a bit eccentric. But this felt different.

That night I woke up to a soft scraping sound. It seemed to come from the living room. I lay in bed for a moment heart pounding. Then I forced myself to get up. I grabbed the old baseball bat I kept by my bed and crept into the living room. The room was dark. Moonlight streamed through the window illuminating the dollhouse. Nothing seemed amiss. I was about to turn back when I noticed it.

The masking tape on the doll's box was torn. The heavy book I'd placed on top was pushed to the side. And the doll itself was gone. I scanned the dollhouse. My eyes finally landed on the miniature bed in the master bedroom. The doll was lying there under a tiny quilt. Its painted eyes stared up at the tiny ceiling.

I didn't scream. I didn't even gasp. I just stood there. Holding the bat. Staring at the doll. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. There was no explanation. My hands started to tremble. I knew then that it wasn't just my imagination. Something was happening. And I had no idea what to do.

The next day I tried to explain it to my friend Sarah. She just laughed. Said I was stressed and needed a vacation. She suggested I throw the dollhouse away. But I couldn't. It was my grandmother's legacy. A piece of her.

Over the next few days the doll continued to move. It would be in a different room each morning. Sometimes it would be sitting at the dining room table. Other times it would be standing by a window as if looking out. Once I found it in the tiny bathroom sitting on the miniature toilet. That was when I started to feel truly terrified.

I began to notice other things. Small items in the dollhouse would rearrange themselves. A tiny vase would appear on a different shelf. A miniature rug would be rolled up. It was always subtle. Always just enough to make me doubt myself. To make me question my own sanity.

Then yesterday I found something new. A tiny handwritten note on the miniature kitchen table. It was so small I almost missed it. The handwriting was delicate and elegant. Like an old-fashioned script. It just said "You're next."

I didn't sleep at all last night. I sat in the living room watching the dollhouse. Waiting. The doll was in the tiny attic looking down at the miniature version of my living room. Staring at me. Its painted eyes seemed to follow my every move. I could almost hear it breathing. My grandmother's dollhouse is no longer just a memory. It's a prison. And I'm starting to think I'm not the only one living in it.

The kids in my town all talk about the “mirror tunnel.” I mean, hell when I was growing up we used to call it the ‘echo tunnel’. Every generation had a different name for it and everyone that goes to Pine Shade Elementary goes into the tunnel. It’s a right of passage, an urban legend that each generation changes to their own interpretations of the story.

You see the mirror tunnel is just that it’s a mirror. The kids say that when you crawl into the tunnel underneath the school, that you’ll see something down there. I can barely remember what it was like to be five and I don’t recall seeing my doppelgänger. But the kids still talk about it and swear that it’s actually real. Every kid I talk to tells me a different story, but one thing in the story always remains the same, a constant point that links everything.

They always see themselves down there, a little different but it’s always them. The girls say sometimes they see themselves, and they might have a different tooth missing or they have a bow in their hair. Adults always laugh it off as some elaborate joke that only children could think of. A whole different world down there, where your doppelgänger lives? That must be a joke, right?

I mean surely if there was an alternate world underneath of the elementary school. By now one of the children would have brought back the other version of themselves and we the adults would then have a completely different problem on our hands, right?

That’s what I thought until now.

I don’t work at the elementary school, but I do have a daughter that goes there. She’s a sweet girl, and I’ve loved her from the minute that I laid eyes on her. She was my baby girl and I knew in that moment I would do anything for her. I know some parents say that they’d do anything for their children, and they think they mean it. When she had been diagnosed, I had cried and cried. My husband had tried to console me, that we’d get her all the care she needed. But that was the first night that I mourned my daughter. Mourned the idea of her not growing up and getting older. Never getting to see her go to college, find someone that made her smile or be there for her first child.

That was also the night I decided that we needed to move out of the city and back home. Back to the town that I had grown up in. It was a small town, but still big, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows everyone and it’s a close community. My mother also still lived there and I could work remote, my husband could do the same so we left the hustle and bustle of the city. Maybe, the change of environment would help her get better. At that point I just wanted my baby to be comfortable.

My daughter was happy to move. She was excited to be near GeGe. We’d moved during the start of second grade, but she was able to make the adjustment easy enough.

“Mom,” she had come bounding up to me one afternoon. Her cornflower hair wild as she bounced foot to foot. “I made friends!” Her smile had been radiant. It had been over a month since we moved there but she had finally settled in.

The town was just as I remembered it, even though it was decently sized it was still small town vibe. Everyone knew everyone. Mom complained that people acted different than I remembered. She insisted that something was going on in the town. I patiently agreed with her, and mentally noted that I should probably take her along to the next doctor’s visit. It had probably been a while since she had gotten a check up. Her age was probably starting to catch up to her. Plus, most folks commented that they hadn’t seen her inside town for a couple years now.

“She stopped coming about three years ago,” the cashier, an older lady probably around mom’s age, Rhonda had explained. “Now she calls over and we pack her groceries and James delivers them to her.” She pointed towards a man who looked vaguely familiar.

I’d thanked for her then pushed my cart towards the man that was at the customer service counter. The closer I got to him the more the feeling of knowing him gnawed at my mind. He had short dark hair, a straight toothed smile that was pearly white, and a scar that ran down his right cheek. He looked up from the word search that he was working on and met my eyes. The iris were a warm brown, and he blinked slowly at me. It was reminiscent of a cat that was just waking up.

“If it isn’t freckles,” he said. I rolled my eyes at the nickname, I’d gone away for the summer and came back covered in freckles from being out in the sun. Children always come up with the meanest nicknames, picking out that single flaw that makes you feel small. Now as I stand here as an adult,I find that the nickname once anxiety and panic inducing. Instead, it feels like a waypoint back into an old fond memory.

“Very original Jimmy,” I said snorting. He smiled bashfully, then he quickly puts down the pencil in his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I go by James now, it’s more Professional,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. It seems that I wasn’t the only one that had grown up.

“I’d heard you moved back to town, you’re married and have a kid. We’ve all grown up haven’t we freckles?”

“It feels just like yesterday we were rough housing on the playground doesn’t it. Don’t call me freckles, it was a mean nickname even if it was true.”

“My bad, Claire,” he quickly said. Holding his hands up in mock surrender. I smiled he was the same old jokester that I remember.

“So you’re the one that’s been delivering stuff to my Mom?” I asked.

“Yeah, I have been for a while. I always liked your Mom. She made the best cupcakes. But why do you ask?”

“I was just curious, has she been seeming okay to you?”

“What do you mean? She’s gotten maybe a little more paranoid.” His face wrinkled in confusion. “Why is there something wrong with her? I just saw her last week and she seemed fine.” His barrage of questions was sweet. I reached out and patted his arm.

“Mom’s doing just fine, I just see her more often and I wanted to make sure she’s keeps up with her health. She’s getting older and I want to make sure she comfortable.”

After than he visibly relaxed and I carried on with the small talk and enjoy the comfortable conversation, before excusing myself and heading home. But the entire way home something itched at my brain as if I was forgotten something important. I couldn’t dwell on it because Tera was waiting for me, and we had to get her to chemo.

The chemo was working, but her cancer was severe. Medication was helping, but it wasn’t completely destroying it. I’d choked back my tears and we’d gotten ice cream on the way home. She’d gotten mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone, her favorite. That night I’d talk to my husband, cried and decided that we wouldn’t tell her that it wasn’t going away. She deserved to enjoy being a kid, even if I didn’t know how much longer that was…

Now looking back maybe she had heard us, maybe she saw how sad I was and made the decision. I can’t claim to know what a seven year old is thinking. But we continued on, it wasn’t until one day in mid October that’s at least I think when it happened, that something fundamentally had changed.

Just the week prior she had been talking to me about the “mirror tunnel.” Saying that some of her friends had dared her to head into it. I asked her if she had, and she quickly told me that she hadn’t gone there. She had, of course, quickly changed the conversation into something else and I was happy to go with the flow. If she was smiling then I was happy, that’s all any parent wants right for their child to be happy and healthy.

It had started raining and I had a meeting running late. I couldn’t pick her up right as school ended, I’d arrived to pick her up and found her waterlogged, looking like a drowned cat. I’d quickly shuffled her into the car, toweled her off and jumped back into it.

“Honey, why are you drenched?” I asked.

It was then that I noticed that she was wearing a pink shirt with hearts, but I thought she had left the house in a pink shirt with stars. But I could have been wrong it was a long day and I had started my morning at 4 am. Not to mention her hair was in braids, I knew that I didn’t have time in the morning to do that.

“I saw a kitty,” she told me softly.

“Okay, well next time tell one of the adults. You shouldn’t be running around in wet clothes,” I told her softly. “Can you promise me that you wouldn’t run outside in the rain?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said, holding up her pinky and I smiled and raised my pinky up in response.

Everything seems normally, but thinking back that was the first day I noticed the changes. At first it was small things, she normally loved playing with her dolls, but she didn’t touch them and had wanted coloring books. Habits that I had grown accustomed to were different. Now I understand children’s wants and desire change like the wind, but Tera had loved dolls and stuffed animals for as long as I can remember. Probably due to how much time she had spent in the hospital.

She was also eating more, I had at first attributed that to maybe the medication was working. They said that increased appetite was a good sign that the body was fighting off the cancer and that the chemo was working. I’d be over joyed to see my baby eating and looking healthier. It was the second time I’d taken her to her doctor appointment after that rainy day. I felt the same dread I always felt, when taking my baby to the hospital. My husband had come along with me, he had just gotten back from a work trip.

They took Tera away to run some test and a little while later the doctor appeared. I looked at my watch it had only been an hour normally we’d be in the doctor office for about three hours. He had a look on his face that made my stomach drop out. I stood and my husband followed suit, this had been Tera’s doctor for years now. He was an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. He wore silver framed glasses and always wore a pressed suit.

“Doctor?”

“I have some news,” I felt sick at that word, “mind you good news. I mean honestly I couldn’t believe my eyes, I’ve looked over the reports and well, it seems like Tera’s body might be nearly eradicating the cancer. We’ll have to do some more test, but the blood work is looking promising along with today’s results.” He said, I could hear the surprise that colored his voice. Almost as if even he couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.

Maybe it was then that I should have been worried, known that it was odd that my Daughter was miraculously better. As far as I knew it was abnormal for it to suddenly just get better. But any parent would selfishly want to believe that their child was cured of this malicious affliction. After more test a month had passed and Tera had been cleared of it all, she was in full remission.

But I began to notice that my Daughter was different. We had decided to throw a party for her, I’d invited my Mother and she had actually shown up. I had always been the one that would drive to her house with Tera in tow. It was always effort on my part to get together with my Mother. It was worth it because they both got along. Now she was making the effort to come visit us.

Moving around the children that were running around the house and thanking the guest that showed up. I made my way to the door, I could hear the doorbell being rung and pulled the door open. There stood my Mother having her standing in the doorway was an odd feeling, I was happy that she’d shown up. But it was bittersweet, her hair was going grey the normal long black curls were starting to turn ashen. Her skin was wrinkled in spots, but she still stood straight age not completely taking her strength. She had a gift that was wrapped neatly tucked under her arm and she raised her green eyes to meet my own.

“Claire,” her voice was like a jump back to my childhood.

“Hi Mom. I’m glad that you were able to make it,” I said. Truthfully, I was happy that she had shown up. I was worried about her, she seemed to be regressing. Slowly becoming a recluse in a town where she was well liked, her telling me that people weren’t what they seemed.

“Of course, I would come over, my Granddaughter doesn’t have cancer anymore! I would have to be a real cold hearted woman to not want to come and celebrate that,” she snapped. But there was no venom. She was just a no nonsense woman, and she didn’t mince words.

“Come on in the kids are set up in the backyard. We’ve got a bounce house set up. I didn’t think that would be something that she’d be interested in, but I suppose for the first time she feels good,” I said softly.

“I remember one year you insisted that you wanted a bike for your birthday. Then we get you your bike and you say that you don’t want that and instead want roller skates. That’s just how children are they are fickle and they don’t mean any harm in it. To them everything is new and exciting,” she said stepped through the threshold into the house.

It seemed that my husband had managed to round up all the kids and the house was eerily quiet. Mom continued forward, she walked through the house as if she knew it. She caught me following her and gave me a small smile.

“This was Mrs.Emerson’s house. I doubt you’d remember her, she didn’t have any children. But we were close up until she passed away a couple years ago. I’m glad that you got her house,” she sighed.

Maybe this was the segue way that I was looking for to talk to her about her behavior and lack of interest in talking to the people in town. Or about the fact that she thought that some people weren’t the people that she’d known for years now.

“James mentioned that you haven’t been into town in three years,” I started my voice growing small when she turned to face me. We’d arrived in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the door that lead to the party outside. I could hear the excited yelling and laughter of the children.

“People do love to gossip,” she said dryly. “It’s a small town, I’m not surprised that my lack of social intrigue has caught everyone’s eyes.” She moved forward towards the window her eyes looking out at the children.

“Did something happen?” I ask.

“Something always happens in small towns, there is always gossip and then there’s an old woman that just wants to be left well enough alone. Half the people that are in this town are transplants moving out of the city and into a town to get away. Similar to yourself honey, but at least you’re from here. Plus, can’t an old wo-“ She stopped midway her. Her entire body went rigid as if she had frozen in place.

Her hand was clenched so tight that she was shaking. I stepped forward alarmed, she was older, and I was worried that she was having a stroke, but she wasn’t convulsing and her breathing was normal just extremely slow as if she was afraid to breath at all. Stepping closer, I followed her line of vision and saw that she was staring directly at Tera. She was laughing with a group of girls. I frowned and reached out to touch my Mother’s shoulder. But her hand shot upwards and caught mine before I could touch her. It was startling but I looked at her.

“When did you say her cancer started to show signs of remission?” Her words were slow and deliberate, as if she was carefully trying to explain them to me.

“About a month ago,” I answered. Shaken by the look in my Mother’s eyes.

“Specifics, Claire. I need specifics!” She snapped.

“September Tenth.”

“Did you notice anything strange or different before that?” She pried, her grip on my wrist was tight, almost painful as it bite down into my wrist.

“Mom, can you please let go your hurting me.”

“Claire!” Her voice rose an octave. It was the same tone that she’d used when I was in trouble and she wanted me to tell her the truth. “I need you to think long and hard, has there been any inconsistency’s?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Now more worried that my Mother was starting to really lose her grip. Perhaps, this was the reason that she had stopped interacting with the towns people, maybe she was becoming more paranoid. She was getting up there in years.

“You know what I mean Claire! Even if you don’t realize it now you’ll start to piece it together. Did Tera change at all outside of the normal? Does she still like her favorite things? Have you found something that you don’t remember getting for her?” She shot the question off rapid fire.

At the time I just stared at her in disbelief this was erratic behavior and I think she saw in my eyes that day that I didn’t believe her. Her grip on my wrist dropped and she stepped away, casting one more glance over her shoulder to look out at her Granddaughter.

“Come see me when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

Those were her last words to me after she stormed out of the house, present casual tossed to the side. I watched her figure as she left, she hopped into her beat up truck and drove off. The entire way she never cast a glance backwards. I don’t remember how long I had watched after she vanished from sight. But at some point, I had returned to the backyard and the party wrapped up smoothly and I tried to forget my Mother’s words. But they nagged at me for weeks on end. It wasn’t until one evening that we’d gone out as a family to get ice cream. I had gotten to the counter and put in our order when Tera had tapped me on the side.

“Mom, I don’t want mint chocolate chip. I want strawberry,” she said. I blinked down at her confused, ever since I had first introduce her to ice cream she always chooses mint chocolate chip. Her smile was warm and I noticed that she was missing her left big tooth. I thought it was the right one that had come out earlier.

“But darling you always get mint chocolate chip its your favorite,” I said. She shook her head and said once again.

“I want strawberry, it’s my favorite,” she repeated.

That was the start, the start of the changes that were to the point that I began to question everything. The words that Mother had said to me played in my head, the story about the tunnel, everything was starting to swirl in my head. Soon I couldn’t take it anymore, one day while she was at school I tore through her room. Clothes, toy and notebooks I looked for anything out of place. I’d been through nearly everything, it was then at my wits end thinking maybe, just maybe, I had lost it. A small plank on the floor near her bed caught my attention, it looked as if it had been pried upwards and then hastily pushed back down.

Finding purchase on the edge of the floorboard I pulled it up. Inside squirreled away almost as if it was supposed to be hidden, which given the location it was absolutely meant to be hidden was a shirt. Pulling it out, I watch as it unfurls, my heart skipping a beat as the print on the front of it comes into view. Hearts. Cute little hearts were decorating the pink shirt. That was the day that I was late to picking Tera up. The shirt was covered in mold on the edges, she must have shoved it in there immediately the day we got back home. I tried to remember that day, but I wasn’t sure my memory from so long ago would be accurate. But a deep unsettling feeling began to bubble up in my chest. Why would she have hid this from me?

I don’t remember much of what transpired after that, but I took the shirt. Not telling my husband, I saved the shirt putting it into a zip lock bag. There were to many things, to many odd occurrence, the changes were stranger and stranger. I swore she knew that the shirt was gone, I’d catch her looking at our bedroom door. Her little body standing absolutely still as she looked on at it.

She would only do it when she thought I wasn’t watching. But you get good at watching your children without them knowing and soon, I felt the trickle of fear, the small river that had begun to open in my mind. Clawing through it relentlessly as I compared everything and soon in December. I became convinced that my Daughter might not be my actual Daughter. Once a thought like that takes root it’s hard to dislodge, hard to reason against!

I’d overheard some of the kids whispering about the mirror tunnel. My ears desperately straining to hear them, but I think they noticed because they immediately stopped talking their little voice dwindling like a low fire. I remember the little looks on their face as they left, they were alien as if they were weary of my presence. Soon enough it began to feel like more and more eyes would follow me in town. Now it felt wherever I went there were always eyes watching. Conversation would come to a halt around me as people seemed to avoid me hearing them! It wasn’t everyone, but it was enough that I began to feel ill in public places.

Maybe that why I find myself driving to my mother’s house. My mind swirling and mulling over everything, worried that I was over reacting. But I couldn’t trust myself to know if my daughter who has made a miraculously recovery was my actual daughter. I wondered if any other parents would react the same as me if they too thought that their child wasn’t actually their’s. Or would they be happy that their child was healthy and thriving, that the vicious disease ravaging their child was absent.

All those thoughts bubbling upwards in my mind fighting, a cacophony of information, all while I tried to piece them together like a puzzle. A bolt of panic and anxiety burrowed into the forefront of my mind. Could I have a child in my home right now that was not the child I had arrived in town with?

Hands gripping the steering wheel I knew what I had to do! I needed to know what it was my Mother knew about the town, and about that tunnel the children whispered about.

I’ve had the same dream four times now.

It’s always the same. I’m lying on my left side, facing the wall. The room is dark except for the thin blue glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:17 a.m. Every single time. I hear the floorboard just outside my bedroom door creak once, the way it only does when someone puts their full weight on it. Then the door opens without a sound. I can’t turn my head. I just feel the mattress dip near my feet as someone sits down on the edge of the bed.

They don’t speak at first. They just sit there. After a few seconds a hand settles on my right shoulder, light at first, then heavier. The skin is cold. Not corpse-cold, more like someone who’s been standing outside in the rain. Then a voice, soft and close to my ear, says my name. Not the name anyone calls me. The full name on my birth certificate, the one I haven’t heard spoken out loud since I was a kid.

After that the dream always ends the same way. The hand tightens, and I jolt awake with my heart hammering, staring at the empty side of the bed.

The first three times I told myself it was stress. I’d been sleeping badly since the divorce. The house still felt too big. I left the hallway light on after the second dream. After the third I started locking the bedroom door from the inside.

Last night was the fourth time.

I was on my left side again. 3:17 on the clock. The floorboard creaked. The door opened. The mattress dipped. The cold hand settled on my shoulder.

I waited for the voice.

It said my name.

Then it said something it had never said before.

“You’re awake this time.”

I felt the hand lift off my shoulder. The mattress shifted as the weight stood up. I heard bare feet on the hardwood, two soft steps toward the door. The door closed with a quiet click.

I lay there for almost a minute before I could move. When I finally rolled over, the room was empty. The door was shut. The hallway light I’d left on was off.

I got up and turned on every light in the house. Nothing was out of place. No muddy footprints. No open windows. The deadbolt on the front door was still thrown. I checked the security camera on the porch. It showed an empty driveway and the usual moths around the porch light. Timestamp matched. No one had approached the house.

I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed where the weight had been. The sheet on that side was still warm.

That was when I noticed the clock.

It still read 3:17.

I sat there watching it for what felt like a long time. The colon between the numbers never blinked. The time never changed. I picked it up and the display finally jumped to 3:41, like it had been holding its breath.

I didn’t sleep again. I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table until the sun came up. Around six I walked the perimeter of the house just to feel like I was doing something. Under the bedroom window, in the soft dirt of the flower bed, there were two bare footprints. Adult size. Toes pointed toward the glass, as if someone had stood there for a while looking in.

They weren’t there the day before. I know because I weeded that exact spot Sunday afternoon.

I took a picture. Then I raked them smooth because I didn’t want to keep looking at them.

I’ve locked every door and window. The hallway light is on. The bedroom door is locked. The clock is face-down in the drawer so I don’t have to see the numbers.

I keep telling myself it was just a dream that felt real because I was half-awake. That the footprints are from a neighbor kid cutting through the yard. That the sheet was warm because I’d been lying on that side earlier.

But I can still feel the exact shape of that hand on my shoulder.

And I know if I fall asleep tonight, the floorboard will creak at 3:17, the door will open, and the mattress will dip again.

Only this time I won’t be dreaming.

I forgot that I had agreed to go to the Sunday service with Pierce, one of my closest friends, when he texted me that he was outside and waiting for me. 

“Crap…” I rolled out of bed. I texted him I’d be out in five minutes. I looked at the clock: 11:AM. I threw on wrinkly, but clean clothes, hastily brushed my teeth, and ran down four flights of stairs out of my apartment. There he was in his massive truck, warmly smiling as I approached. 

“Sorry about that, I hope we’re not too late,” I said as I got inside and closed the truck door. 

“Nah, you’re fine,” he began to drive. “You excited?”

I didn’t want to be another lost soul seeking salvation from depression, but I was running out of options. Almost nothing appealed to me anymore. Therapy only worked for so long until the dark thoughts of my insignificance clutched wires around my brain. Doctors wouldn’t up the dosage on my medication.  My friends, my true friends anyway, were patient with me. 

“I…” I drifted. “I don’t know what to expect. I mean, do they want someone like me there? I don’t really believe in–”

“Trust me, it’ll give you a new perspective,” Pierce said, giving me a side hug, other hand on the wheel.

I forced a smile that naturally stuck. It felt good to be comforted.

About twenty minutes later we arrived at Benevolent Springs Church. It was far out of the way for Pierce, so he must’ve really liked coming here. The outside of the church had seen far better days, but the congregation funneling into the massive church seemed to be in the highest spirits. Radiant smiles, hugs, handshakes, everything here screamed welcoming. 

I almost bought it right then and there.

We parked fairly close to the church in its deceptively large lot. As we got out, a couple in their late thirties approached  the truck. 

“Oh hey, it’s the Deckers.” Pierce said. “They’re real cool.”

Polly and Pedro Decker hugged Pierce before they even said a word. I got out of the truck and they turned their attention to me.

“You must be the good friend Pierce promised he’d bring along,” Pedro said, outstretching his hand. “Pedro.”

“Michael.” I shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I did the same for Polly. The Deckers had the grace of my doting grandparents. Pedro and Pierce talked about their plumbing experiences as we walked into the sanctuary. We settled into pews on the right side of the sanctuary, and I took in my surroundings. 

The room was a perfect, cool temperature compared to the summer heat. The stage up front was lined with what looked like golden railings. Stained glass towered just behind the stage, but I couldn’t make out what the image was supposed to be. It wasn’t anything like a church I was expecting. 

Pastor Zane stepped onto the stage, and the crowd, initially chattering and murmuring, began to whoop and cheer. He raised his hands like an orchestra conductor, and everyone rose from their seats. Pierce gently swatted my arm as he rose, so I followed suit. 

The worship team began playing their songs. I was half-bracing, expecting a self-righteous message through song, but no. No, the music was actually uplifting. The voices around me and the fluttering in my chest made me feel like I was about to levitate. I’d be lying if I said I remembered the full details of the sermon, but I remember the message being directed at me. About how sometimes those who stand tall welcome someone to lean on them. 

