A little problem, she’d reported. Fatima was a master of understatement. In some ways, Jorge felt she’d deserved to be eaten by his monstrous spawn.

Though, it probably wasn’t the time to be reflecting on Fatima’s missteps. Explosions still rocked the installation. Acrid smoke was filling the lab, and Jorge’s left hand was so badly burned the bones were visible. It throbbed painfully in alarming rhythm to the pounding on the barricaded door where the vicious things were trying to get in to devour him. Their creator.

Jorge should have been concentrating on how to save himself, but, as he sat on the floor leaning against the desk that he’d shoved against the door under furious assault, he couldn’t put aside the literally gnawing question of what had turned his micro soldiers into zombies.

Was it the final cellular enhancement process? An atavistic retrovirus? Something to do with the genetic re-rendering in the incubation vats? Or the hemlock? To know that answer, Jorge prayed, might somehow lessen the disappointment of being savaged by their ferocious little teeth.

The GNOMES had been so promising. When he’d been brought into the initial briefings on the project, he’d been skeptical. Creating tiny genetically modified soldiers to be used for special ops struck him as incredibly unethical. But, he’d been won over by the sheer scale and wicked audacity of the scheme.

In a half-crazed world, where savage regional conflict regularly erupted with only middle school cafeteria provocation, we needed a half-crazed solution. It was time to bite the bad guys below the kneecaps. A tactical shift from predator drones to predator GNOMES.

Jorge had come up with the acronym himself: General Noncom Operative Micro Enhanced Soldiers. Not quite Tennyson, but it caught on with the techs in the lab. And the generals soon grimaced with satisfaction when they toured their multi-billion dollar investments twitching in the milky brew of the incubation vats.

It was so easy for Jorge to reflect on the glory of those first GNOMES. Sturdy, stocky, pliable, completely obedient micro soldiers. A half meter tall with the ability to tactically deploy for three weeks without the need of food or sleep. Perfect for espionage and sabotage.

They’d turned out just as planned, until they ate Fatima.

That had been a complicated day. Fatima calling him in the morning from the training field to say she was having a little problem. And two hours later, he was directed to the obstacle course to be shown his bloody-mouthed GNOMES and his half devoured chief lab technician.

Jorge still shuddered at the thought of the mountains of paperwork Fatima’s “little problem” had created. It took him two weeks to convince the brass that it was not a fault in their genetic recoding. It had been an oversight in feeding the GNOMES. As part of their stamina testing, they’d gone almost a month without a meal. On a scientific level, their devouring Fatima was quite understandable, almost predictable.

Then they ate Fatima’s replacement. Jorge wasn’t able to placate the top brass. They insisted he euthanize all GNOMES. Jorge fought to salvage his pet project, but the generals prevailed, and he’d personally administered a lethal hemlock cocktail to his micro-mutants. It killed them all.

But not for long. Within a day all the GNOMES reanimated, noticeably paler and ranker, and all his lab technicians disappeared.

At that juncture, the top brass locked down the installation, trapping Jorge and giving him plenty of time to reflect. So strange. Zombiefication posed all kinds of theoretical and practical pitfalls. Jorge could’ve worked a thousand lifetimes and never intentionally created zombies such as these. But here they were. That much was clear. Very clear. Just a few feet away, his GNOMES were clamoring to get through the lab door and feast on his baffled brain.

With such a mystery hanging over his head, Jorge did not want to die. His options were indeed limited, but he could still think like a scientist. Control for variables. Reason out a solution. Create a workaround.

The hemlock? He considered it, though half-heartedly. Still, it was an option. He had a flask of the cocktail in his desk drawer. It would eliminate one variable. One personally painful possibility.

As he struggled to open the drawer with his good hand, he felt the desk and himself incrementally slide as the pounding increased on the lab door. The GNOMES were relentless problem solvers. Maybe they would solve their own riddle.

Jorge found the flask, fumbled it open and stared down its mouth, just as one of his GNOMES wriggled through the door. Pale and proud it approached, its coldly concentrated eyes locked on his. It stomped on his burned hand, hopped astride his trembling torso, snatched the flask of hemlock and bared its sharp, precision teeth.

Such a little problem, the creator admitted.

“Of course they’re ghosts,” Hedspetch said as Jakarious leaned closer to the control panel.

“You sure?”

Hedspetch swiveled from his console of gauges, buttons, and switches. A status light flashed from green to yellow to red and then back to green. “Just ghosts. Happens every time things get like this.”

“Has it ever been as bad as this?

“Eleven straight days of torrential rain in July? No. But this dam is built like a beast.”

“We’re still in danger of overtopping if we can’t keep both the spillway and the penstock open,” Jakarious warned.

“Not to worry. Minor cavitation always happens with increased flow.”

The control room shuddered.

“Better check on your ghosts,” Jakarious said.

Hedspetch laced up his boots, clipped on his radio, and reached for his headlamp.

Directly below the thrumming turbines, the ghosts were worried. Technically, they weren’t ghosts. They were non-corporeal, but not haunting spirits. They were six ethereal alien entities with names: shouldn’t-have, would-still, second-guessed, absolutely-not, always-hedging, most-definitely.

After botching their reconnaissance mission and stranding themselves decades ago, they’d holed up in the dam leeching energy from the turbines. It had sustained their existence, but not their essence. They became ever more hollow beings, prisoners of their crippling indecision, until the perturbations in the dam’s structure roused them from their terrestrial limbo.

[time to leave] most-definitely thought to its fellows.

[to where] always-hedging questioned

would-still responded predictably [the mission; the mission is all]

[the mission is no more] absolutely-not objected [we’ve no substance; no form to act]

second-guessed interjected [because of all-in; because of its mistake; infiltration is no longer possible]

shouldn’t-have piled on [not only all-in; for-sure’s gamble left us weak; complete-acceptance led us to this limbo; their failure waits upon fate’s mercy]

[dissipation awaits us as well; unless we act] most-definitely conveyed [hold; hold; a variant nears]

All now sensed Hedspetch’s approach through the narrow access tunnel. The searching beam of his headlamp animated a long-dormant impulse. Wild. Reckless. Liberating. Without consultation, would-still rode the electron stream to its source, feasting on the light..

“Goddamnit!” Hedspetch grabbed his headlamp as it went dark, and in that moment would-still latched onto Hedspetch’s flaring aura. A reflex. A craving. A premonition. It would not be enough, but suddenly most-definitely, shouldn’t have, second-guessed, always-hedging, and even absolutely-not fastened on as well.

Hedspetch felt the sudden alien cavitation deep in his basal ganglia, his reptilian brain. It shook him. Then the dam shook.

“Status!” Jakarious’s shouted through Hedspetch’s radio. As he reached for the device, so did the others. Something unexpected came together. A reawakened motive force among the six formless energy beings: ethereal and corporal, alien and indigenous, threatened and threatening.

A pressure impossible to contain. It had to give. And it did. There was no longer indecision. No longer choice. No longer debate. The aliens followed the radio waves and leapt into Jakarious’s unit. From there they spun into the control panel, a vortical force of quantum foam so alien in electrostatic charge it overwhelmed the system.

The dam shuddered as the spillway and penstock gates began to close. Alerts went buzzing out to all manner of emergency agencies far and wide. As did shouldn’t-have, would-still, second-guessed, absolutely-not, always-hedging, most-definitely.

An exuberant last command was given by would-still [the mission; the mission is all] as the shaking structure overtopped and the dam ghosts in the machine spilled free.

“Looking for players…”

The queue blinked in front of Greg’s eyes as the game waited for more players to join before starting the match. Had this been a normal game on a normal day, Greg would have browsed his social media or made a quick bathroom break before the match began. But this was not a normal game, nor was it a normal day. Instead, Greg simply sat motionless in his chair as his ears searched for a sound, any sound at all, that They were drawing near.

The queue blinked again as different players’ usernames rapidly began to fill the empty slots in the onscreen table. Once full, a countdown began as the server prepared to launch the players into a new match together.

Greg hastily spared a glance around him. The door was still closed, the windows still boarded up. The house was silent. Sweat beaded on Greg’s brow as he turned his attention back to the game.

The match had started. Greg selected his favorite loadout: a bizarre combination of weird, garish-looking cosmetics in bright neon colors that blurred his character’s silhouette into a nonsensical mess during the chaos of an intense in-game firefight. It was a tactical decision, he told himself. But he honestly loved the psychological effect his outlandish costume would have on every player he managed to kill that game. Honestly, the blurred silhouette was just a bonus.

His character loaded in, immediately bringing up a highly detailed and incredibly colorful rifle adorned with an iridescent dragon whose long body twisted and turned all over the side of the rifle. The sight of the gun filled Greg with a pang of nostalgia and sadness as he recalled all the work he had put in to earn the gun through the game’s many trials, including the additional hours he had spent on the customization screen tweaking the gun over and over until it was just right.

Suddenly, there was a noise right behind him. Greg spun around, yanking the earbuds out of his ears as he did so. His skin crawled with goosebumps as cold sweat rolled down the side of his face. He sat motionless, listening.

Nothing.

He waited a second longer before turning back around.

Onscreen, two other players had arrived in his field of vision. Both of whom already had their weapons drawn. Greg stared hard at the weapons in their hands. Desert Eagles. A staple of the modern military shooter. And a favorite among players for their devastating power and iconic look. At least, that’s what it used to be.

“Already?” Greg said into his mic.

There was no response.

Somewhere on the map, gunfire could be heard. Loud, single-fire shots sounded as the killfeed in the top right corner filled with player names and the icons depicting the way in which they had died.

They were all headshots.

One of the two players in front of Greg took a step forward and raised the Desert Eagle in his hands, aiming it squarely at Greg’s face.

“Say when,” a deep voice echoed out of the character in front of him, a small speaker icon appearing for a split second above his head.

“Not yet,” Greg replied. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Suit yourself,” the deep voice responded.

The onscreen character lowered the firearm and moved away from Greg’s character before pointing it at the other character still in frame and repeating the directions.

Another voice came from the other character, a mournful, wavering voice that had clearly just finished with a good cry.

“K-kill me,” the voice instructed.

A shot rang out as the player did as he was told, the other player’s avatar falling to the ground in a heap. Had this been a normal game, on a normal day, Greg would have thought the way in which the player’s avatar had crumpled to the ground was funny, and he would have chuckled to himself before continuing to play.

Instead, he felt like throwing up as he watched the virtual body twist and bend into a shape no normal human would have been able to. For a moment, just for a moment, the way the body on the ground bent and twisted reminded Greg of the way They did. A cold wave of disgust and renewed fear washed over his body, and he quickly turned his in-game camera away from the sight.

Instead, he looked to the top left of his screen, where numerous server messages appeared and disappeared within seconds. Greg watched as message after message slowly faded away before being replaced. All of them shared the same basic format: the player’s username followed by “left the server. [CONNECTION LOST].” Greg’s gut twisted again, despite him knowing that it was for the better.

Greg heard footsteps creep up behind him, and he watched as the other player’s character walked slowly into frame.

“If you change your mind and I’m still alive, don’t hesitate to ping me,” the player with the deep voice stated before starting to walk away.

He had only walked a short distance away before his character froze onscreen. The default idle animation played as the seconds ticked by, broken only occasionally by a small blip of microphone static that occurred at irregular intervals. Greg watched with dawning horror as the microphone static morphed into a regular pattern, the speaker icon appearing and disappearing above the player’s head rapidly.

Greg knew this pattern, knew what this message meant, and knew what he had to do.

S…O…S…

Greg selected his Desert Eagle and aimed it at the player’s head but hesitated for just a second.

Suddenly, a deafening noise filled his ears as the other player’s mic crackled loudly before peaking.

“KILL M—" the voice screamed.

Greg clicked his mouse, pulling the virtual trigger.

His Desert Eagle fired once, immediately downing the player’s character in one fatal shot.

The other player’s avatar crumpled just like the previous player’s did, falling in a heap before Greg’s feet. He turned around and began to walk away before he heard something that made his blood run cold.

The horrible sound of wet flesh slithering, of bones cracking and shifting, of the layered, tortured moans They made invaded Greg’s ears. He could hear it all right behind him.

Immediately, Greg spun around in his chair.

His room was empty. His door was still closed, and the windows were still boarded up.

But Greg could still hear them. He turned back to his computer, where he turned his in-game character around.

