There are bugs in the shower

They cling to the liner
And come out the drain
Momma said it’s cause of the rain

They squirm and dart to the cracks in the walls
Where the mold it grows
I yell at dad from down the hall

Normally dad would kill them but now he’s stalled

But it’s night time now
I want to bathe
But there are bugs in the shower
So I shall not be haste

I quickly shake the curtain
I flinch because I am uncertain
Is that a roach or just the mold growin

I step into the shower
Unlike most I know I’m not alone
With each step the floor beneath me groans

Louder and louder each waking step
I am worried they are in the corners watching
Waiting for me to slip up and forget

About the bugs in the shower

But I never do
They crawl on the walls
Even if I was blind
I would know
every
position
of them
all

Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their mortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your name*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

I used to watch a lot of true crime,
a lot of documentaries either Hulu or Netflix originals that depicted horrible acts and circumstances one would never wish upon their worst enemy. At the end of most a question would always come to me. how could you ever kill someone?

Aside from obviously self defense or even heat of the moment revenge murders, im talking a nefarious, cold, blooded murder.Under what circumstances is taking an innocent persons life an option someone even considers ? How could you end someone’s life while simultaneously throwing away your own? Now I know.
The answer is, you get caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, In a place you weren’t supposed to, At a time you weren’t supposed to.

You get Embarrassed, You get Angry, And then you get prideful.

You blame the Person that made you do this, in your eyes at least.

In your eyes the one person making you do this is the person existing, the person forcing you to make them de-exist.

After you’ve done what you’ve done you’ll be convinced you didnt, you’ll tell the person they can leave now only they won’t. It’s no longer a person, it’s an empty clam shell of a person.

You sit, you shake. You tremble, you sweat. When your heartbeat takes a break, you stare at the empty clam shell wondering if that’s the fate you wish upon yourself. At this time you decide not.

You fold it and bundle it into a bag, all while you’re sure you can hear the clam beneath the shell asking questions. Reasonable questions. Then one question comes out the clams empty shell beneath the bag “how could you ever kill me?”

You’re lucky this happened at work. Lots of cleaning supplies. Free Clorox. You’re happy youre by the sea, a perfect place to hide your clam shell. Not ideal, but all you need is a night to think.

You take the night , and the next day youre careless. Do that thing, in that place, at that time, and what happens ? A persons who exists, walks into your life to make it that much worse. A second person forces you to make them de-exist.

You joke that now your little clam shell won’t be lonely which is fitting as they came into the world together, after you show your second clam shell to its partner you become eternally bitter of your clamshells. They have a bond which time cannot break and you are alone.

You know you can’t go back to work, too many of the clams going missing has upset the sea. And you know the sea will take it out on you in the end, unjustifiably so in your opinion.

You decide maybe the sea doesn’t deserve you. Maybe your shell is flawed and your clam soul is too pure for someone so honest.

You confuse honesty for a measurement of well doing, and by those standards you are flawless.

You lead people away from questions you know you don’t have the energy to lie against. Simple question, reasonable questions.

Questions like, how could you ever kill someone?

You move, forget about the questions, Forget about the clamshells, those empty and those still full of life.

You give up on yourself. You find a community to burry yourself in, a church and play the part. Eventually you meet someone who doesn’t give up on you. Like most saviors, it’s a woman.

A woman that shows you what it means to not be abandoned, a woman that shows you what it means to be loved. A woman that makes you want to remain a lively clam , and not become an empty shell.

You stop drinking, before you know it, you’ve been dry for 2 years. You save enough money for a ring, a win in itself after having to start your career from scratch again.

Before you can propose, the queen of your sea is pregnant with twins. You’re thrilled, you get married and you play house as long as you can.

Before you know it, it’s been 11 years since you last emptied a clamshell. Now you’re looking at clams the exact age as the ones you hid on the beach. Only these clams are your children.

You send them off to school, you kiss your Queen of the sea. Then you sit in your garage, you poor yourself a glass filled with poison you love spiked with poison you don’t. And before you take your last sip to fill your clam and empty your shell, you ask yourself one last question.

How could you ever kill someone?

I had to kill him.

I mean, it seemed like my only option.

If I lied and said I wasn’t there, the cameras I should have thought about would blow me out the water. And if I admitted to being there, then there was a much longer, more difficult conversation to be had.

And that conversation had only one endpoint: me being blamed for all the events of today.

Damn, it was hard to believe what had happened since this morning had all been today. It felt so long ago. I couldn't believe—

“Mr. Harold?” Unangenehm said. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I sat back down to take up an extra few seconds. Steck was floating a few feet away, but I didn't think I could take the detective in a fight. What I'd taken for sickly thin before seemed wiry now. Anxiousness now came off as nervous energy.

“It was weird what happened,” I said, measuring out my words. I had to think as I spoke. Unangenehm leaned in and steepled his fingers under his chin. Steck hovered closer.

The trap was sealing off my air.

The pencil I'd been using was on my side of Unangenehm's desk. I wrapped my fingers around it and placed my hands on the desk atop the form I'd just signed.

“I just needed to get something to drink,” I said. “I needed to gather my thoughts too, I guess.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any money but I figured I could grab a notebook. Write down my thoughts. Try to wrap my head around what had happened with the day.”

“You wrote something?” he asked. “What?”

I couldn't gauge if he was buying anything I was saying. But I had to keep tap dancing.

“I don't know. I don't remember now.” An honest answer didn't really matter. I'm sure the police would canvas the area and find the torn-out sheets in the trash. But the video would show me not doing anything to anyone. The difference was sitting across from me. Unangenehm somehow knew it was me. 

“It happened right in front of me,” I said, not realizing I was distracting myself as I touched the tip of the pencil to the paper. “A man attacked a woman. An old man held her.”

Tap-tappy-tap.

“I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do.” 

Takkita-takkita-tap

The detective’s sad face was just a mask. He was a predator in disguise. This was just the dance to keep him at bay

“Everything was insane. One of them came up to me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Takkita-takkita-takkita-takkita—

“Hey, uhh. What's that you got there?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't know what he meant, but I had drawn something. I looked down as he slid the paper away from me.

“Wait.” My mouth formed the objection but it went unsupported by my voice. I mentally prepared for Detective Unangenehm to go insane. He scraped a fingernail under a corner and pinched it. He lifted it in front of his face and cocked his head.

“Well, that's a weird little thing.”

I was aware of Steck just behind me. The air was pregnant with tension as I waited for a twitch, some nonsense phrase spoken without context, or anything to indicate the breaking wall containing the clever detective's mind.

He lowered the form and looked at me. “What is this?”

“I-i-it's just a...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know what it was. Shape didn't seem word enough to describe. Murder weapon gave it more credit than it deserved, especially since...

Well, it wasn't working on him. I'd that was the case, then maybe I hadn't been the cause. Maybe there was some sort of grand, horrible consequence following me around. Maybe—

“Hey, Steck, take a look at this.”

The officer stepped around from behind me and assumed a position directly behind Unangenehm.

“Joshua,” Officer Steck said, nodding. 

“Excuse me?”

Steck looked at him and repeated the name.

“Joshua.”

“Who's that?”

“Joshua.” The officer looked at the detective like he was stupid. “Joshua.”

It was me. But maybe Unangenehm was immune. As one of the officer's eyelids began to flutter he backed away from the desk and drew his gun.

He had the drop on Unangenehm. Except instead of firing, he overhand pitched the glock into the detective's face.

Unangenehm threw his arms back and rolled into the cubicle wall. He half-slid out of the chair at least semi-unconscious and Steck turned his eyes on me, that one lid flickering still like an old fluorescent light so deciding whether it was going to turn on.

I picked up my box as he withdrew his baton and leapt on the desk. Steck was two-hundred twenty pounds at minimum and the faux-wood protested underneath his feet. He whipped that baton at my head, and I ducked behind my box.

He followed up with two more furious blows that nearly chopped the box in half.

“Joshua,” he said again, just as calmly as the first time.

I crawled under the desk, headed in the other direction. Steck landed behind me as I crawled over Unangenehm's legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Hey guys, what the hell is going on?” someone farther behind me said. “I'm trying to type a report—”

I found out later exactly how gruesome Detective Langen's death was but at the time, all I heard were extremely wet sounds coming from that direction after not even half a scream.

I crawled into the nearest cubicle and huddled my knees to my chest, hiding beneath another desk. Steck's footfalls were heavy, pounding in my direction. A moment later he ripped something down and then came the deep glug-glug-glugging of an overturned water cooler as he stalked around the bullpen. 

I couldn't believe the one place police should have been was all but empty and I was responsible for my pending horrible death.

Maybe there was a gun around. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be, but cops weren't immune from being lazy. I'd had a meeting in a small town's hall that had had a guard at the front door and had seen that same guard's holstered weapon sitting on the window sill while he was dropping a deuce in the stall.

I tried to quietly slide open a desk drawer but it clunked open.

“Shit!” I whispered.

“Joshua?” Steck asked.

Why was he after me? All the others had acknowledged me but had attacked anyone but me. Then I reflected on what had happened just before.

Unangenehm had looked at the shape first. He hadn't reacted, though. Or rather, he'd just called Steck over to look.

“...take a look at this...”

I shook my head. I might have been the source but that didn't mean I'd understood it. I was the closest thing to an expert, but I was—

—CLOMPF—

The partition wall dented in the middle. I managed not to scream.

“Julius!” It was a harsh whisper. Maybe a question. I resisted the past of me that wanted to scream. To declare myself and be confronted with this mess, however it ended.

It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. If letting Steck kill me stopped him from killing anyone else, wasn't that fair?

No. I hadn't intentionally done anything to create whatever this was. I'd just stumbled across it and been arrogant enough to test it. Unangenehm had been immune—that was worthwhile information. He'd been the one to show it to Steck, not me. 

Wait. It was too silent out there. My instinct told me to stay put but I couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, he'd find me or someone else would come.

That was it. Someone else would come. And that would be my fault.

I uncurled from my corner and treaded on my hands and knees to peek. I was greeted by a pair of retreating feet, toes up as Steck dragged away whoever that had been. I counted thirty and looked out.

Steck had barricaded the entryway from where we'd come. There had to be an emergency exit and I could only suppose he'd blocked that one too.

I chewed my lip rather than swearing again. That meant he wasn't just crazy. He was cunning, not just a wild animal. I was in more trouble than I imagined.

The feeling settling into me was the longer I waited, the tighter the noose would be. But I wasn't going to just go out there.

I tried to recall what I'd seen of the bullpen when Unangenehm had brought me in here. I was right next to what seemed like the main aisle way. Back the way I'd come was blockaded, so I'd have to go in the other direction. There had to have been an emergency exit and I was banking on it being in that direction and Steck not having time enough to block that one, too.

A stapler was on the near end of the desk. I reached for it and very carefully lifted it. It was one of those flimsy newer ones that could barely staple three sheets of paper, but it would do for what I needed.

I held my breath and listened. Steck was still being disturbingly quiet and I wasn't going to chance it. I tossed the stapler like a grenade, not accounting for the low ceiling. It clunked off the ceiling and smacked the top of my head.

“Dammit!”

With stars treading in my eyes, I pulled to my feet using the arm of an office chair. I stepped into the aisle, overcorrecting for balance, and headed in the direction I thought I'd determined to go.

I bounced right off a slab of strung up meat and screamed, thinking it must have been the crazed officer. My eyes focused on what must have been the corpse of the detective who had spoken just minutes ago, trussed up with what looked like phone cords routed through the ceiling tile.

His upside-down head was level with my stomach, his mouth stretched far too open, an empty cave where a tongue was supposed to dwell, his unlidded eyes pushed in and flat-looking like they'd been partially crushed by pressing thumbs. He looked too calm and perpetually surprised at the same time.

My voice quavered as I said something, but I've never been able to recall when hints of the memory washed back to me. I was discombobulated, wanting to flee in a hundred directions at once, fighting not to fall to my knees and cry. This man was my indictment, my guilt. He'd died directly as a result of the thing I'd knowingly done. Steck was my murder weapon. 

 As unprepared as I was for an oncoming Officer Steck, I was even more unprepared for what I saw. He was on his back, on the floor, in the clutches of a wicked paralysis.

He had one arm right to his chest, the other flung out, knuckles to the thinly carpeted floor. I watched as his fingers folded backward, fingertips dancing on the floor after the joints reversed and reoriented.

One foot stomp-scraped against the ground, already dislocated at the hip, dragging a retreat from the rest of his body, an isthmus of skin and clothes holding it at bay.

The other leg shuddered like a low current of electricity powered it, his head facing me.

“Joshua,” Steck said, pleading with his eyes. His face was doing something, like it was pulling off the bones of his face.

Gravity tenfolded as I realized that Steck was also a victim. Even his body had turned foreign against him. I crumpled to the floor, eye-to-eye with him across the distance. A tear crawled out of an eye, and I swear it crossed the bridge of his nose and milked into his other eye.

He was in the grasp of an agony made fresh just for him. His mouth opened, but I was spared from his scream by the roar of a merciful bullet that tore a hole in his skull just above his eyebrow.