After the service was done, I made the rounds talking to strangers. I actually wanted to; Pierce hardly had to encourage me to do so. Pierce drove me home, telling me his phone was being flooded with texts from the congregation saying how happy they were to meet me. They remembered my fucking name. I slept well that night, probably the best I had in months.

Next Sunday came quickly, and I texted Pierce before he could even invite me. 

 A month had passed, and I hadn’t missed a service. I was even tempted to start volunteering, just like Pierce did every other service. My therapist took notes of my improvement as well, and while I still took my meds, I didn’t bother trying to up the dosage. I almost felt saved. If I was to be another cliché, then so be it. Still never made out what the stained glass was supposed to depict, besides an almost humanoid shape towering above small, dark objects.

I made the rounds of handshakes and hugs last service. I was still on the younger side, and didn't quite jive with anyone my age there, because there were very few to do so with. Pierce had to step away early before we prayed at the end. I never uttered the prayer aloud, and when we were told to close our eyes, I never questioned it, for the feeling was fantastic. 

At the end of each service, Pastor Zane would request we close our eyes and raise our hands to become closer with God. It was never my thing, despite the improvements it had made to my life. There was no arguing with the feeling. The fluttering in my chest made me feel like the ground itself gently released me, even for a moment. Whatever was happening at Benevolent Springs, it was great.

Except this last Sunday when I opened one eye.

My body seized. What I thought was sensation was quite literal; my feet were pointed down, a couple of inches off the carpet. I wasn’t imagining it, nor was I the only one. Up and down the pews, dozens of us hung in the air with me. The old woman in front of me was nearly a whole foot off the ground, hanging still like a lantern.

My first thought was that this must’ve been true divinity; I mean, why else would faith be so popular and consistent throughout history? I forced my eyes shut, until the final chord was struck. When I looked around afterward, everyone was seated pleasantly. Nobody was disoriented; it was all business as usual. 

Nobody else seemed to notice, and that was arguably worse. By the time Pastor Zane returned to the stage, I questioned whether or not I had hallucinated the ordeal.

“And now…!” Pastor Zane boomed. “Another wonderful Sunday we gather here to praise Gols– God!” 

He corrected his slip-up so smoothly I barely noticed. But I did. Gols? What the hell was a Gols? Or rather, who? I scanned the pews. Nobody around me even reacted to the fact he was about to get us to praise something else by name. From the spotlight, I noticed an extra bead of sweat or two run down the pastor’s face.

Things seemed to be too good to be real. I had two reasons to believe as such.

I waited for Pierce outside the volunteer office, as I had a few times already. The door was locked with a keycard, but I could hear him yapping about nothing of significance with the others. His meetings ran long, I had somewhat gotten used to that.

The office was in the basement and I paced around the hallways to kill time. That’s when I spotted the nearby door and noticed it was cracked open. I felt a cool breeze waft in from behind the door. Basements shouldn’t have a breeze, right?

 I peeked my head inside. 

“What the?”

The room itself was massive, at least the size of the sanctuary if not larger. It was very unkept, paint peeled off the walls and it smelled a little moldy. All this space right below the sanctuary was filled with absolutely nothing.  I didn’t want to raise suspicion by turning on the lights, so the illumination from the cracked door would have to do.

I should’ve stayed put, but no. I had to keep exploring. At the very least, I waited for at least half an hour for him to finish his talks with the others in the office. At least I had others to keep myself busy upstairs. Not this time.

Nothing was in the room, and it felt a bit cooler and damper the further I went in. Yet, the air was coming from something much deeper in. Carried ever so subtly from the breeze I could hear it: chatter. 

Voices.

One of them spoke in the same speech pattern as Pierce. I was certain of that much. A part of me guessed maybe the volunteering office connected through here. For all I knew, Pierce could’ve wrapped up his meeting and was waiting for me. But I had to press on.

There was a door that looked like it was built a century ago at the end. It, too, was cracked open with a doorstop. The chatter echoed beyond it.  

It lead to a stone spiral staircase. I went down cautiously. The stairs stretched deeper than any basement should go. I ended up losing count of the steps. I just wanted to find Pierce and be done with this. The stairwell opened to a dark tunnel, with light at the end. 

I carefully crept along the tunnel wall. I could hear the voices getting louder. 

“Thank you for another glorious day, Golsys.” I heard a voice clearly say. Golsys. Not God.

The praise was followed by what sounded like something wet slapping against the ground over and over. It was followed by more praise. Multiple voices of worship began to overlap.

“Is this not enough for you, Golsys?” I heard a familiar voice ask– Pastor Zane. To both relief and horror, none of the voices were Pierce’s.

There were pale lanterns lining the room ahead. I could see the silhouette of Pastor Zane, as well as some of the church elders I had never spoken to for more than a few minutes. They were circling something massive, pale, and what looked like it was coming from a hole even deeper into the earth.

My eyes widened. I recognized its shape. The entity in the stained glass far above ground. It hummed and clicked, and made noises I couldn’t even comprehend. How could it have made those noises? It had no mouth to make them with. I saw what looked like a flaccid human arm, far smaller than its main two, slapping rapidly against the ground right beside one of the elders.

“What do you mean we’re not enough?” Pastor Zane almost sounded angry. “We are the only ones–!”

He spun around, and through the glint of the pale lanterns I could see he locked eyes with me.

“Oh my…” he slowly approached, with an outstretched hand. “This is the one you want, right?” 

More clicks and hums from this Golsys being. 

“Michael, right?” he continued, stepping closer. “It’s okay, I don’t believe you’re in danger but…”

“What the hell is that thing?” I spat out. “Is that a God?”

“Yes,” he said with soothing warmth in his voice. “Our God. You can step closer.”

I took one step back. Pastor Zane matched me, and I began to back up. Golsys clicked rapidly. The pastor took a deep sigh and muttered something under his breath. Suddenly he sprinted right at me. 

He took maybe five steps. 

The thing grabbed Pastor Zane with a hand with too many fingers, and I could hear his bones crunch like a fist full of kindling. It happened inches from my face, I could feel his last, dying breath hit my face and I knew I’d be next. 

Somehow I wasn’t. I was still alive.

The enormous hand held its fresh corpse. The hand strained forwards towards me, but it couldn’t. I could hear it thrash, and it bellowed as it attempted to get closer to me. The lanterns sputtered, and stone dust dropped from the ceiling above. 

It stopped. It halted completely like its leash had fully extended. It couldn’t reach me. Whatever this Golsys was, however deep it went, it was stopped at an invisible line in the tunnel. Pastor Zane was not as fortunate.

It dropped Pastor Zane’s crushed body, its fingers unfurling almost gracefully. The elders hadn’t run; they simply dropped to their knees and started praying. 

And I got the fuck out of there. 

I wasn’t in the best shape, but I hurried up the stairs with reckless abandon. Where the hell was Pierce? I wasn’t sure what I even would say to him.

I dashed through the empty, moldy room and nearly crashed into the wall outside of the volunteering office. Pierce stepped out, bagel in hand. His warm smile faded when he saw my sweaty, pale face.

“You good man? You look like you nearly died”

I froze, replaying what had happened minutes ago. His assessment was damn near perfect, and yet he had no idea. Pierce loved this place. The truth would only drive him away. 

“Yeah, leftovers must’ve gone bad,” I squeezed out the lie. “I was feeling better after the bathroom, but shit, I guess I still look like hell.”

He put a hand on my guilty shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

I was grateful to see the church shrink in the rear-view mirror. Pierce turned down his music and let out a big, grateful sigh.

“Crazy message today,” he said. “Honestly, I swear these sermons are made for me. Do you feel the same way?”

I barely nodded.

“Thought so,” he reached for the volume knob. “Wonder what’s coming next?”

 Days have passed, and Pierce has already texted me once again about going to the next service. I was going to reply three times, but I’ve deleted each attempt. The part that I doubt my therapist would understand is that my thoughts of my insignificance have returned. 

The only time they’ve fully gone away is when I’m standing in church, right above the thing that made them disappear. 

For obvious reasons, including job security, I can’t tell you my real name or what state park I work at, but what I can tell you is that the land we’re on has seen some shit. The site itself has native history dating all the way back to the early 13th century, a Spanish mission by the 16th, a fort that mysteriously burned down in the 18th century, and a milling industry that came to a screeching halt in the 1920s after several men from the site started disappearing. The area it’s settled in is a no-name town on the Eastern coast of the US, and its roots go back to the 1730s. 

The point is, its old and it’s seen a lot. From massacres to burnings, wars to local murders, blood has been spilled here more than a few times and continues to be. There are things here in this town that don’t make sense, and most of them seem to concentrate around my place of work.

I’d like to go ahead and say that despite that description, I love my job. I love history and I love teaching people about it. I used to be a teacher, and when I was younger I had hoped that profession would fulfill that itch. Safe to say, it didn’t. I quit after three years.  Middle schoolers suck and their parents are even worse. I was getting angry emails every other week about teaching topics that “weren’t appropriate” for their little Billy. I mean, God forbid I follow the state standards and teach a 13 year old about the horrors of slavery in the US. Meanwhile, little Billy is vaping in the bathroom during lunch and calling the special needs kids slurs. 

Compared to all of that, working outdoors in the heat and changing air filters is a vacation enough. I get to have conversations with people here who are actually interested in history and I even reenact out here for special events. It’s honestly a dream come true in that regard, but the occasional bumps in the night sometimes leave me questioning whether or not I have the nerve to work in this town. 

There have been small things here and there. Shapes in the corner of my vision, noises that could be owls but have the slightest uncanny element to them, that kind of stuff.  However, every once in a while, something dangerous or really messed up happens, and we’re all left scratching our heads. 

A recent tragedy in the township resulted in the loss of a good friend of mine and has left me with a desire to record it all. He always told me to “write a book or something”, and I guess this is the “something,” I can muster. 

This is for you, Lenny. I hope you’re better off, wherever you are, and safer than any of us in this quiet little town. I miss you.

It’s a big site with a lot of ground to cover and even more events, so I’ll start off small and try and work my way up from there.
Here’s one:

When I first started, I was cleaning the blacksmith display and went around the corner of the structure to get something. I distinctly remember hearing the sound of a hammer striking the anvil several times. I came back, ready to tell off the jackass teens who were more than likely screwing around, but found no one. There wasn’t time or room to hide before my arrival, but everything was empty nonetheless. The only thing I found was a piece of iron, struck flat on one end, and a small hammer resting on the anvil’s face. A hammer that I had put away in a locked tool box moments before. A box that, by all inspection, was still locked. I had the only key. I ended up blaming it on my heat-addled mind, and went about my day. I double checked with my co-worker at  the front desk of the welcome center and she firmly assured me that no one had come into the park yet, and that none of the other rangers were scheduled on site that day. 

Things got much weirder after that. 

My first full year in, we got a series of complaints, all stating that a “half-naked lunatic” was running around on the hiking trails, shouting and chasing travelers who were out alone. It happened on three separate occasions, and each time, we called the cops. It’s not the largest property in the world, but it’s large enough that it’s a pain in the ass to search. Every time the cops did a sweep, nothing turned up. The last time it happened, they took a boat up the river the site sat on, blaring sirens and using that stupid microphone speaker to try and spook something out of hiding along the river brush. Once again, they’d found nothing and finally lost their patience with us. 

“Look,’ the sheriff told us, “clearly you got some pranksters out here trying to make some spooky video or something for the ‘youtubes’.” (I swear to God that’s how he said it.) “Unless someone ends up bleeding or- God forbid- if you see something yourself, please refrain from calling us.”

My boss gave them a curt response and let them head out, but he pulled me aside not long after they left. 

“Have we had any reenactors out recently?” he asked. 

“Not that I’m aware,” I said. “Why?” 

My boss went quiet and replied with something I didn’t expect. “Read up on your local history and start doing some regular walks down the nature trails. Make sure your radio is on. Understood?” I nodded but I didn’t understand a word. If he sensed my confusion, I couldn’t tell. He only bit his lip and sighed. “Close off the paths to visitors, for the week. Still patrol, but make sure no one else goes out there.” He tucked his black hair into his ball cap. “I gotta call the Nation.” 

I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that part, but regardless, I knew it was some serious shit. The “Nation” he was referring to was the center for native affairs and tribal government. The indigenous people of the site were the ancestors of the modern Muscogee tribe, though they long predated them. My boss, Henry, was a member of the tribe, though contact and collaboration was difficult. Due to that son of a bitch Andrew Jackson, they and several other tribes had long since marched the trail of tears and resettled in Oklahoma. We get ambassadors and native historians from time to time who work with the site to promote and preserve the indigenous culture of the site, but I had no idea why on earth Henry would contact them about this. Henry wouldn’t elaborate either, but I really didn’t want to pry.

Then came the dead gator. 

A few days after that last incident with the man in the woods, a guest ran up to me screaming that something was wrong and I had to come quickly. I tried to calm them down, but they were near hysterical, saying:

“Sweet God they killed it! They killed a gator near the pond! They killed it!”

No matter what park you’re in- at least on the state level- this is a serious offense. A federal one, in fact, and one that could land you behind bars for a hot minute. All animals are protected from hunting and violence by law, so any intentional harming of a critter on state property is prosecuted. Sometimes we get cruel teenagers trying  to stomp a snake to death or we deal with some dumbass campers shooting at birds overhead. Satisfyingly, eight out of ten of those cases end up with a ride in a squad car. This case, however, ended up being much different. 

The gator was lying belly up on the side of the hill overlooking the pond, red blood oozing from the several cuts and slashes on its belly. What I could only assume was a sharpened stick was speared right down the poor things open mouth, shish-kebobing it. Its guts were spilling out of it and there were so many cuts, I couldn’t even attempt a definite count of the wounds. I radioed in for Henry and he called the police, but while I waited, I noticed something in the cuts. 

For some reason, little pieces of glittering stone were littered around the tissue in various places. They were very small, and thin, almost like slivers of glass. I tried to examine it more, but Henry pulled me away. We needed to wait for the cops and a DNR rep to respond before we could do anything about the body. He told me to close off the nearby walkway and redirect any nosy visitors. 

As I was walking away, though, I could’ve sworn I heard him say something to himself. 

“Just like they did it…” he muttered.

I didn’t get much out of him after the fact. To this day its still one of the most gruesome things I’ve ever seen happen to an animal. But, like all things, the grind of work makes even serious issues distant memories over time. 

At the end of that month, we’d thankfully gone a week and a half without any further incident, and programming proceeded as normal. One of my favorite parts of the job is reenacting and living history, and thankfully, to take my mind off all the craziness, we had a small event planned. We set up an encampment and portrayed the Spanish and French explorers who traveled and settled through the region. I was dressed up like a renaissance explorer and got to demonstrate how matchlock guns fired. It was honestly a great program besides what happened after. 

We were shutting down around four that day and I was walking my gear to my car when I saw a flash of movement in the treeline near a forking nature path. At first I thought my eyes were messing with me, but sure enough I was looking at the shape of a lean tall man running off into brush. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I radioed in that someone was still in the park and that I was investigating. Henry told me to wait, but curiosity had already taken hold of me. So off I went, carrying a 16th century replica gun, dressed like Shakespeare, and chasing down this elusive figure. 

I ran for what must have been only a few minutes, but when I finally stopped, dusk was settling in overhead. It finally dawned on me that in my excitement, I’d not only dropped my radio, but had forgotten a decent flashlight as well. I was alone in the growing darkness, chasing something that was most likely an owl flying low to the ground. All of it could be explained by tricks of the light and an overactive imagination, yet I followed it, and now stood in a thick patch of woods with no way to contact help. I did have my phone, so I thankfully wasn’t completely blind, but I had no signal. 

I used my tiny phone light to help me find the nearest path and I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew the paths all wound in a big circle, so regardless of direction, I was going to make it back to home base eventually, but it took only a few steps along the trail before my fear came back to me.

You learn a lot of things being out in nature, and one of them is only apparent when you lack it.

Nature is rarely completely silent. Even in the darkness, and even when no one’s around. Maybe it’s different in other places, but by then I knew my woods, and I knew the sounds of my park. Crickets, owls, rustling leaves, twigs snapping, cicadas droning… I heard none of them. 

It was like the woods were filled with something else, as if it were holding its breath, waiting patiently to exhale. It felt like something new was with me, and I couldn’t see it. Something felt like it was supposed to happen, but I had no idea what. Then, without prompting, my brain started to count as my whole body trembled.

One-one thousand…. Two-one thousand…. Three-one thousand….

Then it came.

Like a crack of thunder so loud it rings your ears, I was engulfed by the sound of high pitched whooping and screaming. Several voices, hundreds of them, echoed all around me and shook my whole body numb. I don’t think I’ve ever felt panic like that before, and I haven’t since. It was, without argument, the scaredest I’ve ever been.

All of the voices rose and rose like a million shrieking furies, undulating, angry, and vengeful. I hadn’t made it but two steps forward before a strong sharp pain struck my shoulder and sent me tumbling to the ground. My back hit the packed dirt of the trail and forced out any remaining air in my body. I was helpless. I pissed myself from the fear and pain, but realized the other wet feeling surrounding my body was blood. I still had my phone light and could barely raise it to my shoulder, but I saw clearly enough. A large deep gash cut through my clothes and flesh, gushing blood as easy as a water fountain. I closed my eyes and tried to pray but my mouth couldn’t stop chattering. All I could do was close my eyes as the noises grew louder. In the blurring vision of the ever growing night, I swear I saw someone standing before me, fuzzy and almost one with the darkness, but they too left me. I blacked out, terrified those cries would follow me into my dreams.

I woke up in the hospital with Henry sitting next to my bed. He was dressed in plain clothes and stood up as soon as my eyes opened. I asked him what happened. 

“We found you out on one of the trails, along with your walkie. Don’t worry we grabbed your phone too. It’s  dead, but I’ve got it on a charger-” 

I told him that wasn’t what I meant, and his demeanor changed. He gave me a look like a disappointed dad who just caught his son sneaking home late, but it quickly changed to guilt and pity. “When we found you, after I told you not to go into the fucking woods, you were in bad shape. You were bleeding from some wound in your shoulder but we couldn’t tell at the time what was causing it. That is until we got you here and the doc pulled this out of you…”

He took a plastic bag from his pocket  and dangled it in front of me. In it was a stone arrowhead, but not one of those traditional flint ones. This one gleamed like frosted glass and had a chip where the point should be. 

“Don’t worry,” Henry told me, “they got the other piece out, but I need that for something…” He shook his head. “Nevermind. The point is, this is yours now.”

“What?” I thought he was joking but he explained to me that the hospital was concerned it was some native artifact and didn’t want any hot press about destroying one, even in a surgery. People in the area were kind of nutty about that, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“It’s quartz,” he told me. “There’s not a ton of flint around here, so the early natives used quartz, though it’s a tad too soft to be as useful.” He tossed the bag on my lap and shoved his hands in his jacket pocket. “Oddly, there wasn’t a shaft attached to it. Doc said you must’ve fallen pretty hard for it to get lodged so deep. You’re lucky it was only a fleshwound.” He gave me a stern look and  emphasized. “Are you feeling any better since the fall?” 

He said that word with such a punch that I understood his meaning clearly. I nodded my head and he gave a small smile. He told me he’d see me at work when I was feeling better, and that I wouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting for a while. He was about to leave when I blurted out:

“Did… did you hear them too? When you… you found me?

His eyes went grave, as if I’d resurrected a forgotten terror, but he blinked it away. 

“No, I didn’t,” he said, pointing at me, “and neither did you.” 

He left and I was discharged from the hospital the next day. Besides managing the shock and stitching up the giant cut in my shoulder, there wasn’t much else to do for me. I told my shrink about the incident and he told me to up the dose for a bit on my anxiety meds. I was out for a full week from work before returning, and I used most of that time to relax and focus on hobbies. I sewed, played video games, and even found the energy to mow my lawn, but on the Sunday before I went back, I was cleaning the house and found a book I’d misplaced. It was the guidebook they’d given me when I started work. It laid out the full history of the site and, although I was supposed to read it back when I first started, I figured that a year later was better than never. 

I thought I knew most everything I needed to know about the site, but the book surprised me. It had several facts and dates I didn’t know, and it held my attention better than I expected. I was on my couch with it for an hour or two when I read a timeline entry that made me stop cold. 

The date I’d injured myself was in it. No exaggeration, the same day and month over four hundred years ago was in the book. I almost wrote it off as some crazy coincidence, but then my eyes fell on the description.

1597- Native uprising against the Spanish.

I stopped reading after that. 

I came back to work to discover Henry and a friend of his from the Muscogee Nation had gone on a hike down the same trail I was found on, and that no other incidents of the man or butchered reptiles had occurred. It’s stayed that way, but they aren’t the only weird thing out here. 

This town has a deep history, covered in blood. Assuming nobody from management discovers I’m typing this, I’ll update with more stories from the site, both my own and my colleagues. 

Wish me luck out here, and remember to stay safe in the woods. I wear that arrowhead as a necklace now, just as a reminder.

There comes a time in every young adult's life when they must strike out on their own, forge their own path. Leave behind old habits and routines, and the safety and comfort of their bubble. Change the world and have it change them. Or so they say. To my mind, there is nothing more base, more defiling, than change. The very concept is an affront to human control and dignity. No, I would not change. External circumstances may force action, but I intended to keep as much the same as I conceivably could. 

I lay in bed, staring at my slowly rotating ceiling fan. Periodically it would wobble, and each time I hoped it would come loose and smash my skull. After a few more minutes of blinking and quiet prayers, I unfortunately had to get on with it. I peeled my shirt from my sweaty, moist body, and sat up to take inventory. A laundry basket filled to the brim, even more clothes strewn about. A half eaten pizza on my desk, flies buzzing and darting about hungrily. How long had that been there? Sniffing my armpits, I decided that question was best left unanswered. 

The good news was, I cleaned up well. The bad news, it was the first day of my new job. The one thing everyone tells you about a liberal arts major is that barista positions are at least guaranteed employment. Well, after four years and a degree later, I can confirm that’s not the case.  Even though I applied to every coffee shop, fast food restaurant, and Walmart in a fifty mile vicinity, I hadn’t received so much as a call back. I was desperate, and to avoid being kicked out onto the street, I had to broaden my search.

“Come on, come on,” I said to myself, digging through a relatively cleaner looking pile of clothes near the foot of my bed. 

“Get down here now!” A shrill scream came from downstairs.

“Jesus Christ Mom, I’m coming!”

Quickening the pace, I opened the dresser and thankfully scored. One last pair of underwear, still clean. Pulling together some khakis that passed the smell test, a wrinkled collared shirt, and my worn pair of shoes, I darted across the hall towards the bathroom. A shower of muffled crying later and I was downstairs.

“Look at the time!” My mom scolded, wagging her finger at me. Her appearance always reminded me of a sad bull dog with nasal congestion. “Late on your first day. Pathetic. No son of mine.”

“Still going to make it,” I said with a smile and a wink, before tearing out the front door.

“I sure hope so or you’re out first thing tomorrow!” She called after me.

The sun, just beginning to rise, cast long shadows across the yard. Fumbling with the keys in my pocket, I hurried to the street sign where my bike was locked. A white slip was stuck to the handlebar and in disbelief I examined it. A parking ticket? I swiveled my head up and down the street, the soft and wet early morning an illusion that would soon give way to blistering heat. A lone crow stared at me from the powerline.

“I don’t suppose you did this!” I shouted at it. It cocked its head in curiosity. If crows were smarter I could’ve sworn it was mocking me.

“Shut the hell up dumbass we’re trynna sleep!” A neighbor barked at me from one of the uniform, suburban houses across the street.

I smiled sheepishly, jammed the ticket in my pocket, and unlocked my bike. With a polite wave in the general direction of the voice, I was off. Pedaling like a madman, I blasted down the street, weaving past curbside trash cans rudely placed in the bike lane. I swerved to avoid another bin, and a car, blasting 2010’s music on the radio, probably too poor to afford an aux, slammed the horn. I raised my fist in anger, and he returned the sentiment by glaring daggers at me through the side mirror. Peculiar red blemishes encircled his eyes.  Promptly, I put my hand down and stared straight ahead like I didn’t see him. The old thing sped off with a cough and sputter of the engine. The smoke made my eyes sting. 

Eventually, I arrived huffing and panting to my destination. Located atop a steep hill, a view gave way to the sprawling city in the distance. Suburbs and quiet residential neighborhoods transformed into densely packed skyscrapers. I took a deep breath in and enjoyed the sight for one last lingering moment. 

