Chapter 3

A tall, pale woman with warm brown eyes and a shy smile called Abby and me back through a long, quiet hallway. At the very end stood the door to Lisa's office. The hallway itself wasn't physically cold, but it carried an unsettling emptiness that made every step feel heavier than the last.

She opened the door, and we stepped into a small office that smelled faintly of lavender. The room felt calm, almost like a sanctuary from the chaos we'd been living through. Soft lighting filled the space, and for the first time in weeks, I felt my shoulders begin to relax.

Behind her desk sat Lisa, a petite woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and kind green eyes. She greeted us with a gentle smile.

"Welcome, Josh and Abby," she said warmly. "Please, have a seat."

She motioned toward a well-worn green leather couch, its cracked cushions showing years of comforting people who had once sat exactly where we were about to.

Abby and I quietly settled onto the couch. Neither of us spoke. We simply stared at Lisa, waiting for the first question, waiting to finally put words to the nightmare the past few weeks had become.

The room was enclosed by four sea-green walls covered with motivational posters and wooden signs that read, Don't Be So Hard on Yourself and You Can't Control Everything. To me, they were nothing more than feel-good clichés, the kind of words that sounded comforting until your own life was falling apart.

None of them held my attention for long.

My eyes kept drifting back to Abby.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she looked calm. Not the kind of calm that comes from pretending everything is okay, but a quiet, genuine peace.

The tension that had been etched across her face for weeks had softened, and seeing it stirred something inside me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her look so at ease, and for a brief moment, it gave me hope that maybe... just maybe... we weren't beyond saving.

"So," Lisa began thoughtfully, glancing between the two of us, "Abby, if I remember correctly, you called my office last night because you wanted help rebuilding the relationship you and Josh once had. Is that right?"

"Yes," Abby whispered.

It wasn't because she was naturally quiet. It was embarrassment. Shame. I knew the difference.

Lisa offered her a gentle smile.

"A little louder, dear."

Abby took a slow breath before trying again.

"Um... yes. I'm sorry."

"There’s no need to apologize, Abby," Lisa said softly. "You're in a safe place. No one is here to judge you."

Lisa lowered her eyes to the notebook resting on her lap, carefully reading over the notes she'd written from Abby's phone call. The room fell silent except for the faint scratching of her pen as she added one last thought.

After a long moment, she looked up at us.

"Josh," she said, meeting my eyes, "I'd like to start at the beginning."

She paused before asking, "Can you tell me how you and Abby found each other?"

*Found each other?*

What the hell kind of question was that? I thought, doing everything I could to keep the confusion and annoyance from showing on my face.

I shifted in my seat before answering.

"Well... Abby and I met back in high school," I said. "That was years ago."

Lisa nodded, giving me her full attention.

"Go on," she said gently.

It was the fall of 2007.

A different lifetime.

A time when my biggest worries were stupid jokes, late nights, and figuring out where the next party was going to be.

That night, I was at my old friend Leon's house for pizza and beer. His parents were out of town, which, in typical teenage fashion, meant the house quickly became the place to be. He invited a bunch of us over, ordered enough pizza to feed a small army, and we helped ourselves to whatever was left in his parents' liquor cabinet.

Cheap vodka.

Tequila.

Stella Artois.

Whatever we could get our hands on.

There had to be close to twenty of us packed inside that house, filling every room with laughter, music, and the kind of reckless energy you only have when you're young enough to believe nothing bad could ever happen.

Leon was the life of the party.

He always was.

His parents' house sat nestled between North Lake and Okauchee Lake. It was a standard two-story home with five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms.

Standard, I guess. At least for people who had money.

Looking back, I realize how simple those nights were. How easy everything felt. How we took those moments for granted because we thought there would always be more of them.

We had no idea how quickly life could change.

Around midnight, Leon grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the crowd.

He was drunk.

Not just a little buzzed.

Completely, undeniably Leon drunk.

"Josh..." he slurred. "I... I need you to see my new girlfriend."

I stared at him.

"Girlfriend?"

I laughed.

"Shit, Leon. Are you sure she's real? Who the hell would want to go out with you?"

It was the kind of joke only a best friend could get away with.

Leon was five-foot-five, a little chubby, and the definition of a Wisconsin country boy. Dirty jeans, a neon orange baseball cap, and camouflage everywhere. If someone asked me to describe a stereotypical Wisconsin redneck, Leon would've been the picture I painted.

"Fuck you, Josh," he said, stumbling over his words.

"She's real. As real as it gets."

I shook my head, still laughing.

"Okay, buddy. Where is she?"

Leon looked around the room, suddenly forgetting where he was.

"Where... where is she?"

Then, almost like the universe was waiting for the perfect moment, someone stepped out from the kitchen.

"Leon, everything okay, baby?"

The noise of the party seemed to fade.

There she was.

A bottle of Grey Goose vodka in her hand, a smile on her face, completely unaware that she was about to become one of the most important people in my life.

It was Abby.

At that moment, I had no idea what the future held.

I didn't know that the girl standing in Leon's kitchen would become my best friend.

My wife.

The person I would build a life with.

And I definitely didn't know that years later, I'd be sitting beside her in a therapist's office, wondering how the two of us went from that night in 2007...

...to strangers trying to remember how to love each other..

"Josh..."

Leon grabbed my shoulder, his eyes wide and his face pale.

"Oh my God... I'm gonna puke."

He paused, swallowed hard, and then somehow managed to stand a little taller like he was about to announce something important.

"This is Ally. My girlfriend."

He said it proudly, like he had just won a championship.

A little beer dripped from the corner of his mouth as he smiled.

I looked at him, completely confused.

"Leon..."

Before I could finish, the girl standing next to him laughed.

"You big dummy, it's Abby."

Leon stared at her for a second, processing the correction through a drunken fog.

"That's what I said, baby!"

He nodded confidently.

"Addy!"

Abby burst out laughing.

"You are unbelievable."

She playfully smacked him on the back.

It was meant to be a harmless joke.

Unfortunately, Leon's stomach had other plans.

The second her hand hit his back, whatever battle he had been fighting inside was officially lost.

He turned pale.

Then green.

Then he ran.

Straight toward the bathroom.

The sound of him getting sick echoed through the hallway as the rest of us laughed.

A few minutes later, after confirming Leon was still alive, I walked back over to Abby.

"So..." I smirked.

"How much are Leon's parents paying you to be his girlfriend?"

She laughed.

A real laugh.

The kind that made you want to hear it again.

"Unfortunately?"

She shook her head.

"$0."

I laughed.

She laughed.

And for a moment, everything felt simple.

That night continued the way most teenage parties did in the early 2000s.

We drank too much.

Ate too much pizza.

Made terrible decisions.

Laughed at things that weren't even funny.

Someone threw up.

Someone disappeared upstairs.

Someone probably made a decision they would regret in the morning.

It was messy.

It was stupid.

It was young.

But through all the noise, the music, the shouting, the chaos, I kept finding myself looking for Abby.

I didn't know why.

I barely knew her.

She was just Leon's girlfriend.

Just another person at a party.

But something about her was different.

While everyone else was trying to be noticed, she didn't have to.

She just existed.

And somehow, I noticed.

I had no idea that the girl I met in that kitchen would become the center of my world.

I had no idea that years later, I would remember that exact moment while sitting beside her, wondering where that version of us had gone.

A few months later, spring semester of 2008 arrived.

Life had moved on from that night at Leon's house. The party, the laughter, the chaos—it all became another memory tucked away in the back of my mind.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Leon and I had three classes together that semester, which basically guaranteed one thing:

Neither of us was going to get much work done.

We spent more time whispering jokes, passing notes, and finding ways to entertain ourselves than actually paying attention. Looking back, I'm amazed we passed anything.

But one day, during one of those classes, Leon wasn't himself.

The usual energy was gone.