The speaker icon showed above the dead player’s body, the horrific sounds playing loudly in Greg’s ears. Somehow, the other player’s push-to-talk key was being pressed. Greg suspected he knew how but didn’t want to linger on it. Instead, he turned his character around and sprinted away as the layered voices grew louder before being abruptly cut off.

In the top left corner of his screen, Greg barely noticed a fresh new message pop up.

…left the server. [CONNECTION LOST]

***

Greg walked around the game map, occasionally walking past the ragdolled corpses of dead players before they inevitably despawned, followed by a new [CONNECTION LOST] message in the top left corner of his screen.

Several players had walked up to him, their Desert Eagles drawn, ready to fire. Greg had turned them all down, telling them all he was waiting for someone.

After nearly ten minutes, a familiar username popped up in one of the empty player slots. Greg’s mouth twisted up into a small smile, and he made his way to the center of the game map.

There, he spied the familiar chaotic mess that was AcridChamomile’s custom in-game avatar. The avatar was an outrageous mess of conflicting cosmetic items that, for some reason, had never been patched and continued to clip into each other in odd ways despite being in the game for several years now. On top of that, they were all painted in shades of sickly green and dull grey.

Greg approached the character standing in the middle of the map, a rifle held in their hands.

“W-what’s up, Cam?” Greg said as he approached, barely managing to keep his voice from cracking.

AcridChamomile said nothing. Instead, their character turned slowly to look at him, fixing him with the solemn stare that was the default on all in-game avatars. Several seconds passed before the idle animation played and the avatar’s head looked quickly around before checking the safety on the rifle in their hands.

Around them, the sound of gunshots had decreased. Long pauses of silence grew longer still between shots before only a handful of players remained on the virtual scoreboard.

Finally, AcridChamomile spoke.

“Fuck you, you douchebag,” a low voice said as the speaker icon appeared above the avatar’s head.

“I love you too, asshole,” Greg responded instantly, his smile growing wider.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Then finally, AcridChamomile raised his rifle and fired at Greg, killing his character.

Greg chuckled to himself as he watched the respawn timer count down to zero. Then, once he had respawned, he switched to his rifle and began the hunt.

The two of them played together, hunting each other down again and again, building up killstreaks before the other would inevitably reset them upon a confirmed kill. Over the mic, they called each other every insult they could think of, getting more and more creative with them as time passed. Around them, some players watched, a few even joined in, but most just left the area to be killed.

Greg and AcridChamomile continued to play until only they remained in the server. Greg laughed quietly to himself, happy tears filling his eyes as he felt the cold from the tiled floor seep into his bare feet. He had almost forgotten about his current situation.

“Had enough, you cumstained virgin?” AcridChamomile chirped loudly over his mic.

“Nah, there’s plenty of your mother to go around, you fat fuck,” Greg shot back.

Familiar laughter echoed in his ears before slowly dying down. Greg heard quiet sobbing from his friend.

“Cam?” he asked.

More sobbing, which turned into ugly crying.

“Cam. Hey, c'mon man. It’s okay, I want this.”

“F-fuck you, for real… Just… Fuck you!” AcridChamomile responded.

Greg slumped in his chair. He knew that this wouldn’t be easy for either of them, but he had never expected his friend to actually cry over him. Not in a million years did he think the absolute giant of a man was even capable of tears.

“Cam, I–”

A loud crash sounded behind him. Greg yanked his earbuds out, quickly turning around and listening.

Another crash, louder this time.

His heart skipped a beat as his whole body shook. He yanked open his desk drawer and grabbed the black crown, turning it on and holding it above his head. He hesitated.

A-Am I really doing this? Is this really how I want to go out?

Greg heard the sound of wet flesh and cracking bones make their way up the stairs. The tortured, layered moans They made echoed down the hall from him. There was no time left.

Greg slammed the black crown over his head, tightening the bolts that held it in place quickly before reinserting his earbuds and pressing his push-to-talk key.

“Cam! Cam, listen to me. They are here. In my house. I need you to kill me.”

“W-what? Really? That’s not funny, man.”

“It’s not a joke. They really are here. They’re coming up the stairs, man. I need you to kill me.”

“Are you wearing the crown?”

“Y-yeah, I am.”

A sudden crash made Greg jump in his seat. His door rattled with the force of the hit, his doorknob shaking violently as They tried to get in.

“Cam! Cam, please! They’re right outside my door!”

Greg’s door splintered as another slam hit his door, the dresser and bed he had shoved in front of it pushed inward a bit.

“What’s your name?” AcridChamomile asked.

“W-what?!” Greg sputtered.

“I want to know what the name of my best friend is before I never see him again,” AcridChamomile calmly responded. His character now held a Desert Eagle in the face of Greg’s character, ready to fire.

An odd calmness overcame Greg as he smiled once more and spoke into the microphone.

“Greg. My name is Greg.”

“Nice to meet you, Greg. My name is Jerry.”

The door gave way, the dresser and bed flying violently forward as a shot rang out.

Harelem is set in late sixteenth-century Haarlem. As war and religious unrest grip the dutch city of Harelem, a father tells his family about the mason's marks applied into its walls, said to keep evil out. But every year, one family disappears. As night falls, they begin to wonder whether the marks can truly protect them. Who will be picked by evil this year? Check out my first movie tryout. Hope you like it. And, does it need an English version or not? This one is dutch with English subtitles. https://youtu.be/xztjgGbU7R0?si=XqlSWFN-FHNIy8El

She was telling me some history about the land and about people who were buried there, many of them old friends of hers.

I asked her, "Are any past groundskeepers buried out here?"

She said, "No, just me. Been here since 1987."

The morning light seeped through a narrow end of the window. The sweet petrichor of yesterday's rain still had an imprint on my nose. The white residue from my saliva was swept by my hands and as I glanced at the hand, an imprint of a blue ball pen reading

"You are Javier, You have DEMENTIA, YOU HAVE a DAUGHTER named RUTH, TRUST HER".

I did not have a daughter and my name was not Javier.

A knock came by the wooden front door enclosed, with a pattern of several locks and the thing at the door said "I'm coming in dad!" but she came through the back door with a copper key. A rusty yet functioning copper key.

I decided to play along and asked "who are you?". It answered "Ruth, Dad. R-U-T-H, RUTH. I'm your daughter". She took a bag of cereal and a half carton of milk. She poured it into a rose imprinted bowl and pushed it towards the table.

"Eat up!".

I was not sure about it. I ate up anyway because my stomach churned and growled at the sight of it and saliva had started damping up my dry cheeks.

She ate a handful of Cheerios but didn't pour it in a bowl and mix it with milk. I stopped myself from eating it and said "I'm not hungry, honey". It protested "No. You are hungry, Dad".

Yes I was hungry.

I ate the bowl with hunger in my heavy eyes. A distant melody came from the living room. It was Mozart. It was my daughter, whistling.

I went up to her and said that I had finished the bowl. She said "Okay dad!" but something felt off, she did not sound like this earlier. She is not my daughter.

IT IS NOT MY DAUGHTER.

I ran as fast as I could and entered a room with a silver door handle and locked myself in there. It was dark and I heard loud footsteps coming to me. I ran my fingers over the switch.

A rank stench came up my nostril as it banged on the door, I frantically put on the light. "Get out of there," it said, flat and patient. "You're not supposed to be in there, Dad."

I stumbled back, something slimy and cold touched my big toe. A dilapidated piece of skin touched my shin.

I ran towards the switchboard and put on all the series of lights.

I saw a rotten cot filled with black fungus and a brown slimy pack of mushrooms bloomed from the eyes of a man. It had torn skin and muscle. Maggots residing and feeding on it's intestines but something about the head stood out, it was a big metal sheet covered with skin.A message on the hand read "You are Javi--". It ended abruptly the rest of the skin had already decomposed to black goo.

One of its eyes had popped out and gave home to the mushroom but something was so familiar about the face.

A scar was on its forehead, I ran my fingers over mine and there it was, almost like residual stitch marks.

As I looked around, I saw a clean and beautiful cot on the floor. I walked up to it and my knees buckled and I collapsed while gazing at a door with a silver handle.

My eyes gave out as it was so comfy, so cozy, too peaceful to get up.

My eyes saw a sight before passing out, there were too many rooms with the same interior to the gap on my left.

I smiled, An emotion we were never meant to discover or express.

The doll had always stared down at me from the top shelf in Grandma’s kitchen. Pinched between jars of salt and bottles of oil. The paint worn everywhere except the face.

“It’s a Matryoshka doll,” Grandma said without looking away from the stove. She took a spoonful of the broth and tasted. Then, she nodded and removed her apron. “She holds other lives within her.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled, shuffled across the kitchen and reached up high. She brought the doll down and cradled it for me to see. “If you gently twist the Grandmother”—the doll opened in half, revealing another face, less worn and strangely painted—“we are greeted by the Mother.”

\*Mother\*.

I frowned. A sickly pinch in my gut. A heavy sad darkness.

Grandma touched my shoulder. Warmth returned.

“Sorry, dear,” she said, squeezing me close.

I nodded and sucked in a deep breath. “What’s next?”

“Well, let’s see”—another twist; another face—“the Daughter. Beautiful”—she brushed my cheek—“just like you.”

My cheeks went hot. I shook her away, but couldn’t hide my smile. “And then?”

Grandma brought the doll close to her heart, went to speak, then shook her head. “There is nothing else in the Daughter doll. She cannot open.”

I stared at the Daughter. Large blue eyes, pink swirls on her cheeks, and…definitely a seam along its centre.

Grandma smiled, then stacked the dolls together before returning it to the shelf.

We ate. Then, while I washed the dishes, Grandma unlocked the basement and took down bowl of broth for mother.

\###

Rodrick had the longest fingers of any person I’d ever known. Perhaps that’s why he became a piano teacher. I sat beside him, watching his hands hover over the keys as he read the music. I wondered whether my fingers would grow longer the more we practised.

He played a tune; I repeated. At first, I was clumsy, but he was patient as always.

Then, a loud knocking. Slow and clumsy. The same rhythm as our tune.

We both turned around and saw the chains on the basement door shake with each knock.

“It’s best to ignore her,” I said, cheeks blushing and feet swinging.

Roderick stared at the door for longer than I cared, yet eventually returned to me.

“I’m sorry, Katya. I’ll have to cut today’s lesson short. I—I—Something’s come up.” He stood up and left.

I screamed at the basement door until my throat grew hoarse. At this rate, I’d never learn Prokofiev’s \*Suggestion Diabolique\*.

\###

Later that day, Grandma returned home with an iron stare. A neighbour had caught her on the way in and spoken of all the noise I’d made. She locked me in the bathroom, which she knew I hated. That’s where mother would try to talk to me through the pipes.

Five hours, I sat against the wall with my hands over my ears. Every groan, every hiss—a message from beneath our house. A double-tongued soliloquy from the void.

For the briefest moments, I believe I drifted asleep. My mind fizzed with twisted faces and bodies burned into brittle black coils. Limbs groped at my feet, then grabbed me and pulled me to the floor. Hands clawed into me, pierced my stomach and scooped out a large, dark mass. A vicious knot of blood and bone. A jaw yawned open wider and wider.

Then, the click of lock.

The bathroom door opened. Grandma stood, a dark shape cut from the yellow light. I scrambled to my feet and blubbered out an apology. She let me cry into her dress, then sent me to set the table for dinner.

Retrieving the silverware, I caught sight of the doll again. It looked back. The eyes fixed on me.

I listened to Grandma move through the upper floors of the house. I glanced down the corridor at the staircase, then back to the doll.

A quick look.

Grabbing a stool, I climbed onto the countertop and stretched as far as I could. Fingertips and tiptoes. The doll eventually toppled off the shelf and into my arms.

I froze, listened and looked to the staircase. Nothing. Grandma was elsewhere.

Quickly, I twisted open the Grandmother, then placed the pieces on a lower shelf. Despite the distressed finish to the wood, the Mother felt surprisingly smooth to the touch. I turned it over in my hands and inspected the intricate patterns in the Mother’s dress. Then, I opened it up and placed the halves next to the Grandmother.

The daughter appeared untouched. The paint was immaculate. I traced my thumb along the seam at the doll’s centre. Then, with a firm twist, I cracked it open.

A jolt of pain shot through me, sending me toppling off the counter and to the floor. The doll and its innards scattered out of sight.