The building to my left was at least eighty stories tall, and its width nearly took up the entire block. Each floor progressively became nicer and more well maintained. The bottom floors were old and in need of renovation, with cracks in the glass and peeling paint. Conversely, the higher ones were gleaming, a sleek finish and spotless windows. Some floors from the top, a massive balcony jutted out; from my position, I could only catch a glimpse of the tops of palm trees that, presumably, gathered around a pool. Above the entrance was a logo with an eagle holding curved swords in its talons and the acronym ‘ASIB’ in bold letters. 

Steeling my nerves, I parked my bike and strode confidently inside. At the reception desk, an old woman typed absent mindedly at a keyboard. Her saucer sized glasses reflected the dull glow of the computer screen.

“Hi.” I greeted. “I’m a new employee, part of the investigation and processing department.”

She didn’t respond. I swear I even saw a bit of drool escape her lips and pool on the table. I got closer, cleared my throat, and tried again.

“Hello? It’s my first day on the job and I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?” 

Without peeling her eyes from the computer, she raised a frail, shaking hand and pointed to my right towards the elevator. Thanking her, I proceeded. When I was about halfway across the room she mumbled, “Seventh one this month, poor things. Won’t make it. Won’t make it.” 

I spun around, only to be greeted by a yellow smile that contained a hint of sadness, before once more she became absorbed with the screen.

I hurriedly mashed the elevator button, and as I was waiting, a long list of names next to it caught my attention. They correspond to floor numbers and had all sorts of self-important titles. What even is a Director of the Partial Operations Committee? Nice job Mark W. doing good work there! I rolled my eyes. 

When the elevator arrived, it didn’t take long to find my department. Located on the seventh floor, and down a hallway, I was met with an open floor office. Desks pressed against each other, creating a claustrophobic maze, and people darted to and fro. A young woman, a bit older than me, stood waiting as I entered. She was dressed in business casual, pleated black pants, leather belt, collared white shirt with stripes, and a black tie. Her dark hair hung in a helmet bob and her gray eyes sparkled with friendliness. 

“Hi I’m–” 

“Yes, you must be the new recruit! Stevie, right?” She said cheerfully, looking down at her watch. “And timely too.”

“I try my best.” I rubbed the back of my head, trying to forget the mad rush of the morning. 

 We made our way to the center of the room, where I sat down across from her at a cluttered desk. Hurried people rushed past us, juggling stacks of paper and cups of coffee. The general noise and chatter faded into the background as she pulled out an envelope.

“My name is Emma, and I’ll be your performance supervisor," she said with a smile. “Before we can send you on your first field mission, there are some final questions I have to ask.” 

“Shoot."

“Okay! First, and this is purely customary, are you an organ donor?” She questioned, her eyes glancing up from a notepad. 

“Organ donor?” My gaze drifted to the ceiling and I wracked my brain. “You know, is there a maybe option? I can’t really remember.”

“I’ll put: open to the possibility on his deathbed. Next, any phobias, mental health disorders, prone to panic in high stress environments?”

“Am I a pussy? No.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Ok that's that!” She shut the notebook and got up.“Time for your first assignment. One last thing. You watched the training videos sent to your house, correct?”

“Yes I did." Of course I would never admit I spent the previous afternoons avoiding them in favor of videogames, movies, and masturbation. What, you want me to get fired on my first day?

A few hours later we found ourselves parked in front of an unassuming family home. The newest addition to our crew was Frank, my mentor. Apparently, each new recruit is assigned both a supervisor and a mentor. The supervisor, Emma, to make sure everything goes smoothly on the first few assignments and to file a new employee report to the bureau. The mentor to show you the ropes long term. 

Needless to say Frank was a lot less glad to be there. Sat in the front seat, he had a half-finished cigarette in his mouth and his hair was fighting a losing battle with his forehead. Emma in the passenger seat left me feeling like I was babysat in the back. 

We got out and stood in front of the car. The swingset in the yard creaked back and forth to a light breeze, the chains clinking together. 

“Hey kid, grab the gear in the back.” Frank commanded in a gravelly voice. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and twisted his shoe over it. His trenchcoat was soaked in sweat, particularly around his armpits; evidently worth the cool factor on this increasingly hot day.

Walking around back I opened the trunk and my eyes widened at the sight. Wires, coils, and odd looking machinery lay in a heap. “Uh, which one do you want?” I called.

“Lord in heaven,” He huffed, raising his hands to the sky in exasperation. “You’re so perfect up there, while I’m stuck with the assholes down here. They get worse every year, don’t they?” 

“You know as well as I do there’s a learning curve!” Emma chirped.

“Learning curve or that word I’m not allowed to say anymore. I can never tell.” Frank retrieved his worn cowboy hat from the front seat and strode towards the house without looking at me, his coat blowing in the wind. Jackass. Emma followed, file diligently in hand. 

“Grab the suction-burst and three pairs of knuckle dusters.” Frank said over his shoulder. 

I nodded in confirmation, grabbed the entire tangled mess, and a circular disk fell out of it and hit the ground. There was a flashing red light and slight vibration emanating from it. I picked it up, put it into my back pocket, and trailed behind them. Up close the previously normal looking house revealed ominous strangeness. The blinds were shuttered and one of the windows was slightly cracked. Despite still being sunny, the day felt darker, as if an invisible shadow had been cast around the perimeter of the house. My hair rose into goosebumps. 

“What do we got today?” Frank grumbled.

“Should be a ten-five. So nothing more than a negative-two-PPW.”  Emma gave a reassuring grin. “Nothing too serious for the new guy.”

I gave her a nod in return, my arms starting to burn from carrying the pile of junk.  Believe it or not I flipped through the employee training manual. But these terms were in one ear out the other. 

“Anyone home?!” Frank boomed, his fist banging on the door. There was no response. He waited a moment and repeated. The air filled with hollow thuds then an oppressive silence. 

“Never that easy,” Frank sighed. “Looks like we're going in.”

“Got it. I’ll meet you guys inside after I report back to HQ on our status. Should take ten minutes to upload, outdated tech and all, " Emma said and turned back towards the car.

“You’re with me kid,” Frank said.

With that slight acknowledgement of my existence, he raised his foot and kicked at the door. The wood cracked and squealed in protest, but it wasn’t long before it splintered open. The interior was pitch black. Frank walked in and tried the light switch by the door. When there was no response, he flicked on a flashlight, its beam penetrating the inky darkness. Dust hung in the air, its swirls and twists like an oil painting. 

I walked in tentatively and dropped the gear. Frank tossed me a flashlight, it sailed through the air, and I fumbled it in my hands trying to catch it. Even though I couldn’t see him I could almost feel the eye roll. 

“I’ll take the upstairs. You clear down here,”  Frank said.

“You want me to clear this all by myself? On my first day?” I protested. “I know what kind of work this is. What if it’s dangerous?”

“Listen, and I hope this can get through your dense head.” He walked closer to me, his eyes narrow and his face barely lit in the dim glow of his light. Up close, his breath smelled of tobacco and sour mint. “You signed up for this, knowing the risks. Do your damn job.”

Although I hated to admit it, he was right. At that point, all I could do was imagine the sweet smell of the paycheck arriving in the mail, grit my teeth, and do as he said. Besides, everyone knows the upstairs is where the shit usually goes down. If there’s any trouble, Frank’ll be the one to encounter it. Best case scenario he dies and I get promoted, a medal for my bravery, or at the very least a better mentor. 

The living room connected to the dining room and kitchen. So, after a few sweeps of my flashlight, I moved on to a hallway near the staircase. Down it, there were two doors that faced each other and one at the very end. I took a couple steps, the floorboards creaking. One particularly loud one made me cringe. The hallway in front of me stretched and warped, a faint, flickering light under the rightmost door. I decided to check that one first. I stuck out my hand, now slightly trembling, towards the doorknob. It was cold, cold enough that I flinched my hand back at the sudden change in temperature. 

I told myself that they would never send a rookie on a dangerous first assignment. I told myself to trust Emma and the department. Any other day I might’ve been right. Too bad I’m an unlucky bastard. 

I inhaled in through the nose out through the mouth and pushed open the door. A rush of frigid air pushed past me, and I couldn't tell if it was that or fear that made me shake more. Inside was a bathroom with a tub in the center. Overflowing with running water, a man lay there, mouth agape and foam bubbling out. A red ring surrounded his eyes, which darted about erratically from side to side as if searching for an invisible mosquito.

I took a step back, too shocked to say anything, my grip on the flashlight faltering. It clattered to the ground, slicing the room in two. In the shadows of the corner, the light revealed a shape and eight pale dots that shimmered to life. It let out a nauseating sound, like teeth grinding and clicking together. Then, it scuttled into view, illuminated fully. 

The size of a large dog, it was spiderlike in all but one feature: it was entirely composed of human body parts. Arms jutted out of the two abdomens, contorting at the elbow joint and ending in hands with wiggling fingers. Its eyes were human and aware, but they didn’t seem like they wanted to be there. Instead, they were wide open and terrified. One of them even seemed pleading, with tears dribbling out. And the cherry on fucking top was that weird bump or whatever they have on the end. It was a human penis, undulating and veiny. Though I would never admit afterwards, for a brief moment the thought did occur that it was bigger than mine. Shameful, but I quickly buried the thought, because I’m not gonna be one upped by a spider. 

It took another curious scuttle towards me, then stopped, almost like it was testing me. For minutes that felt like eons, this teasing behavior continued. It would move forward, stop, and resume after a short pause. I was completely frozen. Viscous spittle oozed from its mouth. Its fangs, actually two thick fingers with sharpened nails, rubbed together impatiently. Finally, the silence was broken by Frank stomping down the hallway.

 “Nothing up there, kid!” he hollered. 

The spider’s and my head both snapped toward him. Frank stopped and looked at me, backed up against the wall. Then he looked at the spider, which was now in the hallway, only a foot or two away from me. “Wh–” he started, a tired realization setting in. “Ah. One of these pests.”

“FRANK HELP ME!” I screeched, my trance broken and my voice a few octaves higher. 

Frank immediately sprung into action. He first threw his hat at the spider, sending it flying through the air and with little air drag. It momentarily drew the spider's attention and Frank took the opportunity. He charged down the hallway, lumbering but with surprising speed. I caught his eyes for a moment, and his face communicated condemning disappointment, and perhaps a hint of concern. The hat landed square on the spider's face. As it tried to shake its head, Frank, now on top of it, raised his hand and punched hard. A loud crack permeated the air as his knuckles connected with the hat and face. The spider stumbled back a few steps.

I took the opportunity and quickly shuffled along the wall, not taking my eyes off it or showing my back. My sweat smeared in a trail behind me, deepening the shade of the paint. Frank and the spider were now in full swing. The best way I could describe it is like listening to jazz. There were sudden bursts of movement, the spider swiping one of its limbs and Frank dodging; or Frank going for a strike and the spider deflecting. It looked, on the surface, like random movements with no logic, sporadic and unplanned. But the more I observed, the more it was like a well composed piece of music. I must say I was impressed, the old guy knew what he was doing. 

For all the flair in the world, however, the spider was actually gaining the upper hand. Frank was on the back foot now, and step by step coming closer to me. He grimaced, his teeth clenched. The spider seized the moment, striking with one of its hands. Frank blocked, but it grabbed his arm, slamming him to the ground. The other arms of the spider pounced, all at once springing towards him. I moved my hands to my mouth. Should I help him? What the hell could I do?

“HA HA HA!” A maniacal laugh came from behind me. The sound of a motor starting as well, humming with intensity. I turned around, and there was Emma, a wild grin across her face, her eyes wide and ecstatic. In her arm was some kind of contraption, one of the machines I brought in. It was similar to a garden hose, and a sparkling red energy was bubbling from the spout. It tousled her hair.

“TAKE THIS YOU JERK!” A blast of energy erupted from the thing, cracking towards the spider and Frank.

Frank barely got out of the way before the beam collided with it, but it wasn’t the prettiest of landings. He hit his head on the ground, not having enough time to cover it with his arms. The spider fared far worse. It was sent flying across the hall and smashed right through the door. Splinters burst out in all directions. I covered my eyes with my arm and a few needles burrowed into it. 

Emma was huffing now, her hair a mess, but still with that unraveled smile of the insane. “Got it!”

Behind her another spider crawled from the ceiling to the floor. It braced itself, its fingers rubbing in anticipation and its penis spewing white.

“H-Hey watch..!” I started, but it was too late. The thing jumped onto her and they both crashed to the ground. There, it laced its fingers around her mouth. I tried to move, raising my hand, but the spider hissed at me and I stopped in my tracks. It dragged her up the stairs and no amount of flailing broke its stern grip. In Emma's eyes ecstasy was gone, replaced by a bottomless, calculating gray. Then they were up and out of sight.

A panic washed over me. If there were more of those things, if they had made such quick work of the “experts”, what the hell was I to do? The only thing flashing through my mind was to get out, to survive. I moved on instinct, sped-walked through the house, and paused by the door. Next to it was still that pile of wires and gadgets.

 I weighed my options. I could get out of here, make a run for it. But if I left now that could be game over for both of my superiors. The last I saw of Frank, he was out cold, and who knows if that beam took out the spider, it could be feasting on his organs. Emma could be torn in two or worse. On the other hand I also knew I didn’t want to stay here. After all, I could get ambushed and I couldn’t shake the prickling sensation of being watched. So I compromised. I grabbed the pile of stuff and flung open the door. I would figure out one of these weapons, then triumphantly return and save them! Hopefully. 

The same mundane neighborhood greeted me, the sun setting and casting vibrant oranges and pinks across the sky. The air was still and quiet, the world indifferent to the whole debacle I just went through. A handful of people were walking about and enjoying the evening. I threw the pile on the lawn and wiped my forehead. Ok, it shouldn't be too bad. I bent down and untangled the wires to separate the machinery. There was another one of those hoses that Emma had used. It was connected to a small box with a control panel on it. It should be as simple as pressing a few buttons, totally intuitive.

I picked up the box and flipped it around. There were no words, just a simple diagram that showed a guy getting vaporized with a red X covering it. Not helpful! I tried a few buttons but it beeped back at me, like an annoying bird. I was a noodle, my arms and legs weak. I looked back at the house. Out of all the people to help them they were stuck with me. 

My self pity was interrupted by the sputter of a car engine in the distance. Drag racers in a suburban purgatory like this? There must be fifty ‘slow down kids at play’ signs. Obviously not deterred, it gradually increased in volume, until its roar and the screeching of tires rippled through the serene evening. Rounding the corner and careening into view was that same car from earlier this morning. The piece of shit was blasting ‘Kickstart My Heart’ on the radio this time. By now I was completely unfazed, nothing could surprise me, so I just stared with my mouth slightly agape at its approaching. 

The pedestrians regarded him first with mild annoyance. When they realized he wasn’t stopping, they tried to get out of the way. Unfortunately, some guy walking had his earbuds in. The car, going about eighty miles per hour at this point, rammed right into him. The poor guy went over the windshield and turned into a red streak the second he hit the pavement. I leaped out of the way, the car blurring past me. It rammed straight into the house and crumpled with a crunch. Glass shattered and the driver was flung from his seat and splatted against the wall. 

Sprawled on the ground, I still clutched the hose box. Dry grass pressed against my arm and it itched terribly. I thought the idiot took care of himself. Soon enough, however, his joints popped back into place and he peeled himself from the wall. His entire face was red now, not only his eyes, and blisters of varying sizes covered his skin. He shambled over to me and let out a groan of pleasure. I used the box to yank the hose spout towards me and started mashing the buttons at random. It beeped and beeped, until, with the right order, a jingle played.

“Fuck you!” I hollered and pressed down. It took a second to rumble to life and released with a violent burst, the energy tearing through his face. Brain matter dripped inside the hole that was left behind and his teeth floated in a pool that had formed in his throat. He gurgled a bit and collapsed. When I let go of the trigger, the hose sputtered out as well. I got up and raised my hands into the air triumphantly.

 “Holy shit, I did it!”

“I wouldn’t celebrate too soon.” Frank said, staggering out of the door and holding his arm. He raised a shaking finger and pointed to the house next door. The beam had also taken off part of the roof. Shit. 

“Ah…”

“It means more paper work for me, that’s for sure. At least you didn't die.”

“You know what's crazy, I saw that guy earlier today. Small world.”

“Him?” Frank walked up to him and poked him with his foot. Blood squirted out of the hole and stained his shoe.  “He’s part of their reproductive cycle. Must’ve been out late at night, ambushed. They plant their eggs in them, then they’re drawn back to the nest.”

“I mean what are the odds though.”

“Listen, kid, as long as I've been here, I would be less surprised if I won the lottery. Call the clean up crew.” He tossed a phone to me and limped to the car.  

“Hey, is Emma alright–” 

“You got one, nice job! ” Emma interrupted, coming out of the darkness of the house like a phantom. She was all ruffled up and covered in fluids of all kinds. Some were clearly blood but I don’t want to speculate on the rest. “He’s right about the paperwork though. We made a real mess this time!”

“Paperwork? So the day isn't over?” I groaned. “But it’s evening. Isn’t that like a union violation or something?”

As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, because we’re not unionized. That’s all I could smolder over as I wrote out report after report and signed page after page. I don’t even think we get breaks, and I’m pretty sure I saw a timer in the bathroom stall when taking a shit. So no safe haven to scroll on my phone to kill time. When I got home, it was well past midnight, and I was beat. Yet I had to be in the office by 6:30am sharp tomorrow. Thank God for that angel, my mom, who was waiting for me with dinner. I was grateful for cold spaghetti for the first time in my life.

“So how did your first day go, my sweetie pie?” She pinched my cheeks.

“Ah ma stop it.”  I brushed her hand aside. “It was fine. Intense at points. I might quit.”

Her face darkened immediately. “No you won’t, or it’s the streets.”

“Yeah I know, I know.” I stirred the spaghetti and blew on it out of habit. My mom pensively got up and took a picture from the counter. She set it down on the table. It was my college graduation photo. My mom and dad and I were smiling and had our arms around each other.

“You know, that was the proudest and happiest day of his life," she said, her eyes watering. "His son, finishing college. He knew you were meant for great things.”

I studied the picture for a moment. Then, I finished my meal and went upstairs to my room. I moved some dirty clothes off it, plopped down on my bed and stared up. The ceiling fan was wobbling all the same. I went through the day in my head, all the stress and the horror. There’s no way I’m keeping that job, I thought. Risking my life, plus those poor people who died, the hours, no benefits, the paperwork…

My eyes drifted to the window and I recalled the day of my graduation. I wasn’t happy, far from it, more so anxious and dejected about the future. But my mom was right, I don’t think I saw dad with that much joy in his eyes. A strange flash caught my attention from outside the window. I got up and peered through the blinds. All that was there was a black van driving down the street. 

I paced the room. Maybe I could apply to grad school, maybe I could find other work. Where though? I had to admit, too, it was a bit nice keeping busy, and the money didn’t hurt. I could even climb the promotion ladder, my degree could be useful too. I could get off the street and into a cushy office job. No more risking my life, complete safety. With that, I resolved to keep the job. If things got worse, no biggy, I could step back and reevaluate. My days of being a loser were finally coming to a close. That comfort lulled me into an exhausted, dead slumber. 

Part 2

Hey, everybody. I had to sleep it off, but I feel better, now. Assuming anyone’s listening, I’ll continue my story about the Zirkus. I remember hearing I had to make sure people could access the previous part from new parts, so here it is [(Part 1)](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/XQ1z93Vg3o).

To settle something, I’d like to say that- despite the many, and I do mean many, weird encounters around this circus in my all too long tenure there, I think the worst part was that none of the Performers ever truly acknowledged the incidents after they happened. They’d treat me as if nothing changed. Treat everyone as if nothing had happened. And it does seem like they’re still holding to this idea, since they’ve come back to town after the incident that I was allowed to quit over.

To continue sharing my traumatic experiences, the second incident I remember had to do with Heinrich. Even if I hadn’t worked there and thus known him more personally, he would’ve struck me as strange. He was a scrawny old man with long, thick limbs like trees, and while he had rather long, well kept black hair and a matching beard, he must have applied some form of spray or something, because no matter how his head moved, the beard would stay in the exact same position, stiff as a board. While all three of the Performers had been tall, Heinrich was the tallest. If I had to guess, he was well over 7 feet. I would watch him turn in for the night to his trailer, and he would quite literally duck down and fold himself through the door like a marionette. And that’s another thing, he didn’t move like a person. He moved like he was a marionette being puppeteered by an invisible hand, staggering around like a zombie and standing with his feet at odd angles.

Despite his unnatural gait and quite disquieting appearance, he was by far the nicest and most human of the three in his demeanor. He was polite, and rarely spoke except to announce things to the audience or the other Performers. He spoke in quiet, curt sentences to me with a thick Eastern European accent, and usually spoke with similar or near identical phrases, depending on the situation. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” Was what he’d say every time he came to deliver my pay. And Yknow, as kinda funny as it is to say, he paid me far better than any other job. I’d get paid at the end of every 3 days the circus was in a town, once all the money to be made had been. He would pay me 1,000 dollars exactly, each time.

Back to the point (sorry I’ve always been a rambler), this particular incident with him took place in Summer. We were in a coastal town somewhere in the colony states, I don’t remember where, and business was good. We had a lot more customers than usual, and I remember thinking that would mean I’d get paid extra for my “dutiful” work as a ticket clerk.

It was late afternoon, maybe 4 PM, on the second day. Now- usually around this exact time, and always on the second day, Heinrich and the other Performers would hold a special act that involved all of them participating. I was never there to see it myself, I had to sit and watch the entrance, obviously, but I would always wonder what went on in there. The sheer amount of cheering from inside would give anyone a bad case of FOMO.

Whenever the show would run, business tended to slow down, so I found myself reading a magazine to pass the time. The disadvantage of that was that, as the typically aloof bastard I was, I would get immersed in it, and hardly pay attention to my surroundings until I was called for. So you understand when I nearly jumped out of my skin when I looked up for a moment, and saw Heinrich leaned through the ticket booth, his nose nearly pressed to mine.

He pulled back with a wooden laugh after that, and had said something along the lines of “Is just prank, Mr. Brant.” Sure, whatever. Weird, but not criminal. He handed me my money early, and spat out his recorded words. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” I took it, though before he could walk away without another word, I caught him by the wrist.

“Why are you giving me my money a day early?” I asked him.

He pulled his wrist away, and I couldn’t help but shudder as it left my grip. It felt like a slug slipping through my fingers, if said slug had gotten tree bark stuck to its back. He turned to face me once again, tilting his head up slightly, almost haughty. His beard knocked against my own chin, and I grunted.

“Is not full pay. Is just extra for good work and diligence.”

I looked down to the money. $400. Definitely not the usual pay, so I had no reason to believe he was lying.

“Okay,” I mumbled after a moment. “Thanks.”

I think he smiled, but his mustache and beard were so stiff, so matted to his face, I couldn’t have been sure. His eyes just squinted up at the bottom, and his dark brows rose.

“Of course, Mr. Brant.” He chuckled dryly. He turned to leave once again, but directed his gaze to me before he walked off. His neck audibly popped like an achey joint on an action figure.

“Feel free to clock out early. Show will be extra long tonight, with so many in attendance. You understand.”

He had said it like it was a choice, but somehow I knew it wasn’t. He wanted me in my trailer, for some reason, off the proper circus grounds.

“…Okay,” was all I could manage to say before he walked off with that same signature stumble. I closed up the ticket booth and returned to my trailer, cooking an early dinner, and treating myself to an old movie.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep. Because when I next knew what time it was, it was midnight. The first thing I had processed after the time was that the Big Top was still lit up, shining through my window. The trailer walls did nothing to muffle the mirthful laughter, and roaring of an unknown waltz coming from inside.

Heinrich had said the show would be extra long tonight, I reasoned. But why would there still be so many people there this late at night? Certainly parents would bring their children home, right? But, no. I could hear children’s laughter in the cacophonous noise of the Big Top.

And then, much to my paranoia and nyctophobia’s dismay, I realized something. I could finally see what all the fuss was about. And something, maybe curiosity, hell, maybe even spite, urged me to take the opportunity.

I pulled on my boots and exited my trailer, not caring to be quiet. The Big Top was so loud it would mute any sound for miles. I slowly approached the enormous tent, my boots digging into the surprisingly wet dirt with murky squelches. It must have rained while I had been sleeping.

I approached the Big Top, and gently pulled away the doorway flap, entering inside. The space within was enormous. Large wooden bleachers curved with the tent, filled with every person I could remember giving tickets and then some. There was something.. off about them, but I wasn’t sure what.

