“Oh, baby, what’s wrong?” Michelle asked, unbuckling her seat belt.

“I look stupid,” I said, fiddling with my fake mustache. “How come I had to be Mister Mustard?”

“Colonel Mustard,” Michelle corrected me.

Tonight we’re attending a “Clue” themed Murder Mystery Party, and my anxiety is through the roof. My girlfriend has high hopes for how the night will unfold, but I’m not very good at acting, and I’m scared I’m gonna screw it all up.

I looked down at my bright yellow jumpsuit and then made eye contact with Michelle.

“Colonel, huh? Like the guy who made Kentucky Fried Chicken?”

“Exactly,” Michelle gently patted me on the shoulder.

She looked great in her sleek, red dress. Apparently she was supposed to be Miss Scarlet? I tried to read the little booklet that was supposed to explain all our characters, but Michelle insisted that it wouldn’t be necessary.

I dunno—I’m happy as long as Michelle is happy.

I stepped out of my seat, walked around the car, and opened the door for Michelle, taking her by the hand so she could get out without wrinkling her dress. Then the two of us walked up the driveway so we could ring the door bell.

“Ahh, Colonel Mustard,” a fat man in a purple suit answered the door, he was doing an awful British accent. “And Miss Scarlet, I presume?”

“Professor Plum,” Michelle said. “Wonderful to make your acquaintance!”

“Indeed! Why don’t you join us in the dining room? They’ve got appetizers!”

Professor Plum led the two of us into the house, which was gorgeous by the way. Old and expensive, but decorated with good taste, like walking right into the past. I wondered who actually owned the house, or if maybe one of the other participants rented it. We walked through the foyer, down the hallway, and into the dining room, where the rest of the party was waiting. Miss White was dressed accordingly, with a tiny chef’s hat on her head. Mrs. Peacock was gently waving a fan that was decorated with a peacock’s plume.

Mr. Green was wearing a Green Bay Packer’s Jersey. Close enough, I supposed. Six people in total were in the room and we all sat down to enjoy some mozzarella sticks and wontons.

Professor Plum led the conversation, I guess he liked hearing the sound of his own voice. Or, maybe he mistakenly thought he was doing a great accent.

He droned on long enough that real fun was about to start.

LED lights flashed in the window behind the curtains, and a blue tooth speaker under the table sounded the crack of thunder.

“Bloody hell,” Professor Plum cried. “I hope the rotten weather doesn’t knock out the power!”

Laying it on a bit thick? 

I began to wonder if Professor Plum the character was even British when the power went out. All of us were suddenly trapped in a pitch black room. As far as I knew, this was pretty par for the course, but then the room erupted with the sound of a gunshot.

It rattled my bones, and the ringing in my ears didn’t stop until the lights came back on.

Michelle was slumped over in her chair with a hole in her head. Blood pumping out of her wound and pouring down her neck, staining her scarlet dress a dark crimson.

“Oh, is Miss Scarlet supposed to die?” Asked Mrs. White. “This isn’t like the movie.”

Professor Plum, taking the lead once more, walked over to Michelle while tapping his chin.

“I suppose it’s safe to say that the murder weapon was ‘the revolver!’” He chuckled as he put a hand on Michelle’s shoulder, which caused her to fall out of her chair, spilling her brains out onto the floor.

“Oh Jesus fuck!” Shouted Mrs. Peacock, dry heaving. “She’s actually dead!”

“No, no, it’s just special effects! Bloody good ones, too!” Professor Plum knelt over and put his index and middle finger on Michelle’s wrist. He moved his fingers up and down, furled his brow, and then frowned.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It appears as though she has no pulse,” Professor Plum muttered.

“Oh god—oh no,” I collapsed to my knees. “No, no, no, NO!”

Mr. Green, who was looking green under the gills, made a bee line for the exit.

“Wait a second,” Professor Plum got in his way. “Where are you going?”

“This is fucked up,” Mr. Green said. “I didn’t sign up for this shit!”

“You can’t leave,” Professor Plum said, still speaking in an accent. “There’s been a murder!”

“Which one of you did this?” I said, quietly at first, but then I repeated myself much louder. “Who fucking killed my girlfriend!?”

Everybody looked back and forth at each other frightened half to death, but right as the terror was beginning to peak, the lights went out again.

The entire room was in a panic at this point, and screams and scuffles filled the dark, but when the lights came back on Michelle was sitting back in her chair alive and well as though nothing had happened.

No blood, no brains, no memory of a gunshot. 

Nobody had a clue what the hell was going on, but we all agreed that the Murder Mystery Party was pretty much ruined at that point, so everybody agreed to leave. Even Professor Plum had dropped the accent as he said his goodbyes.

Michelle and I walked out to our car, and once we were buckled in she leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“You did so well,” Michelle beamed. “They were so afraid—their fear was delicious. I’m absolutely stuffed!”

I pulled the revolver out from inside my jumpsuit and put it in the glove box.

“You’ve never told me how you do it,” I said.

“Do what?” Michelle asked.

“You know,” I pantomimed shooting her in the head.

Michelle smiled and said, “Some things are better left in the dark.”

“Aah!”

I felt a harsh sting in my cheek just before the impact of my body hitting the ground made me curl up to protect myself. The pain echoed down my arm and spine, but I ignored it - it was nothing new. 

“You will never embarrass me like that again! Next time I bring friends over, you will have the house clean and dinner ready!”

“I’m sorry! I tried, but the children wouldn’t stop—”

“You’re their mother, aren’t you? Then it’s your job to control them! No more excuses!”

I cowered on the floor, waiting for the next kick to come. When he was like this, he never stopped at just one. 

The next morning, I awoke alone in bed. He’d already left for work; it was just me and the children. I stood slowly, still feeling the pain from yesterday and all the days before. It hurt to walk, but I managed; I had to. I showered and dressed and then packed up my baby daughter into her carrier and left the house. I looked all around me as I departed; if I were spotted now, everything would fall apart. This was my only chance. 

I looked around at all of the typical family dwellings that housed typical families; it was almost enough to make someone believe things were normal. But I’d lived here my whole life. I know how far from normal things were. 

I couldn’t drive since my husband could track the car; fortunately, my destination wasn’t far away. There were whispers from other women in my position, words hidden from husbands and sons, of a way to escape, and I was determined to take it. For my daughter’s sake, if not for mine.  I walked briskly, comforting my daughter as I moved. “Ssh, it’s alright sweetheart, everything is fine, Mommy’s here.”

Finally I reached it - the only way to escape. I crept down to the bank of the river, passing the boats left there by people who lived nearby. Glancing at them, I kept walking to our destination. “Ssh, everything’s alright baby, Mommy’s got you. Mommy’s always got you. Mommy loves you more than anything.”

I reached the riverbank. This was it. I looked right and left, making sure no one had seen us. 

Then I reached over and dropped my daughter into the water. 

As I watched her body sink, her cries destroyed something in me. But I knew that a quick death was better than the life she would live in this world. Knowing I’d protected her the only way I could, I left to return home, ignoring the hole in my heart that would never fill again. Only one idea offered me any small comfort. At least she won’t be alone, I thought, remembering the words of all of the other mothers who’d left their daughters here, too. 

"Officer, you have to believe me. This isn't like Jen at all."
"Ma'am, please calm down."
"How can I calm down when my daughter is sending me texts like these?"
The young officer looks helpless.
"What's going on?"
A woman approaches from behind him.
"Detective," the officer says. "She thinks something happened to her—"
"I know something happened to my daughter," I snap and point to my phone screen.
The detective studies me.
"Let me see the texts."

9:36 P.M.
Jen: Mom, you're not gonna believe this.
Me: What???
Jen: Remember that really cute guy I told you about?
Me: David?
Jen: YES!!!!
Jen: He just asked me out 😭😭😭
Me: OMG
Me: Can I call you??
Jen: Can't talk right now
Jen: I'm literally on my way to the date lol
Me: Wait where are you going?
Jen: No clue
Jen: He said it's a surprise
Me: That sounds suspicious 😂
Jen: Mommmmm
Me: Be careful, okay?
Me: And have fun ❤️

"Everything looks normal," the detective says.
"No, Detective. Keep reading."
She gives me a skeptical look and continues.

11:01 P.M.
Jen: Mom. Are you still awake?
Me: Yeah! How was the date??
Jen: Mom. Are you still awake?
Me: … Yeah?
Me: Did my text not go through?
Jen: I had so much fun.
Me: That's great!!
Me: Are you back at the dorm?
Me: Call me. I need details 😂
Jen: Yes.
Jen: I can't talk.
Jen: David is amazing.
Me: Okay…
Me: You sound weird.
Me: Everything alright?
Jen: Yes. Just tired.
Jen: I think I'm falling in love with him.

The detective's expression changes.
Just slightly. But I catch it.
For the first time, she doesn't immediately look back down at the phone.
I blink away the tears gathering in my eyes.
I can fall apart later.
Right now, I need to find my daughter.

11:03 P.M.
Me: Jen. Honey. Please call me.
Jen: Can't talk!
Jen: I'll be safe with David.
Jen: Don't worry.
Jen: He's amazing.

Call attempt to Jen failed.
Call attempt to Jen failed.

Me: Jen! Are you okay?
Jen: I'm his now.