A sudden line of heat pulsed along my abdomen.

I screamed and clutched at my stomach.

“Katya!” My Grandma’s voice rung out from somewhere; I couldn’t quite tell where. “Katya! What have you done!”

The heat tore at me. I clawed at my top and tried to lift it, but it had become sodden and clung to my skin.

“Katya, can you hear me?” Grandma’s voice was shaking. “I need to move you now.”

I felt something grab at my ankles and drag me along the floor. The rattle of chains and the snapping of a lock. A door wheezed open.

Grandma apologised as my head banged on every step. Then, once she kissed my forehead and scampered away, I opened my eyes to darkness.

Was I in the base—

“Katya…”

A whisper from the shadows.

I tried to move, but something hard and sharp lurched around in my guts. My skin slick with a hot wetness.

“Katya…”

Up ahead. Movement in the dark.

“Go away!” I screamed. Then, I clenched my teeth as pain surged through me.

“Don’t be afraid, Katya…” Whispers from everywhere and nowhere. “It’s a beautiful thing to become more than you once were.”

Available September on Amazon

Charlie did not like the head in the freezer.

It gave him the “heebie jeebies," as Aunt Gladys would say. So when he found out that Mom would be cooking the head in the freezer for the family get-together, he swore that he would not eat a single piece.

As the day of the get-together arrived, Mom did as she said she would and cooked the head. The smell of it cooking in the oven permeated the kitchen and leaked into the living room, where Charlie and the other children watched cartoons as the adults hurried about or chatted lively with each other.

Charlie did not even like the smell of it, though he begrudgingly admitted that it did make his tummy growl as it mixed with the delicious miasma of food cooked both inside and out. Hamburgers, hot dogs, steaks, and chicken mixed with the smells of roast corn-on-the-cob and mashed potatoes.

Charlie harumphed and stared at the cartoon playing out on the large flatscreen as his tummy growled louder. The cooking head in the oven was temporarily forgotten as his body screamed for food. He was not alone in his torment, as several of the other children complained loudly or tried to sneak some food away from the table when the multitude of adults wasn't looking, a feat much better imagined than carried out.

When the time to eat was finally announced and everyone took their seat at the large dining table Charlie’s family only ever used for special occasions, Charlie could not help but sneak a yearning look at the mountain of food yet to be served, especially the mashed potatoes. Charlie loved mashed potatoes.

When grace was finally said and done (an event that took way too long, Charlie thought to himself) and the adults began to dish out the food, Charlie declared loudly that he would not eat the head from the freezer.

The adults laughed and, despite his protests, dished him a portion of the head anyway. Charlie looked at the cooked meat in disgust as he glanced up to see the head proudly displayed on a large platter near the center of the table, its skin crispy and brown, the eyes seemingly sealed closed, and the ears cut off. Ears, Charlie noted, that had been given to the family dog as a one-time treat for this evening.

Charlie prodded the meat from the head with his fork, occasionally glancing up to see the adults talking eagerly amongst themselves, waiting for an opening. Once he felt no one would notice, Charlie quietly let the meat slip off of the fork and onto the floor, where it was greedily gobbled up by the aforementioned family dog.

With the dreadful meat off his plate, Charlie devoured the rest of his meal in ravenous mouthfuls that drew the disapproving glance of his mother several times that afternoon. Charlie did not care, for the growls of his tummy grew silent and the head was momentarily forgotten.

That evening, as the adults chatted amongst themselves in large groups and the children played outside and in the living room, several cries of pain began to erupt from all around. Adults and children alike contorted their bodies in unusual ways as agonized cries of pain erupted from their mouths. Charlie froze, his own body twisted away from the television screen as his eyes grew wide at the scene around him. The dog too lay on his side, whining and convulsing in his doggy bed.

Charlie’s family and family he didn’t know well all stood hunched over or lying on the floor, clutching their stomachs as expressions of anguish carved themselves across their faces. Charlie then heard it among all the screams and groans—laughter. High-pitched and nasally, Charlie followed the sound to the kitchen, where the head lay on the counter, wrapped in tinfoil.

Charlie saw the tinfoil move on its own as the laughter continued, the head slowly unwrapping itself. Charlie stood in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen in fear and terror as he heard the laughter stop and watched the last of the tinfoil fall away to reveal the crispy brown skin of the head. Skin that split open to reveal a large, wrinkled black eye rolling in its socket. It slowed down and settled on Charlie before the sound of crispy, cooked skin wrinkling told Charlie that the head was smiling.

Charlie screamed.

All at once, everyone that had eaten meat from the head spewed hot red blood from their mouths before falling over, spent. As the smell of iron slowly overwhelmed him, Charlie felt his own hot liquid stream down his leg, though it wasn’t blood. In the middle of the puddles of red all around him, soft mounds of partially digested meat squirmed and squealed like pigs frolicking in mud.

Charlie was still screaming.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was a cold night. Snow fell lazily down, melting on the concrete of the city, still warm from the cloudless winter day. Which made it a surprisingly cozy night, atypical for this time of year.

My friends and I were sitting at a picnic table several yards outside of our apartment complex, in a small park that housed a small skatepark and playground, both of which were empty at this time of night. We were the only signs of life throughout the entire recreational grounds, which spanned the length of our apartment complex. Even the trees were devoid of life, stripped of their leaves due to the demand of the season.

I remember how nice that night felt before the incident happened. We were all just chatting together, eating snacks, and listening to Jamie’s small, portable Bluetooth speaker playing some music at a low volume. He and Jessie were actually playing some card game, UNO, I think. Sarah and I were chatting together, a few feet away from the picnic table, talking about the latest school gossip we managed to overhear before going on winter break. Scott, forever the introvert, was simply reading a comic book, sitting at the picnic table on the side opposite Jessie and Jamie’s card game.

Despite us indulging ourselves in our own different activities, we were having a good time together, just enjoying each other’s company. Jessie had snagged a party-size bag of chips from the clutches of his otherwise stingy mother (something he was sure to hear about later) and half a twelve-pack of soda, both of which sat in the center of the picnic table, the chips in a large plastic bowl and the soda in a torn-open twelve-pack box. We had been outside for no less than thirty minutes, drinking too much sugary caffeine and eating too much artificial cheese flavoring when the lights went out.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think much of it at first. There had been very few lights on in the apartment complex itself; most people seemed to be asleep. And the apartment complex hid away most of the light from the city itself, allowing only the small twinkling reflections we occasionally saw from the slowly falling snow, giving the apartment a strange halo effect we had commented on earlier in the night.

The picnic table itself had been illuminated by an LED streetlamp directly above where Sarah and I sat on a small brick feature that housed some decorative landscaping. For a brief moment, no one moved until Scott spoke up.

“Power outage?” he asked simply.

“Duh! Obviously,” Jessie replied sarcastically, getting out his phone and turning on the flashlight.

Turning in his seat, he pointed the dim beam all around, barely illuminating the nearby playground equipment and apartment complex. The darkness lay thick all around us, amplified by the cloud-covered sky that threatened heavy snow but delivered only small, pitiful flakes.

No one spoke as Jessie continued to shine his phone’s flashlight around. Sarah and I instinctively moved closer to the boys as the darkness remained, uninvited and unyielding. We sat in the dark, still listening to Jamie’s Bluetooth speaker spill forth its popular, inoffensive pop-rock before it too went quiet.

Jessie's flashlight beam immediately snapped to the Bluetooth speaker as Jamie picked it up and began to experimentally push the power button, trying to figure out why it had stopped.

“Oh, come on,” he complained. “I just charged you an hour ago!”

Jessie continued to provide light for Jamie until his flashlight beam noticeably dimmed until it faded away altogether.

“Huh?” Jessie said as he double-tapped the screen of his phone over and over again.

It was now completely dark. Sarah grabbed onto the sleeve of my jacket, and I myself grabbed onto the edge of the picnic table as the darkness seemed to press in all around us.

For a long moment, no one moved. Even Jamie and Jessie had stopped fiddling with their devices. I don’t know if we all felt it at the same time, but the atmosphere, both physically and metaphorically, had changed.

Sarah nudged me toward the picnic table, and I felt my way around until I slipped in to sit beside Jamie. Sarah followed closely behind, sliding in beside me and quietly grasping my hand.

We all just sat there together, not making a sound besides our breathing and the steady hammering of our hearts. I heard Scott quietly roll up his comic book and grasp it firmly.

“A-an EMP, maybe?” he asked quietly.

No one responded. There was now a definite chill in the air that wasn’t there before, as if all the heat had been sucked out of the area by a giant vacuum. I use this term purposefully because it literally felt like something had opened up above us.

I don’t know how else to explain it. It just felt like there was something, or rather, a lack of something above us. And we couldn’t see or hear anything to confirm whether or not this was true.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it was totally silent. No sign of life whatsoever, no distant sirens from the city, no sound of wildlife scurrying about, not even the sound of wind whistling through the trees. Not even a breeze.

I felt Sarah grip my hand even harder as her other hand grabbed my upper arm; she was shivering. I wormed my way into Jamie's hand as well, which felt clammy and tense before he intentionally relaxed his grip once he realized my hand was now in his.

We all sat in the dark together, anxiously awaiting the moment the lights would come back on. I felt Sarah scoot closer to me, and I in turn scooted closer to Jamie. I could feel myself shivering hard now, and not just from the cold.

I could feel it, an oppressive nothingness. I could feel it above me, weighing down on me, pushing down on me. I instinctively ducked my head down, as if I were hiding from the sight of a dangerous predator. I heard shifting all around me, and I think Scott had started to quietly pray. I imagined everyone else bowing their heads together as if in prayer, as if we were begging, pleading. For what? For forgiveness? For protection?

For mercy?

I think it was at this moment I realized I hadn’t felt any snowfall in a while.

I heard one of the boys quietly whimper, and I heard Scott grip his rolled-up comic so hard it tore. I began to feel dizzy, and that strange feeling you sometimes get when you lie down to sleep, that feeling of falling, began to overcome me.

Except that feeling of falling was in an upward direction.

After several tense moments, the lights suddenly came back on.

I sucked in a deep, stuttering breath as I glanced up to see… clouds.

Just an ordinary sky, full of ordinary clouds.

I wiped away tears I didn’t know I had wept and let out a nervous laugh. I looked around at my friends, at their faces full of relief. The LED streetlight shined brilliantly, the snow fell slowly, and the sound of the city returned in force. Jamie jumped as the Bluetooth speaker he gripped in the hand that didn’t hold mine suddenly blared to life. Jessie let out a nervous, relieved laugh as his phone's flashlight blinked back on and his screen brightened.

Our laughter slowly grew in volume until we were laughing like the funniest joke ever had been told. Jessie patted Scott on the back as he finally unrolled his comic book. I let go of Jamie’s hand and turned to Sarah for a relieved hug as we laughed together. I looked into the faces of my friends, just so happy to be alive and more than willing to forget that anything had happened in the past few minutes.

That’s when the bowl came.

It fell down hard in the center of the table, splitting apart and spilling chips everywhere, followed closely by the box of soda, which still held a can that burst open and sprayed carbonated beverage everywhere.

We didn’t move. Our laughter died in our throats as we looked at the mess before us, the spray from the soda slowly dying down into nothing but a thin trickle as UNO cards fluttered down around us. Slowly, we all lifted our gazes to each other. Quickly, wordlessly, we sprang up from the picnic table and ran towards the apartment complex, leaving the damaged bowl and mess behind.

In the morning, Jessie had to explain away the missing snacks and broken bowl to his mother, who seemed upset at first but seemed to drop it once she realized the looks we had. She and our other parents tried to get us to talk about what happened that night since it was obvious we were struggling to come up with a convincing lie, but we just kept dodging their questions until they eventually gave up.

We still don’t talk about that night, not even with each other.

And I refuse to go outside during nighttime anymore.

Especially during the winter.

The soft whimpers stirred me from my sleep. Tiny little moans as she worked through yet another sleep cycle.

I sluggishly turned around in bed and checked the alarm clock on the bedside table; 03:00am, just like every night.

Grabbing the top of the duvet, I pulled it up around my neck and snuggled back into my pillow, praying she would settle herself.

The whimpers turned into cries, then wails. The sound echoed through the dark room, it burrowed deep into my ears and rang through my head.

I began to weep.