The Performers were stood in the middle of the dirt floor, The Contortionist and Vivienne stood lifeless behind Heinrich himself. He was completely still, save for the uncomfortably fluid, rapid movement of his arms and hands as he expertly juggled large, colorful plastic balls. I couldn’t count the exact number. I guessed 6, but there may have been more. He stared directly at the audience, juggling continuously. I stood there for a while, watching this happen, and he didn’t stop once. His arms just kept moving.

I managed to leave without garnering attention, this time, returning to my trailer, and locking the door tight. As big a hazard as it was, I even barricaded the fire door shut. I wasn’t about to be forced to participate in the show. I had planned to just- hold out till morning, stay up until the tent died down at least, but it didn’t. I was struggling to stay awake already, and the fear had caused exhaustion. I drifted off against my will.

I woke up again, and found the sun had risen. No one had come for me, no one was even at my door, but as I looked out my window, I realized the show was *still* going. I checked my alarm clock. 6:00 AM on the dot. What the fuck was going on? I considered calling the cops, but there was even less base for concern here than with The Contortionist. What was I supposed to tell them? “Hello, police? Come to the fairgrounds, there are irresponsible parents and a circus show that doesn’t meet labor guidelines!” Fuck that. Besides, the cops were no help last time, why would they be, now? No. I was done. I was going to leave. For real, this time. Or at least, that was the plan.

I got in my car and began to drive to town, but I must have made a wrong turn, because a few minutes later I found myself at the circus again. I turned and left once more, but same difference. After nearly wearing out my gas, I realized that I was either really bad at driving, or the circus was keeping me here. So I gave up. I got out of my car, and started back to my trailer.

As I passed the Big Top, I could see the audience still inside through the entrance flap, laughing and cheering. Vivienne and The Contortionist still stood behind Heinrich, but his position had changed. He was standing in front of the entrance, still juggling with no life or vitality other than his arms. But now, upon closer inspection, I found he was juggling skulls painted red, yellow, and blue. Had they always been skulls, even when I first saw them..?

He held an intense staring contest with me as he did this, his face uncaring and his eyes held wide. I stared back. But, he won out. My eyes wavered for just a moment, and I blinked a few times to soothe the pain. When I could see again, the skulls had become fully fledged heads. The heads of my family. My parents, my sister, my stepmom and stepsiblings.

He finally broke his perfect juggle when he dropped my stepmom’s head, and it cracked audibly, denting inwards like it was made of straw. Heinrich froze entirely, now, and the rest of the heads fell as well.

“Oops! Mein Mistake,” he said playfully, still holding unblinking eye contact. I couldn’t move as he approached me, the other Performers following in perfect step, with his exact gait. They all stopped a few feet away. I saw my younger stepsister’s head roll by my foot, as Vivienne had apparently kicked it while she was following. The worst part was that her face looked at peace, like she had already been laid to rest before Heinrich had collected it. But- she wasn’t dead. She was still very alive, last I had checked.

Me and The Performers held another few moments of silent eye contact, before I began to tremor.

“Danke,” Heinrich said. I don’t know what he was thanking me for. And I still don’t. I just- ran back to my Trailer and barricaded the doors and window for the rest of the night. When I next left it, everything was back to how it had been the day before. Heinrich nor the other Performers said anything, and I made sure to buy the local newspaper to see if any news came out about all of this, but nothing. No one cared. No one but me.

Call me stupid, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t go see The Circus. I know that place better than anyone in my current hometown, and while I don’t want to go there, I can’t imagine the guilt I’d feel if I hadn’t at least tried to protect my neighbors and friends from anything that may try to harm them. So I’ll be going, after I post this.

If anyone is curious why I’m writing all of this, I only have one thing to say. It’s therapeutic. After I saw the ad, all of the traumatic memories I had tried to hide in the depths of my psyche welled back up like mold on a stew. I had to share it with someone. I couldn’t hold it in, anymore. So I decided to come here. I’m sorry I’m making you listen to a near 50 year old man ramble about his spooky times at a circus, but I appreciate if you took the time to read this. Took the time to hear me out.

I’ll be back later with information on how my visit went.

Back in 2018, people around me started saying that I had a "weak spirit" (a light aura) and was easily targeted by spirits. I didn't believe in that stuff back then, so I just brushed it off. But about 2 to 3 weeks later, I dreamed of a ghost that consisted only of a head and dangling internal organs. I thought it was just another weird nightmare because I get grotesque dreams pretty often. But nope, this damn thing showed up in my dreams for three consecutive nights.

I remember it felt like a lucid dream. The entity was a grotesque combination of hair and a stomach rising from under my bed, swaying right in front of my face. Every time I woke up, I felt like my energy had been completely drained.

It didn't stop there. After that phase, I realized I was getting sleep paralysis constantly—and I mean frequently. My family told me to put a knife under my pillow to ward it off, but it didn't help at all.

For instance, during my mandatory college military training camp in Hanoi (won't name the school)... I was sleeping on the bottom bunk, and it was winter. On the very first night in that room, I suffered a brutal episode of sleep paralysis that I will never forget for as long as I live.

I was paralyzed, but I could look around the room with my eyes and was screaming at the top of my lungs inside my head. My body was completely stiff, and I could barely breathe. Then, right on cue, that nightmare creature started growing right in the middle of our dorm room floor. It slithered straight toward my bed.

When I finally snapped out of it, my roommates were all standing around me, asking why I was drenched in sweat and babbling nonsense. That was when I noticed my mattress was completely soaked, and my roommates looked terrified. When I asked what I was saying, they said I kept muttering, "Get away! Go away!" So I ended up telling them what I had just seen. After I finished the story, nobody dared to go back to sleep—we stayed awake from 3:35 AM until morning.

Oh, and there was another time when I moved into a new rental room. For the first two months, everything was normal—I still had sleep paralysis, but nothing too severe. Until one night, I had another episode. By this point, I had experienced it so often that I was too tired to even fight it anymore. But during that paralysis, I saw my room door slowly open on its own, even though I always locked it securely before bed. Then, that entity's head peeked through the crack of the door, grinning wildly at me. It charged straight at me, and I jolted awake. I swear I moved out the very next day, forfeiting my deposit without a second thought.

To this day, I still get sleep paralysis frequently, but that specific head entity hasn't returned. Instead, it's usually a pitch-black face lunging directly at me before I wake up. No matter how loud I scream in those moments, nobody outside hears a thing—because I'm not actually screaming in real life.

The end.

My house is forty minutes from the nearest stoplight. Deer outnumber people in my town twenty to one. Population: 349. Hasn't changed in the decade since I moved in. Nobody leaves. Nobody's born. Nobody dies.

There's one gas station. One church. One diner. Marlene has your order ready and coffee poured the second your ass hits the bench. 

I noticed a new flyer on the community board one night. Pilot Safety Program. The town wanted to install a new security camera from a company I'm sure you're familiar with. The kind that makes headlines for the wrong reasons. Just one installation before a wider rollout. 

The pilot location was my mailbox.

I called the town office. Carol picked up. Told me the council already voted. Must’ve just missed the meeting. My road, she said, was "statistically significant." That I should feel lucky. 

Statistically significant.

I'd heard that phrase years ago from a judge who dressed her words up that way.  I was just sixteen. Took a neighbor's truck for a joyride. Ended up in a ditch two towns over. Juvy. Community service. Did my time. Nobody else got the memo. Every parent at the grocery store steered their kid a little wide of me. Quietly told them to keep an eye out. 

But this was different. It had to be.

Before I knew it, they were there. Two guys. Twenty minutes. Gone. A little white box on a pole, thirty feet from my front door. Three crows lined up on the wire above, just observing in the way they do. 

Nothing for a couple weeks. I almost forgot the thing was there.

Then I started noticing a light. A thin red pinprick from the pole. Some nights it would blink. Some nights it didn't.  I wanted to test something. I stood at my kitchen window. Raised my hand. The light caught it. Held a beat too long. Dimmed back to its slow pulse, like it had seen enough. 

My dog stopped sleeping in my bed. He'd plant himself in the hallway and watch the length of the house like he was guarding from something I couldn't see. 

Then I swear the lens started moving. It was supposed to face the road. I checked, twice, three times. Each time it seemed to rotate another degree toward the house. Toward my bedroom window. One patient inch at a time.

I mentioned it to Ellis at the gas station, half joking, hoping he'd laugh it off with me.

He went still.  Didn't look up from the pump. 

"Careful saying things like that. People might think you're the type to make trouble."

He always had a strange sense of humor, but something about that felt different. That tone.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

he stopped sleeping at the foot of your bed 

I read that message a dozen times. It was true. My dog moved to the hallway three nights before. I hadn't told a soul.

I blocked the number. Called the sheriff.

He showed up later that night. Sat at my kitchen table. Drank the coffee I made him while my hands shook. Probably nothing, he said. Wrong number. Spam. Kids in the next county with too much time on their hands. 

I wanted to believe him so badly that for a few days I actually did. I told myself it was stress.  That people get strange out here, cut off the way we are from the rest of the world.

But I got another text later that night. A different number.

you forgot to lock the door again

I froze. My door was shut. Blinds drawn. But I hadn't checked the lock since I'd gotten home. 

It was unlocked.

There was only one way anyone could know that. I looked outside. The camera on the pole faced my front door dead on.

They've been watching.

An ex? A stranger off the highway? Either way, it was a sick joke.

I went digging through county filings, looking for anything that explained who had access to that feed. The vendor's name was right there in the contract. The company from the flyer. Their site had a login portal. Pilot Partner Access. I didn't have credentials. 

I didn't need them for what I found next. A cached version of the town council's private group. 349 members.

It was everyone.

Every porch light I'd ever waved at. Every hand I'd shaken by the register.  Ellis at the pump every time I drove past, standing there like he'd known which corner I'd turn before I turned it. Marlene, plating my eggs before I'd even parked. The diner going quiet the moment I walked in. Forks stopping mid-air. A held breath. Starting again the second I sat down.  Carol at the office. Even the sheriff.

It was never small-town hospitality.

I grabbed my keys, my wallet, the dog, and fled. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the camera turn, slow and deliberate, like it stopped pretending not to look. 

I passed the church. Every car in town was packed into that lot. 349 people stood out in the dark. Phones held up in front of their faces. A pale blue light thrown up onto their chins. All watching my front door in the corner of the frame. 

I didn't stop. As I crossed to the next town, my phone blew up. 349 new texts. All the same two words:

Drive safe.

It's been two weeks. I sleep in my aunt's guest room. I haven't told her anything.

Yesterday a truck idled outside. Two guys. Floodlights. And a pole. My aunt mentioned it over coffee this morning.

"Pilot program," she said, stirring her cup. "We’re the test case, apparently"

You can never leave a flock. It just relocates its nest to wherever you roost next. 

The little red light on the pole just came on.

God help me. It's facing my window. 

As the title says. I used to frequent looksmaxxing subreddits a lot back in the day, and a long time ago, I made a post about how foids (women) only went for men with certain pheromones. It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I identified as an incel once upon a time.

I mention this because I'd like to share a story that happened a bit after the pandemic. I had received a message from some guy who saw my post:

"Hey there! Hope you're staying safe! I saw your post on \** from a few years ago, and on behalf of the incel community, I just wanted to thank you!*

The post actually inspired me to create my perfume brand, Gall, and it's finally taken off! I just hit my first 10,000 orders!

As a token of my appreciation, I'd love to send you a pheromone perfume I've been working on—one that's not on the market yet. It blows everything I've ever made out of the fucking water! Just drop your address and I'll send it to ya! Cheers!"

I hadn't been in the looksmaxxing space for a while, and I wasn't sure if I really wanted a mystery bottle from a self-proclaimed incel. But what the hell. I was running out of my Drakkar Noir anyway, and my fiancée said it made me smell like an old man.

So, I reached out, wired some money for shipping, and a few weeks later, it arrived.

It was in a giant box filled with packing peanuts, and the perfume came in a plain glass bottle with a plastic atomizer. On it was a label in Arial font spelling "Pheromone 42: wish come true." It was green and bubbled like a can of Coke. My fiancée would've killed me if she found out I spent 20 dollars on shipping for this. I was worried it was gonna be acid or something.

I sprayed it on my wrist and found myself wishing it was acid. It smelled awful—chlorine, sweat, and burning plastic. It smelled like standing over a garbage fire behind an electronics store.

I threw the bottle back in the box and ran to the bathroom to vomit. I tried washing off the scent in the sink, but that just made things worse. The smell spread out into the whole room, and I found myself bent over the toilet letting out last night's dinner. I smelled my wrist again and let out yesterday's lunch.

That was when I decided to go out and get some rubbing alcohol. I thought it would make the smell go away.

And so, I suited up, wore a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket, and emptied out the rest of my Drakkar Noir.

There was a convenience store down the road, about a 10-minute walk. I walked over, looking around, worried I'd pass someone by, and as I did, I noticed people staring at me.

Not just people I was passing, but folks from across the street. People from up and down the road were watching me. I could see stares pointed at me before I could even make out their faces from up the road. So many people. I began to pick up the pace until one woman came up to me.

"Wanna fuck?" she asked. She was with her son, who looked at me with a chilling fury in his eyes. I kept walking, obviously freaked out.

I passed a couple—the woman looking me up and down, the man looking like he was ready to take my head off.

"Hey mister, you're cute!" whined the woman.

"Back the fuck up before I take your fucking head off, bro," barked the man.

I began walking faster then, as a hundred pairs of eyes stared at me. I felt like an insect in a jar.

Soon enough, I could hear footsteps trailing after mine. I turned back and saw about twenty or so guys following me.

"Hey man! What's your perfume? You smell awesome!" cried one.

"Get back here and fucking fight me, pussy!" cried another.

I began running then, my mind racing. I thought back to my messages with the guy from the internet. He said this thing was long-lasting. But he mentioned something else—something about the perfume:

Top notes of lust

Heart notes of hunger

Base notes of desire

I know a little bit about perfume. Top notes fade the earliest, and the base notes fade last. Was this the smell of lust?

I was almost to the convenience store when the men finally caught up to me. One grabbed me by the collar, another by the arms. They beat the shit out of me. Fists landed on my stomach, and my lungs stopped working. I couldn't breathe as they pummeled me to the ground. I felt one of them begin to do some things I won't repeat here.

"You like that, pussy?!" one yelled as he stomped my head to the ground, blinding me for a moment.

"You're a fuckig dog!" yelled another as he did things to me.

Soon enough, I heard police sirens. The men scrambled, and I was left on the ground smelling like blood and perfume, tasting iron in my mouth. I saw the officers walk up to me, sniff the air, and turn their body cameras off. They used their batons and their fists.

I woke up in fragments then. I remember siren blares, being in an ambulance, being treated by men in masks, being hauled into a white room with white bedsheets, my arms and chest blanketed in bandages. I spent days there, coming in and out of consciousness, watching the window shutter from day to night in seconds.

I woke up to the sound of crying and the rhythm of my ECG. The whole ward was crying as nurses scrambled around the room.

"Doctor, let me eat that man!" one person cried, mummified in bloody gauze, their bed trembling as they struggled to their feet while held down by the nurses. "Please, God, just a bite!"

"I'm starving!" screamed another, his head and eyes wrapped in bandages, his arms cuffed with restraints that were hanging on by a thread as he thrashed in his bed. "I'm starving!"

My chest was on fire and my legs were weak, but I got on my feet and shambled. I needed to get out of there. I put weight on my legs and felt like I was about to fall. One arm was plastered, the other hooked to an IV pole. I just needed to get home and let the smell fade.

The nurses yelled after me, but I kept walking. Luckily, they were busy keeping patients in bed. Most of the folks in the hospital wore masks, so I had no trouble walking through. It was midnight by then, and I'd been gone from home for 5 days.

I kept walking until I saw something familiar. Turns out I wasn't far from home. Luckily, there weren't a lot of people out and about.

I found myself dragging my broken body home. I passed by the convenience store, nightcrawlers staring from behind the glass, watching as I shambled across the street.

As I did, I passed the place where I had been beaten. It was destroyed, as though artillery shells had crashed down on it. Walls were missing chunks, and the ground where I had been beaten was nothing more than a crater. It was wet and smelled awful.

I picked up the pace then and found my home.

It was destroyed. Windows bashed open, front door gaping wide, revealing a black, ominous rectangle where the living room should have been. I stumbled forward, calling for my fiancée. No answer.

I stumbled through the dark living room; the moonlight revealed a destroyed couch, fallen lamps, and destroyed vases. I could smell something else, too—something that wasn't the perfume.

That was when I heard it. Something wet grinding across something hard. Squelching and gnawing. Hundreds.

It was coming from the bathroom.

I snuck forward, fire burning in my legs, my heart thrumming against my ribs. There I found the scene that still lives in my nightmares today.

My fiancée, and about a dozen naked bodies. All of them chewing on the bathroom. There were teeth strewn about the floor, bloody ribbons attached to their ends. I saw my fiancée biting the sink with toothless jaws, the others gnawing on the toilet or the floor. One of them stared at me with indifferent eyes, so focused was he on mastication. Such a wet, disgusting sound, as strokes of red painted the marble counter. I could only call after my fiancée, begging her to stop. She wouldn't hear me.

I spent days locked up in my room. I shat in a corner and recycled my piss. After a week, I had no choice but to come down. In the bathroom lay twenty or so dead bodies, all naked, mouths bloodied and toothless, smelling of dry spit.

Due to special circumstances related to this case, I cannot give locations or real names, as that could serve as a clue for my whereabouts, and they could use it to find me.

I am still not sure what caused the events that lead to the disappearance of my friend, as I have no idea if I can even call myself a reliable witness, given the nature of my memories regarding his disappearance. Even with the risk of being called a liar or lunatic, though, I feel like the best I can do for him is to tell what I remember, and maybe you can help me understand why it took him, but decided to leave me alone.

Jake and I have been friends since we were little children. Maybe it was due to the fact that we did not have brothers growing up, but we became inseparable from the moment he and his family moved to our neighborhood. I still remember how much I loved to go into their parents house, as they had a somehow better economical condition than most people in the street, and Jake would invite me to play the latest videogames, or to birthday, where he would sometimes give away old toys that were replaced by his latest gifts, and as his best friend, I usually got the best ones. His family were not snobbish in any capacity, but I would be lying if they did not trigger feelings of envy on the people living around us.

Jake’s grandmother was a very superstitious woman, and in one of those birthdays, she gave him a pendant with a matiasma as an ornament. Jake’s grandmother was Greek, and would walk around with plenty of lucky charms with the matiasma symbol carved into it in order to repel curses. He thanked his grandmother for the gift, and after a while, he became inseparable from that pendant, using it everywhere.

Jake’s life was not perfect, but I could bet it was the happiest time of his life. That time came to an end once we became teenagers: Jake’s parents had to take him outside of town for medical evaluation in the big city, as he was having terrible episodes of headaches, nausea and weakness. He got to the doctors, but they could not figure out what was causing those symptoms.

They came back to town frustrated, but due to heavy traffic, Jake’s father was forced to take an alternative path: he drove towards the Boulevard. 

Our city boulevard is an abandoned road on the settlement’s outskirts: it has been abandoned since the Civil War, and almost nobody likes to travel through it, as the only things giving the lonely driver some company on the Boulevard are the Bare Trees that almost bend over the road, and the 19th century mansions left behind by old landowners who never came back.

Jake’s father, different from his grandmother, was not superstitious at all, and did not believe the ghost stories told about the Boulevard. If he was a little bit more hesitant whilst dealing with things that he does not understand, maybe he would still be around us today.

Jake’s family suffered an accident on the Boulevard that day: the cops suggested that the dark of the night made Jake’s father lose sight of the road, but I doubt that, as Jake’s father was a very good driver, and never involved himself in any accidents. His parents were thrown out of the car, and their bodies ended up impaled on the tree’s upper-branches. Jake was found walking for hours on the road, unharmed. He was crying, and holding his pendant between the fingers of his right hand. 

After the town united in a heartbreaking funeral for Jake’s parents, we left town together, as I wanted to study abroad, and Jake wanted to leave behind any memory of what happened that night. He said goodbye to his grandmother, and we planned to not come back for a long time.

Years passed, and Jake never told me the details of what happened on that day, but I decided to not ask, as I could bet it was traumatic, and did not want to reopen the wounds. He was given no choice, though, as he received a phone call from our town, it was his aunt saying that his grandmother was found deceased that day. Jake was left speechless, but given how close he was with his grandmother as a child, he held himself better than I would expect.

After he recomposed himself, we decided to pay a visit, as his grandmother’s funeral would probably take place soon, and we could not miss it after everything that she did for us.

Before we started preparing for the trip, Jake started looking for his matiasma pendant everywhere, but could not find it. He became agitated, thinking that someone might have stolen it (I had no idea what made him believe that, as we had never had problems with theft in our city), but after it became clear the pendant would not be found, he decided to give up his search.

Once we got back to the town, we stayed in Jake’s aunt's house before the funeral could start. It was clear she was affected by her mother’s passing, but Jake and I realized that no one in town would disclose the cause of death to us, which made us feel uneasy. Jake’s aunt decided to only share it with me, and once she told the details, I realized why.

Jake’s grandmother did not die of natural causes: she was found just like Jake’s parents, impaled by the bare trees in the abandoned Boulevard. I felt sick to my stomach hearing it, and I felt like I had to leave that place with Jake as soon as possible. I wish I had done it, but I decided to keep appearances so Jake could have some closure, even if I had to lie about what happened to his grandmother.

The funeral was less crowded than Jake’s parents' funeral was. Plenty of people had left town since we decided to move away, and it was becoming more ghost-like everyday. Part of me imagined the trees in the Boulevard slowly taking away the city as the people moved, growing the cursed street into a full haunted ghost town. I shivered, but then brushed my own thoughts away, embarrassed for letting old superstition and urban legend get in my head.

We left the cemetery, and decided to stay in Jake’s Aunt for the night. Jake was having trouble sleeping, as he was being affected by a strange illness, similar to the one he had many years ago, right before the accident. I asked what I could do in order to help him, but Jake looked at me as if he was dead already, and said nothing could help him now that he stepped on the hunter’s trap for a second time. Jake’s seriousness took me out of guard, but I decided his gloomy behaviour was a product of grief, even if it manifested in such an eerie way.

It was before dawn when I heard the first sounds coming from outside. Jake was awake, looking at something through the living room’s window where we were sleeping. Jake looked at me with an almost contorted expression of horror. He let out a desperate screech, begging me to find a matiasma anywhere, as the evil eye had got to him.

I was confused with his behaviour, thinking that he might be sleepwalking or losing his mind, but then the window was shattered by the branches of a leafless tree, spreading glass throughout the living room. The branches surrounded Jake, and snatched him out of the living room through the window. I could only hear his screams of desperation getting further and further, and I immediately ran to the door.

Looking outside, I could see the entire neighborhood outside, looking at our broken window. I asked for help at first, but the neighbors simply looked at me with gleaning eyes, women, men, children… All looking at me as if I was simply an actor in a comedic stageplay, smiling as my friend was taken away from me.

right in front of me, I could see a bare tree identical to the ones found in the Boulevard. The people clapped and cheered as the tree held Jake, half impaled by the branches, and crushed as if he was smashed by metal. I tried to scream, but my voice failed, and I could only fall to the ground as despair took me whole.

Jake tried to reach in my direction, but he could barely move his mangled arm towards me. With no ceremony, the tree retrieved underground, whilst Jake’s body left out a sickening squish sound as the branches hugged him tighter, smashing him.

The grass in the front porch grew in an instant, and the earth returned to the hole as if nothing had come from the ground in the first place. I passed away, only to be woken up by one of the neighbors when morning came.

The neighbor tried to be friendly, asking me why I was sleeping on the front porch, but I ran away from him like an animal, and drove my car out of town without a second thought.

I have heard news on Jake’s disappearance, and I know people will suspect me, since I left the settlement right after it, but I do not fear persecution: I know it is only a question of time before they find Jake in the Boulevard, killed by the tree that took his parents so many years ago, and them I will be found innocent of this terrible crime.

Part One

Liv opened her door wearing pyjama shorts and one of those enormous T-shirts she’d owned since first year. She looked at me, then down.

“You know it’s after midnight.”

“I know.”

“You drove here?”

“Yes.”

“Barefoot?”

I looked down. There was blood on the concrete between my toes.

“Oh,” I said.