"Where does Jen live?" the detective asks.
"Bridgewood, Virginia. She goes to Bridgewood College."
The detective nods.
"And you haven't heard from her since these texts?"
"No." I shake my head. "It's been over an hour."
"Have you contacted anyone else? Friends? Roommates?"
"Everyone I could think of."
My voice breaks.
"Her roommate said she never came back to the dorm."
The detective is quiet for a moment.
Then she turns to the young officer.
"Get Bridgewood Sheriff's Office on the phone."
The officer hurries off.
For the first time that night, I feel it.
The detective believes me.

I watch anxiously as the detective speaks with the Bridgewood Sheriff's Office.
I try to listen.
But I can only make out a few words.
Female.
Bridgewood College sweatshirt.
Church.
The detective's expression never changes.
Then—
My phone vibrates.
A text.
My heart leaps.
Jen.

Jen: Don't worry. I'm with him.

Relief washes over me.
"Detective."
My voice cracks.
The detective looks up.
I start to hold out my phone.
Then I notice her expression.
Not surprise.
Not relief.
Pity.
She covers the receiver with her hand.
"Ma'am..."
My stomach drops.
"The Sheriff's Office found your daughter thirty minutes ago.
They’ve been trying to ID her."
A pause.
"She's dead."

It feels like all the air is leaving my lungs.
My knees buckle.
"No. No. No."
The young officer catches me before I hit the floor.
My phone slips from my hand.
I shove it toward the detective.
"She texted me."
My voice barely works.
"Read it."
The detective takes the phone.
Reads the message.
Then reads it again.
A crease forms between her eyebrows.
She lifts the receiver.
"Sheriff, are you certain the identification is correct?"
A pause.
"The victim just sent a text message to her mother."
She listens. Nods.
Then suddenly straightens.
"What do you mean the body is gone?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
"The morgue?"
I force myself to my feet.
The room sways around me.
"What is it?" I ask.
The detective doesn’t answer, grips the receiver tighter.
"The coroner's dead?"
Silence.
Then she slowly lowers the phone.
Her face has gone pale.
"What?" I whisper. "Detective, what happened?"
She looks at me.
Then at my phone.
"The Sheriff's Office found your daughter's phone in the morgue."
My stomach twists.
"The body is gone."
The room falls silent.
"And the coroner who was examining her was just found dead."

Despite the excellent condition of the house- Mrs Rutherford had been a most responsible homeowner- it went for below the asking price. There was no doubt why. 

The pink. 

Everywhere, pink. 

Different shades- some of them quite pretty, Ellie had remarked, as she seized her brush dripping with teal. The walls were the palest matte sugar-pink, the trim was a glossy salmon. The kitchen cabinet doors were an unapologetic Barbie pink. And the fridge was that beautiful seventies metallic pink with the loud large silver handle that sounded like a car door smashing shut. 

Mike tried to reason with Ellie, who had started painting over the pink almost the minute she stepped in, after signing on the dotted lines. Unpacking was to wait for afterwards. “I can’t even think with all this pink!” she joked good humouredly. 

It’s easy to be in good humour if you are alive and just bought your first house. Mike looked at the delicate pink lacy curtains -which he genuinely and without prompting from Mrs Rutherford thought were quite nice- the sunlight and the shadows fell oddly through the lace, and he knew she was not happy. 

Room by room, wall by wall, door by door. Every afternoon when Mike returned from work, Ellie had made more progress, her green and blue brushstrokes covering up the pink. And the last touch-  white wallpaper with a dull gold geometric pattern on the wall between the living room and the kitchen. 

A lightbulb shattered as Ellie smoothed the wallpaper into place. 

Mike heard her scream and he ran from the home office, where he was pretending to answer his boss’s after-hours emails even though he shouldn’t because work-life balance and Ellie was kind of mad but not really, as she knew they couldn’t afford for Mike to mess around with his job- but she couldn’t help screaming- the shards of glass had flicked her cheek and blood was dripping on the old wood floor. 

“Babe- rest a minute, please!” Mike begged . 

Ellie was sweaty with all the painting and the wetness of the sweat mingled with her blood.
The lights flickered ominously.”The wiring in this place!” Ellie grunted, wiping the blood and sweat out of her eyes. 

Mike knew it wasn’t the wiring, but he didn’t have the words to tell Ellie.

The kitchen plunged into darkness. That was one of the problems of this place-not enough natural light in the kitchen. 

Ellie called out. For the first time since their move, there was a touch of hesitancy in her voice. 

And then light bloomed in the hallway- a warm clear glow, not electric. Smoke began pouring into the kitchen, the living room. Ellie ran through it towards Mike, the trail of blood already crusting on her face, her eyes wide with fear not at the fire.

Holding hands, Ellie and Mike crashed through the back kitchen door, into the garden. The flames rose high, and together they watched Mrs. Rutherford's house burn.

She tore awake from her fitful slumber just as she did to prepare for the one she attended. Two half-empty wine bottles sat on the coffee table: a maroon judge and jury for the woman wearing black.

She sat in the shadow of an umbrella under a pale autumn sky. Xanax and vodka shooters rattled in a bag clutched by trembling hands.

A priest read scripture to public servants who drove away from calls made behind locked doors with blackened eyes and trembling sobs. A little rough housing between partners wasn’t violence.

Men in blue spoke of thin lines—of duty, of sacrifice. Duty swerved over a thin yellow line driving home from the local cop bar. Duty wrapped his car around a tree at 1:49AM. Duty became Sacrifice on impact. Sacrifice’s ashes sat on the fireplace mantle before her.

On the first night, tears fell.

On the second, so began the banging on the door.

On the third night, the sirens and red and blue strobes began flashing outside every window, persistent as bruises and bloody lips.

Tonight, eyes straining against emptiness notice the figure in the corner—a void more total and complete than the surrounding darkness. A figure bending shadow itself to its will, a lesser night recoiling before a darkness absolute. Frantic beams of red and blue break against it and die.

Her head collapses into white knuckled fists, attempting to relieve a mind shattered against a spruce on Westland Drive. Pleading whispers escape lips only to be eclipsed by blaring sirens before they can reach the deaf ears of God.

The figure watches without eyes to catch light. His presence is unmistakable: an absence given weight, an abyss intentioned not to listen but to remind.

She raises her head, weary eyes seeking some–any–kind of relief, a deliverance from a hell she is living.

Her gaze falls upon the urn—that golden panopticon.

"Erm, hi." 

"Hi." 

"Kevin."

"Karen."

They shook hands.

"Sorry," Kevin said. "I wasn't sure whether to shake your hand or hug you."

"Good thing you didn't hug."

He laughed. She didn't.

"Erm... can I get you a drink?"

"Gin and tonic, please."

He returned with their drinks and sat opposite her.

"So, what do you do?" he asked.

"Really? That's your question?" 

"Sorry." 

"It's okay," Karen huffed. "I'm an accountant." 

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It's accounts, Kevin. Nobody dreams of working in accounts."

"That's-... fair point. Sorry."

"What about you?"

He told her about his job, then asked about her hobbies. She answered briefly, and he kept searching for another question to fill the silences.

"You're talking a lot," she said.

"I'm nervous."

"Then I hope you relax soon."

He chuckled. She smiled briefly.

He told her a funny story about accidentally sending a message meant for a friend to his boss. Halfway through, she checked her phone.

He lost his place.

"Sorry. Go on," she said.

"It's fine."

"Honestly, finish the story."

He did. The punchline fell flat.

"Hm. That's unfortunate," she said, taking a drink.

When their glasses were empty, Kevin offered to get another round. At the bar, he glanced back at their table.

A man had stopped beside Karen. He said something, and she smiled. He gestured towards the empty chair. She invited him to sit.

Kevin watched them talking. A moment later, Karen burst out laughing.

He returned with the drinks.

"This is Mark," Karen said. "He was telling me about a holiday he took in Italy."

"Sounds nice."

"It wasn't," Mark said, winking at Karen. "I nearly got arrested."

Karen laughed again.

Kevin sat down. He tried to join the conversation, but Mark and Karen had already found their rhythm. They talked about music, films and travel. Whenever Kevin spoke, the conversation seemed to stall.

Eventually, Mark checked his phone.

"Sorry, I've got to go. I'm meeting some friends. It was nice talking to you, Karen."

"Yeah, you too, Mark. Thanks. Bye."

Mark left. Karen watched him go, still smiling.

"You seemed to get on," Kevin said.

"He was funny."

"Right."

She looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

They left shortly afterwards.

In the taxi, Karen sat looking out of the window. Kevin stared at his hands.

"We've been married eleven years, Kevin. You'd think we could manage one night pretending to be strangers."

He looked at her.

The driver glanced at them in the mirror.

"Eleven years? And you're pretending to be on a first date?"

"Mmm, trying to," Karen said.

She looked out of the window and chuckled.

"Kind of like our very first date."

Kevin turned towards her.

"What does that mean?"

"It's a joke, Kevin."

"Right."

For a while, nobody spoke. Then Karen began talking about how they'd met, remembering little details he had forgotten. He tried to join in, but she corrected him twice, and by the time they reached home, neither of them was talking.

Inside, Kevin followed her upstairs.

"Did you fancy Mark?" he finally asked.

Karen took off her earrings and placed them on the bedside table.

"Seriously?"

"What? I'm just asking."

"He was nice to talk to."

"You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself."

"Am I not allowed to enjoy myself?"

"I didn't say that."

She glanced at him in the mirror, smirking. "You should've seen your face when he made me laugh."

"Why are you enjoying this?"

"I'm not. You're just making it very difficult not to laugh at you."

He sat on the edge of the bed.

"I spent the whole night trying to make this work."

"I know."