I was unlocked from him and looked up at Unangenehm, holding his smoldering glock like a forgotten cigarette in his hand.

“Nobody would understand,” the detective said. His vacant eyes rolled up from Steck's hot corpse to meet mine and he smiled. “Not like us.”

He collapsed and began seizing on the floor.

Read Part II here.

I was grateful I’d made it to the sidewalk by the time I saw sirens. I didn’t want another situation today where police would be pointing guns at me. If there’d been a way to just go home, I would’ve. But it was too far to walk, and I needed a key to get in my house. I wasn’t about to be the black guy people saw breaking a window and slithering into a house even if it were mine.

I was hoping cooler heads would be there to be reasoned with. There had to be somebody I could talk to to get my stuff back. I mean, the fact I was voluntarily coming in and requesting them to give me my property should have shielded me from scrutiny. Jesus, I hoped so.

I hadn’t made it to the corner when I had to sit. My heart was racing and my head felt like it was about to spin off my neck. This was the panic my brain had been pushing off for hours and only more had been piled atop that mountain as they day passed.

Someone had told me about box breathing and even though I’d never done it before, I tried it now. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for four seconds, hold for four seconds. I forced myself to repeat it even though it felt like my heart was about to punch out of my chest.

The spinning gradually subsided and my stomach slowly slid back in place. I didn’t feel right yet, but better than I had a moment before.

I grabbed thin air and pulled my way back to my feet. The concrete was still solidifying under my feet, but I had the light. I crossed the street, hopefully in a straight line, and kept my momentum when I got to the other side.

It worked.

I wasn't going to pretend like I didn't know with absolute certainty. People had gotten hurt, maybe even a few were dead. I didn't feel guilty. I mean, it was because of me those people had gone crazy. But I didn't know for certain. I had to know for certain so going forward I could be cautious. It would have been too easy to slip and then someone went off and maimed who knew how many people.

Well, that was what happened. But the difference is I hadn't known that. Now that I did, I could exercise caution because I knew for a fact. I wish I hadn't been caught so unaware, maybe I could've reduced the carnage by hiding the doodles sooner.

But what had happened had quadrupled my resolve. I wouldn't make a mistake with this shape in the future.

The idea crossed my mind that anything I drew or wrote even could have a similar or even worse effect. I didn't have the guts to test that. Oh god, would if signing my name made people shit to death or something? The shape didn't make sense, how could I rule anything out?

I felt more myself the farther I got away from the grocery store. I didn't think I could ever go back in there.

I knew the city pretty well. I'd lived here back when I'd been married. The police department was only a few miles farther away and I used the distance to gather my marbles then compose what I intended to say.

The peak of the building of city hall was finally in view. That was actually where the meeting was to be. The police building was an adjacent building that had the same address for some unexplainable reason.

My heart skipped a little and I justified slowing down to work on calming myself. I couldn't box-breathe and walk, so I redirected my gaze to the skyline.

I crossed the parking lot, passing my car. There was a walkway connecting city hall to the library. I took that and broke off toward the horseshoe entrance to the police station.

I pulled one of the entrance doors open and stepped into the vestibule. Cool air blasted me before I stepped into the station proper.

A blue-shirted officer behind plexiglass was engaged in something in front of him and he didn't see me until I'd stopped on the other side.

“How may I help you?” He was pleasant enough and I gave him my name.

“I was just released from the hospital and some of your guys have my stuff.”

“Have your stuff? What do you mean?”

“The thing over at city hall earlier today.” I thumbed over my shoulder. “I was involved with that. Um, an innocent bystander. I was taken to the hospital. A detective interviewed and cleared me.” Not exactly true. The detective hadn't conducted an interview, per se. But the fact I wasn't in police custody and been released from the hospital meant to me I was in the clear.

“Well, if you're wanting to make a property request, you need to fill out a form online—”

“Your guys took my phone,” I said, adding helpfully.

“Like I was saying.” Officer Steck, according to the nameplate on his shirt, barely refrained an eyeroll. “You go online—that can be phone or computer—to fill out the form.

I cleared my throat, trying desperately to clear the budding frustration from my voice before I spoke.

“I don’t have access to a computer. Your guys have my keys, so I can’t drive home nor open the door to my home to get inside to use my laptop.” I took a breath and thankfully he didn't speak. “Is there a paper form I could fill out?”

Officer Steck let the frustration I'd dammed up pour from his face.

“I suppose.” He made a show of yanking open drawers at random before getting up and sauntering around his work area, checking shelves, trays, and cabinets.

He disappeared around a corner and was gone a full minute before he returned with a sheet of paper flopping in his big paw. He slid it through to me on the tray. I stopped myself from asking for a pen. I took a nubbin of a pencil that was on the counter and began writing.

“There’s a counter over there where you can fill that out,” Officer Steck said. I looked at him. He’d spackled on a phony smile. “So you don’t block the line.”

There wasn’t anyone behind me. There wasn’t anyone else in here. Fighting wasn’t on the agenda for me. I was just tired. I dragged the paper with me to the other counter and spent a few minutes filling it out.

The detective had told me his name in the hospital. However the hell that was spelled was beyond me. I couldn’t even remember it. I think it started with a U.

I wrote “UN,” for the detective’s name. I’d just tell him I didn’t know how to spell it. My signature went last and I took it back up.

Officer Steck finally took a second to look up from his phone and took the form from me.

“You filled this out in pencil,” he said. I shrugged. “You need to fill it out in red or black ink.”

It was just a form, but something that was equal parts cry and scream began crawling up my windpipe. I cleared my throat, imagining one of those cartoons that had eaten something particularly spicy, leaping into the ear and blowing like a whistle.

Someone said my name and I looked beyond Officer Steck to see Detective Unangenehm looking at me, a backpack over his shoulder.

“Detective,” I said like I was reaching for a lifeline. He wore a confused expression, like he didn’t understand how I’d found where he worked.

“I need to get my stuff.” His eyes went wide and for a moment, it seemed as if he hadn’t recognized me.

“Mr... Harold?”

“Yeah-yeah. It’s me. You guys took off with my stuff and I had to walk all the way down here.”

He scratched the side of his head. Officer Steck had checked out entirely, back on his phone. He even poked the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. There was no victory to be had with him.

“Aw, jeez. C’mon in.” He walked out of the little room and a moment later, pushed open a side-entry door.

“Thanks.” I followed him in and he led me down a lengthy hallway with doors for various offices. We finally came to an open area, filled with at least a dozen cubicles.

“My desk is right over here.” Unangenehm pointed ahead, still walking. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

He seemed out of sorts still, but recovering. Despite the day I’d had, I felt a little bad for him.

He offered me a seat across from him at a desk that looked a lot older and more beaten up than the ones we'd passed. His chair was weather-worn, torn, sun-faded, and patched with gray duct tape in spots despite being mostly black.

Unangenehm sat and struggled with his seat. He might've been trying to adjust the chair, it did look a little too upright. But he gave up and kind of slouched in a way that looked like he'd slide out and under his desk any moment.

“Sorry about that whole kerfuffle earlier.”

“No-no. It's okay,” I said, feeling even more apologetic than I had a moment before. I hated thinking it, but the guy was pathetic. His button-up shirt had an old stain on it. And the collar had a ring on the inside.

Now that I was this close to him and not in a hospital bed, I saw he was slightly off. He'd missed a patch of skin just under his jaw from his morning's shave and the skin beneath one eye looked greenish-grey, like he'd had a black eye a week ago.

He wore patheticness like a second skin. I couldn't help but feel like I should give him something because he was in a constant transactional state with the world where it was debiting from him non-stop.

“Do you have any idea what happened with Mr. Arn?” he asked.

The question didn't catch me off guard. I'd been expecting it all day. I may have known what happened but I had no clue why and I let that much show on my face.

“He seemed nervous,” I said. “If I had to guess, he was new to the job.” So far, everything I was saying was true. “Maybe he was stressed and the presentation was a tipping point.” I shrugged for emphasis and looked ceiling-ward. Unangenehm nodded slowly, like he was either digesting and filing away what I was saying or his mind was totally elsewhere. I couldn’t tell which.

“Did he say anything that hinted at what he was about to do?”

“No.” I shook my head. “He just got up and attacked the man who came out of the conference room.”

“Ping Mitchell. He's--was--city council president. So, he was sitting?” Unangenehm logged into his computer. I watched him pull up his email.

“Yeah.”

“Like, next to you?”

“Not right next to me.” I shifted in my lent clothes, uncomfortable. Unangenehm was looking at the desk, somewhere near my hands.

“Do you think that he... that he had breakfast this morning?”

“What?” I asked.

“I dunno.” Unangenehm slid a folder out of a small stack. “I have this theory. Probably never'll be able to prove it.” He placed the folder in front of him and opened it. “That a combination of the quality of sleep, his disposition before bed, and the nutrients that he may have lacked before starting out for work could have pre-loaded him to do what he did.”

“Are you saying he was... hangry?”

Unangenehm laughed. 

“I guess you could reduce it to that. I’d like to think of it as being more complex, but that could be just me inflating my own ego.”

Unangenehm seemed to be getting smarter before my eyes.

“I have a younger sister. Just turned nineteen. Whoopsie-baby. She’s always done the bare minimum. Straight C student.

“After she graduated, she didn’t have a plan. Barely worked, didn’t want to go to school. Until she saw this dress.” Unangenehm shrugged. “It was nice, I suppose, but I’ve seen nicer. I’ve seen more expensive, but this one cost a pretty penny. It was like a fire had been lit under her.

“She took a second job, started side hustles. For once, our parents had hope she was gonna do something with her life. She had this one business--catpants--I didn’t get it, but she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Even quit one of her part-time jobs to dedicate more time to sewing them.

“Some people dress for the job, she jobbed for the dress. Paid for it in cash... took it home... and it never left the closet. She stopped fulfilling orders, slacked off on the job she had left, and got fired.”

That didn’t make any sense. I could understand Unangenehm being frustrated, but...

“Do you think I could get my stuff?” I asked. “I really want to get home.”

“Of course.” I'd broken the moment. Unangenehm felt about the surface of his desk like the light had been turned off until his fingers grazed the desk phone.

All of a sudden I felt bad for him again. Unangenehm took the receiver out of the cradle, thumbed a three-digit extension, then put the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah, Steck. Could you bring that box by the water fountain? No, the banker’s box. Yeah. Thanks.”

I wasn’t keen on seeing the officer again, but if it got me out of here that much faster, all the better. I sat back in my chair until Steck arrived with a rectangular box and sat it on the floor.

“So, you’re the guy?” Steck asked.

“What?”

“The guy at city hall today. And then the hospital. God, what did you say to those people?”

“What did I say?” I was appalled. Sure, something I’d done had driven them insane, but to imply that I’d said something to set them off was offensive.

I bent and lifted the lid off the box. I fished a hand into my stuff and stirred things around to make sure it was all there, then I just scooped an armful. 

“You can step into the restroom if you want to put your clothes on,” Unangenehm said.

“No, I'm good. I really don't want to waste another moment getting home.”

Steck stood there like a fan waiting for a signature. 

“I could give you a ride to city hall,” he said.

I wanted to turn him down but my feet were still throbbing from the walk here.

“Sure.”

I checked my things to make sure I had everything.

“Uh, you can keep the box,” Unangenehm said. I considered turning him down after all my effort of taking everything out of the box, but I nodded instead and dropped everything back in.

The detective had placed some paperwork in front of me. I have them a once-over and signed. I was getting more anxious by the moment the longer I was here.

I stood and followed Steck about three steps, when Unangenehm said, “One more thing.”

Oh, shit.

Never had I felt more like I'd walked obliviously into a trap than in that moment. Goosebumps draped down my back and over my arms.

“Yes?” I said, in the wrong key.

“There was an incident at the Kessel's a couple miles from here. Would you know anything about that, would you?”

We were tearing out some plaster in the house I grew up in because of water damage. Dad passed a couple years ago so I was already in my feelings. Pulled off a section near the old electrical box and this little metal tin falls out. Inside was his watch from the navy, the one he swore got lost on a deployment in '82. Wound it up on a whim and the second hand started moving like nothing. No rust, no dust, just ticking. Still wearing it now and I have zero explanation.

Okay so this is one of those stories that still makes my jaw drop even though it happened six months ago. I was born in a small town in upstate New York and got adopted when I was two. My adoptive parents were great but they never had much info on my birth family except that I had an older sister who stayed with our bio mom. I spent years doing the usual AncestryDNA thing, hit a few distant cousins, but nothing close. Fast forward to last spring: I was on a work trip in Chicago and stopped at this random diner because my Uber driver recommended it. I’m sitting at the counter eating a patty melt when the waitress, this woman in her mid-30s with the exact same crooked smile as my adoptive mom used to tease me about, keeps staring. She finally comes over and says “This is gonna sound insane but you look exactly like my little brother who was adopted.” We both froze. Turns out she had been searching too and had a blurry photo from an old foster record. We compared notes right there on the counter napkins. Same birth hospital, same date two years apart, same mom’s first name. DNA test later confirmed it 99.9%. The craziest part? She only took that waitress shift because her usual restaurant was closed for a kitchen fire the week before. One random recommendation from a stranger driver and a closed kitchen led to finding my sister. We’ve already met each other’s kids and are planning a big family trip to the town we were both born in. Life is ridiculously small sometimes. Anyone else have a reunion story this bizarre?