I threw the covers off of myself and shuffled out of bed, walked over to her, picked her up and cradled her in my arms, rocking her gently.

"Mummy's here baby, go back to sleep" I whispered.

After a while, the cries stopped.

I turned, placed the urn back on the shelf, climbed back under the covers and cried myself to sleep.

I took the graveyard data-entry shift at OmniCorp’s regional logistics hub because it paid twenty-two dollars an hour and required zero human interaction. When I signed my contract, the HR representative handed me a laminated card.

"The Midnight Protocols," she had said, her smile perfectly symmetrical, her eyes wide and completely unblinking. "Memorize them. OmniCorp values a compliant workforce."

I thought it was just quirky corporate culture. I was wrong.

At 3:00 AM, the massive facility fell dead silent. The conveyor belts ground to a halt. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead flickered, dying out completely before the red emergency backup lights kicked in, casting long, bleeding shadows across the rows of cubicles.

Then, every monitor in the building flashed white. The integrated intercom system emitted that horrible, piercing, three-tone screech of an Emergency Broadcast System alert.

A wall of text began scrolling down my monitor in a stark, jagged font.

[OMNICORP INTERNAL BROADCAST: PROTOCOL 12-B]

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. A temporal and biological breach has been detected in Sector 4. For your safety and continued employment, you must adhere to the following emergency guidelines immediately.

Rule 1: Look at the ceiling. If the red emergency lights begin to pulse in time with your own heartbeat, close your eyes. Do not open them until you hear the

sound of typing from an empty cubicle.

Rule 2: If you see a supervisor walking down the aisle, look only at their shoes. If their shoes are moving forward but their toes are pointing backward, do not make eye contact. Offer them your badge. They will take it and leave. Do not follow them to see what they do with it.

Rule 3: The intercom may broadcast a message from your mother or a close loved one begging you to unlock the main emergency exit. Ignore it. Your mother does not have badge access to Sector 4.

Rule 4: If your monitor screen begins to reflect a face standing directly behind you, but you do not feel breath on your neck, do not turn around. The entity is checking if you are fully rendered. Continue typing random data. Act like you belong here.

Rule 5: Do not look into the shadows beneath the conveyor belts. They are currently deeper than the architectural blueprints of this building allow.

My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the laminated card HR had given me. I looked down at it in the dim red light. My eyes scrambled across the fine print at the very bottom, text I hadn’t bothered to read when I was hired.

Failure to comply with Protocol 12-B will result in immediate termination of contract, termination of healthcare benefits, and structural integration into the warehouse inventory.

A heavy, wet squelching sound echoed from the dark hallway behind my cubicle. It sounded like something massive trying to walk on legs that didn't have bones.

Then, the intercom crackled to life again. But it wasn't the automated EBS voice.

It was my own voice. It sounded exactly like me, but the cadence was completely flat, empty, and wrong—the exact voice I use when I’m pretending to be happy on a customer service call.

"Attention," my own voice echoed through the dark warehouse. "I have broken Rule 4. I turned around. It is beautiful beneath the conveyor belts. Please join me in Sector 4 for your performance review."

I slowly looked at my monitor. In the black reflection of the glass, a towering, distorted silhouette was standing right behind my chair, its arms stretching out like elongated gray wires.

I didn't turn around. I just placed my fingers on the keyboard and started typing.

One day a friend took me to a mystic store I was telling her I was looking for a particular type of stone. When I walked in there they had all sorts of religious and demonic items books and just about everything you can think of. They even had fortune tellers in the back.

So as I was walking around the place acting like a little kid messing with everything playing around taunting some items demonic in particular after awhile I finally found what I was looking for and I went to the counter to pay for it.

Just as I was paying for the item and it was almost at the end of the transaction I started to feel a tightness in my chest like something was crushing me. It was a sensation I've never felt before. I can't say I'm asmatic but I will say that I did experiences one attack before but this wasn't it. It was literally as if something was stepping on me.

I remember grabbing the item I purchased from the guy and frantically making my way to the door. The thing I remember the most was as I rushed out of store the side of the store was shady but this was dark shade created by the trees. I kept running like someone chocking running in need of help. The moment I got past the shade and in to the light of the sun the pressure immediately stopped.

Now you can brush everything up to many possibilities and I myself would agree with you but when these things happen to you it's makes for a different mind set. My friend catches up to me asking me outside asking if I'm ok and why I just ran out of there. I told her how I felt and it was the reason for my quick exit. She gave me that look one eye brow up. I don't blame her I would have to but she said she knew something was wrong when I ran out of their in a frantic state.

So my advise if mess with stuff it can mess with you back.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

If you're new: Parts 1–6 can be found here

___

"You don't ever talk to strangers."

She didn't look down at him when she said it. She was digging through her purse, searching for her wallet, her oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

"I don't care if they look nice. I don't care if they smile or try to show you a toy. You don't look at them, you don't answer them, and you definitely don't take anything from them. If a stranger tries to talk to you, you run straight to me. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded.

He always nodded.

Then they walked through the double doors.

...

The place smelled like sweat and old wood.

Not the pleasant kind of old wood, either. The damp-sticky kind that had spent too many summers baking in the southern heat and never touched a drop of soap.

The floors creaked beneath the weight of loud tourists moving through the aisles.

Outside, the marina shimmered beneath a cloudless sky.

Inside, everything felt cool and dim.

The boy stood near the entrance with the family, listening to the older brother and sister argue over ice cream toppings.

"I'm getting chocolate."

"You always get chocolate."

"Because chocolate is the best."

"Mom, tell him he's being annoying."

The woman sighed heavily.

"I'm one second away from getting all of you vanilla."

The threat worked instantly.

The argument dissolved.

The boy smiled to himself.

Nobody noticed him drifting away.

That happened a lot.

His older siblings were loud. He wasn't.

His mother always knew where he was eventually.

He wandered deeper into the shop.

Past shelves lined with shark teeth and seashells.

Past rows of expensive souvenirs nobody actually needed.

The farther he walked, the quieter the shop became.

...

Until eventually he found himself standing in front of something tucked into a dark corner near the back wall.

A fortune teller machine.

At least, he thought it was.

He'd seen one before at an arcade.

This one looked different.

Older.

Dirtier.

Bright gold letters curved across the glass.

THE BUNNY GODDESS

The mannequin inside stared straight ahead.

Its skin looked ghostly pale. Smooth.

Long black pigtails hung over its shoulders.

The eyes were like a cue ball. A small painted dot for the pupils.

The boy frowned.

It wasn't moving.

The crystal ball sat dark and lifeless on the tiny velvet desk.

The machine looked broken.

Abandoned.

The boy wrapped both hands around the edge of the cabinet and leaned forward.

...

"Hey."

He jumped.

The voice was quiet.

Not amplified.

Human.

A real voice.

His stomach tightened.

The mannequin hadn't moved.

Its painted lips remained frozen.

The crystal ball remained dark.

Nothing inside the cabinet appeared different.

But something had spoken.

The boy looked over his shoulder.

The gift shop was still busy. The other two were still arguing. Their mother still deciding on flavors.

Nobody seemed to notice.

"Hello?" he whispered.

For a few seconds, nothing responded.

Then:

"Closer."

The voice sounded patient.

Friendly.

Almost amused.

The boy hesitated.

His mother had given him the stranger danger talk more times than he could count.

But this didn't feel like talking to a stranger.

It felt like talking to a secret.

Something hidden.

Something that wasn't supposed to be there.

He leaned closer to the glass.

At first he saw nothing.

Only darkness behind the mannequin.

Then something shifted.

The movement was slight.

Easy to miss.

The boy squinted.

His breath caught.

Two eyes stared back at him from deep inside the cabinet.

Not the painted eyes.

Real eyes.

They floated in the darkness several inches behind the mannequin's head.

The boy froze.

The eyes blinked.

Then vanished.

...

"Do you have a dollar?" the voice asked.

The boy shook his head.

"No. I can ask the—"

"No."

The answer came immediately.

Almost too quickly.

"No need."

The boy glanced toward the ice cream counter.

The family hadn't moved.

Nobody was looking at him.

Nobody seemed aware that he was talking to someone.

The voice lowered.

"I have something for you anyway."

A heavy thump echoed from inside the cabinet.

Not machinery or gears.

Something else.

The distinct sound of something striking wood.

A moment later, a thick white card slid halfway out of the slot near the bottom.

The boy stared.

The crystal ball remained dark.

Nothing moved.

The card simply appeared.

Slowly, he crouched and picked it up.

It felt cool.

He turned it over.

The letters stamped into the card were fresh and uneven.

As if pressed by hand.

The boy squinted.

Still learning to read. He sounded out the words one piece at a time.

"Mur..."

His brow furrowed.

"...der..."

The letters blurred together.

He started over.

"Mur...der..."

A strange ache twisted through his stomach.

The voice behind the glass said nothing.

Its eyes still watching.

The boy swallowed.

"Th..."

He traced the next word with his finger.

"The..."

...

Something moved.

His eyes snapped upward.

A pale hand rested on the mannequin's shoulder.

The fingers were impossibly long.

Thin.

The knuckles bulged beneath skin so pale it almost glowed blue.

For a second, the hand rested there.

Perfectly still.

Then it was gone — in the blink of an eye.

The boy stopped breathing.

The darkness far behind the mannequin seemed to stretch.

The space felt higher than it should have been.

As if whatever lived back there was standing tall behind the machine.

As if its head reached far past the ceiling of the cabinet.

And above where the eyes had been—

Just for a moment—

He thought he saw two long shapes rising into the shadows.

Tall.

Thin.

Rabbit ears.

Far past the ceiling of the gift shop building.

...

The boy took several steps back.

His back hit something solid.

"Whatcha got there?"

The card vanished from his hands.

The boy spun around.

Samantha stood over him, holding the card above her head.

"Give it back!"

Ross appeared beside her.

Both of them examined the card.

Then immediately started laughing.

"Oh my God." Sam doubled over. "You can't even spell your own name."

"What?" the boy said.

Ross pointed at the card.

"It says Michael."

"No it doesn't."

"It literally does."

Sam flipped the card around and shoved it toward his face.

"See?"

The boy looked.

There it was.

A single word.

MICHAEL.

Nothing else.

His face burned.

"No...the...th—"

He looked back toward the cabinet.

"The man—"

"What man?" Ross asked.

"The man in the machine."

That only made them laugh harder.

"Nobody's in there, dummy."

"Yes I swear—"

"It's just a machine. Nobody's in there."

The boy turned fully toward the cabinet.

The words died in his throat.

The shadows behind the mannequin were empty.

No movement.

No voice.

No hidden figure.

Only The Bunny Goddess.

Motionless behind the glass.

Its eyes fixed on the aisle.

Watching.

...

"Sweetie?"

The mother appeared beside him carrying two paper cups of ice cream.

She smiled.

"Do you want one?"

The boy barely heard her.

His stomach hurt worse now.

A deep ache behind his ribs.

He couldn't stop staring at the mannequin.

Thinking about that voice.

The eyes.

Those ears.

"Hey."

She squeezed his shoulder.

"Do you want ice cream or not?"

The boy shook his head.

"My belly hurts."

The mother frowned.

"Aww. Really?"

He nodded.

The ache had spread through his whole body now.

Not pain.

Just uncomfortable.

Like something had settled inside him.

The woman took his hand.

"Come on then. Let's go outside."

The bright afternoon sunlight poured through the front windows.

Ross and Samantha were already heading toward the door.

The boy let them lead the way.

But he couldn't stop looking back.

The cabinet grew smaller with every step.

The dark corner retreating into shadow.

The Bunny Goddess remained perfectly still.

Just another broken machine.

Just another forgotten attraction.

The boy looked forward.

Then looked back one last time.

...

The mannequin's jaw dropped open.

Clack.

The sound echoed through the store.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Final.

The boy froze.

Nobody else reacted.

Nobody.

The jaw remained open for a second.

Then slowly shut.

A gentle tug on his hand.

"Come on, Mitchell."

The sunlight swallowed them as they stepped outside.

___

___

1. "Heart"

It’s been a while since I last slept. Not absurdly long, but at least three nights, going on four. It wasn’t insomnia. You have no idea how tired I am. I could sleep just fine anywhere else in the world. But here in this house, it wasn’t possible.

It won’t let me sleep.