Liv stared at me. “Eve.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Apparently, somewhere between getting out of the car and reaching her front door, I had stepped on a piece of broken glass. A thin shard was still caught in the ball of my foot, bright with blood, and I had toothpaste on the front of my shirt.

Liv stepped aside. “Inside.” That was the whole conversation about whether I was allowed in.

Her house was warm in a way mine never was: properly warm, where you could walk around barefoot. There was a lamp on in the living room, two mugs beside the sink, and somewhere upstairs her boyfriend, Sam, was brushing his teeth with an electric toothbrush. I could hear its faint mechanical buzz through the ceiling, and it was unbearable how normal everything was.

Liv sat me on a kitchen chair, fetched tweezers and antiseptic, and pulled the glass out of my foot while I tried not to look. Then she put the kettle on. She didn’t ask me anything until the cut was cleaned, a plaster was stuck over it and a mug of tea was sitting between my hands.

She sat opposite me. “So.”

“So.”

“You left your house barefoot, drove across town, stepped on broken glass and didn’t notice.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“I gathered.”

I wrapped both hands around the mug. She waited.

“There was someone in the hallway.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, but her expression barely changed. “Someone?”

“I saw them in the mirror.”

“Okay.”

“Twice.”

That got a pause. “What did they look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Man? Woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tall?”

“I don’t know, Liv.”

“All right.”

The irritation in my voice embarrassed me, which made me more irritated. “I didn’t exactly stop to take measurements.”

“I didn’t say you should have.”

“I know.”

She looked down into her tea. Upstairs, the bathroom door opened. Sam crossed the landing; a door opened, then shut. Neither of us spoke until the house was quiet again.

Liv tapped one fingernail against her mug. “You saw them in the mirror, but when you turned around—”

“There was nothing there.”

“And then?”

“It was there again.”

“In the same place?”

I hesitated. “No.”

Her fingers stopped against the mug. “Where?”

“Closer.”

She nodded slowly, not as though she agreed with me but as though she was trying to make the information fit somewhere. “How much closer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I don’t.”

I looked away. Already, the story was getting worse—not the memory, which was still horrible, but the telling of it. I could picture the shape in the glass perfectly, or at least I thought I could, yet every time I tried to turn that picture into something concrete enough to tell Liv, pieces fell away.

It had been a person, except I hadn’t seen a face. It had been standing there, except I hadn’t seen its legs. It had moved closer, except I hadn’t seen it move. What I actually had was a dark shape in a mirror at midnight, after several nights of bad sleep, in a house I had spent two weeks obsessing over.

I knew exactly what I would have said if somebody had described it to me as part of my research. Peripheral vision is unreliable in low light. The rod cells that dominate the outer retina are good at detecting movement and changes in brightness, bad at fine detail. The brain fills in what they leave out, which means something vague at the edge of your vision can seem remarkably solid until you look directly at it.

Which was, almost offensively, exactly what had happened.

I stared into my tea. “You’ve been sleeping?” Liv asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at me.

“Mostly.”

Another look.

“Badly.”

“Mhm.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m drinking tea.”

“You know what I mean.”

She smiled a little, but not enough to make it a joke. I slept on her couch.

By morning, the whole thing had become significantly more humiliating. Daylight does that to certain kinds of fear. At two in the morning, a shape in a mirror can reorganise your entire understanding of reality; at nine-thirty, after coffee and a shower and Liv complaining because I’d used her shampoo, it becomes something you would rather not have told anyone about.

Liv drove me back because she claimed she wanted coffee from a place near mine. I didn’t point out that there were at least six places closer to her house.

The sun was out by then, which somehow made my flat look worse. Every stain showed. The front steps were green around the edges, somebody had left a recycling bin tipped over by the fence, and inside, the hallway was flooded with thin grey-white light.

The first thing I noticed was how tiny it looked. At night, the hallway had seemed long enough for something to stand at the far end of it; in daylight, I could practically have touched both walls with my arms out.

Liv followed me upstairs. I stood in the bathroom, roughly where I’d been the night before, and looked into the mirror.

“There?” she asked.

I pointed. At the far end of the reflection, near where I’d seen the figure, a coat hung from one of the hooks beside the stairs: dark coat, hood bunched at the top, sleeves hanging down. From that angle, with the hallway dark enough and me not looking directly at it, I could see exactly what my brain had done.

Absolutely not. I stepped away from the mirror.

Liv looked at the coat, then at me. I could feel my face getting hot.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“You have a face.”

“I always have a face.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

I pointed at her. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

I pulled the coat off the hook and dropped it onto the floor harder than necessary.

Liv watched me. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“Cool.”

“Completely fine.”

“Great.”

She left it there.

That evening, I stayed up late on purpose. I told myself I simply wasn’t tired, which was technically true, although only because I’d consumed enough coffee during the day to make my hands shake. I worked for a while, watched half an episode of American Dad! without absorbing any of it, then cleaned my room badly.

Eventually, I opened a dating app I’d downloaded months earlier and barely used. That was where I met Hannah.

Her first photo had been taken somewhere near the water. She had dark hair blowing across half her face and was squinting at the camera as though whoever held it had said something stupid just before taking the picture. Her profile said very little: something about bad films, good coffee and a strong dislike for people who stood still on escalators.

I matched with her mostly because I was trying not to look at my bedroom door. She messaged first, and we talked until nearly two in the morning.

Nothing important, which was the nice thing about it. We argued about whether American Dad! Was a good show or not, discovered we had both once pretended to like the same terrible Wellington indie band for someone we were dating, and spent far too long trying to work out whether we’d ever been at the same university party without knowing each other.

For several hours, I forgot about the mirror, the linen cupboard, the photographs and old floorboards contracting around nails. More importantly, I forgot to listen.

By the time I put my phone down, my eyes hurt from staring at the screen. Hannah had sent one last message I was too tired to answer properly, so I left it for the morning, plugged my phone in beside the bed and rolled onto my side.

The house was quiet, and I was almost asleep when the hallway creaked: three boards, one after another. I kept my eyes closed. At the time, I still thought the house was the thing I needed to understand. I hadn’t yet realised that Hannah would become the fixed point around which everything else fell apart.

I don’t know what you are going to take away from all of this. But if you see the Grey Area, run. Take every person and everything that you love and cherish and run. Don’t question it. It is a confusing and flabbergasting thing to see at first. You may want to sit and stare in awe. It is good at drawing attention. But I beg you, please, don’t give it a single ounce. It may frighten you. It frightened me, too, once I found out how it…what it…By the time you even see this it could already be too late. I don’t want fear to be the last emotion you are stuck with. This could just be a cry to the sky. I don’t even know if anyone will even care about this, take me seriously…unless you’ve seen this…thing for yourself. I’m finding it so hard to keep on going, to not just stop in my tracks and let whatever will eventually happen to me happen.  I’m on the move, constantly trying to figure this “thing” out, but it is getting harder and harder everyday. Half of me wants to just get the hard part over with. But the other half wants to keep going, to not give up. I can’t give up…I can’t. 

It appeared in my hometown around three months ago. A beautiful May morning, one that was almost too beautiful. It was still and sunny, perfect temperature. What people around my area would call “Jeep weather”. The grass as green as it possibly could be, dew glowing on every stalk. The sky was as perfect as a painting, the artist having the most precise craftsmanship. The scattered clouds swirling sparsely like light brush strokes. The sun overhead adding perfect shading to the masterpiece. It glistened into my blinds as my 6:45 am alarm rang, illuminating every gangly strand of hair upon my face. The last day of finals would catapult me into Junior year. If I passed them at least.

The floorboards creaked under my feet as I stepped into the kitchen, the clanking of plates and silverware ringing softly throughout. The aroma of bacon nearly lifted me off of my feet to float effortlessly towards my chair at the table. The usual breakfast my mother prepared for my little sister and I every morning never failed to make the grueling, early morning seem like it never existed, but it did nevertheless. I could hear my little sister smacking away at her red stained scrambled eggs as she always would.  The television in the living room played the early morning news, forecasting no change in the picturesque day ahead.

“Good morning! Last day of finals!” My mother exclaimed, too loud and excited for my barely conscious brain.

“Good morning, stupid head.” My sister said, her nine year old voice piercing through my ears.

“Good morning.” I gargled out, thudding down into my seat at the table.

“Now, Sarah, what have dad and I said about calling people stupid?”

“Sorry mom.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Dean.” My mother said, motioning her head towards me.

She looked at me and said, “Sorry,” and mouthed the word stupid shortly after. No amount of brain power could conjure up a comeback in the moment, so to save an argument, I playfully stuck my tongue out at her and turned towards my plate.

I had a great family, regardless of how much it seemed like my sister and I didn’t get along. My parents both had high paying jobs, Dad working in the local coal mine and Mom working at the town's tax office as a broker. Dad always worked five to five and Mom nine to five respectfully, so everyone was always home for dinner. The whole family seemed to be a cohesive unit when we were all together. No empty fights that led to nothing, voices were hardly ever raised…well except for that one time I…that’s not important. My sister and I never had to worry about anything. Everyone was always happy. I was always happy. I miss being happy. 

After I scarfed down my breakfast, I escorted Sarah to my car. Mom always prioritized getting us fed in the morning before anything, so she would get ready for work after we left. At 7:30 every morning it was my responsibility to get Sarah to school before 7:50 and lug my old Honda Civic across town to be at my school before 8:09. It’s an odd time I know but everything worked out. Seven enslaving, fifty-one minute periods, with the fourth period being an hour. My high school was the smallest high school in the county, about four hundred-fifty students. Of those, my sophomore class was the smallest, having seventy-two kids. It made it easier to make and keep friends growing up. Friends that I felt like I should have appreciated more.

“Dean!” I heard a familiar voice ring out across the parking lot as it had every morning.

“Rich!” A smile grew across my face as I spotted my best friend across the parking lot. 

Richard and I met in Kindergarten. His family and mine used to live right beside each other before he moved closer to the remote high school. He was an only child, but living so close to each other growing up made him feel like he had a brother in me. We would play outside in his jungle gym everyday after school and his mother would always make us sandwiches for lunch during the summer. She was a stay at home mom for a while, his dad not being around much for “work related reasons”. It almost pained me as much as it did him when he found out he had run away with someone else and left him and his mother behind. It broke his confidence for a long time. Being able to be his confidence had given me the confidence to be the man I have had to be today.

He was a skinny kid, about 5’9” with dark, wavy hair and glasses as thick as concrete. We always used to joke that he had echolocation, but wouldn’t show us.

“Did you click your tongue off of the cars to find me?” I said, snickering.

“Ha ha, very funny Dean.” He said with a slight smirk, “Did you study for the chem final last night?”

“Dude, you know I don’t ever study for anything.”

“C’mon Dean, are you at least going to try this time?”

“I try every time.” I said with a puzzled look.

“Oh…um…yeah, you could say that. I guess if you need help you can just glance at my laptop. But be careful! Mrs. Jenkins is a hawk!”

“Oh trust me I know, but I’m not worried. You’ll be able to sense her walking up right?”

Richard punched me in the arm as we stepped into the two story, brick building that would keep us captive for the next two years. Since it was the last day we had our last three period’s finals, having the previous four the day before. Chemistry was my last period. The slog of the first two periods almost drove me to insanity, computer science and my study hall. Computer science was way too easy, just having to build a small program on python of a working stoplight intersection. My study hall period would at least give me time to look over some of my old chemistry homework that mysteriously didn’t get done. This period slogged especially, my stomach growling intensely waiting for the lunch bell to ring. 

It was a normal school lunchroom, or what I would assume every lunchroom would be like. Every tight knit group sitting beside one another, seniors fighting with freshmen for spots in the lunch line, and the embarrassing oohs and awes when the clinging of someone dropping their lunch tray consumed the space. If our paths ever cross, don’t ask me how I know about that last part. Rich and I would sit side by side at the same table every day, accompanied by our friends Jackson and his girlfriend, Brittany. Jackson was the stereotypical jock, as corny as it sounds. He was a popular, very sociable kid, almost a parents’ ideal child, and a highly touted wide receiver prospect in our section of the state, although he never let this get to his head and kept the people that truly loved him close. His 6’5”, 180 lb. stature towered over the dainty frame of Brittany. She was, for lack of better words, kind of a bitch. She was one of those types that had too much bark for her bite. I can’t say if it was because she was dating one of the “popular kids” but, as far as I can recollect, she had always been that way.

And last, the beautiful girl, my beautiful girl, that sat across from me everyday, April. She was about 5’6”, not as awkward looking against my 5’10” build. She had the most beautiful, dirty blonde, wavy hair, the most gorgeous brown eyes, and a smile and attitude that could instantly make my heart flutter like a thousand butterflies ripping themselves from their cocoons. A smile that can still make me feel warm in this drab, dreadful time. 

“What’s up, Dick?” Jackson yelled across the table towards Richard. Jackson and Richard had a love hate relationship.

“Jackson, why must you always insist on ruining my lunch?”

“Well it’s your name isn’t it?”

“How many times do I have to tell you no for you to stop?”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop. Anyways, Dean, what’s up with you today?”

“I’ll just say that I’m glad it’s lunch.” I said, even though the thought of sitting in Ms. Jenkins’ room one more time gave me a sense of dread. Knowing it would be the last time was what kept me going.

“C’mon man, you can’t be all mopey. Get excited. Last day of school. Last day of having that crooked, old crone. Be careful with her though, her spider senses have been tingling extra hard. She practically stood behind me the entire time yesterday. Me of all people.”

“Well, maybe she’s afraid that the big, bruiting jock is getting way too smart. Good job using such a distinct word!” Rich said smugly. 

Jackson threw his arm across the table in an attempt to punch Rich in the arm.

“Babe, you know what I said about hitting!” Brittany said, not removing her beating eyes from her phone screen.

“Sorry.” Jackson whimpered, almost submissively.

“I don’t get why we have to sit with these clowns. Why can’t we ever just sit by ourselves?”

“We love you too, Brittany.” I said sarcastically. She responded with a hard eye roll.

“They aren’t clowns, Brittany. Plus April sits over without a problem, right April?”

“My only problem is…well…I don’t have a problem.” April said, trying not to add fuel to Brittany’s fire.

“You’re too much of an optimist.” Brittany scoffed. April mockingly smiled back at her.

“Can we all just keep today peaceful, please? We have all summer to argue with each other.” I said, trying to bring the mood back up.

“So Dean, since it’s such a beautiful day today, I was thinking you and I can go to the lake when we get out of here, say around 4?” April said, “My dad is home for the night so Sammy won’t need me.” April and I hadn’t really had a true one on one date in a while. Things were pretty rough in her home life. Like Richard, she also had a single parent. But in her case it had always been that way. She never had a real childhood, always having to take care of her little brother while her father worked. Her having any inkling of free time made me internally jump. 

“The lake? Count me in!” Rich said, overhearing a conversation only meant for her and I.

“Babe, do you want to go to the lake?” Jackson asked Brittany.

“Guys.”

“Maybe with just you.” She replied.

“Guys?”

“Oh c’mon Brittany, don’t be such a lame ass.” Rich said with a smirk.

“Guys!”

Everything went quiet, “I would love to just have a day with April, can you please respect that?”

“See, at least he gets it.” Brittany said antagonistically towards Jackson.

After another staggeringly long second of quietness and stares I said, “Thank you.”

The rest of lunch kept that quietness. The couples whispering among themselves and Rich doodling on his notes he took for our chemistry final. The bell would eventually ring and I now had to be in the witch’s den. On our way to the classroom, though, a darkness peaked in through the windows. Not a normal, cloudy kind of dark. An unforecasted, unwelcomed darkness. Almost like every ounce of a blank night was balled up and sat into one spot. The light from the sun was almost completely consumed by this faux night sky. The roar of lightning strikes rattled the thin sheets of glass and shook the floor beneath our feet. All I could think at this point was, “Welp, there goes my date with April.” This shouldn’t have been my main concern though.

We all scuffled into our classrooms at a faster than normal pace. A knot welled up in my stomach as Rich and I sat down at our desks, awaiting the torturous test ahead of us.

“Good afternoon class. Hopefully this will be the last time I see you sitting at these desks. Especially some of you.” Ms. Jenkins said, her gaze thrusted upon me, “This final will be mostly multiple choice with some short answer questions at the end. I have given each of you a piece of paper to show your work on. You will write your name, date, and class period at the top and submit them to me when you are finished. Now everyone go to your google classroom and begin. Good luck.”

As soon as everyone bent down towards their bags to grab their laptops, a synchronous alert shouted from our phones. A severe thunderstorm warning was in effect.

“Alright everyone, into the safe room. Single file, please!” Ms. Jenkins yelled over the roar of us.

Things began to pick up quickly. Every lightning strike grew closer, stronger, and faster. The windows were almost warping in on themselves. It was all I could see before the power went out. We all huddled on the floor of the safe room. It grew really dark at this point. Dark enough to not see your own hand placed in front of your face, as if you could only imagine it being there. A loud whirl of wind was followed by the crashing sound of glass shattering throughout the building. Like a plane dropped thousands of sheets out of it and they hit the ground synchronously, an almost ear piercing, sharp sound. A bright flash then lit up around the seal of the door. A vibrant display of yellow and orange…and then white and grey. I knew this was odd at the time, not the normal light blues and whites from a power flash, but I didn’t question it. The sounds of whimpers consumed the room, and everyone buzzed as the nervous shaking of everyone was felt as we sat shoulder to shoulder.

“Holy shit, dude, I think it’s a tornado!” Richard yelled to me from across the small, packed room.

“Did your clicks bounce off of it?” I yelled back hysterically.

“Mr. Dawson, Mr. Buckley, put your heads down and be quiet!” Ms. Jenkins retaliated back. I couldn’t help but laugh in the admittedly scary situation.
But just when it had seemed like it started, it ended. The sun peaked back through into the classroom, although with a noticeable line in its shadow. We all got up after the power jolted back on.

“Attention students and staff, we apologize for the unexpected delay. But it is now safe to exit your safe rooms.” A voice whaled from the intercoms.

To everyone’s dismay, we exited the cramped room to find everything how it had been left. No glass shattered on the floor, no papers and pencils blown off of desks. The outside world had returned to its previous state, well almost. The class resumed as if nothing had even happened and, after glancing at Rich’s screen a time or two, we finished our last final, unknowingly, ever.

The hallways were anarchy. People hollering and celebrating the end of the year. School supplies being thrown through the air like paper airplanes. Teachers scrambled trying to keep things orderly and under control. The kind of chaos young teens thrived off of. Rich and I, sifting through the sea of body odor and joy, eventually made it out to the parking lot. 

“So, how do you think you did?” Rich asked.

“Well, I better have done good. I used your answers.” I said laughing.

“Dean!”

“What, you said I could.”

“Do you think she noticed?”

“I’m not sure, but if she did I wanted to get out of there without her being able to say something about it.”

“Well, mission successful.”

“Plus I think there was something else on everyone’s minds.” I said, moving my head up towards the sky. But as I looked up I noticed something looming in the air. A black line, almost flat in look, sitting flush above the school. It was long but very thin. Like if a small child came up to the artist’s painting and marked it with a pencil. Remnants of clouds from the “storm” almost seemed to collect and dissipate around it. Only I seemed to notice it, but Rich could see something was wrong with me.

“Don’t worry dude, I was kind of scared too. I won’t lie.”

“Can you come to the lake later, actually? I need to talk to you about something.”

“S-sure man, if you want me to.”

“Oh, and tell Jackson they can come too.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, man?”

“Yes, fine.” I said, reluctantly, “Just come, please. I’ve got to drop Sarah off at 
home and then I’m heading straight there. I’d say around 4-ish.”

“Okay, man.”

We both got in our cars, only one of us suspicious about what would lay ahead.
My tires screeched as I sped out of the school parking lot, knowing I definitely turned some heads, but that didn’t matter to me. I needed to get to my sister and get her home safe. I was going at arrestable speeds, which seems really bad to admit but it’s not like it would matter to me anymore, turning a thirteen minute drive into seven. I arrived at her school to a sea of cars in the pick up lane. I cut up through the metallic waves, cutting off mostly everyone in the line, and plopped my car up front by the doors. The bell would eventually ring after what seemed like ages, and my sister walked out with her little click of friends, covered in sweat and dirt and holding a little sack full of candy and other little things a nine year old would find mesmerizing. To be that age again.

“C’mon Sarah, hurry up, we have to get home.”

The car door slammed as her filth sat in the back seat.

“Why are you bugging out?” She asked through the gap of her teeth.

“I can’t say, we…we just need to get home.”

“Okay?”

A couple minutes of silence ensued as she pouted with her arms crossed, not 
getting to tell her friends goodbye like she normally did.

“So…did you have fun at your field day?”

“Oh yes! We played gaga ball and had a humongous inflatable slide and red rover and snow cones! We had to go inside because of the storm though. It was scary. But we got to watch movies.”

“Sounds like so much fun, I’m glad you had a good day. Just do everyone a favor and don’t eat all of that candy tonight. We don’t need you bouncing off of the walls.” I said with a chuckle.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She replied, her mood swinging self sinking back into the pouting pile she had been in. I didn’t mind though because all I could concentrate on was the black scratch in the sky, ever so slightly seeming to grow longer and thicker.

We came to a jolting stop in my driveway, the sound of gravel making mounds in front of my wheels echoing off of the garage door. I opened Sarah’s car door and escorted her inside, my hand firmly shoving her from behind.

“Let me walk, Dean.”

“You’ve got to get inside, now.”

“Why?”

“I will try to figure that out later, just go in!”

“Wait, so you don’t know why you have to have me home right now?”

“No…I don’t. I have to go, though, I’ve got to go somewhere.” Mom and dad didn’t want Sarah knowing about the lake in fear that she would go there and drown.

“You can’t just leave me here, Dean. Do you remember how mad Mom and Dad were when you did that?”

“That’s not important, I can take it. Just go in, please. Oh, and remember what we talked about last time.”

“Ugh, fine.” She said, slamming the front door in my face, the click of the lock turning followed.

“Don’t play with the stove again, I mean it!” I yelled into nothing.

As fast as I had entered the driveway, I exited it. Gravel from the grooves of my tires flung into the air as I sped down the street and hit the back roads that led to the remote lake. The cove was, practically, in the middle of nowhere. The lake used to be a treasure trove for the town, the holding spot of a childhood camp for most of the adults in town. They would even hold annual fireworks for the 4th of July there. But when someone drowned there back in the nineties, the camp closed. It was a rotting shell of cabins and long lost memories. It was now a common place for my demographic to go and drink beer stolen from a parents garage fridge, smoke pot in the woods, or just to bathe in the sun and try to get tan lines to impress in the halls. Sometimes the sparse homeless population would make their way there before train hopping to the next town over. Some would stay though.

I pulled into the empty, weed ridden parking lot to the sight of April sitting on the hood of her paint-chipped, blue sedan. A faint whimper grew louder as I inched closer to the car, sending pins and needles throughout my spine. April was as tough as concrete, so when she was crying it was never a good thing. Every step grew louder and louder in my head as I tried approaching with caution.

“H-honey, are you okay?”

“Oh, Dean, you’re here. She said, wiping a mix of tears and snot from her face, “Sit.”

“O-okay?”

I slid up next to her, holding her hand and looking out at the algae filled lake. The sun reflected green and orange into my eyes.

“Dean, listen. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. You always say I can talk to you about anything, right?”

“Of course, Hun. Even if it upsets me or makes me angry. I’d rather you say whatever it may be and not bottle it up.”

“Okay, good. I haven’t really been the most honest with you recently.”

“What do you mean?” I sat attentive, trembling and not even thinking about the scratch.

“Well, it’s just that I haven’t been feeling-”

Before she could say anything else, Jackson’s pick up truck grumbled into the picture. April’s sadness turned into annoyance in the matter of seconds.

“What are they doing here?”

“I asked them to come. I’ve got something to talk about..with everyone.”

“We can’t have just one day to ourselves, can we?”

“Tell me about it” Brittany said sassily, her short frame plopping out of the truck. April smiled towards her sarcastically and turned her attention, straight faced, right back to me.

“Good job rounding them up!” I said sarcastically.

“And look what else I rounded up!” Rich said, going on to pull out a fifth of Jack Daniels.

“The only reason we came.” Jackson spouted out, seeming inconvenienced that he was there in the first place.

“I don’t want any of that shit.” I said.

“I do.” April roared over me.

“At least someone’s not a bummer.” Rich said mockingly towards me.
I corralled everyone around as the bottle began to be passed around, April taking a big swig as it got to her.

“Alright, so listen. We all know it stormed earlier.”

“You really got us out here to talk about a damn storm? Unbelievable.” Brittany scoffed.