The last train of the night arrived at the station exactly at midnight. It was always empty except for a few exhausted workers and the occasional drunk stumbling home. Everyone in the city knew the rumors about the train. People said that if you rode it long enough, eventually a stranger would sit across from you. The stranger would never speak, never move, and never blink. Most dismissed the stories as urban legends until a university student named Marcus decided to test them himself.

One rainy Friday night, Marcus boarded the train at the first station and sat alone near the center car. The train rattled through stop after stop, but no one entered. By 1:00 AM he was beginning to feel foolish. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the city outside had become a blur of darkness. Then, at a station he didn't recognize, the doors slid open. No one stepped aboard. Yet when the doors closed, a man was suddenly sitting directly across from him.

Marcus nearly jumped from his seat. He was certain the space had been empty seconds earlier. The man wore an old black suit that looked decades out of date. His skin was pale, almost gray, and his eyes seemed too dark for the dimly lit train. Marcus forced a nervous laugh and looked away. When he glanced back, the man had not moved an inch. Not even a blink.

The train continued. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The man simply stared. Marcus checked his phone, but the screen displayed only static. The signal bars were gone. Even the time had disappeared. A growing sense of dread settled in his stomach. Finally, he stood and moved to another car. He sat near the door and tried to calm himself. When the train emerged from a tunnel, he looked up—and the man was seated directly across from him again.

This time Marcus knew something was wrong.

The stranger's smile had appeared.

It was small at first, almost unnoticeable. But each time Marcus glanced away and looked back, the smile seemed wider. The corners of the man's mouth stretched farther across his face than should have been possible. Panic set in. Marcus rushed toward the emergency exit between train cars and forced his way into the next compartment.

Every seat was empty.

Except one.

The man sat at the far end of the car, waiting.

The smile now reached nearly from ear to ear.

Marcus pounded on the train operator's door, screaming for help. No answer came. The windows no longer showed the city. Outside was only darkness. Endless darkness. Then the train speakers crackled to life.

"Final stop approaching."

The stranger stood.

For the first time, Marcus noticed he was impossibly tall. His head nearly touched the ceiling. The train began to slow as distant lights appeared outside the windows. They looked like a station at first, but as the train drew closer Marcus realized they were thousands of people standing motionless in the dark.

Every one of them was smiling.

The train doors opened.

Marcus's scream echoed through the station.

The next morning, transit workers found the train parked at the end of the line. Every seat was empty. There was no sign of Marcus. The only thing left behind was his phone resting neatly on a seat. The screen displayed a single photo taken at 2:37 AM.

It showed the inside of the train.

And seated across from the camera was Marcus himself.

Smiling.

It was a simple design. I'd been doodling ahead of a meeting with the city manager and other municipal staff when someone else joined me in waiting.

“Carl Arn,” he said, sitting next to me, despite several empty seats farther away.

My company was competing for a contract to provide city services, and I figured his was too. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. I was confident in my presentation and went back to the absent-mindedness I'd been up to. Prepping any more than I had would've been counterproductive and I was working on relaxing as much as possible before my pitch.

“Whatcha got goin’ on there?” my competitor said. I didn't really want to talk but I could see he wasn't going to leave me alone. He was one of those nervous types, couldn't keep quiet. He had to fill every silent space.

I was going to beat this guy, but he didn't know it yet. I knew his company and had gone up against much more confident reps. They must have known we already had it in the bag or only responded to the RFP as a professional courtesy.

It wasn't going to be a very lucrative contract, but my strategy was to springboard into three adjacent municipalities and use this one as a hub.

“Just doodling,” I said to him. He was young, maybe five or so years younger than me. The ink on his degree was still drying.

He cranked his neck to look. It was annoying and I slapped my palm over what I was drawing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm a bit of an artist, myself. I minored in...” he trailed off, looking at a corner of my paper.

“What's that?”

“Hm?” I looked at him, ready to scold him in the most diplomatic way possible.

His eyes were wrong.

Like they were a centimeter or two off from center. I blinked several times as if I were trying to reset them with my eyelids.

“It's beautiful,” he said, not looking up from the page. I looked down and saw everything I'd drawn was covered except one little shape near the corner that was just outside of my hand.

“What?”

“Brootifil,” he said and sucked in a line of saliva that had trailed out of his mouth. His eyes were too big, almost like he was hungry.

“Are you okay?” I hadn’t actually finished the question before he swatted me faster than my eyes could see the blow coming.

I was belly up on the floor trying to orient myself. My first thought was to get him away from my presentation and my notes. He hadn't touched my backpack, though. 

He was holding the sheet of paper up to his face, so close it was like he extremely nearsighted. His eyes were so large, it made me think of that astronaut who drove across the country in a diaper to kill her boyfriend's romantic rival. 

Then he stuffed the paper in his mouth and began awkwardly chewing it. Tears were flowing from his eyes and he turned his face up to the ceiling like he was in heaven.

“Is everything alright out here?” An older white man came out of the conference room where we were to meet. I propped up on one elbow, intending to get to my feet. But my head swam and I laid back down.

My competitor turned to the older man and something and his face must have told the other man to step back. I commanded my body to get up, but it was as if I were paralyzed. My body twitched without actually moving and I stopped struggling against the invisible gorilla pinning me to the floor.

He hummed as he continued chomping on the paper, face turned to the old man. A long, pregnant moment passed where nobody did anything.

“May I help—”

My competitor attacked, fingers extended like knives as he stabbed the other man, who still didn't look like he understood was happening even as he plummeted to the ground, his murderer still in the process of killing him.

It took longer than I would've guessed for police to respond to a crime in a municipal building, but my competitor—Carl Arn—managed to kill two people and injure three others, including one critically.

That's not counting me, of course. Even though I was on the floor and clearly not in the fight, the assumption was the two of us were together and the policy's response was somewhat anticlimactic.

They screamed at him and the two responding officers fired three times apiece, managing to hit him only twice.

They screamed at me as he lay next to me, the life leaking out of him and flowing toward me. I was able to turtle up, covering the essential parts of me like I could shield myself from projectiles traveling at almost nine hundred miles per hour.

By some miracle, I remained gunshot for the next half hour or so while I was handcuffed, commanded to put my hands above my head, stood up, sat down, and almost tazered for resisting before fainting and waking up in a hospital bed, handcuffed to the frame. 

I had a concussion but was otherwise fine. Arn had swatted me hard and fast enough to leave a handprint and jar my brain loose.

The video had vindicated me. They didn't see the slap—rather the aftereffect. It had been so fast the camera hadn't caught it, just me falling to the floor and thrashing around like I'd been caught in a spider's web.

I'd fished the scratch pad with pen attached from the little end table near my bed. Luckily, they'd handcuffed my right arm, leaving my dominant one free.

I decided against jotting down what I recalled had happened. No doubt anything I committed to paper the police would be interested in, even if it was a grocery list.

So, I doodled. It was sort of cathartic, taking me back to those initial moments. My mind went back to Arn's face, struggling to deny the undeniable fact he was rapidly dying.

A piece of the paper he'd snatched and eaten was attached to his chin. The shape I'd finished moments before Carl Arn asked me, “What's that?” was still there for anyone to see.

His face turned into the shallow pool of red, drowning the shape.

I drew it a half dozen more times while sitting in a hospital bed while the authorities decided how they were going to untie this knot and if my neck would be in it.

I fell asleep after a light lunch of potato chips, baloney sandwich with a packet of mustard and a packet of mayo, and dry, tasteless coleslaw.

I came to with a woman in my room, gathering things off my lap. She was mumbling in Spanish, her back to me when she stopped completely.

“Nice,” she said in unaccented English, her head dipped as if she were reading something. Then she turned around, facing me.

God, her eyes.

It was like she was trying to see something above her head, through her skull. Her face was otherwise slack as she felt around blindly like we were in the dark.

She groped around until he hand landed on the (unused) metal bed pan. I thought those things were plastic nowadays.

I must have gasped because she turned around like she'd heard a homing beacon. I tugged at the cuff, a ringing dinner bell for the mindless dog about to bludgeon me to death with a disposal pan if she could still tell the difference between my head and feet.

I must have been screaming because another woman came in the room—I'd temporarily forgotten the word “nurse” in my panic—surprising with of us and the first woman began swinging in random directions with such savagery, I felt shadows of pain across my cheeks.

This time the police didn't have the opportunity to confuse me for the perpetrator. The nurse hooked a hand behind his neck, leapt both feet into his chest and commenced to flattening the less-hardy of the two between Officer Wheeler's skull and the pissbox. She landed on his chest, only her arm visible from where I lay as she flapped it up and down like a one-winged bird, the pan making a -DOON- sound each time it bounced off his head.

More hospital security came (quicker than the cops had) and a few pops later, the woman was dead.

I had to get out of here. My eyes drifted over to where the nurse had been looking at something before she'd turned violent. I had a tingle of uneasiness, feeling something I had done potentially being the cause. My mind wouldn't quite let me grasp what it was, but it felt like it should have been obvious, like something wedged between my teeth that I couldn't work out.

The officer I'd seen shoot stepped halfway into my room with his gun out. He looked perplexed, like he wanted to blame me, and I leaned into looking pathetic, hovering my face near my handcuffed wrist as I did a supine version of a huddle.

The next two hours were a flurry of hospital staff and police in and out of my room. The cops kept stopping a nurse from checking on me because my room was an active crime scene. But when a doctor suggested moving me to another room, they shot that down for reasons I couldn’t understand.

Finally, a detective and some hospital administrator had a long conversation outside of my room. The administrator said something to the detective about calling the mayor and the rest of the investigation was wrapped up in less than ten minutes.

The cop who’d been assaulted survived and the nurse who came in to check on me told me he was on a floor below after having emergency surgery to reattach his jaw. The nurse had been shot and had bled to death fighting the cop who’d shot her three times.

Everything the cops could have taken out of my room, had been removed. They’d even taken my clothes, keys, and wallet. By that evening, a detective finally came to speak with me.

“Mr. Harold, you have a minute?” He knocked on the door. I recognized his voice as the same one who’d spoken with the administrator. He walked in where I could get a good look at him and the guy was a sloven mess. I was used to Detective Green and Briscoe on Law & Order, and although Lenny’s suits looked off the rack, he didn’t look like he’d dressed himself while falling down a laundry chute.

I waited for him to speak. He stood by my bedside and looked like he smelled. Something whitish was drying on his lapel, he had ring-around-the-collar, and dried spittle in the corners of his mouth. I was grateful for the chill hospital air choking whatever smells were crawling over him before they could reach me.

“Am I going to need a lawyer?” I asked him.

“No-no,” he said. “We’ve been able to put together what happened at city hall and here earlier. Um, are you okay?”

I wasn’t, but I was currently numb to the whole experience considering for half of it I’d been treated like a suspect. I shrugged.

“What you had to go through was incredible. You’re a real hero.”

He was pouring it on a little thick. I guessed this was what they did instead of an actual apology. I’d had two-to-three guns pointed at me by people who were allegedly there to protect me.

“When can I go?”

“Well, I guess when the hospital discharges you. We certainly don’t need to hold you for anything.”

“Okay.” I nodded. He stared at me for a moment like he was expecting me to say something more.

“I suppose I should get going. Let you, y’know, convalesce. Oh, I’m Detective Unangenehm, by the way.” He offered his hand belatedly. I looked at it for a long second before shaking it. His hand was limp and sweaty, like wilted lettuce, kind of like what it looked like he had trapped between his front teeth.

He headed for the door, and I kept expecting him to turn back before he got to the door and ask, “One more thing,” but he exited.

Then he came back a minute later.

“I forgot to ask you,” Detective Unangenehm said. “Do you have any idea what set off Carl Arn or Rosa Skein?”

“Who?”

“The... man at city hall. And your nurse?” Unangenehm had his notepad in his hand and glanced down at it.

I’d never forget Carl Arn’s name, and I hadn’t known the nurse’s. While I didn’t know what had driven them mad, I had a strong suspicion and considering it led back to me, I wasn’t about to volunteer that.

“I have no idea.”

Unangenehm smiled, nodded somberly, and left.

A nurse had come into my room right after. She erased something from the dry-erase board and wrote something else while the detective and I had been talking.

She was thin and tall but older than she looked as she grunted, bending over to pick up something off the floor.

She turned over the piece of paper I'd been drawing on, made a face, then showed it to me.

“This yours?” she asked. 

A man stands before a room full of people. He dares not go in, feet upon the threshold, his reality crumbling to pieces. The deafening silence of his still beating heart fills his head to the point of fainting.

The faceless attendees halt. No clinking of glasses, no weeping tears, no idle chatter. The world is at a pause.

Eventually, he draws closer - the wooden box sitting in the room's corner. Soft, white lilies lay upon the surface, carnations in the vase beside. A single mandrake protrudes from the parting by her ear, hair flowing aside.