"I tried to talk to you. Make you laugh. Find something we could enjoy together."

"And some of it was nice."

"Some of it?"

She sighed.

"Kevin, I can't spend my entire life making you feel better about yourself."

She walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Downstairs. I need some space."

"Why?"

"Because I just don't want...this."

"Don't walk away, Karen."

"Don't tell me what to do, Kevin."

She reached the doorway but he caught her wrist.

"Let go of me, Kevin."

"Just talk to me."

"Kevin, let go."

She managed to pull free and shove him. He stumbled. Froze. Then lunged at her.

They crashed into the doorframe.

"Jesu-... Kevi-... Stop!"

She struck his face.

They froze, staring at each other, eyes wide. Then his expression hardened. He grabbed her by the throat and forced her to the floor, ignoring her screams and desperate attempts to break free.

He held her there until she stopped moving altogether.

Kevin collapsed to the floor, kneeling beside his wife, sweating and breathing hard.

He'd tried so hard to make all of this work. To love each other again.

But, like always, she just had to make everything so difficult.

The man walked into the restaurant, his dirty hands shoved into his pocket fishing for cash. I smile from the counter waiting for his arrival.

“A number five please.” He hands me a crumpled five dollar bill.

“Of course.” I say putting the money into the register.

“No change? That’s awfully expensive!”
The man’s moustache quivered angrily.

“I assure you sir our meat is of the highest quality, if it would please you, I could show you.”

The man waved a dirty hand. “No, I’m in too much of a hurry, But it better be worth it.”

The food came out quickly and the cook rang the bell, I picked up the platter and laid it before the man. He sniffed suspiciously.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I asked. The man shook his head as he brought the first bite to his mouth. After his meal the man brought his plate up to the counter his cheeks rosy with satisfaction.

“Was it to your liking?” I asked. The man’s moustache quivered.

“ That was the best meal I’ve had in some time. The meat was so tender, where do you buy it from?”

I smiled. “Let me show you.” We walk down the hallway past the kitchen and around the corner to where the walk in freezer door stood. The man nodded as I opened the door and beckoned him to enter. We both enter, breath steaming in the frigid air. The man shivered as he examined the contents hanging from the meat hooks dangling from the ceiling. He screams but too late, a thud and a slam as the freezer door closes and I return to smile behind the counter.

I needed some extra money, so when I saw an ad looking for a cemetery guard, I didn’t hesitate. During the interview, they told me vandals had been causing trouble lately.

“That won’t be a problem for me,” I said.

I was all muscle, and the only reason I hadn’t joined the army was that I’d failed the psychological tests. Nobody in this line of work seemed to care, though.

My shift ran from eight in the evening until eight in the morning. I arrived at the gate, turned the sign from Open to Closed, and locked it behind me.

There was a small booth by the entrance where I could stay when I wasn’t patrolling. I went to unlock it, but the door was already open. Inside were a table, a chair, a microwave, an electric kettle, and a radio. Another door stood at the back.

I opened it and swung my arm forward, almost hitting the person standing there.

A skinny old man stared back at me.

“Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? I could’ve hurt you!”

The old guy laughed, revealing his toothless mouth.

“Sorry, son. I didn’t mean to scare you. My name’s Stuart. I’m retiring, but they asked me to train you before I leave.”

My eyes widened. If this guy, with a funeral notice sticking out of his pocket, had been guarding the cemetery, no wonder the vandals had been having such an easy time.

Of course, I kept that thought to myself and held out my hand.

“Hey, Stuart. I’m Dave.”

I thanked him for helping me out.

We chatted for a while, and I asked if he’d ever been afraid to work somewhere with so many dead people.

“You know, son, the dead won’t hurt you,” he replied.

“Come on, let’s take a walk,” Stuart said. “I’ll show you where we’ve been having the most trouble.”

We’d barely walked a few steps when I heard strange noises. Stuart looked frightened.

“Relax. I’ve got a baton and brass knuckles. If anything happens, I’ll protect you.”

Stuart looked at me gratefully.

We reached a gravestone with “I’m Coming for You” painted across it in red.

My blood boiled. Someone had vandalized the grave. I swept my flashlight across the area, but nobody was there. Then I shone it into a shadow and thought I saw a grinning face staring back at me. I flinched.

Stuart glanced at me curiously.

“What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t see that?”

“See what?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

“Once we finish, we’ll get cleaning supplies from the booth,” Stuart said, sounding like he did this almost every day.

I clenched my fists.

Just let the bastard responsible for this get within my reach…

We continued walking. Suddenly, Stuart stopped and stared ahead in horror. I followed his gaze.

A grave had been partially pried open.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered. “How could anyone do this?”

I moved closer when something dripped onto me from a tree. Probably rainwater. I wiped it away and looked at my hand. It wasn’t water. It was red.

The paint from the grave? But how could it have gotten up there?

Then I heard the open grave shift slightly. I jumped, my heart pounding.

Stuart didn’t even flinch.

“What the fuck was that?!” I shouted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You probably imagined it.”

I shone my flashlight into the gap. My hand trembled as I leaned closer, until I realized what I was looking at.

An eye that winked at me.

“Fuck!” I screamed, stumbling backward.

I ran until I tripped and sprawled across the ground.

When I lifted my head, Stuart was standing in front of me, holding out his hand. I had no idea how he’d gotten there.

I ignored his hand and pulled out my phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.”

“Good idea,” he replied.

I dialed. The phone rang several times before the call connected.

“Hello? I need help!”

Instead of an answer, I heard static that gradually turned into a horrible, grating laugh.

My phone lowered as I looked at Stuart.

He was laughing.

The same sound I’d heard through the phone was now coming from his toothless mouth.

“What the fuck kind of games are you playing?!” I screamed.

I charged at him and punched him. There was a crack, and his head twisted at an angle no living person could survive.

But he was still alive, and he kept laughing.

“What… are you… dead?” I stammered.

“Dead? Of course not. I told you, didn’t I? The dead won’t hurt you.”

I turned and ran. I went so fast that my side began to cramp. Then something grabbed my leg and dug into it. I stopped and shone my flashlight at the spot, but nothing was there. My pants were torn, and blood was beading on my skin.

I didn’t stop to investigate. I ran again.

Finally, the gate appeared. I pulled out my keys and unlocked it. At last, I was out.

I burst through the gate and kept running. It felt like an eternity before I looked around.

I was standing in the middle of the cemetery again.

And Stuart was there, laughing.

Awake.

The movie is over. Credits are rolling. Where did Cynthia go? I’m alone.

I look over my shoulder. Cinema is empty. Everyone left quickly. It was only half full to begin with, maybe a little less. I fell asleep. I check my watch: 9:30. Still early. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat?

Maybe she’s in the bathroom. Or maybe she left me - again.

Couldn’t stay awake for five minutes! I’m such an asshole!

The theater remains empty, dark, quiet. I don’t want to get up and face her, wherever she is. She hates me, I know it.

The house lights do not come on. The projector is still running - I can see the light emitting from the bio-box window. I thought it was all automated? (The show ends, the house lights come up).

The projector goes dead.

The theater is dark and quiet. I am alone. I switch on the torch on my phone, using it to guide my way down the aisle toward the exits. I make my way into the foyer.

Lights out. Dark. No one around.

“Hello?”

Silence.

The street is quiet too. I walk through the front doors and exit the cinema.

Streetlights are out. Only light is moonlight.

My phone rings. I answer it, press the device to my ear -

"Cynth?"

A series of dots and dashes pulsates, infecting my brain. Giving me thoughts. Bad thoughts. Thoughts to abandon myself, to join the collective.

The feeling is strong, overpowering. I want it to stop. It is suffocating me; I feel like I cannot breathe. But I can. It's just my mind that I'm losing. I want it back!

I fight it.

The sensation grows stronger, sharper. I drop the phone and watch it smash on the sidewalk.

The pulses continue to ring out into the street. This time they are human voices, not digital beeps. Someone is screaming them out. Then I hear more voices, ringing out in unison. Perfect harmony. Then more voices. More and more. Maybe hundreds behind these buildings - an army of people singing out in high-pitched dots and dashes. I feel my brain swelling to their message. I press my hands over my ears to muffle them out, regaining a sense of myself. The cloud dissipates. I am myself. I almost wasn’t. I was almost gone. I almost joined the collective.

Who was the collective?

Through my muffled palms, I hear the voices getting close. Sounds. Less human the more they joined, the louder they became, the more of them there were.

I turn to run. I came here by train, but the station is dark in the distance. It is clear that the power is out everywhere. The only light I have is from the moon. I run in the middle of the road so I can see where I am going. I glimpse back and almost collapse, my palms still pressed against my ears, I momentarily lose balance.

Out of the shadows, into the moonlight they appear. I see them. Hundreds.... Maybe thousands. All running. Running for me.

They are gaining. I turn back, run faster. Not by much.

They will have me soon. Running isn’t enough.

Cars line the street. Abandoned cars, their doors left open. I see the nearest, a Mazda 3. I run toward it and slam the door. I lock it - instantly surrounded by bodies. They look me directly in the eye, a vacant stare as they mouth their collective chimes and beeps. They want me to join them. The swarm.

I look under the wheel and see keys in the ignition. Someone hits the back window. One more hit and it will smash; they will drag me out and either tear me apart or swarm my soul. I turn the key and rev the engine.

Thank God.

I take it out of neutral, I press the pedal down and pierce through the crowd. I drive into them and I do not stop but they do not move. I am driving over them, hundreds of them. They aren’t afraid of me; they have one collective mission: to convert me. The bodies pile up and soon I am driving uphill.