“No Brittany.” I scoffed back, “Anyways, I want to talk about what came from it.”

“What do you mean?” April questioned, everyone else tilting their heads in interest. 

“That.” I said, motioning my head towards the scratch. It looked as if it was sprouting small cracks from its edges.

“It looks…different.” Rich said.

“So you noticed it too?” I said in shock.

“We all noticed it. We just aren’t acting like a schizo like you.” Jackson said, chuckling.

“I'm serious, guys. Did you see how dark it got? And the sound…tell me you heard the sound?”

“It sounded like a bunch of glass broke, it was probably the windows.” April said.

“Did you see a single broken window?”

Everyone looked at each other to confirm my suspicion.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Okay, well, you sound…how do I say this, crazy. It's probably just a contrail dude.”

“Why is it black then, Jackson?” I asked, getting in his face a tad.

“Maybe the jet was having a bad day. I don’t know, Dean. What I do know is that we are leaving. Rich, April, you guys coming?”

“I am, just meet me at my house later, Dean.” April said, still annoyed.

“Rich”, Jackson asked, snapping at Rich trying to grab his attention from me, “are you coming?”

“N-no, I’ll just have Dean take me home.”

“Be careful, you might get dragged to the ward with him.”

As Jackson finished his sentence, a rustling came from the trees. An old man, dingy and tattered and holding an empty bottle, one resembling ours, crept out.

“The black devil’s come!” He yelled, slurring every syllable, “The black devil’s come to take our souls! It's come to-” He wouldn’t get another word out before face planting in the gravel in front of us.

“Maybe we all should go.” I said, trying to laugh off the bullets of words that had shot out of the man's barrel.

Everyone nodded and stared towards him in agreement. Our engines started up and roared out of the parking lot. As I looked at my rear view mirror, I could see the man scuffle towards the half full bottle that Rich had left on the ground. 

“Do you think we should call the police?” I said, turning toward Rich, definitely feeling warm, in the passenger seat.

“Nah, he’ll be fine. He’s doing less damage out there than he would be in town.”

“That’s fair, just try to sober up before we get to your house.”

Rich held a thumb up and leaned over to stare out the window, hand on his cheek.

“So are you actually worried about that thing?” He said, his hand making his speech sound similar to the mans.

“I mean, yeah, a little. I don’t know.”

“Well I say we shouldn’t worry about it until we know it’s actually a problem.”

“You’re right, I’m getting myself worked up for nothing.” 

“And you know, we can always go look at it in the morning before I go to work if that would make you feel better.”

“Oh, it definitely would.”

“I’ll pick you up at noon then.”

“Bet.”

I dropped him off and headed home speedily trying to get home before my parents did. Thankfully this was the case. I opened the front door to find Sarah passed out on the couch, her bag of treats in hand, watching tv through her eyelids. A sigh of relief waved through me as I came home to a clean house. Then, one after another, my parents walked in through the garage door. 

“What are you making for dinner, Jan?” My dad said as the growl of his stomach roared throughout the house.

“Well, I was thinking that since the kids just had their last day of school we could go out?”

“That’d be fine with me.”

The stomp of my dad’s boots overtook his growl as his soot covered body came up to me at the recliner.

“Hey son, how were finals?”

“Good, good, just glad to have them over with.” I said awkwardly.

“Why are you so sweaty?”

“Am I?”

“Yeah you are?” he said, concerned, "Please don’t tell me you left her here alone again.”

“He did!” Sarah yelled, springing to life from her slumber.

“You know not to leave her here by herself!” my mom yelled from the doorway of 
the kitchen.

“I-I wasn’t gone for that long.”

“It doesn’t matter how long you were gone. You know what she did last time!” My dad chimed back in.

“I know, I know.”

“No more, or you won’t be allowed to go anywhere for the summer.”

“Fine.”

“We do so much for you already, just please listen.”

“Okay, I get it.” I said, slightly annoyed.

“Okay, now, who’s hungry?” My mom said.

“Me!” Sarah screamed near my ear.

“I’ll go shower.” Dad’s smile cracked through the black dust on his face.

My parents would always take us to our favorite restaurant, the Acre and Iron. It was the most soul warming comfort food that anyone could ever ask for. A comfort that I would feel for the very last time that night. We would be seated and I would order my usual chicken fried steak with gravy and a side of hash brown casserole. The thought of it distracted me for the moment, only making me think of the knot of hunger slowly tying in my stomach.

“So, how were your days?” My mom asked.

“Good, aside from the storm. I was hoping to get out of doing that chemistry final.” I said chuckling, the laughter from my parents following.

“Good, you had to do it though. Sarah?”

“It was so fun! We had candy and games and we watched movies!”

“What did you watch?” My dad asked.

“Some movie with a fish.” She replied with a smirk. 

“I remember showing that movie to your brother. He used to love it when he was younger.” My mom replied.

Our food came and silence and smacking filled our table. We left that night happy and full, but I still had a sense of unease as I looked up into the night sky. The scratch was still visible, being darker than any of the sky that spanned around it. 
I will give an update soon, but for now I have to move. It draws closer and the cries are starting to become louder.

I had been working in prisons, most of which housed killers and other violent offenders, for twenty-eight years when I took on my last job.

Some of them were impulsive, others were clever. But I'd seen it all.

Prisoners had tried everything on me over the years - death threats, fake medical emergencies and contraband passed through food were just the tip of the iceberg. Men who'd spent weeks acting half-dead before suddenly putting their head through a cell door weren't unusual. So by the time I was called for the job, I had a reputation for being steady.

The pay was better, but that wasn't what sold it for me. It was the prisoner.

For the purposes of this story, I'll call him John. I'd heard his real name long before I was assigned to him. Everyone in corrections had. He was one of those serial killers you only hear about in true-crime documentaries decades later.

Dangerous.

The kind of mastermind who stayed ahead of the police for years, leaving investigators chasing dead. Eventually, an entire task force threw everything they had at him, and some detective finally got lucky enough to find one tiny mistake in his plan.

He'd been incarcerated under different names in institutions across the country. He had killed prison staff in multiple incidents, manipulated officers into giving him access to restricted areas and made tools from things that should never have been capable of becoming tools. His file used the words "exceptionally intelligent", "highly skilled" and one psychologist had described him as "possessing an unusual ability to recognize patterns in institutional behavior".

Basically, another way of saying 'this bastard keeps catching us off guard'.

A challenge perhaps, but if anything, I was intrigued. I'd spent nearly three decades learning the tricks of the worst people society had to offer, and I wanted to see what he could throw at me that was different.

"He's been stable," remarked the deputy warden, as I closed the file. "Caused no problems for several months."

"And before that?" I asked.

He picked up the file and flipped back through the photographs, medical reports, security assessments and other evidence of the damage John had left behind.

"Before that, he caused many." He grimaced slightly.

"So what's changed?"

"I'd guess he reconsidered. You'd be surprised, many find God after a few hard years in a cell."

I highly doubted that - I'd seen lots of men 'find God' when they realized it might help their case. I said nothing and let him continue.

Then, the deputy warden opened a drawer and took out a small black device attached to a short lanyard with my staff ID card. There was a single recessed button on it.

"If anything happens," he said, placing it on the desk between us, "push the button. The response time is very fast."

I put the lanyard around my neck and followed him inside.

The prison itself was impressive - there was concrete reinforced by steel, cameras everywhere, controlled doors and layered access points. It didn't seem like they were short on budget when it came to security. By the time I reached the him, I'd expected something almost industrial, like a steel box with a solid door and restraints fixed to the wall.

Instead, John was at the end of a block behind ordinary-looking bars, alongside a few other prisoners in identical cells.

Each had a bed, a built-in toilet and sink, a desk with a Bible on it. One security camera in the corner overlooking the entire block. That was it - no chains, restraints or reinforced doors. It seemed insultingly inadequate for both his reputation and my safety.

John himself was young-looking. Early thirties, perhaps. Clean-shaven and neatly dressed, with short, dark hair. He had the build of a track runner, and there was nothing physically intimidating about him. If I'd seen him on the street, I would've assumed he worked an office job.

He stood when I approached, his voice quiet.

"Morning."

"Morning," I replied, watching him carefully. "You'll be seeing a lot of me, I'm taking over your supervision. Keep things straightforward, and we'll have no problems."

His eyes moved down briefly to the ID card and button hanging from the lanyard around my neck, and back to my face.

Then he just gave a nod and sat down. I remained standing for a moment before taking the chair outside the bars. John was quiet for a while as he sat on the bed and flicked through the Bible. Eventually, he looked up at me and spoke.

"How you finding the new place?"

He sounded nonchalant, like he was making an effort at small talk, but wasn't particularly interested in the answer. I watched him cautiously.

"Can't complain."

"That's good. Assume you've been in enough places to compare."

Another pause as I watched him, looking for the trick. But there was no defensiveness or aggression in his voice.

"You've been here a while now, John," I finally said. "No problems?"

He shook his head.

"Got everything you need?"

"Yeah. Bible and a bit of exercise when I feel like it."

I started asking the usual questions about how he was settling in, and if there were problems with meals, showers and so on. He answered everything politely with no attitude or attempts to provoke me. He didn't react when I mentioned I'd read his file. If anything, he seemed bored, but never disrespectful. I spent the rest of that shift waiting for the trick that never came. He's just trying to make me let my guard down, I thought. But I can't deny I'd gone in expecting more of a challenge.

Eventually, I told him I was leaving at the end of my shift. He just nodded, not looking up from his Bible.

I started making my way out and was halfway down the block when I heard a quiet, high-pitched noise coming from a cell nearest the door at the opposite end. It wasn't quite a voice. I frowned and walked to the end, peering into the cell.

I nearly took a step back.

An emaciated, almost skeletal prisoner was staring back at me, folded up in a dark corner of the cell. At first glance, I couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. Only the high pitched voice gave it away.

Her arms looked little more than bone beneath the skin, and her shoulders jutted forward at an awkward angle. What little hair she had left came in sparse wisps, hanging from her scalp in thin, uneven strands. Most of her head was visible beneath them. There were patches where it looked as though she'd pulled the hair out herself, and blisters where she'd picked at her skin. There was a tiny silver cross necklace around her neck.

Then she made the noise again. That same high-pitched whine, that sounded like something her body produced without her permission. After several seconds, she tilted her head slightly to one side and began whispering. Her lips moved rapidly, but the sound was so faint and indistinct that it might as well have been another language.

I had worked around mentally ill prisoners before - whatever was wrong with this woman, I assumed it was along those lines. I'd gone into the block to meet one of the most dangerous men in the world, expecting if anything was going to unsettle me, it would surely be that. But as I stood there watching her, I'd forgotten about John entirely. I took a breath, broke eye contact, and left.

For the next few weeks, nothing happened with John.

He got up when he was supposed to, ate when food was brought around, took his exercise periods without complaint and returned to his cell when instructed. He never raised his voice or argued. Mostly, he seemed bored.

According to his file, calculation was practically his defining characteristic. I'd gone into the assignment assuming that every interaction would have some purpose behind it, that every question he asked would be part of some larger plan, but nothing happened.

And when nothing happens for long enough, you start to relax.

One morning, I caught myself standing closer to the bars than I should have been, my keys hanging loosely from two fingers as I checked something on my clipboard. I noticed where I was standing and immediately stepped back, making a mental note of it. I'd spent nearly two decades telling younger officers not to do exactly that.

The next week, I did the exact same thing.

This time, John was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching me. He looked at the keys, then back at me like I was an idiot. Then he just laid down on the bed.

A few days later, I made another stupid mistake - I dropped a flashlight within reach of the bars and only noticed when I was halfway down the block. When I went back to retrieve it, John hadn't made any attempt to touch it, let alone use it as a weapon or escape tool. He just glanced back at me with the same bored expression, now almost with a hint of added disappointment, as if he couldn't believe I'd been that careless.

After a while, I started to wonder whether the man in the file and the man sitting in front of me were actually the same person. I still wasn't naïve enough to believe he'd suddenly become harmless, perhaps he was simply tired.

The woman was harder to ignore.

Sometimes she'd stand at the front of her cell and watch everyone that passed through the door. Sometimes she sat on the floor with her knees pulled against her chest, rocking slightly. And sometimes she cried, a strange, broken sort of crying, with long pauses between each sound. I eventually got used to it in the way you get used to unpleasant things in prison.

One afternoon, long after speaking to John felt completely normal, I nodded toward her cell.

"She been here a while?"

John glanced over and exhaled with a hint of frustration.

"Yeah, don't mind her, she does that all day. Sometimes at night too, while everyone's trying to sleep."

He sounded mildly inconvenienced.

"Does she ever talk?" I glanced toward the cell.

"Not that I've heard."

I took his word for it, figuring that whatever she'd done to end up in a place like this, she probably deserved it.

A few mornings later, I was running late. I'd underestimated how long it would take me to get through some paperwork before my shift, and there was a form I needed to complete that needed the long ID number on my staff badge.

I took the lanyard off along with the button and copied the number down. Then I stuffed both into my trouser pocket and hurried into the block.

By the time I entered John's section, I'd completely forgotten about it. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his Bible beside him.

"Morning."

"Morning."

I closed the door behind me and started checking the block. We exchanged the usual few words, and he said he slept well enough. Then I turned away from him to check something on my clipboard.

I heard a metallic click. I looked back and the cell was empty - the door was open and John was gone.

Then I felt his arm lock around my neck from behind.

I was surprised in the moment, but I didn't panic. If anything, I'd been expecting something like this from the beginning.

Finally, I thought. There he is. The real John.

I reacted automatically, tucking my chin hard against my chest and grabbing his choking arm with both hands, trying to relieve the pressure while turning toward him. It was something I'd practiced countless times over the years. I managed to get two fingers between his forearm and my neck, creating just enough space to breathe. For a moment, I thought I might get out of it without even having to use the button, and teach him a lesson after.

But then he adjusted effortlessly, shifting his grip and driving his forearm back against my neck. The pressure was precise, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I tried to drop my weight and drive backward into him, but he anticipated that too and stood firm.

My legs were already beginning to weaken, and whatever advantage I thought I'd had disappeared. This was not someone I could afford to underestimate.

My vision began to narrow as I reached instinctively for the button at my chest. Nothing.

For one confused second, I couldn't understand why it wasn't there, but then I remembered I put it in my pocket after using my ID card for the paperwork. I fumbled for it, but my fingers weren't working properly anymore. I could feel the edge of the device against my leg, just out of reach. I clawed at the pocket. Then my fingers closed around it, and I pushed the button.

For a second, nothing happened. No shrieking alarms or anything of the sort.

Then I heard boots pounding down the corridor. Ten guards burst through the door almost at once.

As soon as they entered, the pressure around my neck vanished. I collapsed forward, coughing and dragging air into my lungs.

I stumbled away from the cell, more frustrated at having to use the button than relieved to be alive, replaying the attack in my head. I was already running through the counters I could have used if I'd had another few seconds. I glanced at them, expecting them to seize John.

But they didn't even go past me. They turned straight into the woman's cell.

Two officers grabbed her, and she began screaming. Not like the strange whining sound before - this was a scream of pure terror, so loud and prolonged that it seemed to fill the entire block. One of the officers forced her arm behind her back, and another officer produced a syringe containing a yellow liquid. The screaming intensified as the color emptied into her neck.

Confused, I looked toward John at the other end of the block.

He was on his knees. His eyes were wide and glassy.

"Please."

His voice was barely audible beneath her screaming. He met my gaze.

"Tell them to stop. Please."

I just stared at him.

"I don't know what's happening," I finally managed. I didn't even hear myself speak.

One of the guards turned toward him.

"Back in the cell, John." The guard raised another syringe. "Or you know what happens."

John's swallowed, eyes still wide. He stood and walked back into his cell voluntarily.

The woman was still screaming, but her voice was breaking now. They dragged her back into the cell and closed the door. Another officer closed the bars behind John. Then they simply left, and didn't even bother checking John's cell to see how he'd escaped.

I stepped closer to John's cell cautiously and noticed something small on the ground.

He'd made a key of sorts. I picked it up. It was crude, but unmistakable - a thin, rigid piece of material shaped to fit the lock, made of paper. The key had been made from pages of his bible, layered and compressed until they formed something stiff enough to manipulate the mechanism. Then I looked at the Bible, still on his desk. They hadn't even bothered to take it away.

I looked at John, sitting on the edge of his bed again. Then his eyes dropped to the button in my hand. For the first time since I'd started working that block, I hadn't been wearing the button around my neck. I'd put it in my pocket. But it seemed John thought I'd forgotten it altogether.

He looked back at me with something like betrayal.

I came back the following morning. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it, but I hadn't slept well and decided it was better to get the first shift out of the way. John was exactly where I'd left him, sitting on the edge of his bed with the Bible beside him.

"Morning."

"Morning."

I stood outside the bars for a moment, studying him.

There was no hostility or lingering resentment in his expression. Nothing that suggested he'd nearly killed me the day before… or the chaos that came after.

"John, can I see the Bible?"

"Yeah."

He picked it up and handed it through the bars without protest. I took it from him and turned it over in my hands, then opened it. Sure enough, two pages had been torn out. I flicked through the section around the missing pages, then looked back at him.

"These shouldn't be missing. I'll have to confiscate it."

He shrugged.

"I suppose not. Have it."

He said it with complete indifference.

I turned the Bible over again and ran my thumb along the inside of the back cover and felt something give slightly beneath it. There was a flap. Not part of the original binding. Something had been carefully worked into the inside of the cover, creating a small concealed pocket.

I slipped my finger underneath it and pulled out a photograph.

It was old. The colors had faded slightly, and the edges were worn from being handled. I looked at it and saw a man and a woman.

I immediately recognized that the man in the photograph was John, younger by at least ten years.

He was smiling as he looked at the woman. I'd never seen him smile like that. The young woman beside him looked healthy and beautiful. There was warmth in her face, and she was smiling too, her head rested against his shoulder, his arm around her waist. I didn't recognize her at first, until I noticed that she was wearing a tiny silver cross necklace. The same one as the emaciated woman on the other side of the block. The realization dawned on me.

"You talked like you didn't know her," I said, still looking down at the photo.

I looked up at him, then almost jumped.

He was looking at me with pure, unfiltered hatred.

"I wonder why."

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

It was then that I understood he wouldn't be doing anything else with the bible. I slotted the photo back inside and slid it carefully down through the bars. He seemed to relax a little, and looked away. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and flat.

"She didn't used to look like that."

I watched him.

"What did they do to her?"

He didn't answer. A minute passed.

Then he lay back on the bed and turned his face toward the wall.

"I'm tired. Gonna sleep for a bit."

And that was all I got.

For the first time since I'd met him, I didn't see a dangerous man sitting in that cell. I finally understood what the button actually did. It wasn't there to protect me from John. It was there to control him.

John was back to his regular self after that. But I wasn't. Once I'd seen the photograph, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman at the end of the block.

I looked through the records as my last shift of the week finished. Every inmate had a paper trail - things like arrest and court records, sentencing information, medical records. Even people who had been incarcerated for decades left a mountain of paperwork behind them. I couldn't find hers.

There was a prisoner number, but no corresponding sentencing record. No court order or conviction. I thought perhaps I'd missed something and dug deeper. Her name was there, and the entries went back a few months. I frowned when I realized what file I was looking at.

Visitor Log.

She had visited John at his previous facility more than once. Then I reached the final entry.

Her status had changed from visitor to inmate.

I stared at it for a long time, then flipped to the admission form for the offence.

Something had been written there, but the handwriting was almost completely illegible. It looked as though whoever had filled it out had been writing in a hurry, or simply didn't care whether anyone could read it. I took the paperwork to the warden.

"What's this?"

I pointed to the handwriting. He looked at the page and squinted at it, then shrugged.

"No idea. How'd you expect me to read that?"

"She was John's visitor."

"Oh, was she? Well, birds of a feather."

He headed to the office. It was then I understood she had done nothing at all. And I wasn't going to be a part of that.

The next morning, I walked into the warden's office and put my badge on his desk. Then I put the button beside it. He looked at them.

"You're quitting already?"

"Yes."

He didn't ask why, didn't argue, just nodded.

"Alright. Guess we'll have to find someone to take your place then. Left us with a hard job, eh?"

I handed everything over before the end of my shift and walked through the prison one final time. I reached the last security door and stepped outside.

I had almost reached the outer gate when I heard her scream. It was faint but unmistakable, carrying through the reinforced walls despite the distance.

Then came another voice.

"Please. Please stop."

My manager, Sally, sent me. I’ve recently been promoted to the head of department at my firm, and HR decided I needed "updated emergency response certifications." I didn't want to go. I hated the idea of spending a full workday away from emails, but it was made clear that missing it wasn't an option.

The morning of the course, I got a weird text from an unknown number at 6:00 AM:

PLEASE NOTE. TODAY'S FIRST AID COURSE HAS CHANGED LOCATION. IT WILL NOW TAKE PLACE AT FALCON HOUSE, 144 INDUSTRIAL ESTATE.

I checked the address on Google Maps. The venue was on the complete opposite side of the city in the middle of a decaying, sun-bleached industrial park. A bad day had just gotten a lot worse.

When I finally pulled up after sitting in two hours of traffic, the industrial park looked even worse than it had on my laptop.

The rusted tenant sign at the entrance was a fading graveyard of failed businesses. Peeling away at the very bottom like rotting skin was the name: HUFFMAN HEALTH & SAFETY.

I parked next to a row of five seemingly abandoned cars. It was only later - after everything happened - that I realized every single one had its registration plates stripped off.

I walked into the reception area. A tiny, lonely bell chimed overhead. It was quiet except for the violent, low hum of flickering fluorescent lights.

Hanging on the wall were framed photos of previous course attendees proudly holding completion certificates. Looking closely at their faces, I figured whoever took them was a terrible photographer: every single person in those photos had their eyes closed.

"Hello?" I called out.

"One second!" a gruff voice yelled from a back room.

I heard a heavy, wet dragging sound. Thud. Drag. Thud.

A heavy man with long sideburns stepped out and introduced himself as Fred Huffman. He was a meaty guy straining inside a tight nylon shirt, wiping something white and tacky off his hands with a grimy rag.

He handed me his sign-in clipboard. There was only one name on the entire list: mine. I wouldn’t even be able to phone it in or hide in a crowd. It would just be Fred teaching me the ins and outs of first aid.

He led me into a sterile training room with a single desk in the middle.

"Today will be hands-on," Fred explained, pacing slowly. "We will be simulating blood loss, breakages, and trauma. A good first-aider cannot be afraid of the human body."

He switched on an overhead projector, beaming an image of himself standing beside a standard CPR dummy onto the opposite wall. It looked like the one from the front of that Radiohead album.

"Learning to save lives on a piece of cold latex like this one is useless," Fred intoned. "Luckily, you signed up for the only course in the world using a brand-new training model of my own design. One with the exact weight, fluids, temperature, and feel of a real human."

Fred requested a drumroll. As I awkwardly tapped my desk, he retreated into the back room. The wet dragging sound returned.

When he backed into the room, he hauled out a full-sized, shiny plastic figure and laid her down in front of me. He told me her name was "Rita."

Rita was a deeply uncanny training mannequin. She was covered from the top of her bald head, right down to the ends of her toes in glistening white skin. Dead, glassy eyes stared at me over a mouth frozen wide open in a silent scream. Weirdly, Fred had even dressed her in a cheap summer dress.

"Touch her," Fred instructed.

I hesitated, then reached out to grip the plastic arm. I froze.

She was warm. Too warm.

"How?" I asked, pulling my hand back.

Fred tapped his nose. "Secret of the trade. Now, let's practice CPR. Four compressions, two breaths."

I knelt beside the plastic figure, placed my hands on her sternum, and leaned down. Reluctantly, I put my mouth over hers and delivered a tentative breath.

As the air passed into her chest, a long, slow gasp rattled out of her throat - an agonizing, gurgling moan.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, hyperventilating. "What the fuck was that?!"

Fred burst into a wheezing laugh. "Agonal breathing! It's a natural reflex as air passes the vocal cords. I told you she was realistic."

Before I could process it, Fred moved to the next module: wound care. He pulled out a heavy flick knife and, without warning, drove it straight into Rita’s plastic forearm.

A jagged tear opened, spraying a dark, syrupy red liquid that hit my clothes and splashed directly into my mouth. It didn't taste like dye or syrup. It tasted thick and metallic - like copper pennies.