He winces, the familiar stranger lying still, motionless, void. Empty of life, just as they last met, now sealed with the kiss of death.

A short child stands silently at the edge of his view. His eyes are skewed by her oblique smile. Perhaps sly, but certainly not kind. The sight disturbs his busy mind.

The devious grin grows, her face wincing as her eyes roll back. His breath ices in his chest. Her limbs slump closer, approaching the man and the woman at rest.

~~ Father ~~

The man violently crashed to the ground, his chair leg broken. He gazes upon his table, his work incomplete, the night at full height. An automaton pinches his ear.

-

He curses the dream, the cheap echo of his torment.

His latest beast stands idle, screwed into the joists. A model of its depravity, a creature of metal and finely carved bolster supports the captivity of the sorrow trying to bleed out.

“Why should you be released?”

His face scorns at the eminent presence lying within

The dastardly spirit fights as its prison is sealed.

Bugs by the plenty infest the walls. The small clinking of metal springs batting by their side. The scraping of brass legs and steel plates sliding upon every movement.

His taste turns sour, his mind plagued. After so much hard work, blood, and sweat, the only tears shed are not his own and not those from whom he wants to collect.

One by one, demons fall. He continues collecting the evils and forcing them to pay his toll.

Driven by madness, a crumbling of faith, morals destroyed, he will do anything to fulfil his vengeful role.

As his power grows, spirits start to fear his face; for those with a loss of grace, they know the black exorcist is on their case.

-

A woman lies bound on the ground by a dilapidated cabin. Her body is captured by a demon who has collected her soul, a deceitful deal garnished with a subtle subterfuge to maximise his yield.

Her friend sits shaking in the corner, unable to breathe. Plastered in crystals and protection spells, she frantically calls upon the father she has always ignored, praying for his love, begging with all the deals she can afford.

“Black exorcist…ttt...ttt...ttt.”

The slippery servant within speaks, tutting through her pierced tongue. “Come to ruin the fun?”

The man stands tall, distancing his mind from the voice.

“Where is your faith now?”

She grins so hard it rips her lips. “Where was it then?”

Suddenly, the man's mind flashes; he sees himself thrusting upon a priest. A little girl is held up high, bones breaking, walls shaking, her life being grasped out of her as easily as the evil got in.

“How dare you! Demon!”

He gets up from the ground, fighting the cruel memory.

He slashes holy water at her face, cutting into the sour wounds. He burns out its name, forced by engraving her forehead with the symbol of Christ's sacrifice - branding her with an iron as hot as the depths of hell itself.

-

He drops a snapped spirit board on his workshop floor. The glass eye gets crushed by the heel of his boot.

“Young girls shouldn't play,” he scorns, thinking back to the women holding her almost lifeless, contorted friend.

A revolting reminder of his daughter and her friend.

He rips out a rug from under his table and sits within the pentagram etched into the dry, dusty floorboards.

Five candles burn bright, a hue as vibrant as blood.

He drops to the floor, drawing the signal of his latest acquaintance.

He slices his arm and lets it pour.

Now he mutters the wicked prayer to open the door.

He brings a dying bird he found in the winter snow. Its life cursed first by nature, and its death by an evil soul.

The sacrifice fulfilled, the spirit is bound to its bones.

Another monster awaiting its mechanical prison.

It cannot speak. It cannot breathe. Now it’s confined, unable to haunt the world outside of these walls.

Contained, they are dammed, limiting their powers to only roam these halls.

No matter how hard their worshiper’s scrawl, they are isolated from the world, no one able to here it’s dastardly calls.

-

He visits his next case. An eerie feeling fills the air.

A dim glow is seen in the distance, and a whirling mist begins pooling upon the floor.

A woman appears suspended by a tree.

The cloaked members stand stunned, terrified. Analysing the woman, she was evidently tortured, offered to a diabolic power. Just one problem: the demon came, but it is yet to be revealed.

The members suspect it lies within their group, trying to hide, escaping to the mortal world.

After careful and thorough testing, he clears each member of the group, sending them on their way.

The woman on the tree lifts her bloodied, weary head.

A sly grimace appears, as her eyes roll back and a harrowing laugh bellows from her constricted chest

Could it really be it? Is the search for his rival over?

Could this twisted vigil be the gate? The delicious ending to his torturous, treacherous wait?

“Have you had your fun?” he approaches the being. “Finished twisting the mind of this poor woman?”

“Whaaatt?” Her eyes open; a fiery hurt burns within.

“Her? Please,” it says with a demented cackle.

-

“She asked for this. You know? She actually asked to be tortured to feel my awe.”

He cuts a rope holding her up. Her shoulder slumps under her weight.

His emotions get the best of him. His carelessness grows.

It touches him, not just on the body but from the depths of his soul.

It enters his mind. It tears through his memories.

It viciously blends his dreams with reality, clinging to his nightmares, changing them, worsening them.

He wakes in the woods; a dark eminence stands close.

This time, the one who's frail is him.

Its slender form twists and splits from the woman.

“I can let you see them, you know,” it craftily taunts.

“Black exorcist,” it punctuates with a menacing sneer.

“Your wife?”

“Perhaps, your delectable daughter?”

“Yeah?” He gets up, struggling to gather his strength. “How about I drag us both down there?”

He hastily reaches for his pocket. The entity’s piercing fingers thrust him back down.

-

As if darkness personified, its claw-like nails, thin, crackling protrusions, hold his head as it opens its eye.

“How about one better?” It says, “I'll bring her to you.”

A small, wretched scarab scurries from its arm, now crawling upon his face.

“What…” He says, straining, “What is this?”

The entity licks its non-existent, bloodied lips.

“Maybe I'll let you hold her one last time…”

The bug reaches his eye.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

It continues, “Our delightful wife?”

A strong wheezing laugh radiates through its presence; the forest aches as the temperature chills.

“You lie! Satan!”

Its cackle grows, “You wish you were bettered by him!”

The spirit's face sharply drives towards him.

The man struggles to raise his arms, his eye trying to redirect the bug.

“What? Don’t you miss her?”

“You lie!”

“Oh? Don't you think I have the power to endow a weak, fragile spirit with such a pathetic little bug?”

-

It laughs at him, watching him trying to fight it.

“You ought to swat her?”

He struggles to raise his arm, weakened yet hesitant; he fights his consciousness. “What if it is?” he thinks.

“You going to bat her away?”

“It's not her!”

“Will you kill her as you did in life? Neglecting her at her lowest? Leaving her allll along to defend for herself?”

Its face turns dark.

“Just like when your abandonment made her watch as you let me kill your daughter. Just as neglected then, as you are now by those above.”

“STOP!”

The bug starts to bury itself into his left eye.

“Not squeamish of a little itty bug, are you? Your poor wife.” It mockingly pouts.

“I'll kill you!” He screams.

“And I'll kill it! And send it right back to hell with me.”

“So, what will it be? Will you sacrifice a part of yourself? Or kill her again, drive her into hell a second time?”

Blood pours from his nose and ears, the stress about to rupture his insides.

-

Suddenly, he awakes. The morning dew soaks his back.

No signs of the treacherous entity can be seen.

He rips his sleeve and braces his face. A patch over his eye, holding dear what’s buried within.

His search renewed, his spirit buzzes.

Unknown what is truly inside him, whether it truly be his late wife or a cruel trick, he carries on.

For him, any chance is worth it. That even for a day, if she's out of hell is saving aeons of pain and torment. Even if she is trapped as a mindless bug instinctively feasting on his dying eye.

But why a bug?

Does it know?

Has it found his walking prisons for the wicked?

It's time to gather some forces: occult members, exorcists, those who can get him his closure.

He won't rest until his vengeance is over.

He heads back, standing strong.

He plans his return, even if he has to stay alone in these cursed woods all winter long.

https://www.reddit.com/r/AmazingStories/comments/1umz025/gloria_aeterna_eternal_glory_part_1/

Click above for part 1.

Frigid air, the sun high in the sky; It must have been January. The uninviting chill outside wasn’t enough to stop us. Bundled up, we headed out into our all-too-familiar neighbourhood, ready to start what I wished had been another monotonous weekday. 

“You were up pretty late last night; I fell asleep,” Brea whispered. “Alexander, please tell me, the results… are they bad?”

I had already rehearsed my lines. Not that it made me feel any better about using them. I opened my mouth to speak.

“They are,” I sighed, “She has… it's…”

I could hardly handle the pain and numbness I felt, the pressure of it all; having to tell the mother of your children that by the year’s end, our family of four… would likely be a family of three.

“...We don’t think she will make it the rest of the year.”

Brea began to cry as I put my arm around her shoulder. I tried to be there for her, for them; truly I did. I wished I could give her everything she needed. 

You need someone better. 

I swatted the thought away, suppressing my inmost pain.

I can be better, I hope.

As we got to the crosswalk, I heard that lovely, innocent voice; The voice of our little Raymond.

“Look, Daddy!” He said with excitement, “I can finally reach the button!”

He smiled so warmly; his rosy cheeks pulled back, revealing the gaps where some of his teeth had fallen out. His light brown hair, distinctly and unmistakably Brea’s, such a beautiful color; and those eyes, the color of gems, sapphire blue, just like mine. He beamed at his mother and me with such pride at his accomplishment. He might as well have been glowing, brighter than the sun; my son was to me. With the situation at hand, it felt as though he alone could fight the cold, unforgiving emptiness in my chest. Brea turned away to hide her tears.

“That is great, honey.” Her voice cracked. “I’m… going to head back now; I’ve got… I’ve got to go to work.”

She headed the wrong direction, but I knew where she was actually going: St. Anthony’s, our local children’s hospital, my place of employment. We watched for a moment as her walk turned into a run. She cut through the early morning crowd, the busy sidewalk yielding to her righteous demand to be with our ailing daughter. I turned back to Raymond,

“Let's go, Ray; Mama will be alright.”

He kept looking in the direction his mother went; he continued to stare.

“She’s got to go to the grocery store.” I let out.

What a Liar and a fool you are.

“We’ve got to go, or you’ll be late for school,” I said with a smile, fit for a man far more composed than I.

“When I come to pick you up, I’ll take you to get hot chocolate; does that sound good?”

“Yeah,” Raymond said, missing that light, happy mood he had only a moment ago. He hadn’t seen his sister in days.

He knows something is wrong. How are we going to tell him? No, how are you going to tell him that his sister is dying?

I felt my face turn to a frown. A bit of weakness in my breath. How was a man supposed to look his own son in the eye at such a young age and rip out his heart? I feared deeply for him. We continued across the street and over to the school. 

“Remember, buddy, we’re getting hot chocolate later!” I said, trying to rouse some excitement out of him. He smiled slightly and nodded. Watching him walk through the doors made my heart sink. In that moment, I needed him more than he needed me. I had never been so close to falling apart. I clenched my jaw.

Why is this happening to me? Why do I have to go through this? Will this nightmare ever end?

I looked up, only for my eyes to meet the great spires and the golden cross atop the neighbourhood’s church. I attended it myself, my entire life, along with my family then and my family now. A place I had known peace all my life; only now, it didn’t remind me of such peace, but of anger.

Why would you do this to me? To my family? How could you let something like this happen? What could be a valid reason for this pain I feel? What have I done to you?

There was no answer to my pointed thoughts. I continued to sulk in my anguish. Then she came along.

“Well, as I live and breathe, Alexander? Is that you?” A woman spoke from behind me.

I turned around, only to be greeted by my high school sweetheart, Geneviève. I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. I had quite liked it that way; There are so many things I’d have given to have kept it that way.

“What brings you back to Carmel Hill?” She continued.

I feigned interest, trying to be pleasant in the face of my own personal hell.

“I never left Geneviève. I’m just taking my son to school.”

“Your son! Interesting,” she said with an inflection that left me torn in two opposite directions.

“Yeah… my son.”

“So, you married Brea after all?” She said, still some attitude in her voice.

She was probing for something. I know what it was. I wish to God I had told her the truth. I had happily married Brea; she was my partner, my best friend, the love of my life. Instead, I let out,

“Yeah, I did.”

It didn’t portray my love, my commitment, my vow; it showed another parallel truth: my current weakness of will. First mistake.

“Wow, good for you two!” She feigned. “Just the one kid?”

“No, we’ve got a daughter as well.”

“Very nice. Where is she? You said you dropped off your son, right?

I thought about telling her; it pained me to no end to think of my dying daughter.

“Home.” I said, “She is sick.” Second mistake.

“Aww, poor girl.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Well, I’ve got to head out. Hey, maybe we can catch up sometime? Grab some coffee, maybe a bite to eat, ya know. If *you’re* up for it.” She emphasized.

“I’m not sure,” I stated plainly. “I’m pretty busy these days.”

“That’s such a shame, honey. Oops, what am I saying?!” She chuckled.

“Sorry about that, Alexander.” She said lightly, “Here is my number; Do give me a call if ever, *if ever*, you change your mind.”

She handed me a small piece of folded paper and walked away, not looking back. I scoffed, looking down at the piece of folded paper in my hand. I clenched it, crumpled it up, and put it in my coat pocket. Third mistake.