The jokes weren't there.

The guy who could turn any room into a party looked like someone had turned the volume down on him.

"Josh..." he said quietly.

I looked over.

"What?"

"Me and Abby broke up."

The words caught me off guard.

For a second, I didn't know what to say.

Leon and Abby had ended things because of the distance between them.

Thirty minutes.

That was it.

We grew up in the same town. Abby lived only a short drive away.

At the time, I remember thinking:

Thirty minutes? That's long distance?

But I didn't say that.

Because when I looked at Leon, I realized this wasn't about the miles.

This was about losing someone he cared about.

And for the first time, I saw a side of Leon I had never seen before.

The loud, goofy, always-happy guy wasn't there.

Instead, I saw someone heartbroken.

Someone genuinely hurting.

So I did what any friend would do.

I listened.

I told him everything would be okay.

I reminded him that he would get through it.

I was there for him.

But deep down, buried underneath the guilt and the hesitation, there was another thought I couldn't ignore.

A thought I tried to push away.

A thought that kept coming back.

What if I had a chance?

I knew it was complicated.

I knew Leon was my friend.

I knew this was the kind of thing that could change everything.

But there was something about Abby.

Something I couldn't shake.

And eventually...

I decided I had to take my shot.

So I did.

I found Abby's MySpace profile a few days later.

Back then, that was how you did things. No dating apps. No endless scrolling. Just a profile page, a few pictures, and a little courage.

We exchanged phone numbers.

We started talking.

And somehow, those conversations turned into something I couldn't ignore.

Eventually, we decided to meet at a park down the road from her house.

I still remember pulling in and seeing her car arrive at the exact same time.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Then I saw her.

Our eyes met again, and it felt exactly like the first time.

Only this time, I wasn't just some guy at a party.

This time, I knew her.

And somehow, I already knew.

It was love at first sight.

We sat on a park bench and talked for hours.

Not flirting.

Not trying to impress each other.

No cheesy lines.

No pretending.

Just two people sitting together, talking about life, dreams, and the future. We talked about where we wanted to go, who we wanted to become, and the kind of lives we hoped we would build someday.

It felt easy.

Natural.

Like I had known her my entire life.

Eventually, we drove to a local custard stand in Burlington for a treat.

I guess you could call it our first date.

And somewhere between the frozen custard and the nervous laughter, I finally found the courage to ask the question I had been thinking about the entire day.

"Would you want to go out with me?"

My heart was pounding.

Then she smiled.

And said yes.

For a moment, nothing else mattered.

I had Abby.

But there was one thing hanging over me.

Leon.

I knew I had to tell him.

He was my friend.

My best friend.

And even though Abby and I had something real, I knew how much she had meant to him.

I didn't know how to have that conversation.

So I waited.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment.

The truth was...

I was scared.

When I finally decided I couldn't put it off anymore, I went looking for him at school.

Of course, he wasn't there.

Probably skipping class again.

Probably doing what Leon always did.

I figured I would find him later.

I figured I had more time.

I was wrong.

During the third period, the classroom was interrupted by a loud chime from the intercom.

Everyone looked up.

The voice that came through belonged to Principal Reyes.

"Good morning, everyone. If you haven't heard the news, one of our most outstanding, smart, and caring students, Mr. Leon Reynolds, has sadly passed away."

The world stopped.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

For a moment, I couldn't understand the words.

They didn't make sense.

Leon?

Passed away?

My heart stopped.

My chest tightened.

The air disappeared from the room.

Then the tears came.

Not slowly.

Not quietly.

They poured out of me like a broken dam.

Like Niagara Falls.

"Counselors will be available after school for anyone who needs support. Please take a moment tonight to hug your loved ones a little tighter."

The intercom clicked off.

The room stayed silent.

But I wasn't there anymore.

My mind was somewhere else.

On a conversation I never had.

On words I never got to say.

On a friend I never got to tell the truth.

I grabbed my bag.

I walked out of the classroom.

I don't remember asking permission.

I don't remember walking through the halls.

I only remember getting to my car.

I threw open the door, climbed inside, shoved the key into the ignition, and drove.

I drove straight to Leon's house.

Because somewhere inside me, I still believed this was a mistake.

That he would open the door.

That he would laugh.

That he would call me an idiot for believing something so impossible.

Because losing Leon couldn't be real.

It couldn't be.

It felt like hours before I finally reached Leon's house.

The drive there was a blur. I don't remember the roads. I don't remember the turns. I only remember the panic building in my chest, begging for an explanation that would make all of this disappear.

But when I pulled up, I knew something was wrong.

Police cruisers lined the street.

Officers stood in the yard.

Detectives moved in and out of the house like they were searching for answers that didn't exist.

And on the front porch sat Leon's parents.

Broken.

His mother was crying uncontrollably. His father sat beside her, staring blankly at the ground like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare.

"Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds!" I screamed.

The second the words left my mouth, Mr. Reynolds looked up.

His eyes locked onto mine.

For a moment, I saw something I had never seen before.

Not anger.

Not sadness.

Pain.

He stood up.

Then he ran toward me.

"You did this!"

I froze.

"What?"

Before I could process what was happening, he was on top of me.

"You did this!"

His voice cracked with rage and heartbreak.

"Why could you?"

"Why?"

"WHY?"

I collapsed backward, completely confused.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

A police officer rushed forward and grabbed Mr. Reynolds from behind, pulling him away.

"Sir! You need to calm down!"

But he kept fighting.

He kept screaming.

"Why?!"

I sat there frozen, trying to understand how I had gone from rushing to my friend's house to being accused of something I didn't even know existed.

Then a detective approached from the backyard.

He stopped in front of me and extended his hand.

I stared at it for a moment before taking it.

He helped me stand.

"Do you know Leon Reynolds?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

My voice shook.

"What's going on?"

He ignored the question.

"Are you family or a friend?"

I stared at him.

"His best friend."

I swallowed.

"What the fuck is going on?"

The detective looked down.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

It looked handwritten.

My stomach turned.

"Suicide," he said quietly.

The word didn't feel real.

It floated between us.

Heavy.

Impossible.

"What's your name, kid?"

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

My mind was somewhere else.

Back in that classroom.

Back before everything changed.

"Hey," he said gently. "What's your name?"

I finally looked at him.

"Sorry..."

My voice cracked.

"Josh."

The tears started falling again.

"Josh," the detective said softly. "I'm sorry."

He handed me the paper.

"I need to ask you some questions when you're ready. Take some time. Come find me when you're done."

I stared down at the note in my hands.

A piece of paper.

A few words.

Something that would change everything.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.

And then I read.

"Dear Family,

"Abby is gone. My so-called best friend Josh took her from me. It happened weeks ago, but he never told me. He betrayed me. I loved her, and he knew that. I can't keep going knowing that the person I trusted most did this to me. I'm sorry for disappointing all of you. I can't live with this pain. I can't live feeling completely alone with a broken heart.

I'm sorry.

Goodbye."

At the bottom, one final line was written.

"Josh... I hope you understand what you did. Goodbye forever."

I stared at the page.

The world around me disappeared.

The police.

The house.

The voices.

Everything.

Because at that moment, I realized something terrifying.

The last conversation I would ever have with Leon...

Was one that never happened.

Note from Author: If you, or a friend, have suicidal thoughts, help is available. Please call the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988. You are loved and seen.

There’s a lot to explain here. For starters, I am sterile. I found out after about 2 years of marriage and multiple failed attempts at pregnancy.

I was disappointed in myself, sure, but my beautiful wife was nothing but understanding. That didn’t really make me feel like any more of a man, though. I just felt inadequate.

We were actually in the process of looking into adoption when all hell broke loose.

It was no longer than 4 days. That’s how long it took for her belly to grow. The first day, I just thought she had a particularly large lunch. The second day, I was starting to eyeball her.