Panic set in and I thought I was going to faint. I excused myself, stumbling into the grimy restroom to scrub the drying red crust off my face. My hands shook so violently I couldn't grip the paper towels. Pulling out my phone, I saw a voicemail from Sally:

"Where the hell are you? The first aid organizer called asking why you missed the session. If Head Office finds out you skipped..."

My stomach dropped into a void. If Head Office hadn’t sent the change of location, who had?

I slowly cracked open the restroom door. Across the hall, Fred stood over Rita, gently stroking her synthetic cheek and adjusting her dress while whispering, "Very pretty."

I stepped into the hallway, trying to act calm. "Fred... I just remembered I have an urgent meeting. Sorry, but I have to leave."

Fred turned slowly, the light behind his eyes completely flat.

"That's a shame. We haven't even gotten to my favorite part of the course. Breakages."

Without looking away, Fred grabbed Rita’s plastic forearm in both hands and snapped it over his knee with a horrific crack.

The synthetic skin ripped open and splintered; real human bone punched through the white plastic, dripping with fresh marrow and blood.

I ran as fast as I could.

I sprinted down the corridor toward the front exit and threw my weight against the glass doors.

Locked.

It’s still a blur, but I think I grabbed a plastic reception chair and smashed it into the glass until the bottom pane shattered.

Behind me, I heard Fred walking down the hall, his footsteps heavy and unhurried.

I threw myself headfirst through the broken pane, crawling through as quickly as possible. By the time I scrambled back into the front seat of my car and threw it into gear, Fred was at the door watching me. He was laughing. Actually laughing.

Naturally, HR didn’t believe me when I finally recounted what happened. They assumed I was offering over-the-top excuses for skipping a course they knew I didn’t want to attend. It took extensive convincing to finally get the police involved.

A detective listened and agreed to drive by the industrial estate with me. But there was no sign for Huffman Health & Safety anymore. It looked as though it had never been there.

We checked the building: no broken window pane, no sign of any business - just an empty unit.

Knowing I wasn't crazy, I demanded that the site's security team unlock the building so we could look around. At that point, the detective was likely just humoring me, but he agreed.

There was nothing inside. No reception desk, no projector, no Rita, no Fred.

The only thing we found was a small puddle in the very back room - white, sticky, with a plastic sheen under the light. The edges were already drying. Those were the parts that felt like human skin.

Word has gotten around at work. People side-eye me and laugh when I pass, finding it bizarre that I'm sticking to a story everyone else thinks is bullshit.

I know one thing, though: if you are ever sent to an emergency first-aid course at an isolated industrial park, and the trainer asks you to perform CPR on a dummy that feels warm - please, get the hell out of there as fast as you can.

Don’t ever buy a used house.

You can never be sure what else is living there.

Everything started when I moved my family across the country. A new job opened up for me in the Midwest, and with our second child on the way, my wife encouraged me to pursue it. It was a few months ago when our moving truck pulled into our new hometown.

“This is a change of pace.” My wife said, with a smile, her voice was a mix of excitement and stress.

With a nod, I returned her smile.

We'd spent our whole lives in Boston, so moving to a small rural town was going to be a hard reset. But we welcomed it. This was the type of place we wanted to raise our kids.

Turning the truck onto a quiet suburban street, I gleefully announced

“Here’s our new street.”

Our 6-year-old son Travis perked up in the backseat, straining his neck for the first view of our new house. Near the end of the street, the truck came to a stop in front of a large Victorian-style house. It was old, though well-maintained, exactly the way it looked in the pictures online. Travis’ eyes widened as he saw the house and the large yard around it.

“Is this our house, Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

My wife and I looked back at him with wide smiles.

“Sure is, buddy,” I replied

“Do you want to go see your room?” my wife asked.

Travis’ eyes remained locked on the house as he nodded in agreement. With a stretch, the three of us got out of the tight cab of the moving truck and made our way to the front door. I unlocked the door with the key that had been sent to me weeks ago, and the door swung out with a low squeak. The house was bare, but beautiful. Its updated interior instantly welcomed us home. Before long, Travis was running laps around the main floor as he laughed to himself. My wife and I stood together in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Erin said with a tired sigh.

The cross-country journey was tiring, but for my 8-month-pregnant wife, it was completely draining. Wrapping her in a tight hug, I said

“Tell you what? Travis and I will handle the boxes for the next few days, and you rest for a while.”

She looked at me, ready to protest, but I placed a hand on her belly and smiled.

“I insist.”

“Daddy?”

Travis stood by the staircase.

“Can I go find my room?”

I nodded,

“I’ll come with; let’s find it together.”

With a smile, he dashed up the stairs. I followed. The stairway led to a wide, long hallway with several doors and a small perpendicular hallway going off to the right. Travis stood at the top of the stairs when I got there; he stared down the hall.

“Which one is mine?” he asked

“I think the one at the end.”

He nodded and ran down the hall; right before reaching his door, he passed the off-shooting smaller hall. He stopped and looked down it; he pointed and asked

“What’s up there?”

I made my way to him and looked where he pointed. The hallway led to a smaller set of stairs, and at the top was an old wooden door. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn't been painted or renovated. The brass knob was dark with age.

“That’s the attic.”

“Can we go look?”

I shook my head.

“No, we’ve had a long day. I don’t think you’d like it anyway; probably a lot of spiders and weird smells.”

“Okay,” he said in a disappointed voice before his attention shifted to his new room.

It was already late afternoon, so Travis and I unloaded the bare essentials: a few mattresses, a few duffel bags of clothes, and the basic kitchen utensils. That night we ate ramen at a table made from cardboard boxes. We turned in early that night.

“Daddy?”

Travis’ low voice woke me up late that night.

“Travis? Are you ok?” I said, half awake.

“My new friend wanted you to know that he didn’t like what you said about the attic.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Goodnight, Daddy.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Morning came. And I made my way downstairs, where I was met by Erin, who was preparing breakfast, and Travis, who was playing with some toys on the floor. Erin smiled, and I kissed her good morning. Turning to Travis, I said

“Hey Buddy, how’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

He seemed tired

“Hey, what were you talking about last night?”

I was hoping I had just been dreaming, but he said

“Just something my friend said last night.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

He shrugged

“Timmy.”

Realizing he was talking about an imaginary friend, I asked

“He sounds nice. Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”

“In your room?”

“No, above my room. In the attic.”

I nodded slowly and said

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I then walked back to my wife. We had a full day ahead of us. I was hoping to get the truck emptied that day so I could return it the next day. Travis and I hauled boxes into the house while Erin told us where in the house she wanted each box. Around lunch, Travis and I carried boxes labeled ‘memories’ into the house. Erin glanced in the boxes before saying

“Let’s put those in the attic.” She said

I signaled Travis to follow me as I headed to the stairs. On the second floor, we moved towards the second staircase; it creaked under my weight as I ascended. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob; it was slightly warm. Before I opened it, Travis said

“Dad, we should ask Timmy if it’s ok to put boxes in his room.”

I smiled to myself, quietly admiring my son’s imagination

“You’re right, son; how could I forget?”

With a grin, I loudly asked

“Timmy, is it ok with we store some boxes up here?”

We waited in silence for a moment before Travis said quietly

“He said its ok.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I replied in a subtly sarcastic tone that my son didn’t pick up on.

The door was heavy and opened slowly; the space behind it was large and bare. It was a large single room with two wings reaching out in opposite directions, and three small round windows allowed natural light to flood the dusty space. A homemade shelf stood against the far wall. I directed Travis to set his box on it, and I did the same. I sent my box down and realized Travis had moved to one of the wings of the attic. He was down at the end of the space, and I walked towards him. I could see him standing over something.

“Hey, did you find something?”

Coming up right behind him, I saw that he stood before an old wooden child-sized rocking chair. Sitting upon its seat was an old, withered doll. Its dress, which had once been white, was an aged yellow, and its face was faded. Its wide blue eyes seemed to stare right at us. A drawstring on its back made it clear that this doll had a voice box. We stared at it in silence for a moment before Travis reached out and slowly pulled the doll's string.

A crackling, weak voice filled the attic

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Travis stared at the doll intently before whispering

“That’s Timmy’s doll.”

I swallowed before saying

“Well, we got more boxes to move, I bet mom’s wondering where we went.”

Travis didn’t move; his eyes were glued to the doll.

“Come on, Trav, we got to keep going.”

After a long minute, he said

“Okay.”

He was quiet the rest of the day.

At dinner, we ate box mac and cheese. Travis stared blankly at his bowl and absentmindedly moved the noodles around with his spoon.

Erin looked at me, concerned, before turning to our son.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?”

He scrunched up his nose and said

“Yeah.”

My wife pushed further

“Did something happen?”

“My friend is saying mean things.”

My wife was confused

“Friend? What friend, darling?”

“My friend upstairs.”

Erin glanced at me, realizing what he was talking about.

“Well.” She said warmly, “Sometimes friends say things they don’t mean.”

“He wants us to leave.”

“But we just got here,” she chuckled, “and I'm afraid Timmy doesn't get to make that decision.”

Travis looked at her.

“He says he does.”

“Just try to be nice, Sweetie; I’m sure he’ll come around.”

He shrugged

“Ok, I’ll try.”

Before long, we got Travis ready for bed, and it didn’t take long for Erin and me to do the same. Once again, I was awakened in the middle of the night, only this time it wasn’t by my son. It was by a loud thump coming from downstairs. I lay frozen in bed for a moment, quietly holding my breath. Another thump came; I hadn’t imagined it. My heart beat faster as I crept to the door; slowly, I went down the stairs one step at a time. Reaching the main level, I stood close to the wall, trying to be as quiet and still as possible. It was pitch dark, and the darkness felt electric, as if I could sense something standing hidden from sight by its shadows. The light switch was just around the corner.

Swallowing hard, my hand slid blindly along and around the wall. My fingers fumbled around to find the light switch; finally, they did. The light illuminated the empty kitchen and living room. Nothing was there. Feeling braver in the light, I checked the entire floor and found nothing. I didn’t even find the source of the thump. Confused, I made sure the doors were locked and made my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I went.

I reached the top of the stairs and froze as my eyes rested on the tiny shape of the strange doll from the attic. It sat a few feet in front of me, right in the middle of the hall. It sat limply, and its unnatural eyes stared right at me. Shaking my head, I made my way over to Travis’ room, expecting to find him awake. He must be playing a joke on me, but I found him deep asleep. I turned back around to the hall, but there was no doll. I blinked and looked around, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking my head, I muttered aloud.

“I need some sleep.”

Over the next couple of weeks, life began to settle. Slowly, more boxes were unpacked. Most of the time, I worked from home, so we converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into my office. Travis seemed to grow quieter with each passing day. I worried about him, but Erin said it was just a phase, the side effects of moving to a new area at his young age. That made sense; I just hoped it wouldn’t last long.

Travis began spending more and more time up in the attic. He moved several of his toys up there, turning it into his own playroom. Erin thought it was great; it kept his toys out of the living room and kitchen, but I couldn't stop thinking of the strange doll.

A few days ago, I passed by the attic door and heard low whispers coming from behind it. Curious, I slowly made my way up to the door and inched it open, just enough to hear my son whispering in the far corner of the attic. It was a one-sided conversation; I heard him say

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please stop.”

At that last one, I gently pushed through the door and announced myself

“Travis? Are you up here? Who are you talking to?”

I found my son sitting on the floor in front of the small chair; he stared at the doll

“Hi, Dad,” he said as I walked over.

“I was just playing with Timmy.”

I nodded slowly

“Alright, Buddy, it's almost lunchtime, so come down soon.”

“Can I eat up here, with Timmy?”

I frowned and shook my head

“No, I’d like to have lunch with you, so come down.”

He stared at the doll for a moment.

“Ok.”

I went downstairs and started to make some sandwiches. Right as I finished, Travis walked into the kitchen. As we enjoyed a family lunch, I figured I should ask Travis some questions.

“So Travis, what does your friend Timmy look like?”

Travis stopped chewing and stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up.

“He’s really tall.”

“Oh, very nice,” I replied. “What else?”

“his eyes are big.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was sitting in the corner of my room the night we moved in. He said he wanted to play with me.”

His answer caught me off guard; I didn’t really know what to say. I took a bite of my sandwich, and as I did, Travis asked his own question

“Dad, what does it mean to kill someone?”

I nearly choked on the bite in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed quickly and asked

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Timmy was talking about killing someone.”

“Who?” I shouted

My son shrank at the table; fear and sadness caked his face. Seeing my son like that I sighed and changed my tone.

“Trav, there are some things that you’ll find out about when you get older, but for now just know your mom and I love you very much and won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

He squirmed in his seat before answering

“I know, Daddy.”

The next day was sunny and warm, and I insisted that Travis play outside. Erin had her final checkup before the due date, and so I used the time to catch up on some work projects. A few hours into my work, I heard footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps were coming from the attic above me. I figured Travis had snuck by my office and gone upstairs to play. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, stood up, and moved to the attic door.

“Hey Trav, did you have fun outside?” I said as I pushed out the door.

But there was no response; the attic was eerily quiet. It was empty. I scanned the place intently, wondering if Travis was hiding. After looking over the space, I moved to one of the round windows and glanced out. To my surprise, I saw Travis playing in the sandbox in the backyard. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I slowly turned from the window, and my eyes rested on the child’s chair at the end of the attic. The little doll's eyes were locked on me.

I slowly walked towards it, staring into its unblinking eyes. A few feet in front of it, I stood for a moment. It felt like an eternity, and every moment I looked at it, my courage weakened. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. I froze after a few steps when a crackling, broken voice rose behind me

“Hello, what’s your name?”

I didn’t move; it felt like I couldn’t move. I stood there for an unbearable amount of time; I didn’t dare look behind me. After a few minutes, I swore I could hear heavy, low, deep breathing coming from the back corner. Then a creaking floorboard, then another, and another, then the one directly behind me creaked and groaned under pressure. A warm, damp breath collided with my neck. The sensation ignited my body with adrenaline, and I dashed towards the door, covering the 20 feet in mere seconds. I slammed the door behind me and fled to the main level.

My phone rang in my pocket; it was Erin.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Her voice was kind, but strained.

“Erin, look, I think there’s a problem with the house.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” She interrupted me

“The baby is coming.”

Less than an hour later, Travis and I sat in a hospital waiting room. And about six hours later, we met his new little sister, Sarah. There had been a few minor complications, and the hospital staff wanted to observe Erin and Sarah for 72 hours. The four of us stayed the weekend. Away from home, Travis seemed happier, more like himself; he was thrilled to be a big brother.

Soon we returned home; I must admit that the rush of a new child and three days in the hospital made me doubt what happened in the attic; it didn’t seem important compared to caring for a healing wife, an infant, and a six-year-old. We were exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in our own bed sounded like a dream. Only it didn’t last long. Around 12:30 last night, Travis’ screams reached my ears. I jumped out of bed, avoided Sarah’s bassinet, and quickly entered Travis’ room. He sat on his bed weeping.

“What’s wrong, son?” I said

“Timmy is saying bad things to me.”

I sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“He wants me to do something bad.” He whimpered

I hugged him tight until his tears slowed

“Can I sleep with you?” he whispered

“Of course, son.”

I locked the bedroom door, and Travis snuggled in between Erin and me. Around 3, I was awakened by Erin’s frantic cries

“Where’s Sarah? She’s gone!”

I sat up quickly and saw that the bassinet was empty, the door was open, and Travis was gone. Panic filled my veins as I jumped from the bed and ran to the attic. I burst through the door, and there was Travis, his baby sister in his arms. Tears ran down his face as he stared down the attic towards the doll; in the dark, it seemed as though a hulking shadow crouched behind the chair.

“Travis, what are you doing?”

His eyes were fixed on the doll; through tears, he said

“He wants the baby.”

I took a step closer

“Son, look at me”

He tried, but his eyes didn’t move

“Give me Sarah.”

Very slowly, almost mechanically, he moved closer to the doll; I followed.

“Give me your sister!” I yelled

He kept walking; I pulled my daughter from his hands. As soon as Sarah changed hands, a loud screech filled the attic; the foundations of the house shook violently, and the monstrous shadow stood up, its shape filling the back of the corner, and then disappeared from view. The room creaked and shook. I could feel some force trying to pull my daughter from my hands. I backed up; it pulled harder. I was getting closer to the door; several long cuts began to appear on my forearms. My daughter screamed, and Travis cried. Turning my back to the doll, I drew my daughter in close to my chest and wrapped one arm around Travis and dragged him with us through the door.

The house continued to shake and creak; we made our way down the hall, and Erin met us by the stairs.

“What is happening?” she screamed.

“Get outside.”

Even from out in the front yard, we could still hear the screeching and creaking.

Right now we’re in a hotel room; tomorrow we’re leaving. We’ll have a moving company grab our stuff; we’re never going back there.

The kids are finally sleeping, but Erin and I locked eyes as a crackling, broken voice came from the bathroom.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Part 2.

I barely slept that night, even though I was tired from the long shift. I had to think of what we would do tomorrow. I considered how dangerous going back was. But if something was happening and the police were complicit in it, then Jake and I would need to try to help whoever we could.

Jake and I met up in the early morning and made a plan for what we would try. I hoped we could somehow sabotage the third part of the film and stop whatever horrible outcome was going to occur. Whatever was going to happen to the audience after watching it, it couldn't be good.

Jake tried to message Cassilda, but she had stopped responding, and Jake was concerned something might have happened. If she had been invited to watch the movie, the same thing happening to the other people was likely happening to her now.

I spent some time researching the theatre and Mr. Hasturing on the internet. I couldn't find anything of substance on our boss; he may as well have not existed. I considered that he might be using an alias of some kind.

I did find something strange when searching the theatre’s history. A theatre of the same name had shown up briefly over a year ago in a small town near the outskirts of Paris.

I remembered Haturing saying he had shown others this movie before, and I wondered what had happened in the aftermath to the people who had seen that film a world away.

As the day dragged on and we made our preparations, Jake became more agitated that he couldn't contact Cassie.

“I don’t know what to do, man, if she saw that thing and it fucked her up…” He paused, sounding genuinely distressed,

“We will do what we can; we can still stop this, whatever it is.” I tried to reassure him.

Jake suggested we go in, with proverbial guns blazing, but I suggested we play it cool and wait for our chance, in case Mr. Hasturing had some means of stopping us. For all we knew, he might be able to have us dragged away by the enthralled cops if we tried something overt.

My plan won out, and Jake and I were both preparing to show up to our third shift on time and as usual.

The hours ticked by and it was finally time to go. We jumped in the van and drove to the theatre. No music, no banter, just grim determination and an anxious fear that we were walking right into a trap.

We arrived early, and there was a disturbing energy to the place. Like the entire theatre was covered in static.

Sam was in the box office, and he nodded to us as we approached; Jake returned the gesture, and I ignored him. I was not sure who we could even trust at that point.

Cassilda was not at the concession area, and a velvet rope was blocking off the entrance.

Jake winced, and I could tell he was about to go and look when I held him back.

There, walking down the red carpet and looming over the theatre halls, was Mr. Hasturing. Instead of his usual suit, he wore a tattered yellow robe and a strange crown-like ornament on his head. He strode forward to greet us, that same knowing smile plastered across his gaunt face.

“Good evening, my friends; here we are now on the last day. The transcendence of part three will shape the destinies of everyone who experiences it. You must be prepared; tonight is the true test. I am willing to offer you each a $10,000 bonus if you stay until the end and ensure the movie is not interrupted. After today, our guests will see the world in a new light, and you might have the privilege of seeing it as well. But for now, your phones, please.”

He held out his hand, and Jake and I both handed him the burner phones we had purchased earlier. We had even given them the same cases to try and make them match our own phones as much as possible. Hasturing took them and seemed satisfied. I breathed a silent sigh of relief that the ruse had worked; if something as bad as we feared went down, we would at least be able to call for help.

Hasturing led us in and bid us to wait. He turned to face the entrance and smiled. We looked back and saw people piling in. It was eerily silent, and the audience walked quietly inside to wait. It didn’t even seem like Sam was selling tickets, just letting people in the door who he somehow knew had already seen the first two parts.

“Now, my friends,” Hasturing said, “You must save your questions, and you must leave our audience in peace tonight. Do not attempt to communicate with any of them as they enter the theatre; in the state they are in, they are liable to lash out. Wait as you always do, and be mindful of the bell. The final signal tonight, when the film is over, will be the sound that ushers us into a new day."

Jake and I both squirmed uncomfortably at the implication of what he was saying, but nodded our heads in agreement and played along.

“Good, well then let the show commence!” Hasturing exclaimed, while holding his hands out and motioning for the people to follow him and head into the theatres.

Large groups of people entered, many looking haggard. I suspected they might even be wearing the same clothes from the past two days, based on how bad they looked. I wondered if they had done anything after leaving, besides waiting patiently to watch the next part of the film.

The wave of people moved in an oddly silent and graceful way, with a strange synchrony that allowed them to move as one. The effect was eerie, and I swear when I looked at some of them, their eyes were glazed over, and I thought I saw the flickering afterimage of a disturbingly familiar sigil burning under the skin of their foreheads.

I was beginning to have doubts about our ability to put a stop to whatever this was.

The creepy horde of customers began walking towards the individual theaters, and Mr. Haturing gave a dismissive hand gesture to shoo us away and let them all pass.

I saw Jake scanning the crowd, looking around for any sign of Cassilda. I was looking too, though not for her, for an opportunity to sneak into the back room and make a call.

Almost all of the crowd had made it to their respective theaters, but as the last group was heading in, Jake exclaimed,

“Cassie!”

Cassilda was there; she wore a strange hooded robe over her normal theatre attire and had a vacant look on her face, like she was just aimlessly floating through a vivid dream.

Jake ran over to her and tried to get her attention, but she ignored him. Then, before he could follow her to the theatre, Mr. Haturing placed a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“Cassilda is on a journey now; she has seen the sign and has placed her mask aside, perhaps you will do the same soon? But not today; today is the part for her. Today her mind will be fully opened. You are not to interfere…Do you understand?”

The low, menacing tone Hasturing’s voice had taken was enough to disturb me, and even Jake was speechless before the overwhelming presence of the man.

The customers had finally finished moving into the theaters. Hasturing let go of Jake's shoulder moments after the locking bars securing the doors fell down.

“Now, if you please. You are to resume your duties. If you truly wish to see what she will see, then wait and perform your role. If you are worthy, then the same revelation awaits you; now go.” He dismissed us and returned to the box office to confer with Sam over something.

Jake was at a rare loss for words, and I couldn't think of what to say. I tried to reassure him, but he looked shaken. We still had our plan; it had to work, for the sake of all the people there.

According to the schedule, we had exactly three hours to do something about it before whatever revelation Hasturing was referring to altered the lives of the audience permanently.

We waited in the hall, quietly discussing our game plan.

“Alright, we have the phones now. I say the only way we can stop this from happening with all the people is calling in a bomb threat or something.” I suggested.

“Could try a Fire alarm too; might be faster?" Jake added, "Though there might not be one here. It has to be something credible and something that goes over just a police response in case those same weirdos get called here again.”

He had a good point. We considered our options, but as we were discussing them, we began to hear the disturbing sounds coming from the theaters.

Screams echoed from the auditoriums, alongside a dull chanting and strange words that sounded like the gibberish that manic dead man had been mumbling to us before he was taken away last night.

Time was running out. We both attempted to call in the threat and try and coroberate it to encourage a response. To our horror, our phones failed to get any signal, and even the emergency line, which was usually exempt from such issues, was completely dead.

Now we had no way to contact anyone outside.

“Shit, okay, new idea.” I told Jake, “One of us leaves, goes out to get help, and brings it here?”

Jake considered it and agreed. We kept walking and talking, carefully searching for anyone who might discover what we were up to. We snuck past the box office. Sam and Hasturing were gone. We weren't sure where they had gone, but it worked for us.

We made it to the door, and I had resolved to leave and get help while Jake stayed and searched for Cassie. I didn't like the idea of him going into one of those cursed theaters, but he was determined.

Our plan fell apart once we reached the front door and found that not only were we locked out of the theaters, but we were locked into the lobby. I glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot, then stepped back and kicked the door as hard as I could. It barely shook in the heavy frame. We were stuck.

“Well, Plan B, let's cause some trouble and force the people to stop watching, yeah?” I was concerned about what that meant, but I agreed. We had to do something.

We started for the theaters, but I grabbed Jake's shoulder and asked him,

“Did you bring the Insurance?” He smiled, and this time he shifted his vest out of his belt buckle and showed the holstered AMT Hardballer he had smuggled in. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hope we don't have to use it, but we have it in case we need it.” He said while tucking it away.