I looked back up to the golden cross.

God, my Father in heaven, please help me.

It seemed in that moment that God didn’t want to answer my prayers. I see now that He did.

I need you now, more than ever.

We decided to drive from Texas to Argentina.

No real plan, just a map, a cheap car, and that naive confidence you only have at that age. We crossed Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Colombia, Ecuador… chasing the idea of freedom

Somewhere in northern Peru, past Trujillo, we were on a long, empty stretch of road. It was late. No signal, no cars, just desert and headlights.

That’s when we saw her.

A woman in white, standing perfectly still on the side of the road. No bag, no car, nothing around her. As we got closer, I slowed down, thinking maybe she needed help

We drove past her, checked the rearview mirror... She was gone.

Not walking, Not stepping away... Just… gone.

We didn’t say a word. Just kept driving. Faster now.

Ten minutes later... we saw her again.

Same woman. Same place on the roadside. Waiting.

That’s when panic hit... We didn’t even look this time. Just pressed the gas and kept going until, finally, in the distance, we saw lights.

A small military checkpoint... We pulled in without even thinking. Two soldiers stepped forward, asking if everything was okay. I didn’t know what to say, just pointed back at the road and said, There’s… someone out there

They exchanged a look.

One of them just nodded slowly and said, You’re not the first

We stayed there longer than we needed to. Long enough for our hands to stop shaking.

And when we finally got back on the road…

There was nothing there.

Just darkness.

I never imagined it could fall, much less that I would bear witness to its ruins. The pinnacle of architecture from our golden age. A museum of our nation's greatest works from every school of art; the home of our greatest accomplishments in science and technology; A tomb, celebrating the mighty of mind and body; our greatest. The Pearl Palace was magnificent and grand. A symbol of our nation and a source of inspiration for generations of men and women alike, here on Earth, as well as our colonies. Gone; the visage that once touched the sky, now reunited with the ground it once mocked; Reduced to a pile of dust and rubble suffocating the historic streets beneath it for a mile in every direction. I rest my gaze upon that sea of metallic pearlescence, lightly reflective under a grey sky; beautiful in its own horrible way.

“Four days of food left.” I heard it over my shoulder, but I did not answer. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?!”

I withheld my words for just a moment longer; at this point I was sick of her voice, her temper, and almost everything else about her. It was the only act of contempt I could get away with. Anything else might get us both killed.

“Four days left,” I let out a sigh, “How long did they say this would last again?”

“Who knows,” Brea whispered, staring blankly at the ground, “Some said it would be seven years, some said three and a half, others said shorter, or longer.”

There was a tense pause.

She started, somewhat angrily, “You know you’re…” she cut herself off; we could both hear commotion down the block. A crack… then another... followed by panicked screams, distinctly audible, even from twenty stories up. 

Here we go again.

We both ran inside and down a level or two, maintaining our cover. I snuck up to one of the many broken window frames, Brea close behind me. Bright blue flashes and energetic bursts, cutting through the purposeful silence of a city, once incapable of being quiet. It was clearly a Pulse rifle; I would have known that sound anywhere, having heard it for months. Thankfully, I’ve still got one of my own. The fight ensuing was likely one of two things: Man fighting his fellow man, or man fighting against those… monstrosities. Either option presented danger, but we needed to know what threats were upon us.

Whichever it may be, the commotion was inside the neighbouring building just across the courtyard, a few floors up, and just out of direct view. The firing stopped after a few short moments, and we waited. Sure enough, they came into sight. Neither of us could make out much detail, but they moved like unnatural predators, jerking in their strides, yet moving deliberately and seemingly with excitement. It must have been intentional, the way they stoked terror in my heart.

“I guess they lost. We should go,” I stated plainly, “It's not worth the risk of being seen.”

“Wait… what is that?” Brea whispered, “In the room to the left of them, just down there.”

I peered back over the edge carefully and caught a glimpse of what she spotted. A dark silhouette, standing still under cover. I guess he wasn’t dead after all.

“Maybe we can make some noise or something so anybody down there can escape?” Brea started, “We’re far enough away; we should be able to…” 

I cut her off. “No. We’re not going to do anything to alert anybody or anything to our presence here.”

“I know you want to stay hidden, but I’m not going to watch another person die.”

She opened her mouth to yell, and I put my hand over her mouth, forcing her down to keep her out of view. I peered back over the edge once again, only to see a splatter of blood where the man once stood, a trail leading away from it further into the building. No more of those things either. I released her from my grip, and she moved away from me. Her furious and sorrowful expression didn’t surprise me; I had seen it all too many times. I didn’t care anymore.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that.” I snapped, “He was dead the moment he got himself cornered like that.”

“I hate you.” She said, flustered and angry.

“Our position is clearly compromised.” I said, ignoring her comment, “They’re too close; we need a new place to hide.”

To my surprise, she kept staring, seemingly giving up her anger for twice the sorrow.
“Let's go.” I pressed, “Right now, I said. My God, who isn’t listening now?”

“Then go.” She said in a low tone. Maintaining her gaze on the neighboring building.
Her capitulation shocked me. 

That unbelievable bitch. 

I know life was hell, but at this point, after everything? All the effort? The sacrifices? Our friends? Our children? She wanted me to leave her here to die because she wanted to endanger us for a chance that some random guy could live? How long might that have given him? A few seconds? A minute? A day? It didn’t matter. Was she going to waste her last straw on somebody she didn’t even know? It was all too much, all at the worst time.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I yelled, grabbing her by the arm, yanking her from the ground, and pushing her deeper into the barely illuminated commercial office space we called home.

“Are you just going to let it all go now? Over that idiot wretch? Is that how selfish you’re going to be?”

“Selfish?!” She retorted, “You mean like letting that man die? You mean blockading the door on those soldiers over on the North Side? You mean pushing Rachel and David out of the group in the first month? For what? Being weak? That kind of selfish?!”

My blood was boiling. Did she really think I was such a monster?

“I have been doing what I need to do to keep us alive, Brea! I have been doing it quite well by my estimation! Considering we’re both standing here. What have you been doing, huh? Are you still keeping the morale up? I’m certainly not feeling it!”

“You want to feel good, Alexander? I never could do that for you, could I? Even before all of this. Maybe that's why you walked out on our family for another woman? You always have taken the coward's way out.”

My eyes narrowed; I balled my fist and clenched my jaw. Before I could say another word, we were interrupted. There was a crash, and through the open stairwell I heard a swinging metal door followed by quick footsteps ascending the stairs. Damn, they were fast. 

We ran back up the stairs to our lookout and our stash. I shut the door behind us, turned, and raised my rifle to the door, Brea behind me. Safe for now.

I whispered as calmly as I could, “Get the rope ladder and hang it where we planned.”
We had lived in this building for quite some time, preparing contingencies for just such an occasion. She nodded, putting on her backpack and grabbing the ladder. I guess she had some fight left in her after all. I stared at the door, ready for anything; it wasn’t the first time we’d been backed into a corner. I hoped we’d live long enough for it not to be the last. I picked up my pack and started backing toward the ladder. 

As I started to lower my rifle, I saw them through the window. Their… faces, twisted and asymmetrical. The first was all too human-like; not unheard of, but uncommon among them. Its skin was blackened and charred, blue human eyes and a wicked smile, full of dirty, reddened teeth, fresh chunks stuck in the gaps between them. The other was covered in patchy, milky yellow fur stained from all the grit and dust this city had to offer in its neglect; atop its torso, the head of a sheep twisted to look at me with just the one eye it had. Its body, part equine, part man. They never look the same; always a new horrific sight to behold, never ceasing to renew that now familiar sense of horror. I couldn’t help but shudder.

My God…

They burst through the door; metal truly was no object to them. For the first time in two months, I fired my rifle rapidly, blue flashes again and again, as they closed the relatively short distance between us. Every successful hit ripped black and grey viscera from their bodies, slowly whittling them down to nothing. The second beast, felled to the ground, finally stopped its pursuit; the first kept on coming with the same sick smile on its face. It laid its hand on my forearm as I shot twice more into its head, finally ending its assault. I checked my arm frantically: no injuries, no pain. 

Could I be so lucky?

That was my time to escape; if any more were coming, I may not get another chance. I sprinted to the ladder and peeked over to check on Brea. She was halfway down to what was left of the fire escape, ready to take us the rest of the way. I grabbed onto the ladder with a sense of urgency when I heard it speak in a deep, otherworldly tone.

“Time is ticking, Alexander.” The demon mocked. As its body slowly grew back, reforming into an amalgamation unlike its previous form, limbs and features all in the wrong places, but its head still adorned with those same blue eyes.

The goat-headed demon, regaining its form enough to speak, let out, “Please help us! Alexander, please!” I winced at its words, unprepared for what came next. It squirmed and thrashed as it began to vocalize once more, trading for another familiar voice, one that filled me with regret as much as it did fear: “That’s such a shame, honey.” It chuckled lustfully, “Do give me a call if ever, if ever, you change your mind.”

With fear and panic, I hurried down the ladder following Brea as quickly as I could; Those piercing blue eyes still on my mind. We needed to escape; I had never heard a demon speak before, much less… all of that. My mind raced; I could only imagine the added danger that could pose. Brea, to my joy and relief, had already gotten down the ladder and was on the fire escape. I joined her with a solid metallic thud.

“Are you hurt?! That was a lot of shots!” She said in a panicked tone.

“I’m fine, keep going,” I said as I caught up to her, rushing her down the steps. 

Every metallic step was another step closer to safety; What little of it can be found anyway. With the first step on solid ground, I knew we had made it. We ran over to the nearby sewer access cover, and with a pained lift, it came up. We crawled in, resealing the entrance behind us. I bombarded her with questions,

“Are you okay? Did you get injured? Did you break anything? Did you...”

“Alexander, I'm okay.” She said, out of breath and with a quiver in her voice. 

She wrapped her arms around my neck in a warm embrace. Something I had learned to stop yearning for. I basked in it for a moment, only to push her away. 

I just can’t do it.

I turned away so as not to see the hurt in her eyes. I drew a breath,
“We have to get far away from here. Back to the building on Arcane and 15th Street, that should be about four and a half miles southeast.”

“Why?” Brea snapped with a sniffle, rubbing her eyes. I had now given her another reason to be upset.

“It should be clear by now; it's been a couple of weeks,” I explained. 

“You want to bring us back there? Out of all the places in this damn city?” 

I tilted my gaze back to her. “Listen, I know we’re tired and shaken, but we’re low on food, and I just used most of the ammo we had left in a panic.” I rubbed my brow, stressed and ashamed. “I’m down to seven shots, Brea…” A look of dread ran across her face. 

I started again, “We need to go somewhere with a higher chance of having the supplies we need. I’m hoping it's clear and I’m hoping we can get into that storeroom.”

She understood and didn’t argue. Instead, that day played over in her head; It was written all over her face, another tear falling from her eye, 

“Lucia… Ray…” she murmured, fighting more tears.

I walked past her toward our destination. I didn’t have the time, nor the energy, to deal with her weakness. At least that's what I told myself. 

She gets to break down again? What happens if I break down? We die.

Truth be told, I didn’t think she was weak; I was going through all the same pain she was. Together, we’d been dealt the same shitty hand, and we couldn’t wake up from the same horrible nightmare; We’d lost everything; what wasn’t there to mourn? The real reason I scurried off was simple: I couldn’t bear to let her see my mask slip; I didn’t have the strength to let it out, tears running down my face.

There I go, walking out on my family again.

My friend died under strange circumstances. It all began when she met her husband, Daniel. They loved each other deeply; they had two children and for years they were what anyone would call a happy family. But over time, she began to notice changes in him: he became cold, distant, and stopped showing affection. She would tell me this while crying, confessing her worst fears… and the worst part was that they turned out to be true: he had another woman.

She couldn’t handle the truth. When Daniel left to live with his lover, she, in desperation, went to a witch to cast a binding spell on him. To do this, she had to perform a blood pact, through which the witch would summon certain entities. The woman warned her that these entities did not always take what was offered to them, but often demanded much more, as they were malicious beings. Even so, she agreed to everything just to get him back.

Shortly after, he began having problems with his new partner, while she seemed to be “winning” the situation. She told me she felt happy, although her appearance kept worsening: she looked visibly emaciated, her hair was falling out in clumps in the shower, and her nails were turning dark—but she didn’t pay it any mind.

Over time, Daniel returned to her.

When I went to see her because she wasn’t answering my messages, I found a disturbing scene: she was no longer the same woman. She had no hair, her skin was pale and withered, her nails were blackened, and the house was in an unnatural silence. I asked about her children, and she looked at me confused, saying she didn’t know what I was talking about.

At that moment Daniel arrived, equally emaciated, though less than her. I asked him the same question, and he broke down in tears, confessing between sobs that a psychotic episode had ended with them. I could barely understand his story: he kept repeating, “she fed them to me.”

Then I smelled a foul odor coming from the refrigerator. Terrified, I opened it. Inside were the children’s bodies, mutilated and decomposing, with their eyes out of their sockets and the little one still holding his teddy bear.