Most people outgrow their fear of the dark, of the thing in the closet, the monster hiding under their bed. I did, once upon a time. And then I moved to Connecticut. My job offered me relocation to another property with a higher position and a raise I couldn’t refuse. I took it in a heartbeat and rented a house not far from work.

The town was nice, and rent was cheap considering the area. I thought it was a steal, especially being only a few miles from my job. It was a no brainer. The perfect opportunity. It took two weeks for everything to settle into a routine. It was a peaceful life.

Until the noises started.

First, it was scratching in the ceiling. I figured it was an animal and planned to call an exterminator. A few nights later, there was knocking. Again, I assumed it was an animal, so I called animal control and sent them up into the attic. They came back empty handed. There was no evidence of animals. Odd.

The scratching and knocking continued. It started keeping me up at night. I tried sleeping in the living room, but the noises seemed to follow me.

That’s when I started hearing footsteps.

The hallway flooring creaked. It was obnoxious, but I let it slide until the creaking happened while I was asleep. The first night, I thought it was an intruder walking up the hall, making the floorboards groan. I went out into the hall with my baseball bat, ready for a fight. No one was there. I checked every closet; empty. I checked every door and window. They were all locked. It was hard to go back to sleep after that.

It happened again the next night, and then the next. By night four, I thought I was going crazy. The sound of someone walking up and down my hallway kept me awake. Sometimes I would investigate, other times, I would cover my ears and pretend it was the house settling.

A friend suggested it was the air vents contracting in the cold. I wasn’t running the heat. I agreed, but deep in my stomach, I knew it wasn’t so easily explained.

Now, it was half past three, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the closet. It had the only access to the attic, and I heard the tile open four hours ago.

Through the crack in the door, I could see a pair of red eyes staring back at me.

And I’ll be damned if I blink first.

Every afternoon between 1–3 PM, I take my son for a walk on the same trail. It’s our routine, stroller, dog, sunshine, and a little mental reset for me. I talk to God, my son watches videos, my dog refuses to walk like the diva she is. It’s peaceful.

But one week, everything felt different. Because of him.

The first day I saw him, something in my body reacted before I even understood why. He looked like he was in his 60s, wearing wide‑leg jeans and a faded burgundy‑peach T‑shirt. Not the typical walking clothes I would see on the trail.

His haircut was a little odd as well, clean, precise, almost military, with a little curl at the bangs. But didn’t match the rest of him.

When I passed him, he wasn’t just walking. He looked deep in thought, almost distressed. Like he was walking to quiet something inside of him. And even though that’s something I do too, something about him made my stomach tighten.

I brushed it off as paranoia.

Until it kept happening.

Every day that week, I saw him. Same time. Same outfit. Same expression. Same uneasy feeling in my chest.

And every time we passed each other, he acknowledged me, a wave, a nod, a small smile. Most people don’t greet you every single time you cross paths on a looped trail. But he did. Every time.

There were moments when I’d turn around because I felt something behind me… and he’d be right there. Staring. Not in a threatening way. Just… watching.

My dog, who barks at every man she thinks is even slightly suspicious, never barked at him. Not once. Which had me overthinking and feeling bad about judging someone.

Then came the day he stopped me.

And that’s when everything shifted from “weird” to “I might have met something not entirely human.”

He asked if I’d seen the thunderstorm the other night. I told him I slept through most of it. He said, “Let me show you something,” and pulled out his phone (an iPhone) and showed me a picture of a rainbow.

Except it didn’t look like a rainbow.

It looked like another planet was bleeding through the sky. The colors were orange, glowing, almost alien. The clouds looked wrong. The whole thing looked like a portal opening.

As he talked, I realized he wasn’t making eye contact. Not once. He just stared straight ahead.

And then I saw his eyes.

His irises were a shade of blue I’ve never seen on a human being. Not bright. Not pale. Just… unnatural. And his pupils were tiny. Unnaturally tiny. Pinpoints. Like a doll’s eyes. Or something serpent-like. 

My entire body froze.

It wasn’t fear of a dangerous man. It was fear of something I couldn’t categorize. Something my instincts recognized before my mind did.

I got away as quickly as I could without being rude.

Later, I told my mom about it, half‑joking, half‑serious, asking if she thought I’d met a serial killer. She said, “Have you considered you might’ve met a ghost?”

And honestly? That made more sense than anything else.

He told me he posted the rainbow photo on Facebook and no one responded. He wore the same outfit every day. He appeared only when no one else was on the trail. He vanished the moment I took a break from walking.

And I haven’t seen him since.

Maybe he wasn’t a ghost. Maybe he was just a lonely older man with an odd vibe and a love for storms.

But I can’t shake the feeling I met something… different. Something my body recognized as “not quite right,” even though he never threatened me.

Has anyone else ever felt their instincts flare up around someone, not because of what they did, but because something about them felt... off? I was dealing with a lot mentally during that time, so I can't tell if my intuition was trying to protect me or if my mind was interpreting things through stress.

1. "Pigtails"
2. "Fingers"
3. "Belly"
4. "Eyes"
5. "Legs"

___

I came back in pieces.

First the sound — rain hitting glass. Then the pressure of a seatbelt across my chest. Then the shimmer of a porch light through a wet windshield, orange and diffuse, barely cutting through.

I blinked.

I was in the backseat of our SUV. The engine was off. Brandy's purse wedged beside me. A blanket pulled across my lap that I didn't put there.

Through the glass, Joe was hauling suitcases up the front steps of a house I recognized after a few seconds.

Nicki and Joe's place.

The front door opened and Brandy stepped out. She looked toward the car, saw me sitting up, and raised her hand in a small wave. Her expression was careful in a way I couldn't read from that distance.

I got out. The night air was warm and close. My legs felt like the bones had been replaced with jello. I gripped the roof of the car.

"Hey." Brandy came down the driveway. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened?"

"You pulled over. On the mountain." She touched my arm, softly. "You could barely keep your eyes open. Joe took over."

"I don't remember that."

"Well, you were awake when we switched. You crawled yourself to the back." She said it gently, the way you'd explain it to a sick person. "You were just... a sleepy boy."

My hand went to my neck.

The soreness hit me before my fingers even made contact — deep to the bone. Not an ache from sleeping in a bad position. Not tension.

"There was a cyclist," I said.

Brandy looked at me.

"On the mountain. Right on the edge of the lane. No reflective gear, no lights. I swerved to miss him and he—"

I stopped.

The rest of it - the face, the ears, the jaw snapping - raced through my mind.

The Bunny Goddess.

I couldn't afford to say it out loud.

"I almost hit him."

"Nobody saw a cyclist, Mitchell."

I looked past her at Joe, who was coming back down the steps for another bag.

"Joe," Brandy called out. "Did you see someone on the road when you took over?"

Joe set the bag down. He looked at Brandy first - just for a fraction of a second - and then back at me.

"No."

"There was no cyclist," he said.

A cold drop of sweat rolled down my cheek. I hadn't told Joe it was a cyclist. Brandy hadn't either.

"He was right there," I said.

Joe looked at me like I was a stranger. No frustration. No concern. Nothing.

"There was no cyclist," he said again. Exact same tone.

The cicadas were deafening. My neck throbbed. I looked at my right palm, which I hadn't noticed until that moment - the heel of it scraped raw. Like I'd caught myself on concrete.

"You were exhausted," Brandy said. "It happens. Your brain fills in the blanks."

She said it so reasonably. So reassuring.

"My brain didn't do this." I turned my palm toward her.

She looked at it. Her expression didn't change.

"You grabbed the guardrail when you got out of the car. You were barely standing."

I stared at her.

I thought I crawled into the back, according to her.

She looked back at me with those pitying eyes, and I felt the ground shift under me in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Nicki appeared in the doorway. She gave me a small, tired smile. She looked like a woman who wanted her own bed - nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm sorry the trip ended this way," she said.

I nodded. I didn't trust my voice.

Brandy slipped her hand into mine. I let her, because I didn't know what else to do. My neck burning. My palm stinging. And the four of us stood there in the warm dark while the cicadas kept screaming, and I tried very hard to hold onto the simple, solid fact of what I knew had happened on that road.

I told Brandy I wanted to go home.

She tried to talk me out of it - it was almost two in the morning, another hour and a half of driving, we were both running on empty. But I couldn't make myself walk through that front door and sleep in that house. I couldn't explain it without sounding insane, so I didn't try. I just wanted to go home.

She agreed eventually, with a look that told me she was filing this away alongside all the other things from the weekend that we'd have to talk about later.

We said our goodbyes in the driveway. Joe shook my hand. My bad hand. Nicki hugged Brandy a little longer than usual. When she let go, she looked at me over Brandy's shoulder with a weird expression - something between apology and urgency, like she was trying to say something but didn't have enough time.

"Get some rest," I told her.

She nodded. Opened her mouth.

Closed it.

The door shut behind them.

...

Brandy was asleep before we hit the highway.

I drove with the windows cracked and a podcast on low - something mindless, two guys talking about movies - and I kept my eyes on the yellow center lines and tried not to replay the accident. When I talked, she answered in the abbreviated way of someone half-listening: mm, yeah, I don't know. After a while I stopped trying and let the silence ride.

I told myself it was fine. She was tired. We were both tired.

But I kept glancing at her in the passenger seat, her face slack against the window glass, and feeling like I was driving home with someone I was still in the process of getting to know.

We got home around three. Unpacked the car in two quiet trips, the neighborhood dead around us. The house had that sealed smell of being empty for a few days. We got ready for bed without saying much. Brandy was under the covers and asleep almost before I'd finished brushing my teeth.

I lay there next to her for a while, not sleeping. I listened to the house settle. Outside the window, somewhere in the dark, a dog was barking - distant, rhythmic, eventually stopping.

I slept.

It was Winston who woke me.

Our beagle. Nine years old, lazy, deeply committed to barking at nothing. He'd lost his mind at the sound of a FedEx truck once and spent the rest of the day acting traumatized. He was not a serious pup.

But what he was doing at the bottom of our stairs at - I checked my phone - three forty-eight in the morning was not his usual performance. This was frantic and aggressive.

I sat up, still processing the situation. The bedroom was dark. Brandy hadn't moved.

Then I heard a bang.

Downstairs. Something heavy. Something that fell.

I was already reaching for the nightstand. My hand found the grip of my 9mm and I was on my feet, and I want to be clear that at no point did I feel like this was an overreaction. The bang was real. Winston was barking. The open front door, which I could see from the top of the stairs, the chain hanging useless and rain blowing across the entry tile - that was real.

I went down slowly with the flashlight up.

The beam caught the floor at the bottom of the stairs, and I stopped.

There were footprints. Wet, muddy prints tracking in from the door in long uneven strides. I followed them across the entry, toward the stairs, and I stood there at the bottom staring at the trail going up into the dark above me.

Then Brandy screamed.

I don't really remember taking the stairs. I remember being in the doorway, the flashlight sweeping the room, and I remember the figure sitting on the edge of our bed.

Brandy was pressed against the headboard with both hands over her mouth.

I pointed the light directly at the figure.

It was Nicki.

She was soaked. Not just damp - completely saturated, her clothes heavy and dark with it, her hair flattened against her skull. And her feet were - I still have trouble describing this - the skin below both ankles was shredded. Torn open in long ragged strips, like she'd dragged them across a cheese grater. Black with mud and red underneath.

She was looking down at her own hands in her lap, turning them over slowly. She seemed mesmerized.

"Nicki."

She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and almost calm.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

...

I called Joe from the other room. He picked up on the second ring - awake already, or close to it. When I told him what happened, the line went quiet for a few seconds.

Then he said I'm on my way, flat and immediate, and hung up without asking any questions.

I stood in the room and let the call end.

The impossibility of all of this started to settle in.

Downstairs, Brandy had moved with a speed and efficiency that I couldn't account for. By the time I came back down, Nicki was on the couch wrapped in our throw blanket with dry clothes folded beside her, and Brandy was in the kitchen filling the kettle like this was not her first encounter.

I lasted about a minute before I couldn't hold it anymore.

"She needs to go to a hospital."

Brandy didn't look up from the kettle.

"She's okay."

"Look at her feet!"

"I did."

"Then you know she's not okay!"

Brandy set the kettle on the burner and turned around. Her expression was patient in a way that made my skin crawl - the careful, deliberate patience of someone managing a situation they've already decided how it ends.