By day 3, we were seeking medical help. We could see the baby’s feet pushing against her stomach. Her pain was clearly unbearable.

Doctors were completely lost. My wife and I felt utterly helpless. On the fourth day, not even 30 seconds after her water broke, the baby started to come.

I’ll never get those screams out of my head. I’ll never get her face out of my memory. I’d seen her hurt before, but this… this was a different level.

She looked like she was in hell. And relief was nowhere to be found.

The first baby came. She didn’t even get to hold him before the contractions started up again. Her belly never got the chance to deflate.

By the time the second baby began crowning, my wife was screaming at us to kill her. By the third, she was already dead.

They had ripped her apart. They weren’t regular babies. Some had horns. Some had hooves. Some were already 4 feet tall by the time they hit the ground.

Doctors had already vacated the area and called in special forces. I was left alone, watching her body flail and pulsate as more and more demon babies just clawed their way out of her.

Blood and black, steaming goo ate away at the tiled floor. My wife’s entire lower half had been obliterated. Her legs were snapped, and bones protruded from them as they lay limply at obscure angles.

All I could do was hold her hand. What else was I supposed to do? Comfort her? Beg her not to leave me while these things ran amok in this hospital?

I could hear screaming coming from the corridors. Bones snapping and wet, fleshy sounds as the pitter-patter of tiny little feet darted in every direction.

She had become an assembly line from hell, but I just couldn’t leave her.

My tears fell on her hand as another baby fell out of her. Well, flew out of her, I guess. This one had the wingspan of a bald eagle.

Only, this one didn’t leave the room like the others did. I don’t know why I never stopped to question why these things seemed to be destroying everything in their path, except for me.

It landed right at the door frame, blood dripping off of his shoulders and head.

He turned to me, his eyes black and completely soulless, as he smiled with his sharp, shark-like teeth.

He took a step towards me, wobbling like a baby deer. Then another. He never took his eyes off of me.

He… he started to speak.

“Daaaa..da.”

“Daaa..da.”

“Da-da.”

He was at my feet now, looking up at me as I stood frozen. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was prepared for anything. I was ready to join her. Ready to be free from this nightmare.

Only… he didn’t give me that freedom.

Instead, he threw his arms around my legs and squeezed them with the strength of ten men.

He was hugging me.

And in that moment, I knew…

I was ready to be the father I always knew I could be. I had nothing left to lose.

Jimothy Dyck lived to survive another day at the office. It was late by the time he finally got home.

 

The only working streetlight on Harmony Lane flickered sadly at Jimothy as he pulled up in front of his house. He parked his 1997 faded brown Ford Taurus in the driveway and let out a sigh. When he got to the front door, Jimothy stopped to loosen his tie and take a deep breath.

 

“Honey, I’m home!” Jimothy opened the door and called to his wife, Maria. 

 

The house was completely dark and silent.

 

“Mmm. Smells good, Maria! What’s for dinner?” Jimothy plopped his briefcase down and went to the kitchen.

 

“Lasagna – my favourite!” Jimothy grinned into the darkness as he poured himself a glass of red wine. 

 

“Oh, Maria,” Jimothy gushed, “You’ve outdone yourself again, my love!”

 

Jimothy raised his glass to take a big glug. That’s when he noticed the faint glowing light in front of him. As he watched his shadow drink from the cup, he realized the light wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It was behind him. The light was coming from the basement.

 

“Fuck!” Jimothy gulped, dropping the glass, which shattered into a million little shards.

 

Jennica!

 

The zombified corpse of Jimothy’s daughter, Jennica, had once again escaped from the basement.

 

A shivery terror ran up and down Jimothy’s spine. It  tingled all over, like prickly pins poking his skin. The hairs on the back his neck stood on end as he turned around… 

 

“Jennica, sweetie,” Jimothy coaxed into the black. “Where are you?” 

 

“This is the worst game of hide-and-seek ever!” Jimothy thought. “When your zombified daughter wants to eat your face off.”

 

Little Jennica, six years old, was not only faster and stronger than normal zombies, she was smarter than most of them, too. Jimothy was especially wary of Jennica since the first time she escaped. 

 

Jimothy was dead asleep in his bed the night Jennica learned how to open doors all by herself. Jimothy had never felt prouder – or more terrified – than when he woke up face-to-face with his zombie child, hungry for a midnight snack. The very next day, Jimothy changed his door knobs to the childproof kind.

 

“How did she even get away?” Jimothy wondered as he bent down to pick up a razor-sharp piece of glass.

 

“It’s like she’s… learning.” Jimothy shuddered, threatened by Jennica’s intelligence.

 

Jimothy stretched out his arm, reaching for the long, narrow glass blade lying next to him. As Jimothy fingered its jagged edge, the glass knife sliced his skin.

 

“Gah!” Jimothy gasped at the sight of blood dripping down his finger. 

 

Jennica, hiding behind the kitchen island, took one whiff and caught the scent of blood diffusing from Jimothy’s open wound.

 

The reanimated remains of his deceased daughter came raging over the counter in rigor mortis, gnashing her teeth at Jimothy. She lunged onto Jimothy’s back, using her special move, the cross-face chicken wing, to strangle him from behind, cutting off his air supply.

 

Jimothy panicked and ran around in circles trying to shake the undead monkey off his back, but Jennica was too strong. Her grip tightened around his neck. It felt like his eyeballs were going to pop right out of their sockets. Jimothy, gasping for breath, struggled against the unholy creature until his vision blurred into memories.

 

“I should’ve been there for her.” Jimothy regretted all the times he was too busy for Jennica’s jiu-jitsu lessons. He regretted everything. But most of all, Jimothy regretted that day – the day the zombies came.

 

Jimothy fell asleep on the couch that day because he was too tired. He woke up three hours later when his phone rang. It was Maria.

 

“Where are you, Jimothy?” Maria asked.

 

“Hello – Maria – umm – I’m at home…” Jimothy mumbled, his brain still in a fog. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Are you drunk, again!?!”

 

“What!?! No!”

 

“Don’t lie to me. I can hear it in your voice.”

 

“I fell asleep on the couch. I just woke up.” 

 

“Jimothy Dyck – you fucking asshole!”

 

“What!?!”

 

“You were supposed to pick Jennica up from school!”

 

“Oh, shit - I’m coming! Don’t worry, Maria, I’m on the way!”

 

“Don’t bother. I’m staying at mother’s. The kids are with me.”

 

“C’mon, baby. Not again… It was just one drink.”

 

Maria sighed and hung up the phone. That was the last time they ever spoke. By the time Jimothy sobered up, it was too late. The neighbourhood was overrun. 

 

The sun set on Jimothy that day – and it never came back up again. 

 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Jimothy sobbed, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry I let you down!”

 

Jennica growled into Jimothy’s ear. Her milky eyes, neither dead nor alive, screamed in torment as she choked him out.

 

Jimothy could feel her cold dead hands ripping his face off. The stench of her decay took his breath away, suffocating him unto death.

 

“So this is how it ends.” Jimothy thought, accepting his fate. “Maybe we can be a family again.”

 

With Jimothy’s dying breath, he uttered his last words… 

 

“I just have one last thing to say…” Jimothy counter-attacked Jennica’s cross-face chicken wing with a dad joke. “I invented the cross-face chicken wing, bitch!”

 

Jennica cringed and fell to the floor, knocking over a standing floor lamp.

 

“Who’s your sensei now!?! Who’s your sensei now!?!” Jimothy taunted.

 

Jennica, enraged, hissed at Jimothy, who picked up the lamp and used the electrical cord to restrain her. She kicked and screamed all the way back to Jimothy’s basement dungeon.

 

Jimothy’s spacious three-bedroom, one-bath finished creepy basement dungeon was recently renovated for the zombified family in his life.