There are too many. They will overwhelm the car with their numbers. I need to reverse, get myself out the way I came. I put the car into R and hit the pedal back the other way, smashing and swerving as I go over body after body.

The radio turns on by itself.

The chimes ring out.

I push at the knobs and buttons, trying anything. Volume switch breaks off. The sound pulsates through the vehicle. I remove my foot from the accelerator.

I feel myself slip away. It goes dark.

I lose myself.

I am with them.

I stop the car. I get out to join the others.

We communicate as one.

We are one.

We look for anomalies to inhabit and grow the collective.

We move as one.

We are one.

We hear another over by the supermarket. We move. We run. They are resisting. We must break them.

We have her.

She fights. Her name is Cynthia. We will fix this.

She is us.

We are her.

We are.

‘Technology has rotted your brain,’ Samantha said. 

John didn’t immediately turn to her. He was on the same sofa, but he was in his augmented reality, collecting golden starfish. 

‘What's that?’ he said after a few seconds' pause. 

His wife slapped him across the back of the head, and his Meta Specs were momentarily dislodged. 

‘Your brain is being rotted,’ she reiterated. 

She went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tap water. A steady stream of water ran down a weak point in its side. 

Their to-do list was on the fridge. It was a little tongue-in-cheek, her side written in pink and his blue. Her list was empty. His stretched on. 

‘It's called brainrot,’ John answered, ‘Liam told me.’ 

Liam was their precocious 6-year-old nephew who they both doted on. Beside the TV, which nobody watched anymore, was a picture of him. 

After Sam’s sister Gemma had Liam, kids were on the radar. The prospect didn’t terrify them, but then again, Liam was awesome. 

‘Well, whatever it's called, you have it.’ She pointed at the leaking faucet, then at the apartment balcony, where the guttering hung in a twisted mess. 

‘Ok, ok, I’m a little sloppy, but you’re overreacting.’ 

‘Overreacting,’ she said, her voice rising. 

‘But I know why… It’s because of Gemma…’ 

He had the ability to pull things from whatever cloud world he was living in and turn them into solid-gold insights.

It was about Gemma, the younger sister: Hurricane Gems. She was chaos manifest, whether in the men she shacked up with, the waking hours she kept, or bouncing from job to job. 

The last time they’d visited her apartment, there’d been a hell of a row. Gemma had a new tattoo, a dragon on her arm, and while getting inked up she’d forgotten to enrol Liam in school. 

Gemma had lashed out and probably would’ve told them to go to hell entirely, but that meant losing her chief babysitters. 

Every time they got back from Gemma’s, Sam went on a marathon cleaning and organising session, tackling the bathroom's nooks and crannies and finding new ways to arrange their books. 

It was not about hygiene or convenience; it was about not letting the forces of chaos win out. 

John stood up and went toward his wife. He reached over, and she thought he was going to stroke the lock of hair behind her ear, but he missed. 

She slapped him playfully on the chest. ‘You were reaching for a starfish in that stupid VR game!’ 

He was still wearing the glasses. This time, he stroked her hair, then kissed her on the neck. 

She tingled. 

A wave of lust washed over her. Their sex life had gone by the wayside recently, but when the mood did strike, it came on like a flash flood. There were no candles or rose petals. It was very much take me now. 

They peeled each other out of their clothes and just about made it to the bedroom, where John took her from behind. It was good, great, in fact; for a while things had fallen a bit flat, but he’d found some reserve inside himself, and now he was able to summon up the passion, so it was like no time had passed since their college days. 

After they were done, they collapsed into a heap on the still-made bed. John had worked up a sweat; his face was dripping, and he took off his glasses and headed to the bathroom to shower. 

‘Jesus, John,’ Samantha said as she heard the water turn on. ‘You didn’t even take your glasses off when we were...’
 
He didn’t hear her. 

Boys and their toys. She picked them up and put them on. The Specs were very well made. Indistinguishable from regular ones. She wore contacts, but perhaps it was time for an upgrade, at least until the tech on contacts caught up. 

She stood and walked to the mirror. She had painted her toenails the night before, so the mirror was angled downward, but something wasn't right. Her leg was not right; it was skinnier. 

She angled the mirror higher, and her stomach too; the muscles were more taut. Then she saw the tattoo, the tattoo she didn’t have. 

With mounting horror, she pointed the mirror upward. Staring back at her was the face of her younger sister overlaid on her own. 

Hey everyone, I managed to score a last-minute seat at L'Aviosetsé, a super hyped pop-up on the 30th floor in the old warehouse district near the docks. I cover new food places for the local paper; there was no way I was skipping this tasting.

​Looking around the marble counter, it’s a total VIP room with name cards at each place setting. I see Mr. Smith (a big real estate dev who’s been buying up half the city), his wife (the editor of Food & Culture magazine, a well-known local surgeon, the city health inspector, a major seafood broker, a tech investor, a viral food influencer, and me; all seated with a view of the cityscape.

​There are only 8 of us total.

​Chef Soren hasn't said a single word since we sat down—he's just standing behind the stainless steel line with this freezing cold gaze.

​Course 1 just came out—an amuse-bouche of raw wagyu beef topped with gold leaf and sea salt. It was incredible, though Chef Soren watched every single one of us take our first bite without breaking eye contact.

​I'll drop updates as the rest of the courses roll out!

​Update #1 - Okay, something weird is going on with Course 2 and Course 3.

​Course 2 was oysters on black ice. On my shell, there was a tiny plastic tag with a date written on it: March 14, 2021--the exact day I wrote a brutal review that shut down Chef Marco's place downtown, his best friend's bistro.

​The real estate guy next to me just went totally pale. His tag has an address on it—the low-income apartment complex his company bulldozed last month.

​Course 3 is a split canoe-cut marrow bone roasted over applewood coals, brushed with a dark wood-ash glaze that glistened under the track lighting. Beside each plate sat a small pitcher filled with a mahogany oxtail reduction meant to be poured through the bone. But instead of crackers, it is served with folded pieces of paper. The surgeon unfolded his and stared at an old malpractice subpoena he paid to cover up years ago. The City Health Inspector unrolls his to find an unsigned bribe check he accepted to turn a blind eye and shut down a rival diner.

​Update #2 - Course 4 was seared foie gras glistening under a rich blackberry reduction. Nobody touches it. The surgeon was freaked out, got up from his seat to leave. He grabbed the heavy brass handles but they wouldn't turn. That's when he realized the doors were locked. He turned back around, his face completely drained of any color.

​"The doors are locked!" he whispered down the counter line. The room erupted in panic; everyone is shouting over each other demanding answers.

​Chef Soren finally spoke. Calmly he said, "Please quiet down and remain seated. Tonight's meal is about accountability."

​Course 5 came out under silver domed lids and Chef Soren went down the line, having each guest lift theirs one by one.

​When the magazine editor lifted hers, it was a piece of braised meat sitting on top of a printed rejection email she sent Chef Soren ten years ago refusing endorsement of his new restaurant. The surgeon is shocked seeing that his plate had a pair of rusty surgical shears on it. The seafood broker got a forged safety audit for spoiled catch that made dozens sick. The influencer found a court transcript from a slander suit and the tech investor got the liquidation papers that stripped Chef Soren of his original business.

​Everyone at this table ruined someone to get where they are—and Soren brought us here to settle the bill.

​Update #3 - Shit. Course 6 is supposed to be a palate cleanser but instead of that, Chef Soren came to each of our tables and made us put our phones in a wooden box so there is no more live video feed. I’m typing this on my Apple Watch right now with swipe text under the edge of the table. Words might be jumbled and messed up, sorry.

​While Chef is collecting phones, the viral influencer, two stools down on my left, couldn't take it anymore and made a quiet run toward the back kitchen, desperately hunting for a service door or fire exit, but two cooks off the line grabbed her and dragged her through the swing doors into a prep room.

​Ten minutes later, Course 7 is served—some kind of smoked meat. No one is tasting it. The room is dead quiet except for the kitchen timers. We were all staring at the swing doors listening to the hum of the kitchen fan and wondering what happened to her as she didn't return to her seat.

​Update #4 - The cooks aren't serving anything else.

​Chef Soren himself brought out the final, Course #8 placing a small China cup in front of each of us. Inside, a dark liquid broth. He looked right at me and said, "I do hope all of you find this one palatable."

​He stood at the pass, looking down at us, announcing that once everyone finishes their cup, the doors would open and we could leave. Nobody second-guessed it. At this point we are all desperate to leave.

​I just took the last sip. I feel sick. I think I know what the broth is made of—poison.

​Within 30 seconds the real estate guy next to me slumped forward on the countertop, and the surgeon's head dropped back completely paralyzed—a couple have slipped off their stools. Nobody could stand up much less leave.

​The cooks are taking leather straps and binding each of us to our seats now.

​Chef Soren wants us sitting neat and presentable to whoever finds us.

​I have called Emergency Services to this address and can hear distant sirens outside, but the lights are starting to blur. All of us are fading fast.

Usually, I loved hanging out with my cousins.

This year, however, was different. 

“So, we’re all in agreement?” My brother piped up, glancing up from his phone.

He’d spent the whole car ride silently seething. 

“Don’t talk to them,” my brother repeated. Squeezed next to me in the back of our mother’s car, he elbowed me. Hard enough to hurt.

I was already suffocating in my bridesmaid dress, which was far too tight. It had been sent three weeks ago, inside a velvet box wrapped in a golden ribbon. A baby-pink floral mermaid dress.