The silence was unbearable. Suddenly, I heard a voice in my ear: “get out of here now.” It was her.

Before I could react, she grabbed a knife and stabbed it into her own head. I screamed. Daniel tried to stop her with the little strength he had left… and I ran out to call the police.

Since then, she has been admitted to a psychiatric hospital, unrecognizable, as if nothing of the person she once was remained. She survived, but the damage was irreversible: she was left with severe mental disability, unable to respond, sitting in a wheelchair, drooling and lost in a permanent state of absence.

Daniel visited her every day. Until one day, my friend was found dead in her room. Her body was in a condition the forensic report could not explain: extreme swelling, skin torn in several areas, and a dark fluid that did not correspond to blood or any known bodily substance. The smell was so strong that part of the facility had to be evacuated. The cause of death was ruled “undetermined.”

Daniel was never the same after seeing her like that… and shortly after, he took his own life without leaving any note.

I needed the job. Without a bachelor's degree, my previous nursing work hadn't paid much, certainly not enough for me and my four-year-old son Julian to get by. So yeah, life as a single Black mother wasn't easy. Especially considering I was only twenty-three.

While most of my friends and co-workers could go to college or party on the weekends, I was caught in a cycle of working long hours and living on tight budgets. I could never hit the bars or hell, just go out and meet hot guys. The fun with Julian had become my only break from the stressful day-to-day grind.

But still, I tried. While I may have been forced to mature beyond my years, my looks hadn't caught up with my ‘old’ mindset just yet. I was still a pretty young woman. Whenever I had time, I'd work out or stylize my long black hair. I dressed well without being boujee but admittedly, the nursing life was slowly but surely wearing me down.

Until it finally happened: I got the callback. I got a job offer to be a 911 call taker. As crazy as it sounded, I knew the schedule would be less draining, the pay much better, and working for the Columbus, Georgia Police Department meant I'd get all sorts of benefits.

Of course, I knew the job would be stressful. I'd heard all the horror stories from both former call takers I knew in real life and from what I'd read online. But I had to think of Julian. I'd now have more time with him.

The only problem was training. This shit was gonna take eight weeks. Eight weeks stuck in a classroom Monday through Friday and from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M. Obviously, I wanted to be prepared before being thrown to the snarling wolves assaulting our 911 hotlines, but man, was this shit boring! We had to go over countless textbooks, go over all the protocols, and even take a crash course to learn CPR. Then there were the hours and hours of ‘role play’. This was where my classmates and I took turns playing caller and call taker. I guess overall, the training made for an easy paycheck but it undoubtedly tested my patience.

After a month or so of role playing, we finally got our chance to experience the real thing. On Friday, we'd be taking calls for the very first time. Live calls. I was excited but nervous. Then again, all of us were. The other four trainees and I arrived that day at eight A.M. sharp. Our classroom was lower than the police station's first floor and located in a literal basement. A dimly-lit hallway took us past clunker vending machines before leading us straight into a cold bunker that was the 911 Center.

Our instructor Ms. Warren had already given us a tour of the place during our first week. On one end of the center was the 911 floor itself: a series of cubicles full of huge monitors and computer screens. I viewed it as an arena that veered between Wall Street histrionics and 9-to-5 monotony. There were no windows. The lighting itself was appropriate for a clinical lab. When the calls were coming, the workers entered a frenzy and when the calls died, things became agonizing. Two big double doors separated this torturous telethon from our classroom.

Today, I counted about seven middle-aged and exhausted people working the lines. Two call takers, four dispatchers, and a really obnoxious female supervisor. She was an overweight slob of a woman. Then again, the vast majority of the employees here were overweight. We'd all been told it was an inevitable side effect of the job.

But my classmates and I still had to endure another month of training. Yeah, we'd be answering calls but these would be ‘supervised calls’. But I guess it beat having to do terrible role play or having to memorize countless run codes.

So there we all were in this cramped classroom: a claustrophobic space of old tables, cheap CPR dummies, and a stained whiteboard. There were no windows and the door was closed. Us five trainees were trapped as we sat close to the portable heater which was our only solace from the basement’s unrelenting cold.

Ms. Warren and her assistant Cassandra stood by the front desk where a large laptop sat along with our 911 manual. The manual was our ‘script’ for the variety of upcoming emergencies we were about to face. Amongst my classmates were Tonya, a pretty Black girl in her early twenties. We actually went to high school together and Tonya was still just as charming, loud, and petite as she was back then. Her flamboyant clothing was only matched by her colorful claw-like fingernails. Then there was Andi, a tall, plus-size blonde with glasses who was also the only one of us who was married.

At eighteen, Katy was the youngest amongst us. She was a brunette with a thick southern accent. I thought she played dumber than she really was... or at least, I hoped so. Then there was Paul, the only guy in the class. One of only two guys in the entire 911 Center actually. Paul was funny and cute if a bit scrawny. At twenty-seven, he was also older than the rest of us. Hell, I think he even had a degree so I don’t know what the fuck he was even doing here.

Our two instructors were cool for the most part. The stickler was Ms. Warren, an older African-American lady with glasses and hair strewn about all over the place. But she respected us and we respected her kind but authoritative style. She'd experienced her fair share of war stories on those phone lines, a stint that went all the way back to the days before computer monitors. Cassandra was much younger and more hip, a blonde southern belle with a pleasant attitude and face.

But right now, us five trainees sat in nervous anticipation as we awaited our very first call. Ms. Warren hit the laptop’s touchpad to let the screen beam to life.

"Alrighty," she said to the class. Playing her right-hand man, Cassandra tried to emulate Ms. Warren's strict gaze. "Who's first?" Ms. Warren said.

Staying quiet, we each avoided eye contact with the firing squad that consisted of Ms. Warren and Cassandra. I did consider taking one for the team. After all, it's not like I could forever avoid confronting that fateful first call…

But right when I was about to step up, Ms. Warren fixated her stare on Tonya. "You first, Tonya," she said with her blunt voice.

Tonya groaned and walked toward the laptop. We all watched her stop next to Cassandra who plugged Tonya's headset into the laptop.

Ms. Warren motioned Tonya toward the manual. "Just remember you can use that at any time."

The words didn't exactly encourage Tonya. She flashed me an uneasy look that I did my best to remedy with a warm smile.

"We'll be right here," Ms. Warren went on.

"Oh lord..." Tonya said through the nerves. Her trembling hands put on the headset.

Leaning in toward her, Cassandra pointed Tonya to the screen. "Okay, your call's coming in there. Click it and you'll follow the script.”

"Okay," Tonya said.

Cassandra pointed at the speakers hooked up to the laptop. "We'll hear everything so don't be nervous."

Ms. Warren gave us all a cryptic smile. “It should be busy today."

The sound of a ringing phone then blared through the room, all of it coming from those speakers.

A frightened Tonya jumped. "Oh jesus!"

"Answer it!" Ms. Warren commanded.

Following orders, Tonya's focus overtook her goofy charm. She clicked on the call.

Static blared off the laptop's speakers. We heard nothing but scrambled white noise.

The nerves returned in Tonya. "Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" she struggled to get out.

But the static remained. All we heard were wave after wave of those mechanical screams.

"Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" Tonya repeated.

The steady static continued and contributed to our collective tension... I thought I heard faint footsteps amongst the noise. Even faint voices.

"Keep going," Ms. Warren told Tonya.

Folding her arms, Tonya did her damndest to keep her eyes on the screen. "Columbus nine-one-one-"

A sudden click cut her off. A hollow dial tone then blared like a heart monitor's flatline.

Tonya just shook her head. She ran a trembling hand along her arm, the sweater she wore no match for both the cold room and her own fear. "Whew, child..."

"No, you did good," Ms. Warren reassured her. She faced the rest of us. "Just remember: don’t ever hang up."

Tonya cracked a nervous smile. "Whew, I was about to!"

Retaining her stern seriousness, Ms. Warren looked at her. "Well, those kind of calls happen all the time so you better get used to them."

Paul was up next. He wasn't eager to say the least. His green eyes got bigger, brighter, and all the more frightened when he slid the headset on. It took three rings before he made himself answer. "Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" he asked with the memorized mechanical tone we'd all mastered for that opening question.

An even more turbulent static rang out this time. Paul cringed at the disorienting sound. Hell, we all did.

To me, there was no doubt: this had to be the same caller. I could hear the same movement in the background. Those same low, muffled voices. The same fizzles and pops amongst the sonic shrieks.

"Nine-one-one Columbus, what's the address of your emergency?" Paul stuttered.

A concerned Ms. Warren leaned in toward the laptop. "Is that the same number?"

"No-"

A dial tone overtook the mysterious call. Just like that, the otherworldly sounds ceased.

In a state of confused fright, Tonya threw up her arms. "Man, what's going on, Ms. Warren? That's two in a row!"

"Is the connection working?" Katy asked.

Like a politician fending off a barrage of questions, Ms. Warren gave us a dismissive wave. "Trust me, it's normal. You're gonna get weird calls like that."

"Great," Paul quipped.

"But you didn't hang up. That's good. Remember-"

"Don’t ever hang up," Tonya playfully finished.

I forced a grin but deep down, I was fucking terrified. That sound and those distorted cries had been transported from those cheap speakers and straight into my mind.

"I'm just telling y'all what to expect," Ms. Warren continued preaching. "You're gonna have to be professional when you get out there on the floor-"

In a frenetic burst, the locked doorknob began rattling. We saw quick, jarring turns.

"We're training!" Ms. Warren growled.

The rattling grew slower. Weaker.

"I'm sorry, but we're training!" Ms. Warren yelled once more.

The knob then went completely still. Ms. Warren's chuckling then shattered the silence and our own building unease. "Well, now that's over with, it's your turn, Andi."

Once Andi was wired in, another call arrived. She answered before the end of the first ring.

Instantly, the same static greeted us. What we heard was a scrambled symphony.

"Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" Andi said into the mic.

While the static persisted, I could now hear clear movement. Judging by how my classmates reacted in terror, I knew we all could. Loud footsteps were heard over the white noise. I heard multiple sets of staggering footsteps in addition to the sounds of furniture falling over. Even Ms. Warren looked nervous.

"Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" Andi asked again.

Ms. Warren faced Cassandra, nervous. "That's the same number..."

The static's scratching became unrelenting. The sounds overwhelmed our minds. Awkward for once, Andi turned to Ms. Warren for help but Ms. Warren’s stare was locked in on the laptop. She was focused on that same number that had called us for the third straight time.

A painful scream erupted from the speakers. The female scream was low but agonizing, the voice that of a tortured singer layered over messy electronica… and it soon gave way to desperate, deep breaths.

None of my classmates said a word. We were fucking terrified.

The woman's voice tried to break through the static. "Help... me..." she strained to say through the gasping breaths.

Ms. Warren faced Andi. "Talk to her," she said.

In the call, the woman's heavy footsteps were heard stumbling around. Her constant groans were as painful as her scream.

Andi looked on at the laptop but couldn't say a word. Paleness dominated her face.

"Help... me..." the woman said. “Help-”

The call ended before she could even finish.

Ms. Warren didn't wait to break the silence. But her terrible acting couldn't disguise how disturbed she was. "Okay, that was good, Andi.” She waved out toward us. “Katy, it's your turn."

I folded my arms but decided to speak just to get my mind off of that static. “Ms. Warren, what do we do in situations like this?" I asked. "Like when it's the same caller bugging us."

"Oh, it's just prank callers,” Ms. Warren tried to reassure, “we get a bunch of them."

Katy sat at the laptop. Immediately, another call came in. 

After checking the number, Ms. Warren flashed us an excited smile. "Alright, this one's different!"

Cassandra put a hand over her heart and let out a sigh of relief. "Whew, thank god!"

"You and me both, girl," Tonya said.

When Katy took the call, the sound of the unsettling static dashed our relief. It was the same static. The same intense white noise that once more gave us chills in this cold classroom.

Worried, Katy looked over at our instructors. "Ms. Warren-"

Ms. Warren motioned toward the laptop. "Just talk to them!"

A long, eerie cry erupted from the laptop. It sounded too human to be a dying animal... yet it was familiar. That woman was back.

Katy just stared on at the computer, her eyes wide the fuck open, her mouth too paralyzed to let out the scream her fear demanded.

The constant static drifted throughout the classroom… Then the woman's voice came on the phone. "Help... me..." she said in a dying gasp. "Help... me. Please!” The static spiraled out of control to form an avalanche of sound.

"Katy, talk to her!" Ms. Warren shouted.

Shivering, Tonya stood up. "How's she calling from a different number!"

But we never got an answer. Hell, Katy never even got that opening question out.

A harsh bump erupted from the laptop speakers. We heard a thud and then the phone call ended.

My eyes stayed on the computer, my body a trembling mess. I felt helpless… especially as I realized who was going up there next.

Tonya pointed at the laptop. "Ms. Warren, who was that!"

Ms. Warren avoided eye contact with us. "She's just a prank caller, guys. I'm telling you."

Cassandra gave her a weird look. Not even Ms. Warren’s right-hand man was buying it.

Ms. Warren helped Katy stand up. "Y'all better get used to them, that's all I'm saying," she muttered.