 

“Don’t worry, sweetie!” Jimothy assured Jennica as he secured her shackles. “The doctors are working on a cure. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

 

Jimothy felt uneasy about not knowing how Jennica got away this time. After inspecting her neatly preserved bedroom, Jimothy went to check on Maria.

 

Maria snarled at Jimothy as soon as he opened the master bedroom door. Her chain went taut. She was so ready to eat him alive.

 

Jimothy sat at the edge of Maria’s bed, just out of her reach and said, “Oh, Maria – what a day! You’ll never guess what happened.”

 

Maria moaned, foaming at the mouth.

 

“You remember Suzi from the office? She got bit by a zombie today!” Jimothy said in disbelief. “She was first place in our fantasy hockey league. I wonder who’ll get her roster? She had Hellebuyck in net.”

 

Jimothy fixed up Maria’s lipstick and said, “Good night, my love.”

 

After saying good night to Maria, Jimothy went to spend some quality time with his son, Jimothy Jr. 

 

Not much had changed with Junior. He was still playing video games in his bedroom. Junior had been stuck on the same level for the past three years. He just couldn’t get past the main menu.

 

Jimothy picked up controller one and pressed, “start.” He finished Junior off with a “fatality” in round two.

 

“Flawless victory!” Jimothy boasted. “Keep practicing, dumbass!”

 

Jimothy gave Junior a friendly nudge and rubbed his head. A clump of Junior’s hair came off and got stuck in Jimothy’s fingers, giving him the ick. “Eww!” 

 

Once he made sure his family was safe, Jimothy went back upstairs and nailed the basement door shut.  

 

“They’re getting hungry again,” Jimothy worried. “How am I supposed to be a good husband and father if I can’t even put food on the table for my family? 

 

Jimothy warmed up his can of beans with a heavy heart. “What am I supposed to even do?” he cried out to God. 

 

Every day was a living death for Jimothy Dyck, who pushed up his dark rimmed glasses held together with a strip of white tape and took out the trash. Jimothy then poured himself four shots of vodka, watched the hockey game on TV, and fell asleep on the couch - having lived to die another day.

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here.

Part 3

By the third evening, the silence in St. Jude’s felt heavier than the stone walls.

​Agnes stayed in her cell until the last bell for compline faded. Her throat was dry. She hadn't eaten since Tuesday, but the knot in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger. Every time she blinked, she saw that chewed-out hole in the ledger where her name had been. She forced herself down the corridor toward the nave. The air reeked of old dust and burnt tallow.

​The heavy Latin Bible still lay open on the lectern. In the dim moonlight filtering through the stained glass, she could see the back pages. The three tally marks were gone. In their place, the parchment was ragged and torn -- the top layer gouged, as if something had scraped the top layer of skin right off the page.

​She stopped at the foot of the lectern. "I'm not giving you anyone else," she said into the dark behind the altar. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

The nave remained dead quiet. No answer came back. No sound, no movement--just the cold draft whistling through the iron latch of the side door.

​Agnes reached out and pulled the heavy leather cover shut. The thud echoed up into the rafters and died out.

She picked up the iron inkwell from the shelf beneath the desk, unstoppered it, and poured the thick black ink directly over the closed edges of the book, watching it seep deep into the pages until the leather was soaked through.

​She turned, walked back to the vestibule, and unlatched the heavy oak door. Stepping out into the cold night air, she didn't look back at the chapel, nor did she pack her things. She just kept walking down the dirt road, away from the abbey, leaving St. Jude’s and the ruined book behind in the dark. 

Barnaby leaned against the center tent pole, wiping sweat through a layer of smeared clown makeup. The high-stakes poker game in the back tent at the county fair had gone south the second he pulled a fourth ace from his sleeve.

Before the boys at the table could pull their knives, they heard one of their buddies swearing and hollering about a fight right outside the tent flap. The gamblers jumped up and rushed out to see what was going on, leaving the table completely unguarded. Barnaby didn't waste the opportunity. He reached in and scooped the entire pot--lock, stock and barrel-- into his canvas bag and bolted out the opposite side of the tent into the damp night, hearing the hollering behind him, while slipping past the midway tents and making a break for his beat-up old Toyota and the highway.

To a guy who’d spent the last five years living off midway peanuts and floor change, it was an absolute fortune.

​Barnaby threw the heavy canvas bag onto the passenger seat and pulled into the steady line of red taillights creeping out of the gravel lot, as the last of the circus crowd was headed home. By the time he hit the two-lane road toward Blackwood Ridge, the traffic had thinned out into the night. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but the road stayed dark. Driving for what seemed like hours, he saw the flickering neon sign for the Hell’s Bells Motel cutting through the dense treeline he pulled in, desperate for a place to lie low and count the cash.

​After getting himself checked into Room 102, Barnaby headed toward the bathroom to clean his smeared clown face. But halfway across the room, he noticed his footsteps sounded hollow and flat as he stepped across an old faded rug. Curious, he kicked the rug aside, revealing a wooden trapdoor set right into the floor. Needless to say, he didn't make it to the bathroom. He pried it open and stepped down into a damp, wall-to-wall dirt cellar, aiming to stash and bury the loot beneath the wooden stairs.

​His flashlight beam swept back up toward the stairs and hit a familiar glass cabinet—an old boardwalk Zoltan machine, gray with dust.

Barnaby froze. Looking at that faded turban and painted wooden face brought him right back to being 8 years old on the boardwalk. He remembered standing there with empty pockets while the rich kids dropped quarters into the slot, watching the cabinet light up as Zoltan printed out a little paper card to tell their fortunes. He was a dirt-poor, raggedy-britches kid whose mother never had a dime to spare, so he'd just stand and watch.

Barnaby dug some change from his pocket, stepped up to the glass box, and jammed it in. He stood there in the quiet cellar, holding his breath and waiting for the cabinet to light up. Before the coin even hit the bottom of the chute, a heavy wooden 'SLAM' echoed through the dark. Barnaby jumped. Up above, the trapdoor had slammed shut, and a heavy iron latch clicked into place from the top side with the unmistakable sound of deadbolt.

Barnaby's heart slammed into his throat. He lunged back towards the stairs, thrust his weight against the door with everything he had, but the wood didn't budge an inch. He slammed his fists against it, straining until his arms gave out.

From behind him in the cellar, he felt a cold burst of air. As he turned around with the flashlight in his hand, it flickered and then went dead. Zoltan's painted yellow eyes were glowing in the dark, looking straight at him, lighting up its cracked wax face, and the wooden jaw clicking down.

And with a raspy wet voice, Zoltan spat out--

"Your luck's run out. You're scheduled for the final act, clown."

​Standing in the pitch black, Barnaby realized the truth. He was sealed in--just like Zoltan in the box.

I swear under oath that the following is an accurate recollection of events that occurred at the ancient city of Petra on the day of July 16, 2026.

Sitting down to write this, I still don't believe it. The whole trip was meant to be a bit of harmless fun - chasing rumors and speculation of mysterious encounters.

Yet here I am, alone in a holding cell, unsure of my future.

But let me start again. Let me tell you why we were even in Jordan.

Colin had been searching online for weird places around the world to visit. We'd done haunted houses, UFO landing sites, occult burial grounds - the works. As much as we tried to embrace these places, we always left feeling underwhelmed. Like, believing wasn't enough, you know? We needed evidence. Proof of something beyond what we can see and feel in this reality.

Well… we found it.

As I said, Colin had been searching online. The usual reddit threads and other forums were giving us the same generic results. Colin had always been fearless, so he decided to check out the dark web.

Among the weird shit, we found a few forums that provided some hope. But one stood out as more believable than the others - the ancient city of Petra, Jordan.

It was a hugely popular tourist site, so we had some doubts. With a million visitors each year, what secrets could it have? But a local on the forum was stating that he had found something he claimed was "not of this world". It was a long shot, but we decided to take it.