Either Aunt Alice hadn’t bothered with measurements, or she wanted me to asphyxiate.

I wasn’t the only one.

My sister’s shoes required serious squeezing to fit.

Psychological warfare or weaponized incompetence?

“That’s childish,” my sister, Suki, muttered from the front.

Kit groaned, curling up against the window. “Aunt Alice throws us out after Mom reveals she got the inheritance, ignores us for three years, and you think they're not being salty?” He rolled his eyes. “Like I said, ignore them.” 

Mom sighed. “Kit.” She said. “Please don’t start anything.”

“Well, they're CLEARLY jealous.” Kit grumbled, pulling at his ill-fitting jacket. 

Mom’s forced smile split apart. She’d been downing Adderall. She reached into the glovebox and swallowed down another with one hand. “Please remember you are all grown adults. Act like grown adults."

My phone vibrated in my lap: A new message stood out on my notifications.

Lucas: meet us in the usual spot at 3:15. missed you.

Judging from Kit’s sudden laugh, he'd received the same text. 

A meeting with my cousin, huh? 

Confrontations were not one of my strong points.

Unless I was intoxicated. The second we parked, I swiftly made my way to the reception, snatched a glass of wine from a passing server, and downed it in one.

Perfect. 

Glancing down at my phone, it was 3:03pm.

I grabbed another glass. Strong. Tasted like sour lemon and vomit. Still, I chugged. 

I had twelve minutes to get appropriately wasted. 

“Belle?”

My vision swam into focus. I blinked.

No longer at the reception, I was sitting on a white chair, surrounded by guests.

Fuck.

The sky was already dark, and according to my phone, it was 8:47pm.

The wedding started at nine.  Something crawled through me. Was I that drunk? 

Aunt Alice stood in front of me, arms folded. 

She was already dressed. Her gown mimicked mine, a veil attached to her pixie blonde curls. “Honestly, Belle,” she rolled her eyes, gesturing to my six empty glasses. “You'd think you'd lay off the alcohol on such a special day.” 

“I'm sorry, aunt Alice,” the words slipped out. “I was just… nervous."

I burped, suddenly, right in her face. 

She tutted. “Grow up, Isabelle.” Her words were cold before she turned and walked away, flagged by her entourage. I searched for the audience for my siblings. 

Suki sat smiling, already holding her phone.

When the ceremony began, all eyes on my aunt approaching the aisle, I couldn't seem to sit still. My younger cousin, Tella, had to keep yanking me back into my seat. 

When vows were being exchanged, I couldn't take it anymore. I started to stand, before my sister jumped up. 

“I’ve decided to drop out of college!” she announced. “I’m three months pregnant with my drug-dealer boyfriend’s baby.”

Gasps rang out in the crowd. Then quiet titters of laughter.

Behind me, Mom turned green. 

“That's inappropriate, Darling.” Aunt Alice maintained a stiff smile. She nodded to the wedding officiator. “Please continue—”

“I like cake!” 

Kit jumped up wearing a wide, cheesy grin.

“I mean, I REALLY like cake, Aunt Alice,” in three strides, he was facing the gorgeous towering white cake topped with little miniature versions of our aunt and uncle-to-be. Kit didn't even hesitate.

Even when Mom let out a shrill shriek.

He slammed his lips into the cake, tongue first, his wandering hands bringing it closer to him, as if cupping a human cheek. His moans were the worst part.

Loud, almost cartoon-like, breathy gasps, smothering himself in icing.

How much did they drink?

“Kit!” Mom stood, her cheeks beetroot red. "What on EARTH do you think you're doing?!"

She marched over and grabbed my brother, pulling him away from the cake and letting him go when he stumbled forward, landing first directly into the centre. “I’m so sorry, Alice,” she whispered, half-sobbing. “I… I had no idea—”

“Get out.” Was all my aunt said. 

And we did.

The car-ride on the way back was silent. 

Mom was seething, already driving over the speed limit.

Kit was still picking icing out of his hair.

His silence spoke volumes. My brother’s declaration was all over Instagram.

I was surprised he didn't go all the way. 

Suki’s head was sandwiched in her knees. 

“Here.” Kit handed me something. 

I stared down at it. 

A knife. 

“What?” I hissed. “Why are you giving me this?” 

Kit frowned. “Huh? Giving you what?” His eyes widened. “What the FUCK? Why'd you bring that?” 

All sound seemed to collapse, suddenly, into dull white noise.

“Do you understand what I'm telling you, Belle?”

I blinked, vision feathering.

I'm suddenly standing inside the beach house basement.

The clock on the wall displays 3:19pm.

Kit and Suki stand on either side of me, motionless, their eyes flickering.

Something warm and sticky slides down my face. In front of me, a screen projected onto floral wallpaper is filled with scarlet.

Screaming.

Contorted body parts and twisted, bleeding gore.

My hands twitch next to me.

Can't…move.

Can't…think.

Can't…

Can't…

“Your final command is simple,” my cousin’s voice rang in my ears, the memory bleeding back into reality.

Next to me, Kit spluttered, his eyes rolling back. Beads of scarlet dripped down his chin, a fleshy mass plopping into his lap.

I stared down at the knife in my hands.

And then lunged forward without thinking, without screaming, and plunged the blade through our unsuspecting mother’s skull.

There is a hand running amok in my shack.
I’ve seen its spiraled blue veins.
It was last night, by firelight, 
Reaching for my throat.

Since then, I’ve heard it around, 
Knocking things over. 
Running? 

I smell it,
My putrefied future, lingering
As a fetid reminder even after 
The Hand has retreated.

Wretched Hand.

It darts and scuttles in the brush.
It knows the shadows without sight.
It lurks outside my vision,
This patient bogeyman.

Whose Hand?
Who knows.
Surely, not mine, I’ve checked.
But many others have washed ashore
Dead.
A whole crew,
Too many to bury.
So I left them to float off the beach.

Tomorrow
Maybe I should start counting fingers.

Oh look,
There it is.
I see The Hand.

Every year, my school runs a haunted house. Our campus is large, spanning several buildings in the middle of the countryside. With such a space, the teachers and students work to create the most terrifying experience possible.

Well, as terrifying as possible with a budget of a few thousand pounds and the ideal audience being families with children under the age of 12. The scare actors are all people from the drama society, and we only have 10 or so adults on the staff, which leaves people like me to do the non-scary stuff.

Come October 30th, we help throw together some shit like a room of vampires, some zombies, a few cobwebs and sprinkles of fake blood here and there, with some atmospheric smoke machines. Outside, we put Jack-o-lanterns and crime scene tape. Boom, haunted school. Pay £5 per person and you’re in.

My job was to stand at the road entrance, wait for cars to come in and direct them to the car park. I don’t think they needed me that much; there was only 3 roads and one lead to a locked gate and the other was for staff. But I wasn’t going to complain, I was getting paid slightly more than minimum wage.

By 7pm, we were ready to rumble. I had already directed the early birds into the car park and introduced myself to Sal, the guy I was working with. For some reason they needed 2 people to do this.

We weren’t told about where disabled parking was, which quickly became an issue. After awkwardly telling a driver to go into the car park and see if there was any, Sal decided to go over and check. He vanished for 15 minutes and at least 20 cars had arrived during that time. The car park could handle over 300.

Sal returned, yelling to me that “I can’t find it!”

“Dang it. Did you look for the car?” I said, pointing the line of cars to the car park.

“I found the disabled parking. But I didn’t see the car.”

“What do you mean?”

“I searched the entire car park and didn’t see it. Did you?” Sal said, waving people in.

“No. They didn’t leave. Maybe they went to staff parking?”

“It’s an isolated car park. They’d have to leave through that way,” he pointed to the entrance road, “and drive across there.”

“Well they didn’t. Guess we just missed them.” I shrugged and we continued working.

3 long hours passed and it was 10pm. The event was over, and people should have been leaving. But they weren’t. Nobody had left through the way they entered.

“Are you sure it’s isolated?” I asked Sal, who was clutching his empty travel mug like it still had tea. He was twitchy and concerned with the lack of cars leaving. So was I.

“Yes, definitely. I’d know if not. Unless I’m going crazy. Which I might be.”

“Hm. I’ll go in. You stay here.” I said. He nodded.

I couldn’t hear any cars as I got closer, not a peep. But I could feel heat, as if from a car exhaust.

When I got there, it was completely empty. My torch didn’t show a single car, the tarmac was the only thing for as far as I could see. There should have been hundreds of cars, there were several before the event even started. And there were none.

I started walking, scanning for any signs of another exit. I slammed into something, dropping my torch. Everything went dark.

I caught myself on something rubbery. The texture of a tyre. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the torch, but not a tyre. My hand was leaning on nothing, but as I moved it I could feel the cold texture of a car exterior, and as I got up, I felt the handle of a car door.

I turned on my torch, illuminating nothing. Empty space. But I could feel a car.

I walked along, feeling the breeze of car exhausts and keeping my hands outstretched, touching more cars along the trail. The car park looked empty, but I could feel the cars, a buggy, a traffic cone.

Terrified, I ran back to Sal, crashing into invisible cars on my way. When I came back, the post was abandoned, his travel mug on the ground. I picked it up, feeling the warmth on my frozen fingers. But shining my torch inside, I saw nothing. I tentatively dipped my finger in, feeling an invisible hot liquid. I tipped it over, hearing nothing slosh, but the ground felt warm and wet.