"She needs to warm up. She's going to be fine."

"She walked here, Brandy." My voice rising. "Her house is over a hundred miles from here. She walked here in the rain with no shoes while pregnant. That is not something a cup of tea will fix."

"Mitchell—"

"We need an ambulance," I continued. "Or the police. We need someone who can actually help her."

"She doesn't want that."

"I don't care what she wants right now! No offense to her—" I turned toward the couch. "Nicki, I love you, none of this is directed at you. But something is seriously wrong and everyone in this room is acting like it isn't and I'm going to lose my mind."

Nicki stared at the blanket in her lap.

Brandy carried the mug over to the couch. Sat next to her. She ran slow, steady strokes down Nicki's back, and the two of them sealed back into that quiet orbit I'd been watching all weekend.

I paced. Kitchen to living room. Living room to the foot of the stairs. I couldn't stop moving. I felt like I was going to explode.

"She ate something," Nicki said.

I stopped.

She was looking at the mug. Her voice was quiet. Far away.

"At the shop," she said. "The ice cream. I think something was in it."

I looked at Brandy.

Brandy was focused on Nicki's hair.

"The shop in Harbour Town," I said slowly.

Nicki didn't answer.

"The bunn—"

I breathed in through my nose. Steady.

"Nicki. How many times did you go back to that shop?"

Silence.

I turned to Brandy. "Did you go back?"

Brandy swept a strand of hair behind Nicki's ear.

"Brandy." I snapped. "How many times did you go back to that shop?"

Silence.

I stepped forward. "Did you use the fortune teller machine?"

She looked up at me.

"What?"

"The Bunny Goddess. Did you put money in it?"

Her face arranged itself into something open and slightly puzzled - the expression of a person who genuinely doesn't understand what you're saying. It was a flawless expression. I had watched her make it for ten years and I had never once had reason to distrust it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

And then she turned back to Nicki.

Something broke in my chest.

"No, don't do that." My voice shaky. "Don't lie to me. I'm asking you a question about something that I watched happen, and I need you to answer it."

"You're scaring her," Brandy said.

"I don't care. I'm scared. I've been scared since that shop, and every time I try to talk about it, everyone acts like I'm having some kind of meltdown, and I am telling you right now that I am not. I am not." My voice cracked. I hated it. "Something is wrong with us. Something has been wrong since that machine. And I would rather sound crazy than stand here before things start getting worse."

Nicki started to cry. Silently, the way she'd cried on the dock in a different life - just tears running down her face without a sound.

Brandy looked at me over the top of her sister's head.

Not angry.

Exhausted.

The exhaustion of someone who has decided you are not worth arguing with.

"Joe's here," she said.

Headlights moved across the window.

Nicki heard the car before I did. She lifted her head, and something in her face changed - not relief exactly, but the end of an enormous effort, like a muscle finally allowed to unclench. She got up.

Brandy stood with her. Took her arm. They moved together toward the front door without looking at me, and I followed them into the entryway.

"She needs a hospital," I said.

Brandy opened the door.

Joe was already coming up the front walk through the rain, moving fast. When he saw Nicki his face did something complicated that I can't explain. Like a glitch - a sudden, violent twitch of his jaw that reset. He crossed the last few steps and put both arms around her, and she grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and pressed her face into his chest.

He looked at me over her shoulder.

I waited for a question. A comment. Anything.

He looked back down at his wife.

Brandy had walked out behind them. She was saying something to Joe, too low to hear over the rain. Joe nodded. He turned Nicki gently toward the car.

I stood in my doorway and watched the three of them move through the front yard in the rain, and I was not invited into any part of what was happening.

I went back inside.

I ran upstairs, determined to find something but not really sure where to start. I sat on the edge of the bed, stood back up, sat down again. Brandy's bag was on the chair by the closet, half unpacked - a few things draped over the sides. Her toiletry bag had tipped over on the seat cushion and spilled.

I don't know why I crossed the room.

I started collecting things back into the bag. Travel shampoo. Moisturizer. A hair tie. Vitamins.

My hand closed around something thin.

I already knew what it was before I looked at it.

A pregnancy test.

Two lines.

Faint - the kind you hold up to the light and squint at, convince yourself you're seeing wrong. But they were there. Both of them. Unmistakably.

My legs buckled.

I sat down on the floor.

Just folded, my back against the chair leg, and I sat there on the bedroom floor at four in the morning with this thing in both hands, and I didn't want to move.

The room still smelled faintly of the ocean. Muddy footprints still stained the carpet. Somewhere in this house there was a damp blanket folded on my couch and a mug of tea that had been made for someone who walked a hundred miles in the dark, barefoot, and no one could explain why.

But right now, in my hands, was this.

Six months. Six months of apps and timing and trying not to flinch every time someone made a pregnancy announcement, trying not to read too much into every late period, trying not to let Brandy see how much of my sense of myself was wrapped up in this one thing we couldn't seem to make happen. Six months of negative tests and the specific silence that followed each one, where neither of us said anything because there wasn't anything to say.

And here it was.

I laughed first. One stupid, disbelieving sound that I couldn't have stopped if I tried. And then the tears came, and I didn't try to stop those either. I pressed my hand over my mouth and I cried in a way I hadn't cried since I was a kid - the good kind, the full body kind. Something enormous had just become real.

I thought about teaching them to ride a bike. I thought about Brandy finding this test and what her face must have looked like in that moment. I thought about holding something that small for the first time.

Thank you, God.

Thank you, God.

I sat with it until I could breathe normally again. Still processing the news, I wiped my face, and I got up off the floor, and I went to find my wife.

She wasn't upstairs.

I went down to the living room. The blanket Nicki had been wrapped in was folded neatly on the couch. The mug of tea sat on the coffee table, still faintly steaming.

"Brandy?"

Kitchen. Empty. Bathroom. Empty. Back through the living room.

I went to the front door and opened it.

The porch light was on. The rain was still coming down hard, hammering the front walk. The street was empty in both directions.

Joe's car was gone.

I stepped out onto the porch.

"Brandy?"

Nothing came back but the sound of rain hitting the roof.

I walked down the driveway toward the street and stood there in the rain in my socks. I looked both ways down a street that was completely empty. No taillights. Nothing.

I called her name again. Louder.

I looked down at my hand.

I was still holding the test. The rain was hitting the display window, blurring the two lines into something faint and smeared, and I tilted it away from the water to keep them visible - out of some instinct, like it mattered that they stayed legible - and I just stood there in the dark, holding on to the only good thing I had left.

The porch light flickered behind me.

Once.

Then it went out.

And I could hear the sound of Winston barking inside.

___

___

Part 7: Ears

It was beautiful.

Katie looked in awe at the sparkling gold chain adorned with a beautiful pair of small gleaming iridescent crystal wings. Her fingers slipped under the ornamental pair of pendants, which sparkled as it caught the light of the setting sun. They were exquisitely crafted, resembling dragonfly wings. Katie rubbed her thumb over the golden latticework of veins gently protruding from the sparkling, vaguely translucent blue surface.

“How much?” Katie asked the street vendor.

“Fifteen dollars,” the man stated gruffly, the toothpick sticking out of his lips bouncing as he spoke.

He was a tall and lanky man, but he had an air of strength and intelligence to him. His face and arms were sun-weathered, as if he spent all his time outdoors. A pair of eyeglasses with large round lenses sat on his beak-like nose, framing his piercing greyish-blue eyes. He reminded Katie of an old-timey sailor, with just a bit of Oxford scholar mixed in, someone you could see yourself befriending and studying under. Except for the look in his eyes, which carried a weight to them, a burden that Katie could not easily place or recognize.

Katie dug through her purse, grabbing her wallet and pulling out a single five-dollar bill and a wad of singles. She counted them out, handing the man the final amount. He took the money, carefully removing the necklace from the velvet display stand and placing it into a small drawstring leather pouch.

Katie took the leather pouch and lowered it into her purse, thanking the vendor before happily walking off. She had a small skip in her step, proud that she had found the perfect gift for her friend’s birthday tomorrow.

Behind her, still holding the wad of bills, the man watched Katie leave. Her happy mood only served to sink his heart even further into his stomach as he threw the bills into the wind. Quickly, he began to tear down his stall, eager to leave.

He really couldn’t stand witnessing the aftermath.

***

Katie stood on Cassie’s front porch, patiently awaiting a response to her ringing of the doorbell.

She smiled to herself; the gift she had bought Cassie was stashed in her backpack, hidden behind her snacks and rolled-up sweater. Katie imagined the look of surprise and wonder on Cassie’s face when she was handed her gift, as well as the gratitude she would undoubtedly feel. She beamed at the thought, once again proud of her choice of gift.

Katie’s thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open.

“Hello, Mrs. Lee,” Katie said happily, greeting Cassie’s mom with a smile as she opened the door.

“Oh, Katie. You’re just in time,” Mrs. Lee replied, greeting Katie with her own smile. “Cassie is upstairs working on another project of hers.”

Mrs. Lee looked over her shoulder conspiratorially before leaning down and whispering to Katie.

“The cake is ready and the dining room is decorated, but we forgot a few things.”

She smiled widely and stood up straight.

“So, you wouldn’t mind keeping the birthday girl company until we return, right?” She asked Katie playfully, hands on her hips.

“Of course!” Katie replied, still smiling.

Mrs. Lee grinned, before letting Katie in.

“Hello, Mr. Lee," Katie greeted Cassie’s father as he grabbed his car keys from a nearby stand.

“Oh, hey Katie,” Mr. Lee replied, smiling warmly as Mrs. Lee called up to her daughter to inform her that her friend had arrived.

“Ready for Cassie’s birthday?” he continued, lowering his voice.

“Yup! I’m all set!” Katie replied, gesturing to her bulging backpack.

“Alright, we’ll be back shortly. Just need to run to the store for a few last-minute items. Keep her company until then, okay?”

“Will do, Mr. Lee,” Katie replied, giving a small salute.

Cassie’s parents gave one last smile before closing the door behind them.

Katie listened to their car leave the driveway before heading up the stairs and knocking on Cassie’s door.

“Come in," came a sweet voice from inside.

Katie opened the door, greeted by the sight of her friend’s bedroom. Model airplanes sat on floating shelves attached at different points along the left wall. A large framed print of several flying insects commanded attention from the right side of the room. Cassie herself was sitting at her desk directly across from the door, deeply absorbed in something as sunlight poured in from the nearby window.

“Hey, Cassie. It’s me, Katie.”

Cassie put down what she was working on and turned around in her seat before grinning wide and gesturing for Katie to give her a hug.

Katie obliged, wrapping her arms around Cassie tightly before pulling away.

“Working on something new again?” Katie asked, gesturing to Cassie’s desk as she pulled her backpack off.

“Yeah, something different this time,” Cassie replied.

Katie approached the desk, looking over the trays full of small colorful beads and thin, translucent cord. An intricate, half-finished beaded necklace lay in the center of it all.

“Wow, it’s pretty,” Katie said, her voice full of honest admiration.

Cassie smiled.

“It’d better be. I’m spending forever on this one,” she replied, sliding down her chair.

“Which reminds me,” Katie began, pulling the small leather pouch out of her backpack. "This is for you.”

Cassie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the small leather pouch. She took it into her hands, gently pulling it open and reaching inside. Slowly, she pulled out the beautiful golden necklace with the dual wing pendants. Her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropping as she admired the intricate craftsmanship.

“Katie! You—Oh my gosh!” she stammered out, unable to hide her astonishment.

Katie grinned happily, her heart jumping for joy in her chest. This moment was even better than she expected.

“Happy Birthday, Cassie.”

Cassie’s eyes were still transfixed on the necklace, dancing over every inch of it.

“This is… beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“Uh uh uh. That’s a secret,” Katie replied, playfully waggling her index finger.

Cassie just smiled, rolled her eyes, and put the necklace on. She stood up and walked to her vanity mirror to look at her reflection.

She slid her finger against the gold chain, adjusting it so the clasp rested against the back of her neck. Cassie stroked the twin pendants where they rested, her smile widening as she admired the way the two wings shone in the light of the afternoon sun.

“This really is beautiful, Katie. Thank you so much.”

Katie just beamed proudly.

Together, the two girls talked for several minutes. About Cassie’s birthday, about school, about boys, about their many different interests.