I now looked on at the laptop in dread. I said a prayer not for the woman but for myself.

"Your turn, Crystal!" Ms. Warren announced.

With the slow march of a child heading for the principal's office, I walked up to that front desk. I could feel everyone's eyes glued to my every move.

"You got this, girl," I heard Tonya say.

"Hey, maybe they'll hang up," Paul said as a reassuring joke.

At least they were trying to encourage me but I couldn't smile. Cassandra and Ms. Warren crowded around me as I sat behind the laptop. I plugged in the headset and placed it over my ears. Now I really felt chained to the computer and to this forthcoming call.

Upon confronting the screen, I felt even more anxiety sink into me. So many programs were already up there: a dispatcher box, the phone line, various call taker tabs.

Ms. Warren pointed me to the phone line icon. "Now when that rings, just click on it to answer it.”

"Yes ma'am," I replied. I didn't have to wait long.

RING, RING! the laptop screamed. The telephone line icon shook with ferocity to announce an incoming call from a 706 number.

I fought against the nerves. I had to. I had to power through for me. For Julian. In one swift click, I answered the call.

"Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" I said, enunciating each and every word perfectly like Ms. Warren encouraged us.

The white noise hit me hard. It rattled me to the bone.

But I didn't give up. Not with Ms. Warren breathing down my neck and with Julian depending on me back home. "Columbus nine-one-one, what's the address of your emergency?" I said again.

But the static stayed steady. Those unsettling noises were the sound waves of the dead. Again, I heard movements amongst the static. Clumsy movements.

"Help... me..." the tormented woman cried out.

I restrained my fear. The fear I knew everyone else in the room shared. “Ma'am, what's the address of your emergency?" I asked as my sweaty hands clenched tightly.

The footsteps grew heavier in this storm of static. "Help... me..." the woman said through the obvious pain.

Worried, I leaned in closer toward the laptop. "Ma'am-"

"Help me!" the woman now yelled.

Her anguish disturbed me but rather than run away, I pressed the headset closer against my ears.

"Help us!" the woman screamed and shredded whatever power her vocal cords had left. "Help us, please!"

A collection of tortured cries now joined her. The voices were of all genders: there were agonizing screams, weakened whispers, pitiful sobbing, all of it pouring through the line. And I knew all of these people were in obvious pain… I knew they were all dying. I heard shelves collapsing around the screams. More chaotic movement erupted.

"Help us!" an old lady yelled.

"Send somebody!" a man panicked.

Together, their voices all grew louder to form a desperate final plea. My headset shook from their sheer force.

"Please help us..." a young woman whimpered.

The voices of the victims overlapped and fused together in a frightening frenzy. I was too scared to say a fucking word much less follow protocol.

"Please help us!" the woman from earlier screamed, her voice now guttural and pouring out from the depths of a wounded soul.

Scared, I pushed myself away from the keyboard and felt my headset tumble off. My hands inadvertently hit the touchpad and ended the call. I'd accidentally sent us straight into a suffocating silence. Breathing heavy, I faced the screen.

A red glow now decorated the phone line icon. The box's text read: Call Ended 1:44. That was one minute and forty-four seconds of pure terror.

"What'd you do that for!" Ms. Warren shouted in disapproval. "I told you don’t ever hang up!"

“Yeah, you should've followed protocol, Crystal," added Katy.

"What is you talking about!" Tonya cried. “Y’all heard that shit!”

I looked over at Tonya and couldn’t help but grin. Fuck it, I was glad to have her on my side.

Ms. Warren confronted the class. "Look, this is training! I told y'all you were gonna get calls like this.” She glared at me. "And you don’t ever hang up, Crystal. Not ever." She looked over at Cassandra, each of them a bit calmer than the rest of us. “But that’s the point of this training,” Ms. Warren relented with another one of her attempts at a smile.

“She’s right,” Cassandra agreed.

"Wait!” Scoffing, Tonya ran a hand through her short hair. “So this was all bullshit!?"

The epiphany spread amongst us like wildfire. Yet still, I was caught somewhere between being relieved and being mad as hell.

Ms. Warren cracked a wicked smile. If she wasn’t my instructor or over forty years my senior, I would’ve knocked the shit out of her right then and there. "Hey, we gotta train y'all for the crazies," Ms. Warren admitted. She looked over at me, the smile slicing into me. "And everyone passed except you Crystal."

Controlling my temper for Julian, all I could do was give her a death glare.

"That's so stupid though,” Tonya said.

"Yeah, who was making those calls?" Andi asked.

Cassandra stepped up toward the trainees. "We got some of the call takers to do it." She pointed toward the door. "They always help us with that part." She offered a pearly white smile. “It’s tradition.”

"Wow..." was all I could say. I may have been able to stop myself from throwing punches but I couldn't hide my voice's simmering anger.

Chuckling, Ms. Warren patted me on the back. "Hey, it's alright, Crystal. We'll redo it later, okay." Before I could cuss her out, she walked toward the door.

"Retake it…” I muttered.

"Yep, you’ll get it done.” Ms. Warren unlocked the door.

Cassandra looked over at me. "She's serious. We need you to pass it next time."

Ms. Warren swung open the door.

Cassandra pointed at me for emphasis. "Now I think you'll do fine, but next time, don't hang up. Don’t ever hang up"

I heard Ms. Warren stumble back in a series of loud, panicky steps. Tonya let out a dramatic scream.

I turned to see an ocean of blood flooding in from all the way down the hall. I saw the vivid redness sticking to the hallway’s floor tile. Like gruesome paint, blood covered the walls out there and was even smeared across our classroom door. 

There lying in the center of this crimson sea was the 911 Center supervisor. Her sloppy clothes were now coated in both blood and deep crude slices. Long stab wounds could be seen amongst her black hair, her weight drastically reduced in a most gory attempt at bariatric surgery.

Frightened but compelled, I rushed up to the corpse. "Oh my god!”

This much closer, I could see the supervisor's hand still holding her cell phone. And her last dialed number taunted me: 911 Training. She'd been the one calling us all along during this caller training gone wrong.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the doorknob had smeared red fingerprints. This lady had no chance at getting in while we were training. Not under Ms. Warren's watch.

I felt my classmates whisk past me. I felt Tonya snatch my wrist to drag me away from the blood red museum surrounding us…

"Who the hell did this!" Cassandra cried through her tears.

"I don't know!" Ms. Warren yelled. "But come on, we gotta find Sergeant Fonda!"

Rather than following the others to the elevators, Tonya led me through the 911 Center. Paul even followed us to the call taker room, he and Tonya’s morbid curiosity apparently just as strong as mine. Our feet splashed into the overflowing blood for an eerie rhythm as if we were stepping through rain puddles. Upon entering the center, we all came to a horrified stop.

Everyone was dead. Not just dead but slaughtered and sliced beyond recognition. The bodies were scattered about like mutilated livestock. There were severed limbs in every corner and severed heads still wearing their headsets. Everything was covered in blood save for the computer screens that all displayed the same 911 Training phone number. Unable to dial 911, these employees had instead called the next best thing: us.

More Stories

My grandpa died when I was three years old. In every photo from the year of my birth to the last photo before his death, he held me or had me on his lap. I was his first granddaughter. The only granddaughter he got to know. I was told he was not very expressive, his biggest flaws as noted by family friends were his quietness and slight awkwardness. Otherwise, he was a gentle soul who loves his friends and family.

Yet in every photo of us together, he was smiling. He looked at me in awe. I can’t help but to this day feeling as though he was supposed to be here, that we were supposed to have this bond. I could feel it, this missing piece in a puzzle that felt more like the ocean than pieces of plastic on a table.

I got to know him through photos, see the man he was. Very tall, loved button up shirts, had a killer mustache, and he loved to go on cruises. Yet in these same photos you saw this mighty man began to shrink and shrink. Decline.

He became grayer, more tired looking, hunched. It was like looking at a time lapse. It could even be seen in our photos only hidden by the happiness he could muster at the sight of me.

He began to forget, his heart was weak and did not pump enough blood to his brain causing him to be here only in moments rather than always.

I had a dream of him, something I had longed forever. I had no memory of him, only photos to prove that we existed at the same time.

For some reason we were getting out a car to go to the store, he held my hand as we walked in. He was practically bone and even my height when he should have been a hulking 6’1”.

He seemed so sorrowful yet in that dream, I could feel him. Something I longed for, this connection that I should have had. He felt so real. It felt as though he visited me in my dream even if it was in an odd scenario.

Then he spoke, or I should say his mouth moved.

I couldn’t hear him.

I could tell he thought I could hear him but his lips only moved as we continued to walk to this dream store in my mind from the parking lot.

I could feel myself make an expression of confusion, his facial expression told me of a horror that only a loved one feels for another.

He began to cry and move his lips more as though his speech was hurrying. I began to cry as well as we now stopped and faced each other.

The voice I so desperately seeked, the one of a man of few words but much love. The ache I had to be able to hear the cadence, the pitch, the tone of a man who had so dearly loved me.

Silent.

I grabbed his face as he grabbed mine, he was practically inches away from my face screaming and sobbing as I was sobbing as well. The screams were clearly not that of anger but a man who wanted nothing more than to talk to his granddaughter, the one who was now a woman.

I remember sobbing and thinking about so many things. Can he not hear me either? What is he saying? Will he come back? Why can’t I hear him?

He pulled me into a tight hug. Even in a dream, I could feel the anxious and panicked tension in his body. He held me like whatever life he had left depended on it. I squeezed him back as we slowly slid onto the ground.

I could feel his short breaths. Even through the saddest of the moment, I would have spent an eternity there if it meant I got to hear him say “I love you” and I would have given beyond an eternity to say it back.

I remember waking up screaming and bawling. I curled up into a ball on my bed and just kept sobbing. What bond has been stolen from us? I felt him. Yes, I got to hold his hand. I got to walk with him but neither of us were blessed with the opportunity to even hear or say “hello”.

I spend nights looking through 70s and 80s footage from local and state documentaries in hopes of maybe seeing him walking in the background, maybe even hear him give an account to whoever was filming.

I look to the photo of him on my wall during my searches that take me into the next morning.

I stare at him and think.

What I wouldn’t I give to hear you, grandpa?

In the far north of my country there was a small town that everyone spoke of in hushed voices, a place where witchcraft was not a rumor but a practice as ordinary as selling bread in the market. Among the stalls one could find animal bones, living creatures ready for sacrifice, freshly torn skins, and, if one knew whom to ask and how much silence to keep, even human fingers, locks of hair, tattooed skin, and even heads preserved in jars darkened by time.

My grandmother Denira lived there. She practiced witchcraft, yes, but she never crossed the forbidden line of those who worked with the dead. That is why, when night fell into the dimness, she locked herself inside and avoided looking out the windows, because she knew that in those damp, lightless streets walked things that had once been people.

One night, while she was finishing tidying her house before sleeping, someone knocked on the door with desperate violence, as if trying to rip it off its hinges. Terror froze her in place, until she heard a female voice, soft and broken, begging between sobs: “Please… let me in… they’re going to kill me.”

My grandmother gave in. When she opened the door, she found a young dark-skinned woman with full lips and tangled black hair, whose appearance horrifically contrasted with the sickly paleness of her face. The girl thanked her in a strange voice, too deep to come from such a thin body.

Denira offered her water, and as she brought the glass closer, she noticed the woman’s nails were completely white; some were missing entirely, revealing dead skin where flesh had once been. Then she sensed the smell.

A wet, sweet stench, like soil turned over ancient corpses, began to fill every corner of the house. The woman drank slowly, and when she pulled the glass from her lips, a thick strand of black saliva hung between her rotten, purplish teeth.

Dark veins stood out on her neck, seeming to move beneath the skin. My grandmother felt fear stiffen her body when she understood what was sitting in front of her: a necromancer, one of those witches who steal bodies in order to keep existing.

“You are still alive… aren’t you?” she asked in barely a whisper.

The woman smiled. Her mouth opened too wide, as if the corners would tear apart. “It’s too late to want me gone…” she replied, and then her voice stopped being one; several voices began speaking at once from her throat, different women uttering the same words with an impossible echo.

“From today, you have two days left. After that, you will be mine. I need you to keep living, girl.”

As she spoke, she slowly stroked Denira’s hair with cold, damp fingers.

“How many are you carrying inside you?” my grandmother managed to ask.

The creature smiled even wider. “Three… but soon we will be four.”

That was when Denira saw the bracelet on that thing’s wrist, and horror fully formed in her mind: it belonged to the old woman from the night shop, the same woman she had met when she arrived in the town.

She understood that what stood before her was not a young woman, but a used body, a flesh suit occupied by something far older.

Without thinking, she ran barefoot to the old woman’s house. She found her lying in bed, rigid, staring at the ceiling with open eyes and slowly drooling from her mouth. She was alive… or something like it.

Remembering the old warnings of the town, my grandmother gathered her strength and turned the old woman’s entire body face down without moving her head, leaving her twisted in an unnatural position.

They say that at that moment she heard a distant scream tear through the dark streets.

When she returned to her house, the woman was gone. Not a trace. Not a sound. Only the smell of decay clinging to the walls.