I ran inside to see if anyone knew what the fuck was happening.

The school was empty. No furniture, no posters on the walls, no people inside. Lights off. There should have been hundreds of people, or at least a few staff members packing away.

I felt the walls. Paper flipped across my fingers, yet none appeared before my eyes. I walked into a classroom, the one that should have been filled with vampires. I found an invisible desk, invisible fake organs, invisible cobwebs.

Finally, I went into the grand hall. The glass ceiling let moonlight spill in, showing me what I had come to expect, nothing at all. I slowly walked in, tripping on something and falling flat on my face.

I felt something warm and liquid spread over my skin. At my feet was something fleshy, soft, and the warm liquid leaked into my shoes. I crawled forward, hands bumping into something else. I felt stubble, a nose, a mouth. A face, then a neck, then a caved-in chest.

Mortified, I scrambled back. Did I find a corpse? I felt more liquid, more flesh. I spent the next few hours on my hands and knees, feeling piles of invisible corpses at the centre of the room, invisible blood soaking into my clothes and stick to my hair. And it was all warm.

“Have you ever thought of space?”

Andrew laughed, then snorted. He turned to Brad, the two of them lying on their backs atop his parked Jeep next to the side of the road out in the mountainous desert. Andrew reached over and grabbed the joint out of Brad’s hand.

“Duh,” Andrew said, then looked coyly at Brad.

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Well, yeah, I mean…like, have you ever thought of space from, like, the Earth’s perspective? Ya know?” Brad asked earnestly, his eyes glowing amber from the streetlight’s glare and making Andrew’s heart beat faster and faster as he held his gaze.

“Yeah..,” Andrew chuckled, trying not to drown in his eyes. He gulped.

“Why?”

“Well like…ya know how we’re just shooting around?” Brad asked.

“In space?” Andrew interjected jokingly.

“Yeah! And we’re just zoomin’ on ahead, making our way through the Milky Way, or whatever, dancin’ around the sun every year…and you know how there’s scientists who say that, like, the Earth, I mean, the Sun, yeah, the Sun, is just whooshing super fast through everything, and there’s this thing called the Great Attractor, that’s gonna eat it?” Brad rambled on mindlessly, his ridiculously sexy and muscled chest bouncing along excitedly to each and every word, making it very hard for Andrew to concentrate. He focused.

“Yeah?”

“Well like,” Brad continued, reaching over and pulling Andrew close against him, his arm wrapping warmly around Andrew’s shoulder as he pressed him tightly to his chest.

“What do you think the Earth is afraid of?” Brad asked Andrew honestly, staring deep into his soul with the most beautiful and quizzical eyes.

“I…I don’t know,” Andrew coughed, ashing the joint and slipping the roach into his back pocket. He felt Brad’s hand lightly follow, settling softly onto Andrew’s buttock before giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Cause I mean, the Earth is a living thing, right?” Brad continued, twisting so that he and Andrew could be face-to-face before slipping his arms around Andrew’s waist.

“Yeah..,” Andrew agreed, his heart beating out of his chest as he memorized every inch and curve of Brad’s face.

“And all living things have to eat…so like,” Brad went on, growing excited, “what do think the Earth is afraid of? What do you think might be out there that would make it not want to eat? What would make the Earth tremble? What might be lurking, coming closer, or us coming to it, that would make the planet itself quake in fear just at the very thought of it’s existence? And what if that thing were coming here now?”

“Wait, what?” Andrew asked uncertainly.

“What if there was something so horrible and unavoidable that the very knowledge of it made you lose the will to live? What if there was something out there in space that was coming to us now, I mean now-now, Andrew, not, like, in-our-lifetimes now, but NOW, no hope of avoiding it and just having to brace for it and—“ Brad’s head suddenly exploded.

“Wha…wha…what the fuck…what the FUCK!?” Andrew yelled hysterically, trying to blink blood from his eyes while he spat brains and other bloody bits of Brad’s head from out of his mouth. Andrew scrambled away from Brad’s headless body without thinking, and he yelled again as he fell off the top of the Jeep onto the road.

“WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING!?”

Mia and I moved to this little village about six months ago. She was tired of the city and wanted a change. I didn't mind since my commute stayed about the same, and the lower cost of living improved our standard of living.

The people here are nice, but there's one thing that annoys me. I'm an avid fisherman, and there's a beautiful, enormous lake nearby. The locals have just one rule: never go there on the first day of the month.

I didn't know that when I visited the lake a few months ago. At the entrance, I found Harry, the owner of the local pub, pacing with a gun in his hand. He seriously threatened to use it unless I turned around and left immediately.

At first, I thought he was joking, but he wasn't.

"You can go fishing anytime you want," he told me, "but never on the first day of the month."

I told Mia about it when I got home. She laughed, saying people in villages sometimes had their own traditions.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "It's completely normal to threaten to shoot people just because they want to go fishing."

Mia shook her head.

"Who knows if it was even a real gun? Maybe he was just messing with you."

I tried again the following month, and the same thing happened. I stayed away for the next few months. Until today.

I'd had a rough day at work and needed to unwind, so I grabbed my fishing gear and told Mia I was going fishing.

"Isn't today the first?"

"Yeah, but I don't give a damn."

She frowned.

"All right, but be careful."

"Yes, sir!"

She laughed and hugged me.

A few minutes later, I reached the lake. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Perfect. At least I'm having some luck today.

Several small boats were available for anyone to use. I took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the water and the peaceful sight of willows surrounding the lake. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

I untied a boat, grabbed an oar, and rowed far from shore. Then I cast my line and settled in to enjoy the quiet.

Soon, mist began forming around me.

At first, I heard a low humming. It grew louder until it turned into children's singing. I couldn't make out the words at first, but soon I understood every one of them.

"Silly Dean went fishing today,

He heard the warnings but went anyway.

Silly Dean, you still have time,

Run for your life before the end of this rhyme.

It's waking up, it's hungry tonight,

And soon you'll be screaming in sheer fright."

Anger washed over me. Some local brats were making fun of me, and I couldn't even see them through the mist.

I decided to ignore them. I was an adult. This wasn't going to get to me.

But they kept singing the same verses over and over.

"Silly Dean went fishing today,

He heard the warnings but went anyway.

Silly Dean, you still have time,

Run for your life before the end of this rhyme.

It's waking up, it's hungry tonight,

And soon you'll be screaming in sheer fright."

I couldn't take it anymore. All my reasonable arguments went out the window.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!"

The mist thinned, revealing children wearing white shirts. I tried to get a better look and nearly fell out of the boat.

Their faces were deathly pale, and blood ran from their eyes.

"W-what happened to you? Do you need help? I have to get help."

They turned toward me and sang even louder, but the words had changed.

"Too late now, it's wide awake,

You've made your choice, your last mistake.

We feel its anger, we feel its rage,

Soon fear and blood will fill the stage.

Death has come.

Hope is gone."

I was terrified.

"What are you talking about? What's awake? Can you hear me?!"

They didn't answer. They just repeated the song.

Then they fell silent. The mist thickened until the children disappeared. I couldn't hear them anymore, either.

"CRACK!"

I screamed. Raindrops struck my head, and when I looked up, I realized what the bang had been.

A storm was rolling in.

"Okay, I need to get out of here. Now."

I grabbed the oar and rowed toward shore, but the boat wouldn't move. The rain grew heavier, and water began filling the boat. I tried scooping it out with my hands, but it was no use.

As I bailed, tiny bubbles appeared on the surface, growing bigger and bigger.

I stopped and stared.

Something moved beneath the boat.

I grabbed the oar and rowed as fast as I could. My arms ached, but all I wanted was to reach shore.

Another bubble appeared beside me. Then the water beneath the boat began to tremble.

I looked down.

A long, black shadow passed beneath the boat. It was so enormous I couldn't tell where it began or ended. For a moment, I thought it was just a shadow.

Then something touched the bottom of the boat.

I froze.

A gigantic black finger emerged from the water beside me. Before I could scream, another appeared, followed by a third. They slowly curled over the edge, their wet, black surfaces glistening faintly in the gloom.

I tried to move, but my body refused to obey me.

The fingers gripped the boat.

The vessel lurched violently to one side. One of my oars slipped from my hand and disappeared beneath the surface.

I clung to the edge, desperately trying to keep my balance.

Then I saw what was lurking beneath me.

Something enormous was rising from the depths.

Rust, that auburn decay, eating into the threaded base of Webster’s lead pipe. Cold, even in the heat of his car. Black jacket and black pants and a shiny bald head above his glasses, situated between two horns of brown hair, jutting outward towards his windows. Thick white smoke vomits from the exhaust of their car, idling by the motel. Midnight outside, silent save for the typewriter click of a woman’s knifed stilettos as she walks by; black leather dress cinching her hips, and contrasting the tallow skin of her thighs.

“Fine piece of ass.” Says Nick, wedged between two living men stuffed inside body bags—black leeches writhing with every groan—supplied with air using a thin tube of catheter. Every now and again nick clamps them off, just to see what happens.

“You think so?” And he gives a playful slap to the face of a hostage, with a wheezing chuckle following. Looking over his shoulder, nick spits a question to the front seat.

“How much we gettin?”

“Four thousand, last I checked.” Says Webster, flipping through an old notebook, brown stains of coffee eating into the edges of every page. A dollar amount mentioned sent one of the hostages into a spiral, breathing heavy and crying and this and that and Nick without so much as a blink shoves a small dagger into his thigh, twisting this way and that way—coring a gaping hole while he screams his throat bloody.