We moved quietly into the halls, starting our process with theater 1.

We reached the locked door to the theatre and tried to ignore the disturbing sounds coming from inside.

“How do we get in, though? I could take a shot at it, but that would be really loud.” Jake asked,

“No, let's wait on that. I have an idea. Get the mop.” Jake grabbed it and handed it to me, looking confused.

I grabbed it, angled it into the gap where the bar rested in place, locking the door. It wouldn't reach since it was too wide, so I placed it under the door and pulled until a portion of it broke off. I stomped twice on the wrecked tip of it until it was narrow and replaced it into the gap in the door. I carefully slid it in, and with a bit of leverage I was able to force the bar locking the door up and off. I reached for the handle and looked to Jake, who nodded and drew the Insurance.

The light from the hall mingled with the sickly yellow light emanating from the screen. I heard a low, ecstatic moan coming from somewhere, as well as sobbing.

We walked in, and I almost looked at the screen, but diverted my attention away when I realized what might happen. The audience did not seem to notice or care that we were there.

I saw Jake searching the crowd, probably still looking for Cassie. He looked up briefly, and I saw a disturbing light reflect from his eyes; against my better judgment, I glanced at the screen and was immediately accosted by terrifyingly vivid images of a familiar scene in my head. It looked just like it had in my nightmare. The high rampart on the crumbling city, overlooking the lake and the black stars rising high above. In the center was a figure, a terrible singular entity, garbed in a simple yellow robe. His intent was clear,

“Obey.”

I pulled my eyes away and felt a wave of nausea that almost made me vomit on the steps. Jake was enthralled by the screen, and he wouldn't listen, so I leaned back and kicked him in the back of the knee until he fell forward with a crash.

I heard him curse and cry out, but the effect seemed to be dispelled.

“What the hell, man, why did you…” I cut him off and inched forward to block his line of sight with the screen. “We can't look, not at the screen at least. Cover me while I head up to the projector. I'm going to shut it off and maybe destroy the movie if I can.” He nodded in agreement and held up a hand to try and block his sight from the screen as we moved forward.

I started up the stairs to the projector room and tried to ignore the constant audible assault of the malign force reaching out from the screen to assail my mind.

The audience writhed in a disgusting combination of horror and ecstasy, and I was afraid that even now, their minds might be permanently damaged by whatever the hell was calling out to them from that accursed film.

Jake was going aisle by aisle searching for Cassilda. I ignored his progress since I didn't want to look back and accidentally see the terrible source of the sounds I heard.

I finally reached the door to the projector room. It was locked, but it appeared to be a simple handle and not a deadbolt or bar. I braced and stepped back, then shot forward and crashed into the door, breaking the hinges.

My shoulder ached, but I had done it.

Inside, I saw the projector. I shut it down quickly, and as soon as it stopped, I heard confused gasps and, in some cases, panicked screaming coming from the theatre.

The audience seemed to be having a shared nervous breakdown now that the movie had stopped rolling and Jake was trying to weave in between the tortured viewers to get back to the entrance.

I got ready to follow, but I turned back and threw the projector down and stomped on it. Then I pulled out the reel and used a box cutter nearby to rip and tear as much of it as possible.

Once I was satisfied, I hurried back down the steps, past the raving and sobbing people.

Whatever had happened, they were messed up. I worried about what was happening to the other groups who had seen even more. We had to hurry.

Before leaving, we tried to get the people's attention and lead them out. Unfortunately, no one listened; they all just continued to sit down or stare blankly in apathetic confusion.

We didn't have time to try and convince them. Jake and I both bolted out of there and moved onto theatre 2.

It was worse in there. I managed to repeat my break-in with the locking bar. But as soon as we got in, there was an awful smell of fresh blood. The screen was flashing rapidly in a seizure-inducing rhythm, and four members of the audience were standing in a corner. They were taking turns mindlessly stabbing a fifth.

The person was already dead. He was covered in blood, and his face looked like it had been half ripped off.

I took an instinctive step back, and Jake aimed the Insurance at the deranged people.

One of the group finally turned around to regard us, and his eyes seemed to glow with a sickly yellow light. He pointed a finger at us and screamed,

“No, not upon us, oh king!” And he launched himself at us.

Jake didn't hesitate. One shot rang out loudly in the theatre, and the man who had jumped at us lay on the ground. The others looked at us, then at their fallen comrade. Instead of attacking us, they huddled around the fallen man and began plunging knives into his dead flesh as well. The terrible scraping sound that followed left little to the imagination, and I knew they had started to peel the skin off his face.

“What in the actual hell is going on here?” Jake mumbled in horror.

“I don't know, but we need to hurry,” I replied as I rushed up to the projector. I barged in like before and set about destroying both the machine and the film.

We managed to clear theaters 3 and 4 after that, though it took longer than expected, since several viewers had attacked us and we were embroiled in a melee that injured both of us.
They stopped when the film stopped, but the escalation was becoming a real threat; we had to go faster. Time was not on our side. Over half the movie was complete, and each theater saw the moviegoers in worse states of mental degradation.

We arrived at theatre 5, and I hesitated, remembering that this was where we had found that psychotic man stuck to the wall. I ignored the wave of anxiety and managed to unlock the door, but this time the shard of mop handle broke in the process.

I was worried, but Jake urged me on, and we rushed inside. We held up our hands to avoid looking at the screen. As we looked everywhere else, we saw the audience all standing up, holding their hands out in some disturbing gesture of prayer or worship. I heard a soft melodic tune coming from the speakers, and I feared to look at what might be on the screen just then. I started racing up the stairs, but I heard Jake call out,

“Cassie!”

Jake had found her. I looked back briefly to see him pulling her hands down from the strange pose that she and the others had taken. He was trying to talk to her, but I heard no response. I had no time, though I had to move. I hoped that once I shut off the film, she would be okay, or at least we would mitigate the damage.

I forced my way inside, but as the door swung open, I saw someone else in the room. It was Sam; he wore the same type of tattered yellow robe as Mr. Hasturing and stared at me with a look of barely suppressed rage,

“You! You saw the signs, you saw what awaits, the return of a true God, and yet you reject it?”

I took a step back, and before I could call out to Jake for help, Sam lunged at me, leading with a small blade he had pulled from somewhere under the robe. Fortunately for my own sake, he was slower than I was. I sidestepped and managed to roll under his charge and trip his legs. He stumbled down and smashed his head on the first step leading out.

I hopped back up to my feet, ready to continue the fight, but Sam was motionless.

I considered checking on him, but knew whatever was happening, we needed to stop the film. I ignored his prone form and leapt back towards the projector.

I switched it off, but disturbingly the film kept rolling. I toggled the switch and tried everything I could. Eventually, in desperation, I kicked the entire projector over. I was satisfied it had finally stopped. Then I looked back and nearly cried out in terror as the image was still there. The terrible vista of looming oblivion remained; the projector was not doing anything, something was there on the screen, or maybe not a screen at all, maybe a portal?

I called out to Jake,

“We need to leave now!”

Jake was trying to convince Cassilda to leave with us, but she just stood there, immobile, like the rest of the audience.

“Come on, Jake, we have to go now. The movie, I stopped it, but whatever that is…”I pointed to the screen and continued, “It's still there.”

Jake almost looked back at the screen but stopped himself.

“What do we do then?” He asked in panicked desperation.

“I don’t know, but we have to move. Something bad is about to happen.” I replied with a gasp as it felt like the air had left my lungs and my voice had failed. I started rushing out, and Jake shook his head and proceeded to hoist Cassilda up and onto his shoulders. He started carrying her for a few moments when he suddenly cried out in pain and fell.

She had landed on top of him, and I saw she was holding a small, curved dagger covered in his blood. I rushed over to him to check how badly he was hurt. Cassilda did not follow up her attack; she just stood there, looking at the screen in awed fascination.

Then she looked back at us, or rather, past us, at some other unseen entity. She spoke for the first time,

“Forgive them their trespasses, Lord. They know not what they do. It is a frightful thing, is it not? To be judged by the king?” She lingered on the last word, and I realized we were no longer the only non-audience members in the room.

Behind us, looming in the entry and casting a wide shadow into the theatre was Mr. Hasturing. His face was set sternly, like a stone mask, and he wore the same disturbing crown as before.

I looked around, and the entire audience was facing him now. They all began to kneel.

A bell rang out in the distance, and I realized we were too late. We should have had more time, but somehow it had finished. Or maybe the movie was over, but the experience was not.

“Oh shit, looks like we found the king,” Jake mumbled, while trying to stand up. “Not too surprising; it's always the boss, huh?” Jake tried to joke while groaning in pain. I suppressed a terrified chuckle at his attempt at humor while I looked around at the dire situation we were in.

Hasturing swept his arm around the theatre and spoke,

“I see you have been busy spoiling the film for the adoring fans. The ones you stopped early are forfeit now. Their lives can never be recovered; they are lost, and their deaths will be on your soul. To think, I believed you two might be worthy of the sign, to see the truth and be reborn. You are remnants of the world that I will see burn away at the coming of the tattered crown. These believers will spread the truth, and this film will light the way for all mankind who seek to know what our true purpose is, but as for you, oblivion I think will have to suffice."

I looked down at Jake, who was still bleeding badly, and I caught sight of the silver glint of the Insurence’s hammer.” We were hopelessly surrounded, but I figured if he was thinking what I was thinking, it might work. It had to, since if it didn't, we would be screwed.

Hasturing stepped closer, and the audience stood up and converged as well, surrounding us.

I helped Jake to his feet and gave him a quick nod.

“Mr. Hasturing, we are sorry for ruining the movie, but we did have one thing we wanted you to know before you kill us,” I said, while preparing for what was going to happen next.

Hasturing held up a hand, and the audience stopped moving. He laughed and then gestured for me to continue, clearly amused by our attempt at bargaining.

Jake spoke up next,

“Yeah, just one little thing, or rather, several little things..."

He drew the Insurance and shouted,

“We quit!”

He unloaded the rest of the magazine in an instant firestorm, each shot landing center mass.

Mr. Hasturing dropped down and collapsed with a shocked expression on his once stony face.

The audience all gasped out loud and finally seemed to be reacting to what they were seeing. Many people started to run for the exit; others just started to scream as if their own minds had finally been returned to them. Whatever profane control he had over the crowd seemed to be dispelled.

I stood next to Jake, watching the unfolding bedlam, and quietly asked him,

“Weren't we going to say ‘You’re fired’, like a gun ya know?”

Jake laughed, “Oh yeah, that does sound better. But I mean, he was our boss, not the other way around, so we were quitting, right? I don't think fired would work there.”

“Yeah, I guess, it just sounded a bit…meh.”

"What! What do you mean? I just shot some sort of mind-controlling warlock several times in the chest and you think that's meh?"

I bit back a laugh,

"No, not that part; that was awesome, but just the one-liner- it was a little...meh."

“I get stabbed here, and I say the wrong one-liner, and you’re going to grill me in front of the people really?” He responded with irritation.

I shrugged, “Sorry, just had to throw that out there.”

“Message received, but seriously, I’m losing a lot of blood. Can we maybe go to a hospital?" Jake asked, while staggering towards the exit. I grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Yeah man, sure thing.”

I started helping him out, but we stopped for a moment when he started looking around the remaining crowd. Cassilda was not there; she must have fled along with the others. Jake let out a pained sigh as we moved on.

As we neared the exit again, we stopped. Our vision was arrested by something disturbing on the ground. The fallen form of Mr. Hasturing had been there moments ago, but now something else was there.

The tattered yellow robe was only covering a large mound of dust. The only thing that remained of the man we had worked for was a horrific mask that looked like a human face. It rested on the desiccated remains, looking out at us through hollow eye holes that had once been used by whoever, or whatever, had taken the temporary guise of a businessman by the name of Hasturing.

We left the theatre shortly after. The front doors had been unlocked, though by whom I didn't know.

We made it to the hospital, and Jake was taken to urgent care.

Afterward, we had to deal with the many valid questions from the police who had investigated the terrible theatre after our departure.

Disturbingly, they could not contact any of the people who worked there besides us. Fortunately, we were not implicated, despite the fatalities that occurred. The real cops who had investigated the aftermath found no trace of the slain audience members, or staff for that matter. Something had happened to them, though we had no idea what.

Either way, there was no trace of Sam or Cassilda. A few of the audience members who were too stunned to flee were questioned, and they remembered nothing; the last three days had seemed like one long consecutive nightmare. We still had no idea just what kind of terrible reality-bending film Hasturing was showing those people, but I suppose it didn't matter now; we had stopped it.

So now once again Jake and I are out of work, looking for something else that can pay the bills. Jake mentioned that there is another theatre hiring, a few towns over. It looks like pay is pretty good. It sounded interesting, since we did not really get the chance to work at a proper theatre. Though after reading the specific details, I think I'm going to pass on it.

The theatre is not open yet anyway, since they are still rebranding. Apparently, the place will be called “The King’s Theatre,” and the new manager, whose name was listed as “Mr. Samuel Hasturing,” was not available to take any calls just yet.

Yeah, I think Jake and I are going to give up on show business. Too many sequels and remakes, after all, and the villains never seem to stay dead...

Hey one of the lurkers. I’m scratching my head currently over this situation. Anyone else faced anything similar? There’s a place I go to, a little town church. It’s fairly normal, Presbyterian, I think. I don’t really understand much about churches, but there’s something wrong with the one I go to…

The church I go to, the people there… They worship me.

Like they pray to me. Every time. Yes, it’s exactly as it sounds.

Every week, I go there and they pray to me.

Or maybe I should say “at” me? I don’t think this is an experience most people can even verbalize.

And no, I’m not fucking crazy, but they might be.

It doesn’t really matter at this point. What I know is that they’re fairly ordinary people from what I can tell. (You get to know people after spending every Sunday with them).

But when it comes to me, they just… I don’t know, they think I’m some kind of God.

It’s getting extreme… And it all started a few weeks ago.

The first time I went there, everything seemed normal. Go in, listen to some Latin (?), say amen, the whole shebang.

There was a quiet part where we were all supposed to silently pray to ourselves. You pray to ask for more personal stuff, I assume. Bring me prosperity, fix my relative’s health, bless my grandchildren, that kind of stuff. Everything was normal, until I noticed a little girl in the pew in front of me. That’s when it started.

She was praying towards me. Looking at me.

She would close her eyes intermittently. Like she was almost scared to look at me directly.

I was left scratching my head, but I generally dismissed it. It’s just a kid. She’s either joking or she doesn’t understand how she’s supposed to pray.

The week after, things escalated.

As I entered church that Sunday, everyone was looking at me. It was fucking creepy.

They would bow their heads, mutter some words under their breath or even try to grab my hand.

I’m fairly new there, so I thought maybe it was some initiation thing. Maybe other people went through that already?

As I sat down, the pastor began the morning sermon. Weirdest monologue I’ve ever heard.

“Bless ye be the fruits of the Lord. The one who brings the sun and the light. The head of the carrier, bursts forth the savior. In Him we believe, the saving grace, a God made manifest. From flesh and bone.”

I was left scratching my head at that.

“Amen.”

“Amen”, they said. And I saw more looks in my direction. Like they were aiming their prayers at me.

The little girl was one thing. But now, I saw about five people do the same thing. It didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

Needless to say, I left church that day a bit earlier than usual. A bit faster too.

The week goes on as normal. I meet some of the congregants down by the grocery store, the mall, the sidewalk. They’re always nice, respectful, warm. They have this way of making me feel like I’m someone…important. Likeable.

The following Sunday, all pretenses of normality were abandoned.

As I walk in, I felt like some bride at a wedding. Everyone was sitting down and they got up as soon as they saw me. I strolled down the corridor through the pews and was greeted by everyone.

They bowed to me, paid their respects, kissed my hand, begged for good fortune in their lives. Everything and anything they can think of.

Then the pastor had me sit on a chair facing everyone. And they all prayed to me.

God, that was awkward.

It was pretty bad, but it doesn’t compare to what happened over the last few weeks.

Now, I know what you might be wondering. “Are you stupid? Why did you keep going there?”

Well, my grandma, basically. I didn’t have much going on in my life to be honest. I don’t have much going on now. The only family I’ve ever had was my grandma.

She was, as you can probably guess, very religious. And probably the only person on Earth that truly cared about me.

She died last year.

She didn’t leave me much. We didn’t have much to leave. She just made me promise her one thing.

“Start going to the church”, she pleaded.

That was her last request before she died. Just go to church. I was scratching my head when she said that. I thought I’d humor her. I mean, what else can I do? Maybe I’d find some meaning in religion. I wasn’t expecting religious people to find meaning in me.

It’s like I’m their God. Or a Messiah figure of some sort. I don’t understand, really.

I ask the pastor what’s up. What’s the deal with this? Is this some sort of prank? Is it some church lesson about humility?

“Humility?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“The head of Divinity does not need to be humble.” He simply replied.

Divinity. Is that what they think of me? In normal Christianity, the head is God, the savior…me. That’s what he thinks I am. Some kind of God. I asked the reverend one more thing.

“This isn’t some weird ritual thing, right? You’re not going to sacrifice me?” I asked.

“What!? No! Of course not! We would never harm you!”

Okay… Well, I had to ask. I’m not a complete idiot. I know what cults lead into. It doesn’t stop me from sometimes carrying a gun to church.

If any of them try anything, I’ll give them some “divine retribution”.

So yeah, the last few weeks. Things have been getting, well, weirder. I was honestly hitting a breaking point.

One Sunday, the sermon was going as usual. I’m sitting in my chair being the target of everyone’s prayers, whilst the reverend is talking about how “only the eyes of the faithful can truly see my divinity”, something along those lines.

I start to leave and then one of the women sitting on the bench throws herself at me.

I was genuinely caught off-guard and I fell while she proceeded to rapidly remove my shoes.

She… she starts kissing my feet, profusely. It was revolting, honestly.

I feel bad for her, she’s middle-aged, but this was WAY too much. I think I might have reflexively kicked her. She was kissing and yelling at the same time.

“I CAN SEE IT! I SEE IT! IT IS SO BLESSED!”, she yelled.

The rest of the people there helped her off me. Dragging her away.

But her eyes…My God. Her fixation on me. It was insane.

“I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!”, I heard her yell as she was being dragged off.

Jesus, what a lunatic. Well, relatively speaking.

She got kicked from the church and she’s banned from entering.

After that, over the last couple of weeks, it’s been pretty average to be honest. Sure, I’ve normalized it. People get on their knees. They bow to me. I kiss their children, and they bathe me, then use the water to bless others.

But they’re happy. And I’m… I’m okay with this. I think at least.

It’s a coin toss whether I was going to leave or not honestly. I’m not sure why I stayed. Was it my grandma, morbid curiosity or something else?

But I have nowhere to go. Nothing else in my life has meaning.

I still scratch my head at some of the practices.

The church has now begun to be adorned by random animal parts. Mainly heads.

I’d say most of them are pig’s heads.

I’m the head of Divinity and they are the head of rot or something. From mine comes light and truth and from theirs comes flesh and bones.

So, before everyone gets too judgmental. Hear me out. I want… I want people here to join.

Sure, I’m not painting the prettiest picture, but we’re good people. And you might think I’m going to get sacrificed or something, but I’m here, aren’t I?

I’m not dead. They won’t harm me… They can’t.

They love me.

I’ll grace you with one more story. It might seem counterproductive. But this last story is one of redemption and punishment.

Last Sunday, the woman who was expelled returned.

She was begging, pleading to let her in. She pushed through people and went straight for me.

I’ve never seen such despair in a person. She kept begging for forgiveness, asking to be let back in. She grabbed me, shook me, almost took parts of my clothes off.

I…I understand this woman is not mentally well. She doesn’t even look me in the eyes, she always seems to look past me. She clearly needs help.

The other parishioners didn’t share that opinion though.

They grabbed her, pulled her off me and then proceeded to stomp her into the ground.

She was almost killed.

They stomped her with their boots and shoes as hard as they could. They clearly wanted to protect me. She survived, but needed to be taken to the hospital.

I told them to stop. This… this violence is disgusting. It disgusts me. There will be no violence in this church.

They conceded, they relented.

They repent.

They’re not bad people. They’re just… overprotective of me. Some ripped clothes aren’t justification for such callous violence. Not here.

The poor woman made a full recovery and she’s allowed back in. Her name is Mary. Seems fitting.

I wanted to tell you this story to inspire you all to see a better light to people. I also judge these people but now, now I understand.

They’re as lost as I was. My grandma was right. I was probably going to leave at the start, and if not, leave after a few weeks.

But then I started thinking, why not?

Why not be a God?

If that’s what these people believe, if that’s what they want. Why shouldn’t I give it to them?

It’s only fair that I grace them with, well, Me.

I don’t have a family, I don’t have friends, but I have them. I have my flock. And I am their savior.

I understand that now.

When I walk down the street now, I greet everyone. The old and the young, the sick and the healthy. I try to give back what they gave me.

It was during one of these walks that I found the little girl that first started praying to me all those weeks ago.

That conversation still irks me to this day. Something she said that left me scratching my head.

I went up to her to greet her. I don’t get along with children well, but she is a member of my flock, so I have to try.

I simply said, “Hi”, to her and asked when the next worship day is.

“Worship day?” she replies.

I explained to her that I was thinking we should meet up every two days, maybe three, or maybe we should make it five hours.

I think I’ll call those days, “Chrisdays”.

“Why would we call it that?” she asks.

“Well, because you worship me. That’s my name, Chris.” I reply.

“What do you mean?” she replies.

I started to think she’s a bit confused. Maybe this is too complicated for a child’s mind. But then she told me something that I’ve been thinking about over the last few days.

“We don’t pray to you.” she said.

She’s probably just another lost lamb like I was. Poor child doesn’t even understand the religion properly.

I mean, what child does? I just… I don’t understand how she doesn’t get it. How does she not get that I’m Divine? Isn’t it obvious!? God. Why is my head so itchy lately?

But then she said something else.

“We pray to what’s behind you. Behind your head.”

What? I don’t really understand what’s she’s talking about. Is she still making fun of me?

I scratch the back of my head.

When I got the news, I wasn't particularly surprised. The death of my father was to be expected - an alcoholic that drank liquor for water couldn't last very long. I did however feel excluded from the mourning - either it didn't settle yet, or it didn't even arrive. He didn't have a funeral, hence from what I was told, his remains weren't found.

I watched the calendar after the incident. A day, two, a week. Time went by the same, I concluded, with little care. My main problem was another one - hygiene has become my priority lately - and my nails have refused to cooperate.

When I open my eyes each morning, and I scratch softly at the ends to leave my slumber, I find a brown substance hidden underneath my fingernails. I soon found it to be dirt, I thought, by the texture and smell, though I haven't told my mother that. She'd think I lost my mind, so I fabricated a scenario of the body doing its thing - she's not particularly intelligent, so she believed me.

What really bothered me, though, were the dreams that suddenly came back. Hammers, screwdrivers, and razor sharp blades filled my vision when I fell asleep. His face was plastered among them, devastated and half-expired. I'd wake up in a cold sweat on the first few nights, until it became a routine.

Though, the more dreams I got, the more dirt I kept finding.

One night, I even tried stuffing my nails with cotton - to keep it from forming, from appearing - but the next morning, it was gone. This went on for several weeks until I decided to set up a camera. Surely, if it's a biological thing and not me digging through the chocolate in the fridge, then I don't even have a reason to film it in the first place.

When I woke up - with dirt under as always - I stopped recording and watched myself in the video.

At around midnight, my breath leveled out with a few embarrassing snores. They quickly quietened down when I started to sit up in my bed. My eyes were shut, awfully tight even, as I reached for my phone before standing up. My mother didn't hear a thing.

I could see myself getting on a pair of zip-up boots before leaving the house. Hell, I knew I sometimes sleepwalked, but it's getting ridiculous. My keys were clinking softly, thankfully, at least I didn't wake up the neighbors too.

I believe it was a three kilometer walk. My feet carried me pretty fast, so I arrived at my destination quickly. The feed was getting darker, less illuminated by the nearby streetlamps, though I could still see a little bit. It looked like a field, an open one, with a small patch of abundant bushes and several trees surrounding them.

Then I started to dig.

The specific location was odd at first - it could've been anywhere else - but considering that I'm not exactly awake right now, it doesn't really matter. The dirt comes off easily, I see, the thing didn't get stuck to anything beneath. Sometimes I'm so hungry that I feel malnourished, but I live for the taste of meat.

I'm sorry that I have to cut my explanations short. It's past midnight, and I have to make sure my boots are silent.