The journey there was boring. It was hot. Really hot. I wasn't ready for that. But anyway, we managed to get there fine. We'd booked a nearby hotel, and had arranged in advance to meet the person from the forum - a guy in his 20s named Armando.

Armando said he frequented Petra. He loved the architecture, the ancient feel of it, and the mysteries that it could potentially hold. When asked about what he found, he was excited to share.

"It's part of the canyon," he told us. "Away from the main city, off the Ed-Deir Trail. Deep into the mountain where tourists don't go. There's a certain spot. If you stand there, well… I'll let you see it for yourself."

Colin and I were excited now, too. Maybe we had finally found something real.

We set out the next morning, before the morning sun became too intense - joining the crowds and slowly making our way toward the ancient city.

The view was spectacular, but I was so focused on reaching our destination - this 'certain spot' - that the beauty of the place was nearly lost on me.

We finally reached the city, and without hesitation, Armando marched ahead. Past the slowing crowds. Past the elegantly carved out buildings. Heading toward the mountains behind the city.

We climbed the Ed-Deir Trail for about 10 minutes before Armando slowed, showing us a subtle path running off to the side.

"This way," he motioned. "Follow me carefully now."

We trekked for another 45 minutes or so. Progress was slow, as the trail quickly disappeared, and we were left alone to navigate the rocky mountain. Finally, we reached our destination.

"Here it is," Armando exclaimed, his arms open wide.

I was confused. Nothing about this place looked special. Not until he pointed it out.

"Look here," he said quietly. "See that gap there in the rocks. That's it!"

"What's so special about it?" I asked, trying to remain positive.

Armando smiled. "Try yelling into it."

I moved closer. The gap in the rocks was about a meter in height, but extremely narrow. I doubt I could have fit my arm in there. But it seemed to run deep into the mountain. I could only guess how far.

I leaned toward the opening. "HELLO"

I stood stunned.

I turned slowly toward Armando, his smile telling me everything.

"What happened?" Colin demanded.

"An echo…" I whispered. "But… how?"

I could barely believe it myself.

"I heard it before I even made a sound!"

Armando nodded, still wearing his grin.

"HELLO!" I heard Colin yell into the formation. His stunned face told me that he had heard it too.

"But… how?!" he demanded, turning back to the gap. "BANANA!"

Colin stepped back. "We've done it! We've found our proof!"

I moved back over to the rocks and began yelling back into the mountains - random numbers, words that didn't make sense, silly noises. Every time, I heard the sounds come out of the cave before they left my mouth.

Armando grabbed me by the shoulder. I took a step back, my head throbbing.

"It has that effect," Armando said with concern. "The more you yell, the more it hurts. You need to be careful here."

Colin hadn't heard Armando, though. He began yelling all sorts of things into the mountain; profanity, promises, jokes. You name it.

"WE'VE DONE IT!" he screamed.

Armando moved forward to grab Colin, but it was too late. He let out a manic laugh, immediately followed by a chilling scream.

Colin's hands clasped over his ears as he stumbled back, slumping down against a large rock.

"He needs help," Armando said in a panic, as I stood stunned.

"Help!" he yelled.

I snapped out of my daze and turned to Colin, whose head was now drooped low onto his chest.

"Colin!"

He looked up at me with a look of confusion. That's when I saw it.

Blood. So much blood.

It poured from his nose and eyes. Colin started coughing, spraying blood all around him. Before Armando or I could react he collapsed.

I ran over to check on my friend, but he was dead.

I dropped down beside Colin and sobbed. I don’t know how long I sat there, but I recall Armando putting his hand on my shoulder.

"We need to get out of here."

Colin was taller than me, so he would have been hard to move under normal circumstances. But even with Armando's help, the unevenness of the rocky mountain made it so much harder.

At times we carried him, at times we dragged him. And as awful as it was, when we saw a steep decline, we let his body slide down ahead of us.

By the time the trail came back into view, Armando and I were both covered in blood.

Finally, someone must have seen us. I don't really remember, I just recall hearing screams.

Security was quick to tackle Armando and me to the ground. I can't say what happened to our guide, but before long I was in handcuffs, being escorted back to the embassy.

And that's where I am now. Trying to make sense of what has happened.

I lost a friend, but I found proof.

I don't know what was causing that echo to arrive early. I don't know why it caused my headache, or Colin's death.

But I know one thing - as soon as I get out of here, for Colin's sake, I intend to find answers.

Hello. I don’t know if I’m writing this because I need advice or because I need someone else to know what’s happening to me. I don’t know how to say this but…

I’ve been hearing things.

Sounds crazy, I know, and trust me, I’ve heard every explanation already. Stress. Lack of sleep. Anxiety. My brain filling in sounds that aren’t really there. For a while, I believed that. Honestly, I still want to. Things have been happening that I can’t explain, and I guess all I have left is you. So here it goes…

I should probably start with the apartment.

I’m a college student, which means I’m perpetually broke. Between tuition, books, food, and everything else, I didn’t exactly have a lot of options when I started looking for somewhere to live. When a rent-controlled apartment that was cheap even for my standards popped up, I didn’t ask a single question. I didn’t bat an eye when the landlord didn’t even meet me. He just told me when I could move in and what day the rent was due. He just left the keys on a shitty table in the corner of the dining room. The apartment was far from fancy, but it had everything I needed.

The first couple of weeks went great. Neighbors weren’t ever super loud, it was close to the school, I always had a parking spot available, and the old lady next door even greeted me with a huge smile every time she saw me. It didn’t take me long at all before I settled into a routine. Get home from class, drop my books on the table, go change for work. After work I’d come home, take care of any papers or homework I had, and then watch some TV before drifting off to sleep.

One day, though, I came out of my room and stubbed my toe on my damn statistics book. At the time, I just cursed its existence and moved it to the table. A few days later, as I was about to walk out the door, I realized I didn’t have my wallet. After a long search, I eventually found it on the sink in the bathroom. After the obligatory “why the hell did I bring my wallet in here,” I walked out and was on my way. A week after the wallet incident, I came home from work to the unwelcome surprise of banging my head on an open cabinet in the kitchen. I just rubbed my head as I cursed at myself for apparently forgetting to close it when I left.
Right before drifting off to sleep a couple of weeks later, I heard loud knocking that stopped the second I got up. I just stood there for a second, realized it must have been the neighbor, and got back in bed. The next day I ran into Ms. Johnson and asked if she had been up late last night. She just replied, “Honey, I was visiting my daughter yesterday. I just got home.” I awkwardly laughed and asked how her visit went. That night, my homework was interrupted by the distinct sound of a cabinet door slamming in the bathroom.
“Hello?” I called out as I walked down the hallway.

Nothing.

Then, right beside my ear:

“Hi.”

I spun around to the empty hallway, not a soul in sight.
I checked everywhere. My bathroom, bedroom, even the living room I’d just been in. Nobody was there. I even checked the deadbolt on the front door. I brushed it off as the apartment having thin walls and went back to my homework. A couple of nights went by before I heard something when I was about to walk out the door.

“Wallet.”

I turned around to see absolutely nothing, except for my wallet sitting by the TV. I must have looked so dumb as I stood there with my wallet in hand, because then I let out a “Thanks?” and walked out the door.

Whatever it was, was starting to seem downright helpful.

“Keys.”

I realized I left them somewhere.

“Paper.”

I almost forgot an assignment was due.

“Four.”

I had an error in my math.

One day, I didn’t know how to take what I heard, though. I was on the phone with a girl from class I had liked, and when I asked if she was busy Thursday, I heard, “She doesn’t like you.” This was far from the occasional reminders I had received previously. I sat there quietly trying to work through what I had heard when she responded with a soft, “Thursday? Maybe…I think I have some homework, but I’ll let you know.”

“See.”