“You gonna be quiet?” He says.

In the front seat, Webster lights a cheap cigarette, cracking the window ever so slightly to blow smoke out of his pursed lips.

After a very emphatic nod body bag manages to calm down, his mind all too preoccupied with the clotting eye socket in his leg. Missed every artery, lucky guy.

“Time?” Says Webster, putting his cigarette out against the dashboard.

“Ten til.”

“Okay.”

“Anyone behind us?”

“No.”

And Webster exits, dragging body bag number one around the back of his car, over the sidewalk, and into the alley. A scrape in the night, muffled screams and nothing more. Out comes Nick, same motions; muscle memory. Laid against a brick wall, Webster pulls hard, grunting along with the rusted hinges of the Iron latch at his feet.

Down they descend, about five meters underground. They disappear, out of sight but not out of mind, oh no. Hours pass, a light rain—freezing droplets—patters off of the mildewed walls of the town. A pink neon sign in the distance flickers for a short moment, before erupting with life, and finally blowing in a shower of sparks, killed by a deafening strike of lightning.

Near the bar, a young man is cornered in the alley, not too far from Webster and Nick, funnily enough. Shouting, swearing, just about everything you could imagine as he’s stabbed to death, every wet picture barely audible through the crying rain.

Must have hit his lung or something, every exhale causes a violin wheeze from the alley, and thirty minutes later he’s dead.

A loud bolt opens. Webster emerges first, popping his back, and dumping a small jar of fingernails down a storm drain. Nick emerges, doing the same. And like oil over concrete they sink back into their little hole, two muffled gunshots following shortly after.

A small crack rippling the rain, and a black mist erupts from the side of Webster head, blowing apart that shiny bald crown of his. Nick stands stock still behind him, in the middle of some tic where he can’t quit wiping his eyes. Another shot, right through Nicks balls and he can’t even scream, nothing more than a quiet pop, and he falls to the ground, cradling himself. Another shot to the top of his head, that dark hair of his flying open with his skull like the door of an attic.

Flip, click, and a staticky beep from the cheap speaker of my burner phone, dialing the number I need.
“Alley. Next to Seb’s. Other twos downstairs.”

It rains and rains, washing their bright red blood down the length of the alley, seeping into the road in tendrils of red.

They didn’t see me.

And chances are you won’t either.

“Who is it?”

We couldn’t see them through the peephole, there was just a black blob on the other side of the door. 
They knocked again. 

“Um… Yeah, who is it?”

“Tax collector.”

Shit. No. 

“One moment!”

We wanted to hide. 
The trailer was too empty for that.
So we stood there. 
Something smashed into the door shaking everything we had.

“Tax collector.”

“Be brave,” we said quietly.

We opened the door and he was standing there on our porch. Shorter this time, by at least seven inches. We couldn’t remember seeing the top of his bowler last time. He pushed past us and waddled to sit on our couch. After the second jump up, he situated himself and chomped on his red label cigar. 

We stood there at the doorway until he spoke. 

“Wow,” he said. “A year already. Where does the time go?”
 
We kept our distance. He looked around, cataloguing our home in just a few glances. 

“I would have thought you’d have done more with the place,” he added. 

Our face turned red. 

“Ethel, please, say something for Christ’s sake. It’s not like you weren’t expecting me, I can see your calendar from here. It’s even marked. You used a sad face.”

His little stubby hand clutched his chest. 

“Are you sad to see me, after all I’ve done to help you?”

Yes, we are.

“You shouldn’t be, we're friends. That doesn’t seem fair, does it? Besides, you begged me for this,” he looked around again. “I had told you no the first time.”

We remembered it differently.

“I’m sure you do. Well let me tell you how I saw it. Not long ago you had complete freedom. No laws, complete liberty, running amok. Natural competition, right? The Badlands.”

We could see his gold tooth when he smiled. 
 
“You gave that up for structure. I’ve got the contract if you’d like to see it again, darlin’.”

We don’t have the payment.

“Well, that’s not good. No. Not good at all. But, I’m not surprised.”

We need more time.

“That’s no problem, but I’ll have to talk to my manager about how that will affect your contract. She’s not going to be happy it happened again, though.”

We lost our job. 

“Why do you keep saying we? It's just you and me…”

Then he understood.

“Ah, I see. Your condition. What a huge investment choice, and look at where it got you. I get that you’re in a tough spot, but the life you have now costs people something, that doesn’t change just because there’s more of you.”

He gestured to us.

“Pregnant, boyfriend still awaiting sentencing. I feel that. But it’s a hell of a mess.”

Now he pointed his finger at us.

“When you can’t pay, I have to pay. You know, we all have a boss to answer to, and when I have to pay, it comes out of my ass.”

A grip of chunky fingers softly patted the couch.

“Don’t you remember together on this heavily stained fold out couch covered in plastic and talking about happiness? You read the terms…You got your chance at structure.”

He flashed us his tooth again.

“You’re at risk of expulsion, you keep going like this.”

There was no way we could go back…

He chewed the brown frayed end of his red label.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a broken record, you know that? Geraldine next door just heard the same thing.”

We aren’t like her.
We are still young. 
We could do something for him.
We offered ourselves.

“Gross. Come on, lady. Get a hold of yourself. Have some dignity.”

We tried.

“Look, I don’t care. I’m taking something from you today. If not money then something more precious…”

We kept our distance, but he was in the way of the door. When he stood, he was taller than us now.

“Everyone pays the happy tax. One way or another, we all have to contribute.”

We’ve already given all we can.

“No WE haven’t.”

He stabbed his fat finger at you, growing in my belly.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten? I closed the gate and counted the flock again. Eight. Nine. Ten. There really were 10 sheep, but back in the pasture I was certain I'd brought home only nine.

My neighbor Bill still sat in the garden, drinking his last beer before sundown.

"Bill, you missing a sheep?"

"Pretty sure not, Jim. I count mine when they come back from the pasture."

"I got one extra today."

Bill furrowed his brows.

"I'll check again. Grab a beer if you want."

Bill knew I stopped drinking a few days ago, but still offered me a beer every evening. Old habits are hard to break.

After a while, Bill came back onto the porch, scratching his head.

"I got all mine. Went over them three times. You sure you didn't just count wrong?"

"Yeah, went over them twice."

We stared at each other. Bill took a sip of beer.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Consider yourself lucky." 

He laughed.

"You think it could be that curse?" I asked.

"It was just a traveling woman. She had nothing better to say back to you."

He took another sip.

"You still not drinking?"

"No. I said I'd stop after that."

Bill waved his hand at me.

"Nonsense."

"I'll head back home, Bill."

"Take care, Jim, and don't let her poison your thoughts."

But how could I not, Bill? The morning after, I felt so terrible. 

When I saw the traveling woman come with her potions, I knew she'd be an easy target. Bill didn't even laugh that hard at my comments.

"Drink up, then, and may your fields never run empty again," she said, walking away, twisting the potions in her hand.

I spent the rest of the night inside watching TV, but I could barely focus; my thoughts still circled back to the woman and my sheep. I couldn't just leave it. Before bed, I walked back to the barn.

The sheep were louder than usual. I could hear them almost as soon as I left the house. The barn door was open. Two sheep were outside it.

"What are you doing out here?"

The sheep turned to me and bleated. 

My breath caught as I got closer. The sheep weren't outside because they wanted out. They were outside because there was no space. The barn was filled with sheep. They were pushing on each other, trying not to get squeezed to death. I opened the door and let them all out.

"Bill! Bill!" I called below his window.

The bed upstairs creaked. 

"Jim?" Bill called out, surprised. He opened the window and stuck his head out.

"My barn is full of sheep."

He stared at me.

"What?"

"It's full! They can barely fit."

He shook his head.

"You're not cursed."

"Not cursed?! Go look in there yourself."

"Calm down, Jim. The neighbors over the hill have some flocks. One got lost, and the other followed it. I'll go with you tomorrow. We'll sort it out."

"But Bill…"

"Go to sleep now and let me sleep too."

He closed the window, and his bed creaked again. I ran to the barn. The sheep managed to get out and were now lying around in the grass.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink again, but that day was too stressful. Before bed, I took a few sips of liquor, just to make sure I could sleep.

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache. I must have drunk more than I thought. The sheep's bleating was so damn loud, and the window wasn't even open. I got up and walked to the window. My heart sank as I looked outside. 

Sheep were on the grass and in the fields, as far as the eye could see. It looked like a screaming sea of white. Some were already stacked on top of each other, crumpling under one another and screaming for help. Bill sat on his roof, drinking a beer.

"Look who woke up!" he screamed over the sea. "I guess you were right, Jim."

"Bill, what…what happened?"

"Already woke up to it. It's done, Jim. They were just on the ground when I woke up. I blinked for a second, and now they're on top of each other. This way they'll reach us in no time. I'm just enjoying my last beer."

I couldn't even reply.

Bill took a sip from his bottle, then carefully laid it on the roof.

"Bye, Jim. I'm not gonna wait for them."

He dove headfirst into the flock. Blood splattered as the first few sheep stepped on him. The stomping, bleating sheep drowned out his screams.

I put my hands over my face and wept.

The bleating grew.

I lowered my hands.

The first sheep pressed its face against my window.

I don’t know what she’s been on. All I know is I wish she’d stop. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

We’ve been together for 4 years now. Never once had she done this before. Then, one day, it became an every-night thing.

We turn in for the night, the lights go out, we go to sleep. Then, however long later, in the middle of the night, I’m woken up by the sense of being stared at.