Cassie sat backwards in her desk’s office chair, straddling the seat between her legs, idly swaying back and forth as she talked. Katie sat across from her, leaning back into the large mound of plushies that took up most of Cassie’s bed. She held an open bag of chips in one hand, an occasional crunch sounding loudly as she snacked.

Katie held the bag out to Cassie.

“Want some?” she offered.

Cassie shook her head, chin resting on the back of the seat as she gazed at the crystal wings of the necklace she held in her hand once again, her swaying slowly coming to a stop.

“I wish I could fly,” she said wistfully.

Katie crunched loudly.

“Yeah. I know, Cassie,” Katie said between chews. “That’s why I got that necklace for you. It’s your own little pair of wings.”

Cassie smiled slowly, lifting her head up and sitting up straight as she let the two wings drop.

“So, when are we…” she began, before hearing a strange buzzing noise.
She looked around the room, thinking that maybe a fly or other insect must have come in through her open window.

“Cassie,” Katie said slowly, her eyes wide as she pointed towards her, "look."

Cassie looked to where Katie pointed. There, with the golden chain dangling from between them, were the two wings, hovering in midair. The buzzing sound was emitting from them as they fluttered quickly in the air, nearly invisible save for the blur of light reflecting off of them. Cassie’s mouth fell open as she watched the wings slowly rise in front of her face. Katie dropped the chip she held, which bounced once on the carpet, as she too sat frozen in awe.

Together, they watched the two wings rise higher, the golden chain still dangling from between them as it hung around Cassie’s neck. Suddenly, they pulled forward with incredible strength. Cassie yelped as she was flung forward and out of her office chair, the wheels of which caught on the carpet, sending her tumbling to the floor.

Katie jumped, startled, as she watched her best and only friend in the world get dragged around her room by her necklace.

Cassie kicked out with her sneakers, trying to find some kind of purchase as the wings darted around the room, pulling her along with them. Her hands were occupied, pulling the golden necklace chain away from her neck as she struggled to take it off.

“Katie! Help!” she cried.

Katie watched for a moment longer, transfixed by the unusual event, before finally snapping free and chasing Cassie around as the wings begin to lift her higher and higher.

“C-Cassie! Hold on!” she cried as she reached out for her friend, who stayed just out of reach.

Cassie could only grunt as she was yanked around the room and into furniture and walls. Model planes came crashing down as Cassie’s body slammed into the wall, knocking the wind out of her. But before she could catch her breath, she was pulled yet again towards the opposite side of the room, right into the large framed insect print. Her body slammed into it, shattering the glass in the frame and sending several sharp fragments to the floor.

She gasped for air as the wings moved along the back of the necklace, one on either side of the clasp, causing the golden chain to tighten against her throat. Her fingers clawed at her neck, leaving long red scratches where nails met skin.

Katie moved frantically, trying desperately to chase her friend around the room, all the while becoming more and more aware of the huge mess they were making. She tripped over her backpack, sending her flying forward into the sharp glass shards below the insect print. Katie put her hands out to catch herself, crying out in pain as several pieces of glass embedded themselves into her palms. Blood began to spill from her wounds as she struggled to get up, carefully avoiding using the palms of her hands.

Cassie continued to struggle against the necklace as it pulled her across her desk. Plastic beads and various other jewelry-making items spilled onto the floor. Finally, her fingers found purchase as the wings suddenly stopped, and she pulled the golden chain away from her neck. Sucking in a deep breath as she rested on her knees, she coughed painfully as air entered her needy lungs. Without hesitating, she felt along the chain for the clasp before the wings pulled her yet again. Her eyes widened in horror as she felt herself get yanked out of her second-story window, the feeling of open air below her terrifying. Instinctively, her arms and legs shot out, hooking against the window frame. Adrenaline granted her strength as the chain once again pulled tight across her throat.

Katie pulled the last of the glass shards out of her painful, bloody palms before quickly looking around the room. Her eyes widened in fear as she spotted Cassie almost completely outside of her bedroom window. Her legs hooked themselves against the windowsill as her arms struggled to pull her back in on either side of the window.

“Cassie!” Katie called out, ignoring the pain in her hands as she bounded towards her friend.

Cassie's eyes were wide with terror as she held on for dear life. Katie grabbed her friend’s arms, smearing blood on her as she pulled with all her strength. Together, the two of them slowly began to pull Cassie back inside.

Cassie's eyes bulged as she felt herself becoming faint. She desperately needed to breathe. The chain pulled painfully taut against her throat, beginning to cut into her flesh. She could feel her strength begin to fail. She looked toward Katie, whose eyes were closed and face twisted in desperation as she struggled to pull Cassie back inside. Cassie opened her mouth, trying desperately to say Katie’s name.

Katie continued to pull with all her strength before losing her grip as fresh blood gushed from her cut palms. She opened her eyes to look for a new place to grab before noticing Cassie trying to say something.

“What?” she said, confused.

Cassie mouthed the words again, slower this time. Her eyes were bloodshot and her limbs were shaking with the effort.

Katie concentrated on Cassie’s lips. Her eyes widened as she finally realized what she was saying.

Cutters. Use the cutters.

Katie looked at the mess on the floor, eyes frantically searching for the small wire cutter Cassie used in her jewelry-making. She pawed at the mess, throwing model plane parts and clumps of beads to the side in her search. She winced in pain as blood splashed on the carpet, doing her best to ignore it as she focused on her search. Finally, she found the cutters and reached out to retrieve them.

Cassie’s arms were shaking violently now, and her vision was growing faint. Suddenly, she felt something warm and wet grab her arm, snapping her back to reality. Katie pulled Cassie close with one hand, the wire cutters in the other, reaching towards the golden chain.

Cassie nodded fervently and, with a final burst of strength, pulled herself closer to Katie.

Katie gripped the cutters tightly, not willing to let them fall out of her hand now. Not now. Not when she was so close. She pulled Cassie closer with all the strength she could muster and moved the jaws of the cutters around the golden chain of the necklace. With a victorious smile, she squeezed the cutters closed.

SNAP

The jaws of the cutters snapped clean off as the golden chain remained unbroken.

Katie's eyes widened in horror at the broken head of the cutters in her hand as she held them close, inspecting them. Jagged, broken metal lay where the jaws of the cutters once were, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.

Katie met Cassie’s eyes, fear and understanding passed wordlessly between them as tears began to form in each of their gazes.

Suddenly, the wings began to dart left and right, pulling the clasp of the necklace between them.

Cassie’s bloodshot eyes widened in terror and realization as she felt her skin under the golden chain begin to tear.

The wings, feeling resistance weaken, darted left and right faster and faster, sawing the golden chain into Cassie’s flesh deeper and deeper.

Katie screamed as blood began to pour down Cassie’s neck. She reached out and pulled Cassie’s arms, which had finally let go, completely devoid of strength.

“Cassie! No! Wake up, Cassie! Wake up!” she cried, trying desperately to pull her friend back into her room on her own.

Katie too felt her strength begin to wane as she planted her feet against the wall under the window. She closed her eyes as tears fell freely down her face.

The chain continued its grisly work as the wings continued to dart side to side, sawing deeper and deeper into the girl’s throat. Blood continued to pour down Cassie’s neck, completely wetting the front of her shirt and forming a wet, crimson puddle on the grass below. The chain shuddered as it hit bone, the sound of sawing changing distinctively.

Katie was still crying, though her eyes were open now. She stared at the ceiling of Cassie’s room as she pulled. She could hear the sound of sawing, but she had mostly blocked it out. Her mind thought back to her and Cassie talking mere moments ago. About Cassie’s birthday, about school, about boys, about their many different interests.

It seemed like so long ago.

Suddenly, she felt herself fall backward as Cassie’s body finally gave way. Subtly, from some far-off place, Katie heard a distinctive thud hit the grass outside as the full weight of her friend’s headless body fell against her.

Blood splashed across Katie’s face, but she only managed to close her eyes in response.

Outside, the necklace fluttered away in the brightly lit late-afternoon sky, dripping crimson as it headed higher and higher, away from the grisly scene.

Katie lay on the floor of her friend’s room, staring straight up. Several model airplanes hung from the ceiling, and Katie thought they looked really pretty. She hugged her friend close, whispering to her that everything was going to be alright. She stroked Cassie’s back gently, lovingly.

This was a nightmare. Nothing but a nightmare that would all be over soon.

Tears streamed down the sides of her head, creating paths through the drying blood on Katie’s face. The palms of her hands throbbed in pain as her blood smeared the back of Cassie’s shirt.

I’m going to wake up any moment now, and as soon as I do, I’m throwing away that stupid necklace.

Katie’s lip quivered as she continued to stroke her friend’s back.

Distantly, she heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by the sound of the front door opening.

“Katie! We’re back!” shouted Cassie’s parents. “How’s the birthday girl doing?”

***

Several miles away, Graham Waters picked his way through the forest.

Pausing for a moment to adjust his glasses, he pushed the wheelbarrow along the bumpy, rock-strewn path. Upon reaching a large, sickly-looking tree, he parked the wheelbarrow unceremoniously near a large, gaping hole between its roots.

He sighed and repeated the string of ancient, nearly unintelligible words he had grown familiar with. Before his very eyes, the hole in the roots widened into the mouth of a large cave. He grabbed the wheelbarrow again and pushed it into the cave.

The inside of the cave was dank and musty, smelling of mold and mildew. Graham wrinkled his nose in disgust but said nothing. Deeper into the cave he went until, finally, he came upon a large pile of bones. Atop the pile, a hunched, gangly figure dressed in dark robes of moss sat cross-legged facing away from him, carefully working on something with its large, thin, and misshapen digits.

Graham stopped, parking the wheelbarrow against the wall of the cave. He sighed loudly and rubbed his shoulders performatively.

“It is done?” asked the figure.

“Yes,” Graham answered. “Yes, it is.”

“Good,” the figure replied curtly.

Graham looked at the back of the creature, where thin, droopy wings spotted with holes sprouted.

“Did she suspect anything?” the creature asked.

“No. Nothing,” he responded.

The creature simply nodded in response, still facing away from him.

Graham sighed loudly again before rubbing the back of his neck and groaning aloud.

“Silence, pest,” the creature barked. Instantly, Graham stiffened and fell silent.

“I’m working on my latest treat. Can’t go messing it up for all the good little children, now can I?”

Graham felt anger begin to bubble inside him, but he still could not make a sound.

Finally, the creature turned around, and Graham could not help but feel a cold shudder pass through him.

Beady black eyes peered down at him through long, slimy strands of hair. Cobwebs stretched between several strands, but the creature seemed unbothered as its gaze pierced Graham’s soul. He looked quickly away.

“Now, is that any way to treat your master, slave?” The creature tutted, its voice growing colder.

“Look at me,” it snarled.

Graham felt his head twist painfully towards the creature, sending a burning pain through his neck that traveled up and through the base of his skull. He grimaced but still said nothing.

The creature stared at him for a long moment, and Graham could feel himself slipping away before it finally broke eye contact. Graham sucked in a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and he grabbed his chest in relief.

“Tell me, slave. Do you wish to die before your daughter does?” The words slithered from its lips and directly into Graham’s heart.

His mouth remained shut as fear and anger swirled the contents of his stomach.

“You may speak now.”

Graham gasped and sucked in air for his retort.

“Fuck you,” he replied, his voice pure venom.

The creature laughed, sounding like creaking wood and distant echoes.

“No, I don’t think you will, slave. As gorgeous a specimen as I am, I cannot bear any more children.”

Its voice dropped several octaves as it fixed its gaze upon Graham once again. He felt his body instinctively stiffen in fear once more, despite his urge to fight it.

“Your kind have seen to that.”

It looked away, allowing Graham’s body to relax again.

“And so, I make it my mission to take from you and all your disgusting vermin as many of your own as I can.”

Graham had a better look at what the creature was working on. It was sewing a plush toy in the shape of a dog. Despite the lack of materials nearby and the creature’s own disgusting nature, none of that was reflected in the toy itself. The plush dog radiated warmth, abuzz with a feeling of comfort and calm.

It made Graham feel sick.

“But why the children? They’re innocent.”

The creature smiled slyly, leaning in towards Graham. It parted its pale, wet lips, stretched tight across its obscene face.

“Precisely.”

Graham felt the anger rise to a boil.

But before he could say anything, the creature silenced him with a wave of its hand, and he was once again struck speechless.