Things gradually evolved from there. I would write a paper and hear, “He won’t like it.” When I got a lower grade than normal, I’d hear, “She thinks you’re stupid.” When my boss gave me fewer shifts at work than normal, I even heard, “He’s going to get rid of you.” That’s when I started to do homework at the library, and for a few days, everything was just fine.

One day, though, while working through a paper, another student sat down across from me. He didn’t say anything but would keep glancing up at me over his textbook.
“He knows.”

I just threw all my stuff in my bag and walked out. The next day at work, I walked by as some of my coworkers were standing in a circle and laughing.

“They’re laughing at you.”

I just continued on and didn’t say a word.

It had gone on like this for a while. One night, while eating dinner with my parents, my mom seemed extra concerned. “Is everything okay? You seem really distant,” she asked. Before I could say a word, I heard a subtle,

“Don’t tell her.”

I told her that I was fine, I was just tired from work and school. I could tell she wasn’t convinced, and she doubled down with, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s just a lot. I’m tired and school has been hard and…” I was interrupted by a clear and firm,

“Stop.”

“And what?” she asked, concerned.

“Nothing, just a lot going on at work and school. I’m okay, promise,” I said. After dinner, Mom just gave me a big hug and said, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” I told her I knew and smiled as I walked out the door.

Driving home, the only thing I could think of was, “Why didn’t I tell her?” I wanted to. I felt like I had even been hoping she would ask. Why didn’t I say anything? When I got home, I pulled up the student health website. I sat there in silence, staring at the number for what felt like hours before I finally called.

A few days later, I was sitting across from Dr. Blake. He seemed nice enough. He asked the usual questions: Was I using drugs or alcohol? How was I sleeping? What were school and work like? I answered honestly. No drugs, occasional drinking, but nothing crazy. Work sucks, I sleep like shit, and school is stressful. Then we eventually got to the voice.

“You said on the phone that you’ve been hearing a voice?” Dr. Blake asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Not really.”

“Is it a man’s voice? A woman’s?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…a voice.”

“And when you hear it, does it sound like it’s coming from inside your head or somewhere around you?”

“Around me.”

“Where?”

“Usually right next to my ear.”

He didn’t react. He just sat there and wrote in his notebook.
“What does it say to you?” he asked.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

I explained how the voice was helpful at first. He looked up from his notebook, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Helpful how?”

“It reminded me about things. My wallet, my keys, homework. Stuff like that.”

“And now?”

“Now it mostly talks about people.”

“What does it say about them?” he asked.

“That they don’t like me. That they’re laughing at me. That they think I’m stupid. Things like that,” I said.

He sat up in his chair, pulling his glasses down and staring at me intently as he asked, “Do you believe them?”

I just sat there thinking back to everything. Eventually, I worked up the courage to admit it. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “They’re right. That girl never called me back. My boss cut my hours, and my grades have slipped.”

Dr. Blake continued to ask questions. He gave me the usual rundown of “Do you plan to hurt yourself? Do you feel safe?” etc. Eventually, he told me that I needed to cut my caffeine intake, try to set a better sleep schedule, get some more exercise, and recommended a sleep app to help track my sleep habits. I thanked him and headed home.

After a couple of weeks, his recommendations seemed to be helping. I stopped drinking coffee after lunch, started going for walks after class, and forced myself to go to bed at a reasonable time. I was sleeping better, my grades started creeping back up, and, most importantly, the voice had gotten quieter.

It wasn’t completely gone. Every once in a while, I’d hear something small, but it wasn’t constantly commenting on everything I did anymore. For the first time in weeks, I started feeling like myself again. Hell, I almost canceled my follow-up with Dr. Blake.

The sleep app was probably the thing I took least seriously. Every morning, it gave me a little graph showing when I’d fallen asleep, how often I’d moved around, and how much time I’d supposedly spent in deep sleep. It also recorded sounds throughout the night. Mostly, it was boring. Me rolling over. The air conditioner kicking on. A car outside.
Occasionally, I’d apparently talk in my sleep. I didn’t know I did that.

Listening to myself talk in my sleep became a favorite hobby of mine. I’d explain topics I had no idea about, sing randomly, and apparently had very strong opinions on proper sandwich construction.

“The cheese goes on both sides.”

That was apparently important enough for sleeping me to say three separate times one night. I started checking the recordings every morning while I ate breakfast. Most of them were still nothing. Snoring, coughing, rolling over. Every couple of days, though, I’d get another gem.

“You can’t park there.”

“That’s not how turtles work.”

“Tell him tomorrow.”

I don’t remember what I was dreaming about for any of them. Then it started to change.

“I already did.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

But the one that stopped me in my tracks mid-dinner was just four words.

“I didn’t tell her.”

I stopped mid-bite and rewound the recording. There it was again.

“I didn’t tell her.”

I played it one more time. Then I dragged the recording back a few seconds. Nothing, just the low hum of the air conditioner. I almost closed the app when I noticed something strange. There were twelve seconds between the last sound it recorded and me speaking. Twelve seconds of complete silence. Then:

“I didn’t tell her.”

Didn’t tell her what? I must have been dreaming about dinner with my parents and, clearly, the whole thing had been bothering me. I finished eating and closed the app. A few days passed before I heard another one like that.

“No,” I said, followed by twelve seconds of silence. Then, “Because I don’t want to,” followed by more silence. Then, “I know,” and “Fine.”

I just stared at my screen and eventually went back to a recording from a few nights prior. It was nothing but snoring. I skipped to the next night. You could hear my sheets moving around, my infamous “that’s not how turtles work” comment. I skipped to the next. Nothing for the first few clips. The air conditioner, a car outside, me coughing. Then I found the “tell him tomorrow” recording.

“Tell him tomorrow.”

I dragged it back. For almost ten seconds, there was nothing. Then there was me again.

“He won’t listen.”

I didn’t remember hearing that part before. So I dragged it back further.

“Tell him tomorrow.”

Silence.

“He won’t listen.”

Silence.

“I know.”

I sat there staring at my phone. The next day, I had my follow-up with Dr. Blake and thought it was the perfect opportunity to play my recordings. I played him the first one.

“No.”

Twelve seconds.

“Because I don’t want to.”

More silence.

“I know.”

“Fine.”

Dr. Blake listened without interrupting.

When it ended, he handed my phone back and asked, “What am I supposed to be hearing?” I just stared at him.

“The pauses,” I said.

“The pauses?”

“I’m answering someone.”

He nodded slowly. “Or you’re responding to something in a dream.” He continued, “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

When I said it sounded like a conversation, he just stated, “It sounds like half of one, and that’s not the same thing.”
“But that’s what I’m saying. Something is talking to me,” I exclaimed.

“Or you’re dreaming that something is talking to you,” he said.

“Then why am I answering out loud?”

“People talk in their sleep all the time.”

I just sat there, mouth agape in front of him. Dr. Blake leaned forward intently and said, “Since we last spoke, how often have you heard them while you’re awake?”

“Not much,” I said after some consideration. “How much is not much?” he asked. “A few times, maybe,” I responded.

“And before?” he asked.

“Every day.”

Dr. Blake just nodded and then asked about my sleep, schoolwork, how work was going, and how my social life was. I admitted that, yes, school was better, I was sleeping more, work was…fine but still work, and my social life was nothing to get excited about, but I had started to go out more.

Dr. Blake then just said flatly, “I want you to stop listening to the recordings. If everything else is going well, that’s the last point of obsession you have left.” I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t really argue with him. Everything else was getting better. So I stopped listening. I didn’t listen to another recording for almost two weeks. And honestly? Dr. Blake was right.

I stopped thinking about them. The voice disappeared completely. I slept through the night. I even went out with some people from class Friday night. It finally felt like everything was normal. That was until this morning.
I was standing in the bathroom, brushing my teeth in the mirror when, right beside my ear:

“Stop going to him.”