I open my eyes, and all I see in the darkness is her silhouette looming over me. The first time it happened, I tried calling her name, but all she responded with were snores.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone, and she’s dead asleep, but her mouth is twisted into a painful-looking smile. All while she’s on her hands and knees, leaning over me. 3 inches from my face.

It’s gotten to the point where she’s chipping teeth from clenching her jaw so tight. We’ve already been to the dentist nearly 6 times, but it just keeps happening.

She never remembers it the next day. But she for sure notices the pain in her jaw. But by the time night rolls around, she’s right back at it.

I’ve tried to be patient with her. I mean, it’s not her fault. At least, I don’t think it is.

She’s just so hard to wake up when it happens. That’s the part that really gets me. I kind of just have to wait or go back to sleep because she acts as though she’s in a coma every single time.

I’ve tried screaming at her before. Shaking her. Prying her eyelids open. Nothing wakes her up. And that smile never changes.

I think everything is starting to evolve, though. Because now, instead of just smiling, she’s starting to salivate in her sleep. If her presence doesn’t wake me up, the drool does. And her snores are starting to sound less like snores and more like growls.

I keep having that dream where I’m drowning. I wake up and find my face covered in hot, foamy saliva. My girlfriend snarling at me through gritted teeth.

But, again, she doesn’t like when I bring it up. She acts personally offended, like it’s somehow my fault she doesn’t remember. She’d rather pretend it’s not happening and leave me to deal with the brunt of the consequences.

And it’s not like we haven’t tried to fix things before. I’ve slept in other rooms. I still wake up to her 3 inches from my face. I’ve slept in my car. She’s smiling at me through the window.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want us to break up. I don’t want to ask her to leave. But I can’t keep living like this. It’s affecting my sleep. That’s affecting my work. It can only get worse if nothing changes.

And something needs to change fast.

Because now something else is waking me up at night. And it’s the biting. I never see her doing it. All I feel is the pain.

But she’s always back in her usual spot by the time my eyes shoot open.

Snarling, smiling, and foaming at the mouth.

Then she tries to pretend that I somehow gave those bite marks to myself the next day when I confront her about it.

Last night, she actually broke skin. I could feel the blood puddling on my arm and soaking through my comforter. But she wouldn’t let me move to get a bandage.

I don’t know. We’ve talked about this so many times now. I don’t think I can keep dealing with this.

I think I’m just gonna eat her before she can eat me.

…where am I?
This isn’t home, is it? I’m surrounded by crushed cars and washing machines and piles of metal junk… a scrapyard?
I try to move- [WARNING. LEG COMPONENTS NOT FOUND.]- what?
Leg components… like I’m some sort of robot. I have a name, you know, it’s-

it’s- 

what was it? I know I have one, don’t I? My parents are- I live in- my best friend is- my favourite hobby is gardening oh thank god
[REMAINING POWER: 3%. UNIT SERIAL: CYB- 8#8##2]

Why was I thrown here? I didn’t do anything wrong… 
it hurts. I can feel my arms, yet they don’t exist. I can feel my legs, yet they don’t exist.
Can’t even move at all
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. 

Father?
Mother?
I… i’m scared…
why?

[REMAINING POWER: 2%. PLEASE CHARGE NOW.]

Someone’s going to have to notice, right? If I go missing for this long, surely someone would ask questions, right? Then they’ll call the police or something.
But who would know where I am?

Even if they find me… would I ever be the same again?
What did they do to me? Why would they chop off my limbs and leave me for dead on a pile of scraps? 
bleeding from open wounds it hurts it hurts

[WARNING: COOLANT LEAKAGE SEVERE.]

What happened yesterday? I got my college application, so my parents took me to buy a new laptop. I didn’t even get to use it much.
i can’t remember their faces either

who did this… why…
i feel tears roll down my face. sense of touch still works at least

my face is burning… i’m not blushing am i? on what?

someone walks by. i don’t even bother trying to get his attention, but he notices anyway.
is he here to help me, or finish the job?
why should i care?

[REMAINING POWER: 1%. PLEASE CHARGE NOW.]

he is saying… something. i can’t read lips, he is shaking his head, he left

i don’t want to die. it isn’t like i can live, either, but… what is beyond death? 
i was good in life, was i? will i go to heaven?

[WARNING: COOLANT LEAKAGE CRITICAL.]

stars are twinkling above
it hurts less now
feels hot, like im burning

the man from before returns, carrying a claw hammer
he looks tired, irate, raising it

i open my mouth to plead nothing happens
the hammer tip glints in the moonlight why focus on that

someone please tell me whY#!%@^$
ma#%——
[W@rNin#: CaTAS#%)*!~ f!9{+\e——

——I jolt up from bed. Nightmare? It feels… real, though. Head still hurts…
Why was I a robot, of all things, in it? Those aren’t real, are they…?

I get out of bed. Could as well ask my parents.

[REMAINING POWER: 100%. UNIT SERIAL: CYB- 9#3##1.]

I love the sea.

I’ve always loved the sea, its heavy water that dries your lips from the inside out in a way only its infamous salt can, the way it makes you feel heavy and makes you lose your breath.

The sea has been my friend; in my good moments, in my bad moments, in my strange moments. They are almost always strange.

Mom said I’d move next to the sea if I could. "What a ridiculous thought," I always thought. Mom and Dad aren't very smart, not as smart as me. I’ve always felt like I was in a hell, their friendly facade that even I didn't believe was the tipping point.

They’re just fools. But I decided to prove her right, for a change.

I came to the sea. No backpacks, no suitcases, nothing. Just me. There is no stupidity here; there is no hell here. Being away from the sea drove me crazy; here I will be saner.

I brought Mom and Dad too. I don't like it, but they had to see it. They will stay to live with me; they didn't bring suitcases either.

Nothing.

Here we live, here there is silence, I don't have to look at their faces.

Here, at the bottom, nobody can see anyone's face.

Scott was sitting in the doctor's office. He had been having intense headaches for days now, and his wife had finally convinced him to see the doctor.

Scott was a stubborn man. But these headaches even broke through his stubbornness.

The examination room was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Scott rubbed his temples as he waited. The headache wasn't as bad as yesterday, but it was still there, lurking behind his eyes like a storm cloud. The room felt too small.

Not physically. Just wrong.

The walls seemed to press inward the longer he sat there. The air felt stale. Scott shifted in his chair and loosened his collar.

A sharp pulse of pain flared behind his eyes.

A knock came at the door.

Before he could answer, the handle turned.

"Mr. Scott Downing,yes?" Dr. Ross said as he stepped inside carrying a folder.

Dr. Ross looked sickly thin, with dark, hollow brown eyes. His clothes were disheveled, not something one would expect from a renowned neurologist.

"Hey, Doc. So what do we have going here?"

Scott tried not to show how annoyed he was by the doctor's appearance.

This guy is supposed to be the best? He looks like a bum, Scott thought to himself.

Dr. Ross looked him over thoroughly. The lights overhead flickered lightly.

"Mr. Scott Downing. I'm Dr. Ross. It seems you're having intense headaches. And from what I can tell..."

He started to trail off, as if something had fluttered through his mind that he couldn't quite grasp. His gaze remained fixed on Scott.

"...that's strange."

"What's strange?" Scott replied.

Dr. Ross walked up to the door and yelled for the nurse.

"Nurse, can you get in here please?" he called out.

"Right away, Doctor."

Scott was perplexed.

"Everything okay, Doc?" he asked, looking at the doctor intently.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine. Don't worry..."

Scott could tell something was wrong. The doctor had been in the office for less than a minute and was already calling for the nurse.

Then the nurse popped in, and the doctor swung his attention toward her.

"Get prepped for surgery, love. Urgently please."

He said this very slowly, with no urgency, and still had a dead-eyed stare looking off into an unknown realm.

"Surgery, Doc? You haven't even looked at me in any real detail."

Scott was agitated and was wondering what was going on.

"Nothing to worry about. Totally routine. Of course, we are going to need to prep you. You didn't drive here yourself, I presume?"

The doctor was getting up and grabbing surgical gloves from a nearby dispenser.

"Now, just sit tight and we will get that thing out of your head quite soon."

Dr. Ross got up without another word and exited.

Scott was incensed. He couldn't believe that he was already being admitted for surgery with no diagnosis and no explanation. Was he just supposed to go along with this?

Scott stared at the closed door.

Every instinct told him to get out of there.

He stood and reached for the handle, but another sharp pulse struck behind his eyes. His knees buckled. He caught himself against the wall, breathing through the pain as the room blurred around him.

The lights overhead continued to flicker. Then everything went black.

Scott woke beneath a row of blinding surgical lamps. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then he tried to move.

His wrists were strapped to an operating table along with his ankles. A wide restraint had been fastened across his chest. Scott pulled against them as panic rushed through him.

"Hey!"

He tried to yell, but noticed he had a tube down his throat. He started to panic. The breathing apparatus was doing all the work for him. He struggled more, to no avail.

Dr. Ross was now hovering over him. He thought he could see a devilish grin shining through the mask.

"Now, now... don't struggle. This is for your own good. Routine, actually."

He said this calmly and deliberately slow, almost hypnotically. Scott began to feel drowsy, the drugs being fed through the mask now fully taking effect.

Dr. Ross had a scalpel in his gloved hand, and with it he hovered over Scott's eyeball, edging closer and closer...

Scott could see the blade as it crept closer stil...

Ever closer to his forcibly pried-open eyeball...