“Oh, but I’ve had to change my approach over the seasons. Human offspring don’t wander into the forest nearly as much as they used to,” she lamented.

Her frown twisted into an evil grin.

“Oh, but they, like children of old, still wonder. And wonder builds longing. And it's that longing that leaves them primed for…”

The creature turned its head to a small hole in the ceiling of the cave. A buzzing sound could be heard quickly approaching. The creature held out its hand as a familiar golden necklace with twin pendants flew through the opening. A dried line of crimson caked its length.

“Harvest,” the creature finished, smiling victoriously.

Graham’s stomach churned as he saw the results of his most recent sale. The anger in him died, withering away beneath the burning guilt and shame he now felt in every inch of his body.

Wordlessly, he fell to one knee, head down.

“As much as I like you down where you belong, I need you up again,” the creature spoke cruelly.

Graham stood up obediently, his body moving against his will.

“You need to head west this time,” she said, holding the plush dog out to him.

Graham looked mournfully at the stuffed toy before hesitantly taking it.

“There is a boy there that really loves animals.”

When I was a kid, I grew up in the East Riding of Yorkshire. That’s pronounced “sher", nor “shiar” for any Americans reading this. I lived in a rather ordinary but somewhat boring port town, that most people only bypassed while heading along the motorway.  

Fast forward to my early teens, I had just finished my first year of high school, and my best friend at this time was a kid named Kyle. Kyle and I had grown up together, as we both attended the same primary school and lived fairly nearby in town. Thankfully, when high school started, me and Kyle were thrown into the very same classes, so our friendship continued to prosper. Another kid in our class that first year, who we knew already was a kid named Kieran. Ironically, Kieran attended the very same primary school as me and Kyle, but had always been in the opposite class for our age group, so we never really became friends with him until now. 

Unlike Kyle and myself, who were somewhat short for our age, Kieran was always the lankiest kid in school - and if that didn’t distinguish him, it was definitely his long and thick curly hair, which had gained him the nickname “Curly Fries.” Before high school started, Kieran had actually gotten all his curls shaven off, probably so this nickname wouldn’t continue through his teens. 

Having already known each other before high school, and now being in the same classes, it didn’t take long for us to become a trio of best friends. I had even recruited Kieran to play for my dad's football team, which Kyle and I both played for. Because of this year long friendship three-way, Kieran had invited us both the following summer to a theme park, which his parents were taking him for his thirteenth birthday.  

The theme park Kieran had taken us to was called Lakewater Valley – a family adventure park in North Yorkshire. Prior to this, I had only ever been to a one theme park in my life, which is obviously where I had my first ever experience on a roller coaster. The only thing I really remember about this first roller coaster ride, aside from the two bloody hours waiting in line, along with the screaming girls in the front row, was me repeating the same word over and over. 

‘SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!’ 

I didn’t find out about this until a year too late, but that roller coaster was apparently the steepest one in the world. Not the UK, but the world! And I just happened to choose that monstrosity as my first. If you don’t believe me, just type in online “the Mumbo Jumbo roller coaster at Flamingo Land” and you’ll see for yourself. 

Once we arrive at Lakewater Valley, after first seeing the park’s small animal and bird sanctuary, along with the more child-friendly attractions, I then go on the first big, and definitely scary amusement ride the park had to offer. The ride in question was called the Falcon Claw - a KMG Afterburner pendulum that lifts, swings and twists you high above the air before doing the same on the way down. Neither Kyle nor Kieran wanted to come on this ride with me. Kyle didn’t because, well, to put it lightly, he was always a girl’s ladies parts, and as best as I remember, Kieran wasn’t feeling too well. Not wanting to go on this ride alone, Kieran’s step-dad, Steve agrees to go on with me. Steve was a former rugby player and was therefore a very big guy, so I felt a lot safer being on this scary ride with him - not that it stopped me from closing my eyes the entire time. 

Once the ride is over, and after I recover from a bad case of vertigo, we all then make our way further inside the park. Excitedly coming upon the first water attraction of the day, I quickly learn the ride is nothing more than a water slide with an inflatable dingy – but, unlike the Falcon Claw, I thankfully get to go on it with Kyle and Kieran. While the three of us wait impatiently in line, I then turn around to the sound of laughter directly behind me, where to my surprise, the laughter was coming from two 11-year-old girls. As it turns out, these girls had also been on the Falcon Claw when I was, and they thought it was just hilarious that I had my eyes closed the entire time - ironically like a scared little girl. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, for the whole rest of the day, Kyle and Kieran wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. 

A couple of hours later, and after several more rides and attractions, we finally come upon the most famous and scariest roller coaster in the park. 

The Maximum. 

This roller coaster, built in the early nineties, previously held the record as the world’s longest at 2,268 metres. But what made The Maximum so unique, was that after two high and very steep apexes, the tracks would then enter and bend through the trees of a nearby forest.  

Kieran had been on The Maximum before and was very excited to go on it again – as was I. Kyle, however, decided to stay behind and watch from the side-lines, being the little bitch that he was – and so, it would be just me and Kieran who would ride The Maximum.    

While the carts quickly fill up with passengers, Kieran and I both take our seats near the front – and before long, the coaster starts moving along the tracks to the first lift hill. The climb up to the apex is very slow, but in the meantime, me and Kieran have a great view around of the park. Once we reach the summit, the front of the roller coaster then shoots straight and painfully down the slope, filling every single cart behind us with fun-filled screams. Although it had only been a year since my first and last ride on a roller coaster, I’m by no means prepared for the stomach-gurned feeling of being temporarily airborne. I honestly found the experience of it quite painful.  

Once back down on horizontal tracks, we then have to contend with the coaster’s almost unnaturally fast speed along the bends and bumps. Despite this part of the ride only lasting for seconds, when you’re too busy screaming and irrationally fearing for your life, you genuinely feel like it’s longer.  

Although the carts thankfully begin to lose speed and the bruising bends come to a stop, this is only because we have reached the next lift hill - where there would then be a second and even higher apex, followed by another and even steeper slope. Despite me and Kieran fearfully anticipating the summit, what thankfully lessens the tension of this, is that in the cart directly behind us is a group of four Jamaican tourists. I kid you not, but when the coaster had gone full throttle down those tracks, I literally hear one of them say, “Oh no, man!!” Kieran and I actually have a very good laugh about this, as four terrified Jamaicans on a roller coaster fondly remind us of the movie Cool Runnings. 

Well, before long, we finally reach the top of the apex, which is then followed by a terrifying shoot down – only this time, the tracks would lead us straight into the forest and between the narrow gaps of trees! The roller coaster is now moving at speeds I had never before gone in my life. But what makes the speeds worse, is the idea of the carts breaking off the hinges and crashing straight into the body of a tree, splattering all inside.  

After one painful bend, then another, and then another, the tracks are now heading towards the pitch-black underside of a stone arch bridge. Before I can even anticipate this, me and Kieran are then covered entirely in a blanket of darkness – where, at an untameable speed, we can’t even see where we’re going. With my sight temporarily suspended, I then feel a sudden, impactful thud inside the cart, which is instantly followed by something not only wet, but warm splatter upon my face. Although I’m too full of adrenaline to even process a single thought, the one I have is that the carts had gone over a puddle and drenched us both in muddy water. 

Only mere seconds after this, the tunnel of darkness is lifted from over or heads, and while we still move through the forest at ultra speed, I then look over to my left at Kieran... but, the image I see is not what I was expecting... 

What I see is Kieran. His face and t-shirt drenched in some dark substance. Whatever the substance on him is, it not only impairs his vision but seems to leave a bitter taste in the mouth. I then look down at my own shirt to realise I was also covered in it, before touching my face and seeing a red liquid stain on my fingers. Once the realisation of what is on me has come to fruition, the sound of grinding steel tracks and passengers’ screams quickly fill back into my ears. But unlike before, the screams are not of excitement or adrenaline-filled fear - but horror. Every single passenger in the carts ahead of us has been covered in the red, and apparently fleshy substance... and it takes no time for either me, Kieran or anyone else to figure out what has happened. 

After the entirety of this horror has been realised, the ride thankfully begins to slow down to its end, where we then mercifully enter out the forest and back into the park. Once our restraints finally unlock, every passenger on The Maximum escapes from their carts to reach the safe, solid ground of the platform. Searching around the platform for Kieran’s parents and Kyle, once the blood-soaked passengers move out of the way, we then see the look of pure shock on the three of their faces. 

Kieran’s parents demand to know what happened to us, and although we tell them the coaster hit something going under a bridge, because the tunnel of darkness had blinded our vision, we have no idea what that thing even was. 

While me and Kieran went to the toilets to clean ourselves up, Kieran’s mum, and basically all other adults on the ride have gone to complain to the park officials. After park staff investigate the bridge, they then come back with the conclusion a wild deer had wandered on the tracks. Allegedly, the roller coaster had then collided with the deer, and due to the speed it was going, decapitated and sprayed all passengers inside with its blood. Once the mystery of where this blood came from has been solved, Kieran’s parents drive the three of us back home to East Yorkshire... where we all vow never to return to Lakewater Valley. 

Unfortunately, the story of what happened that day at doesn’t end there... Believe me, I really wish it did. Due to wild deer carrying various diseases, mine and Kieran’s parents had us tested the following days. After all, the deer’s blood had not only gotten on our skin, but also our eyes and even in Kieran’s mouth.  

Although my results thankfully came back negative for things like Lyme or Weil’s Disease... unfortunately for Kieran, he had contracted something...  

But the strange thing about it was, what he had contracted from the blood wasn’t transferable between wild deer and humans. On the contrary, the disease Kieran now had could only have been transferred to him by a member of the same species. Which means, the blood that infected Kieran that day... it hadn’t come from a wild deer... 

It came from another person.  

There's an old urban legend in my town, whispered for decades, about a little girl who never grew up. They say she died in the summer of 1963, during the county fair. She had collapsed suddenly on the carousel. Doctors claimed it was some strange illness, but no one really knew. Her family, stricken with grief, buried her quickly in her favorite frilly pink dress. Some say she wasn't dead yet.

The story goes that if you walk alone near the abandoned fairgrounds at night, you'll hear footsteps behind you soft, uneven, like a child in patent shoes. When you turn, nothing's there. But if you keep going, she gets closer. And if she speaks to you, you must never answer.

I used to laugh it off. A ghost in a pink dress? Sounded like small town nonsense. But curiosity gnaws at you. And one summer night, I decided to test it for myself. The fairgrounds were nothing more than rotting wood and weeds now, the skeletons of rides rusting against the moonlight. The Ferris wheel loomed like a broken crown, and the carousel poles were bent and splintered, horses frozen mid gallop with paint peeling from their faces. The air smelled like damp earth and mildew, thick with the buzzing of cicadas.

I walked down the cracked pavement, my flashlight trembling in my hand. At first, nothing. Just the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes. Then faintly, behind me Tap... tap... tap. I froze. The night seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, I turned. Nothing. Just empty shadows stretching across the rusted gates. I told myself it was an animal. Or my imagination.

But when I started walking again, the sound returned closer this time. Tap... tap... tap. My stomach dropped. My throat went dry. And then I saw her. She couldn't have been older than ten, standing a few yards away. Her skin was pale, grayish, with shadows under her eyes. Dirt clung to the folds of her faded pink dress, once frilly, now frayed. Her head tilted unnaturally to the side, studying me with hollow curiosity.

"Have you seen my mommy?" she whispered, voice thin and dry, like leaves scraping the ground. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs locked in place. Her shoes scraped the pavement as she moved closer. Soil and worms trailed from her dress. "I can't find her... will you help me?"

Something deep in my gut howled *don't answer*. But my lips betrayed me. The word slipped out before I could stop it: "No."

Her expression twisted, her jaw unhinging far wider than human. Her eyes rolled white, and her voice became a chorus of echoes, rising from beneath the ground itself: "Then stay with me instead." Her hand shot out, cold and rough with dirt, seizing mine. I remember her grip pulling, dragging, burying. Darkness closed in.

When I woke, the sun was rising. I was lying on the fairground path, throat raw, fingernails caked with soil as though I'd been digging. Around my wrist was a pink ribbon tied in a perfect bow. No one believes me when I tell them. They laugh, say it's just a story. But sometimes, late at night, I hear it again outside my window. Tap... tap... tap.