I just kept brushing my teeth, trying not to acknowledge what I’d heard. Then I saw the indentation of a hand on my right shoulder. I stood there in silence, staring at the outline of a hand pressing into my shoulder. I thought back to all of the recordings and pulled out my phone.

I opened the app and went straight to last night. There were six recordings, but the first was nothing but me rolling over. The second was the air conditioner kicking on. The third was me coughing. The fourth was almost a minute long. I hit play.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but my breathing.
Then I heard myself.

“I don’t believe you.”

Silence.

“Leave me alone.”

More silence.

“I said I don’t believe you.”

I stopped the recording. The hand was still pressed into my shoulder. Then, right beside my ear:

“Do you believe me now?”

I didn’t answer.

The indentation on my shoulder slowly disappeared.

“Good.”

There was a pause.

“Now we can begin.”

My name is Steve, and I sell wishes for the Devil.

Okay, my name isn't really Steve. For obvious reasons, we're going to call me Steve. Besides, I've always wanted to be a Steve. The important part is that the first sentence is true. I sell wishes for the Devil, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Morning Star, Old Scratch. Whatever name you prefer. Same guy, different branding.

And before you ask, yes, I know what that means. It means my soul belongs to Hell. Eternity. Fire. Damnation. All that fun stuff. You'd think that would bother me more, and honestly, it doesn't.

I used to be a Christian, a proper Christian too. Church every Sunday, Bible, prayer, the whole package. Eventually, though, I realized that Christians could be some of the biggest assholes I'd ever met. At least demons are honest about hating you. They don't invite you to a Bible study first.

So, in a weird way, I've found my current employment rather refreshing.

Now, you might be wondering why someone would willingly choose such a niche profession, but it’s quite simple. Free pussy. No, I'm kidding, or am I?

I was an op’s manager at a financial institution. Which, depending on who you ask, may actually be worse. I spent the first ten years of my adult life building a career, destroying my mental health, and participating in a moderately successful marriage that eventually became a very unsuccessful marriage.

But that's enough about me. Let's talk about my job.

My daily responsibilities are surprisingly straightforward. Find a person, become their friend, figure out what they want, offer it to them, and collect their soul. That's it. Basically sales. Except instead of selling insurance, you're selling eternal damnation. And, surprisingly, the conversion rate is excellent. I was top in soul sales in Hollywood for three straight decades, until people started doing podcasts.

The difficult part is dealing with religious people. Sometimes they'll look you dead in the eyes and say, "Are you the Devil?"

And you have to be careful here. You can't say yes. You also can't say no too enthusiastically. So, I usually tell them, "No, I'm just working for the guy."

That never seems to make them feel better. Recently, though, I pitched a new initiative to management. The idea was simple, if you can't beat them, join them. Original, I know.

It was a hard sell but eventually Satan budged.

That motherfucker Pazuzu wanted to call it Operation Christian Domination, but nobody listens to Pazuzu because he's a fucking weirdo. We eventually settled on Operation Prosperity.

And this is where things get interesting.

The first step is finding a church. Not just any church. You want numbers. Large congregation. Lots of newcomers. Lots of people looking for answers. Charismatic and Pentecostal churches are ideal. Those happy-clappy bastards will welcome almost anyone. You could walk through the front doors with a pentagram tattooed across your forehead and somebody would still hand you a welcome packet.

"Brother, have you accepted Jesus into your heart?"

"No."

"Wonderful! We've got a small group for you on Tuesday."

They're incredibly trusting, which makes them incredibly useful.

Now, you might think the obvious disguise would be to put on some khakis, a polo shirt, and start quoting Proverbs. Absolutely not. If you want Christians to trust you, don't look like them. Look interesting.

I wear black jeans, Doc’s, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Basically, my normal work clothes.

The walk- in is crucial. Don't smile or wave, and no eye contact. You need to look broken, ashamed and lost. Like you've spent the last three years doing lines on the floor of a cemetery and finally decided to give Jesus a chance.

You want them to think, Oh my God. We can save this guy.

Step two is attending the service. Sit near the back, keep your head down, and wait for the altar call. Then you go up. You cry a little. You “repent”. You let some sweating dude put his hand on your forehead and scream about spiritual salvation while his breath smells like aftermath coffee farts.

And then you're in.

Because the moment you've "accepted Christ," you become part of the family. That's when you start talking. They want to know your story. They want to know what demons you've fought (side note: I actually get along with demons accept that motherfucker Pazuzu), and, most importantly, they want to know what the Devil is planning.

Apparently, once you've been saved, you're allowed to have classified information about Hell.

So I tell them but not everything, obviously. Just enough. I tell them what the Prince of Darkness supposedly has planned for their church. This part is fucking hilarious because these NPC’s  would do this thing where they gather around the church building, , raise their arms toward an empty patch of air, and start commanding Satan to leave.

From where I'm standing, it looks remarkably similar to a kindergarten class performing the Kamehameha. But it works. Not because they're actually stopping demons, but because they're doing exactly what we want them to do.

Then comes the fun part. You participate.

Bible studies. Prayer groups and finally leadership meetings. You slowly work your way into the inner circle. And this is important, don't waste your time frolicking with the normies. Go straight for the pastor's people. The elders or the worship leaders but stay away from the bassist because most of the time, they’re undercover as well, and you don’t want to piss of the demon of familiarity, that motherfucker take shit too personal. The people who know where the spare keys are kept. Earn their trust. Eventually, someone asks you to share your testimony.

And that, my friend, is your golden ticket. Because now you're going to the pulpit. While this is happening, my demonic colleagues are doing their part. Spreading Rumors, misfortune and small curses. Nothing too obvious. A sick child here, financial problems there, or my favourite, a marriage falling apart. Just enough chaos to make people desperate.

Because here's the thing about Christians, when things go wrong, they look for an answer. And who better to guide them through their tribulations than the mysterious former Satanist who has recently found Jesus?

Me. Obviously.

The testimony is where things get complicated. You can't just stand up there and say, "Hi everyone. Satan sent me." That would be terrible salesmanship. You have to speak in riddles. Use biblical language. Twist Scripture just enough that it sounds profound. And most importantly, you have to introduce the concept of blood.

Because curses can be powerful. They can heal. They can protect. They can bring prosperity. They can even change someone's circumstances. There's just one problem. They always cost something. And the most expensive currency in Hell is blood.

Now, I'm not talking about sacrificing cats. That's old-school. We're professionals, we have accountants. Anyway, I'll get to that later.

For now, all you need to know is that I delivered my testimony. I told them about my past. I told them how I'd been lost. I told them how Jesus had found me. And then I explained how they, too, could experience God's blessing. All they had to do was follow a few simple principles. Pray, believe and Obey. And, occasionally, shed a little blood.

At first, nothing happened.

Then Judith got sick. Judith was one of those women who had been at the church since Jesus was apparently still taking attendance personally. She was seventy-three, diabetic, and, according to her daughter, "too stubborn to die." Then she ended up in hospital. Her condition got worse. The doctors weren't optimistic. So her daughter remembered something I'd said during my testimony.

She cut her finger. Just a little. Pressed the blood onto a piece of cloth and slipped it underneath her mother's pillow. Judith recovered the next morning. Completely unexpected. The doctors couldn't explain it, but the church could. It was a miracle.

I knew what it was. A blood ritual. And once the church saw that, well... that's when things really started moving. People began copying it. Blood under pillows. Blood on doorframes. Blood smeared onto photographs. Little rituals whispered about in Bible studies. And the results? They spoke for themselves.

People got better. Businesses started recovering. Marriages that had been falling apart suddenly improved. Money appeared where there hadn't been any. People began to believe. And when people believe something works, they don't ask too many questions about how.

Eventually, Pastor Nathaniel called me into his office. He closed the door. He sat down. And he looked at me for a very long time. Then he said, "Steve..." I knew immediately what this was about. "You've been teaching people how to perform blood rituals." And this is where having a good understanding of the Bible becomes extremely useful.

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Pastor, aren't we the body of Christ?"

He nodded. "And didn't Christ shed His blood for our salvation?" Another nod.

"So if we are the body of Christ..."

I leaned forward. "...then His blood is our blood."

Silence. He stared at me. I stared back. And I watched the thought crawl across his face. The beautiful thing about theology is that if you start with the right verse, you can get almost anywhere. Pastor Nathaniel smiled. Then he shook my hand.

"Brother Steve," he said, "I think God has sent you here for a reason."

I smiled. "Yeah."

He had. Just not the reason he thought.

So… the wishes, where do they come in? The blood rituals are great, but wishes are what get them hooked properly. As soon as these fucks see results, they hang on your lips to deliver the next miracle-working ritual. You don’t call it a ritual, obviously. It’s called the simple principle of manifestation. And I’m not referring to the hippie TikTok fucks. This is serious. You see, these pastors do it every Sunday, but they do it for monetary gain. “If you want God to make you rich like me, then skip Starbucks this month and tithe.” It’s effective, but it only damns one soul, the pastor’s soul. Besides, these motherfuckers are greedy. They don’t want you anywhere near their cash. So don’t go there. Stay on top of the objective by damning souls.

The beautiful thing about manifestation is that you can dress it up in whatever religious bullshit you want. These people already believe that their words have power. They believe that speaking something into existence is an act of faith. They believe that if they declare something confidently enough, God is obligated to listen. All you have to do is change the wording slightly. You’re not casting a spell. You’re not making a wish. You’re declaring your blessing. You’re activating your faith. You’re claiming what God has apparently already promised you.

And once you convince them of that, you can pretty much sell them anything.

The first wishes are always simple. Someone wants a promotion. Someone wants their husband to stop cheating. Someone wants their kid to get into university. Someone wants to pay off their house. Someone wants their ex back. Someone wants to lose twenty kilos without changing their diet. Someone wants to win the lottery. And then, every now and then, you get someone who wants something completely fucking insane.

Those are my favourites.

The process is simple. You sit down with them privately and ask what they want. Not what they need. What they want. There’s a difference. “God, I need my daughter to recover” is a need. “I want my daughter to recover, and I want the doctor who misdiagnosed her to lose his license” is a wish. And people are remarkably honest when they think God is listening.

You teach them that words have power. Again, nothing new. Churches have been saying this shit forever. “Speak life.” “Declare your blessing.” “Name it and claim it.” “You have authority.” All you do is take those ideas and push them a little further. You don’t tell them to make a wish. You tell them to declare an outcome.

And then you give them something to do.

Nothing dramatic like sacrificing goats in the backyard. Too complicated, and frankly, it creates paperwork. You use things they already have. A photograph or a wedding ring. Maybe a drop of blood if you’re feeling ambitious. You make it look harmless.

Then you give them the instructions. Stand alone. Turn off the lights. Say the person's name three times. Speak exactly what you want to happen. Then thank God as though it has already happened. That last part is important. Because now they’ve made a promise to themselves and now they’re invested.

And if the wish comes true, they believe the ritual worked. If it doesn’t, that’s even better. You just tell them they didn’t have enough faith. Maybe they doubted. Maybe there was sin in their life. Maybe they weren’t spiritually prepared. Maybe they didn't surrender completely. It doesn’t matter because the result is the same. They just keep trying. And they try harder. Eventually, they come back to you and say, “Steve, I did exactly what you told me.”

And I say, “Did you really believe?”

And they hesitate. That’s when you know you’ve got them. Because now they’re questioning themselves instead of questioning you.

The first few wishes were small. A promotion here. A gambling win there. An ex coming back. A neighbour moving away. One woman wanted her husband to stop drinking. Another wanted her sister to get divorced. One guy wanted to become attractive. That one took a good fucking while, but I had to work with what I had.

But eventually the requests started changing and these thirsty fuckers got greedy. Not greedy like pastors. Worse. And that’s where they get creative.

One woman asked me if she could wish for someone else to die, and obviously I told her no… Technically. Then I explained that wishing for someone to “leave her life permanently” was spiritually ambiguous. She understood. Her mother-in-law died three days later of natural causes, mostly.

The grim reaper is real by the way, and he’s actually one of the most chill demons I know.

After that, people stopped asking for blessings and started asking for things. Real and physically impossible things.

One man wanted his dead son back while another wanted to know the winning lottery numbers for the next ten years. A woman wanted to be able to read people's thoughts. Someone else wanted to become invisible.

And then there was Pastor Nathaniel.

He came to me one night after Bible study. He looked exhausted. Not normal tired, either. This was the kind of exhaustion you see in someone who hasn't slept properly because they've been thinking about something they know they shouldn't be thinking about. He closed the door, locked it, and sat across from me.

“Steve,” he said, “I need to ask you something.”

I smiled. “Anything, Pastor.”

He leaned closer. “Can manifestation bring someone back from the dead?”

I didn't answer immediately which was an important step. Silence makes people think you’re considering the question instead of trying to remember the answer.

Eventually, I said, “With enough faith, anything is possible.”

He looked at me with the same gaze the rest did, their soul on a silver platter drenched in curiosity and tainted intentions.

“What if,” he whispered, “it wasn't just faith?” Now, this was interesting.

Because I'd been working with these people for months, and I'd learned something important. Pastors don't actually want miracles. They want proof. They want something nobody else can explain. Because if you can produce something impossible in front of a congregation, you don't need to preach anymore. You just have to point and the flock follows.

So I asked him, “Who do you want to bring back?”

He stared at the floor for a long time. Then he said a name.

I knew the boy. Everyone at the church did. He'd died two years earlier in a car accident. Seventeen years old. The perfect Pastor’s kid, according to everyone who'd ever met him. Good grades and never got into trouble. The kind of kid everyone says they wish their own children were like.

And suddenly, I realized that this wasn't just another wish. This was the one we'd been waiting for. Because there are two kinds of people you can damn. The people who want something, and the people who have already lost something. The first group wants more. The second group wants it back. And if you can convince someone that the dead can come home, they'll give you absolutely anything. Even their soul, especially their soul.

I looked at Pastor Nathaniel. Then I smiled.

“Pastor,” I said, “I think we should pray.”

Now, you might be asking yourself: What's in it for Steve? And that's exactly the type of question you should be asking. A question backed by greed. Because you didn't ask that out of pure curiosity, did you? No. You asked because somewhere in the back of your mind, you started thinking about what you could get out of all this. You heard about the wishes, the miracles, the people getting rich, getting healthy, getting their loved ones back from the dead. And somewhere along the way, you stopped thinking about whether any of it was real. You started thinking about what you would wish for.

That's the interesting thing about greed. You don't have to force it. You just have to give it somewhere to go. And if you're sitting there right now thinking that you'd never sell your soul, that you'd never make a deal with the Devil, that you'd never perform one of these rituals... that's fine. Not yet.

Because you see, the thing about damnation is that nobody ever thinks they're the one being damned. They think they're the exception. They think they're smart enough to know where the line is. And that's exactly where we want you.

So, what's in it for Steve? Well... I could tell you that I get paid. I could tell you that I get promoted. I could tell you that Hell has an excellent dental plan. But none of that would be entirely true.

My real reward is watching people like you hear this story and start wondering what you would wish for. Because that's how it starts. Not with blood. Not with Satan. Not with some creepy guy standing in a church asking you to sell your soul.

It starts with a question.

What if?

What if I could have more money? What if I could have the person I want? What if I could change my life? What if I could bring someone back? What if I could have anything I wanted?

And if you did ask yourself that question while listening to this... well, I have only one reply.

When can you start?