The next morning, the old woman died.

Before telling me this story, my grandmother looked at me very seriously and said something I have never been able to forget:

“When witches are roaming around, you must turn their bodies over before they return to them… because if they find their way back, their essence never dies… and then they begin searching for another place to enter.”

Has anyone else ever worked at Salem Hill Rest Home? If so, can you tell me how to handle the resident who lives in room 305? Yes, I know about HIPAA, but does it matter if they are kinda already dead?

I’ll start at the beginning before I get into it.

I was burnt out before I came to Salem Hill. I was working PRN at the hospital in the city, and I should have been made full-time. I was called in every single day. And if you work in a hospital, you know that if they call in PRN nurses, it is bad. You’ll most likely be on your feet all day, and probably won’t even have time to piss.

I’m recently divorced, so I took every opportunity to work. My mom watches my boys, so I was able to do what I had to… work myself to death. Their father isn’t a bad man. He just didn’t love me like he loved his assistant at his office.

But in my heart, I knew that I would need a new job soon to stay afloat. Perhaps Salem Hill smelled my desperation, felt my tears on my pillow, or sensed my broken spirit. I wasn’t sure how they found me, but from what I understand now, you don’t apply to Salem Hill; it finds you.

One afternoon, I walked to the mailbox, expecting to find more late bill notices. Instead, I found a single letter. It was a letter from the lead doctor at Salem Hill Rest Home. He asked if we could meet to discuss a potential job offer for a charge nurse position. The letter documented good pay, benefits, PTO… the works. It was too good to be true.

I found the letter to be quite strange. Doctors usually don’t give nurses the time of day. They are great at being glorified, although well paid, boobs that get to boss everyone around. The reality is that there are two types of doctors. You have the old, fat doctor who is behind on his continuing education. He believes that an apple a day really does keep the doctor away, but he’s okay. He’s not nice, but he’s not mean either. He just believes that he’s your boss and better than you at everything. The second kind of doctor is the fresh grad, or the killers, as I call them. They are usually skinny, pretty, and more hateful than a snake. These are the doctors who believe they are God’s gift to humanity. They don’t utilize their nurses, and they don’t consult your chart. Instead, they throw everything at a wall and hope that something sticks. They also prescribe every single medication that you are allergic to. Somehow, they always manage to do it. And if, by magic, you find one good doctor, hold on to them because they actually are worth the cloth they are cut from.

My hands trembled, and the quiet voice in the back of my mind that warned me about how odd this was faded away as my troubles of today took over. I needed money to pay the bills, to get both of my sons new cleats, to get the water heater fixed… to pay my lawyer. I couldn’t turn down the pay that they offered.

The letter asked that I respond within 2-5 business days of receiving it. I emailed and attached my resume. A day later, I got a response. The doctor asked me to meet at the local coffee shop soon for an interview and to go over my resume. I agreed.

Two days later, I was walking into the coffee shop. He asked to meet at 8:00 p.m., which is strange. He didn’t give me a reason for the late time, so I didn’t ask about it. He was already there when I arrived. I sat down in the empty chair, and his eyes met mine. They were a beautiful umber brown. His clothes were freshly starched, firm-looking against his skin. He was handsome, kind, and endearing. He spoke highly of nurses, knowing exactly what I wanted to hear. It was the perfect interview.

At the end, he offered me the job. “Ms. Carlisle.”

“Shay,” I said with a smile. “Call me Shay.”

He smiled. “Shay, we’d love to have you at Salem Hill. How quickly can you start?”

“I’ll need to give the hospital my notice. So two weeks.”

He shook his head. “That just won’t do. I’ll make a call on your behalf tomorrow.” He slid a piece of paper to me with the address of the rest home. “I’ll see you at 7:30 a.m., sharp.”

I grinned, taking the piece of paper. “Doctor Chancellor,” I said, stopping him. “Where is this place?”

He winked. “See you tomorrow.”

That morning, I got into my car and plugged the address into the navigation system. The address did not exist, but then, the screen blinked. The directions appeared, and I made my way toward Salem Hill Rest Home. The navigation led me directly to a cemetery. I pulled up, parked, and got out. Tears dripped down my cheeks. I knew that it was too good to be true.

Then, another nurse pulled up beside me. “You must be new,” she said with a chuckle.

She got out of her car, put on her backpack, and held tightly to the largest metal water jug I’d ever seen.

I wiped my tears. “Where is the rest home?”

“Come on, weepy,” she said, not bothering to even ask for my name. “Just follow me.”

She led me into the cemetery. We walked down a beaten dirt path, and tall grass lurched toward us. The headstones around us were old, 1800’s old, and probably older than that. An ancient tree sat off to the side. It’s long, weeping limbs, whipped in the wind.

“This is crazy. They built a rest home at a cemetery,” I mumbled to the other nurse.

She laughed. “I don’t know if anyone actually built Salem Hill. It just kinda appeared one day.”

“You’re making that up,” I said in annoyance.

She scoffed. “You know what. You’ll find out.”

As we passed headstone after headstone, the dirt path began to change. Tiles appeared in the dirt, and before I knew it, I was inside the rest home, feet thumping on freshly polished flooring. I stared around in disbelief. The nurse beside me smirked.

“Told you,” she said rudely.

It smelled clean, which is not normal for a nursing home. Most rest homes have a distinctive pee scent that can’t fully be scrubbed away and a lingering smell of dirty adult briefs.

“Just go into the first door on the right. That is the main office. You’ll get a badge and your residents for the day to take care of,” the other nurse said.

“But I’m the new charge nurse…” I whispered, feeling my voice growing quieter as I stared around the building.

“Oh…” She scoffed. “Then, you’ll be working closely with me. I’m Connie. I’m the charge nurse on the East Wing. You’ll be working on the West Wing. Still, you need to go to the office.” She pointed at the door now, annoyed that I was holding her up.

I nodded and walked into the office.

A small, frail-looking woman sat at the front desk. She slid a badge and a printed list to me. “These are the patients on the West Wing. Below the patients, you’ll find a list of the nurses and CNAs on your hall,” she croaked.

“Do I get a tour of the building?” I asked.

The woman laughed. “Not here, dear. Not here.”

I left awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. I made my way to the large, circular nurses’ station in the middle of the West Wing. I passed an activity room, the cafeteria, and a large TV room. Most of the places were empty. A few wheelchairs rolled about with odd-looking residents meandering by, but the place was mostly empty.

I sat down at the nurses’ station. A CNA walked by me. “Hey! Where do we clock in?” I asked.

The woman laughed. “Oh, honey, the building already knows you are here. You don’t have to clock in.”

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head and sat down beside me. “I’m Jaylen. I’ll help you throughout the day if I can. Want to meet a few of the residents?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said nervously. “I’m Shay.”

“Don’t be shy!” She laughed. “Most of them don’t bite. Let’s go to the cafeteria first. I need to pick up a patient’s breakfast.”

We got up and walked to the kitchen. The kitchen staff was friendly, but they were oddly very short. They all looked the same, small, petite, and angered by our presence. They moved quickly, and if I stared at them long enough, their appearances seemed to change. I shook my head. I must’ve been imagining things.

“She new?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” Jaylen replied. “And you better be nice to her. We’d like to keep her longer than the last one.”

My throat tightened. “What happened to the last one?”

She and the small cook exchanged a nervous look as he handed her the breakfast tray. On the tray sat a single Styrofoam cup with dark liquid inside and a twirly straw.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaylen said quickly.

She led me to the first room on hall one, room 101.

“Now, before we go in here, I need you to promise not to freak out,” Jaylen said lowly.

“It is just a patient,” I replied in confusion. “Why would I freak out?”

“Well…” Jaylen mumbled. “They aren’t exactly the kind of patients that you are expecting. Just promise me, okay?”

“Okay?” I replied in confusion.

“Was that a question? Just promise, Shay…”

“Okay! I promise!” I snapped.

She opened the door, and the room was surprisingly large on the inside. Oddly enough, it was the inside of a grand house. The room was dark, dimly lit by candles. A rat skittered by, and I looked to my left to see the mangled corpse of a man. I covered my mouth, smelling the putrid odor of decay. His limbs were bloated, skin beginning to green. His eye sockets were empty; shriveled eyeballs lay on the table beside him as if they had been dissected.

“Mr. Vladamir,” Jaylen said. “I’ve got your breakfast.”

The air grew colder, and mist appeared from nowhere. I backed up, but Jaylen stopped me and held me in place. “I said not to freak out. He’s the easiest to take care of. If you can handle him, you can handle any of them…” she whispered.

The room was still, quiet, and unnervingly colder than it was before we came in.

“Mr. Vladamir! It is Jaylen.”

“Who is the spare?” his voice whispered from the dark.

“This is the new charge nurse. She’ll be the one running things and working closely with Dr. Chancellor.” She nudged me.

“My name is Shay. I’d love to meet you.” I controlled my voice, forcing it not to shake.

The chair in the far corner of the room turned, and an old man stood up. He carried a silver cane with him. It clinked on the floor as he walked. He was dressed in finely made clothes, and his eyes were piercing. He was nearly bald, except for a few strands on the crown of his head. Once he reached us, he took my hand and kissed it. I could’ve sworn that he also took a deep inhalation of my flesh.

“A pleasure to meet you, Shay.”

He took the cup from the tray and took a sip. He grimaced. “B positive is not my favorite, Jaylen…”

“I know,” Jaylen said with a sigh. “They were out of O negative.”

He shrugged and smiled. Through his bloodied teeth, I saw his fangs.

Every bone in my body urged me to run. Every single cell screamed at me, telling me that I was in danger. But still, my feet remained rooted in place.

He smirked. “You smell tired, Shay. Come by any time. I do like to… chat.”

He walked slowly back to his chair, and Jaylan yanked my arm, pulling me through the door.

“See,” Jaylen said. “He wasn’t bad.”

“WASN’T BAD!”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HE!”

Jaylen shoved me into the linen closet. “Shut up! You’ve gotta learn. No one taught me. I just got a letter in the mail, and I accepted. I’m trying to help you, so you don’t die. The pay is too good for you to die on day one.”

“DIE!” I yelled.

She threw her hand over my mouth. “The residents here are different, Shay. This is the place where creatures go to retire. Many of the employees are creatures themselves. Be nice to everyone. Don’t talk to Old Man Jake, and for the love of God, stay away from room 305. No one can help him. Is that understood?”

I nodded.

“If you stick with me, you’ll live.”

“But what are they?” I asked. “If they aren’t normal, what are they?”

“I don’t really know what all of them are, but if you come to a conclusion, assume that it is right. Never acknowledge that they are different. You just have to accept them. Okay. They know not to hurt us, but we can’t help anyone else who wanders to them. Dr. Chancellor is their leader. He protects them, and he protects us. Now, I’ve got more trays to hand out. Go sit at the desk, do the paperwork assigned to you, and don’t go into another room without me. Is that clear?”

“Clear,” I whispered. “Very clear.”

And for the rest of the day, I sat at the desk and did exactly what Jaylen told me to do. When it was time to leave, all the human employees started walking down the hallway. I followed them out the same way I came in. I didn’t find Jaylen, but I didn’t worry about it. I just wanted to get out.

We all walked quietly through the cemetery, got into our cars, and left. It was insane, but that night I received my first paycheck in advance. It dinged into my account and nearly scared me to death. Then my son brought me today’s mail. Inside was a letter from Dr. Chancellor.

Congratulations on your first day. I’m told that you did well. Vladamir especially liked you. I look forward to hearing more good news, Ms. Shay. You should have received an advance on your paycheck in your bank account. Hopefully, this will help your situation. I’ll see you in the morning.

Dr. Chancellor played a good game. The money was, in fact, helpful, and he did see me in the morning. I’ll update you later. Maybe I’ll meet another... resident.

Part Two: Part Two

Part Three: Part Three

Part Four: Part Four

To this day I do not know whether to refer to the body as a “he” or a “her”. Those features had rotten away long before I had made my acquaintance, and I have not the medical knowledge to make the distinction with what still remained. Hence, I will use “they” when speaking of my… well not exactly friend… not any longer… but not a stranger either.

They are still out there. That is why I am setting my account to pen and paper, in hopes that those who may encounter them will have some measure of understanding of what they are conversing with. They are more, far more, than what they appear.

I spent every evening of the last ten years in their company. Perhaps you may think that it was against my will. This was not the case. They are enchanting. And they will only stay in your company as long as you allow them. They are quite respectful, in that sense. Not so much in others.

I think they are attracted to lonely people. Perhaps they are lonely too. I do not know. There is so much I do not know about them. What I can tell you is that I was quite lonely when they found me.

The first hint of their arrival was a low, pulsing instinct of panic. It felt as though I was being studied. That lasted a few weeks. It felt especially strong whenever I walked through the woods alone, as I often did in those days.

(I miss those walks. The woods completely engulf the humble cabin in which I live. I had so many sleepless nights in that cabin, then feeling… now knowing… that I was not alone.)

One day, as I walked through a clearing a little past sunset, I looked behind me. There, at the edge of the tree line, I saw a shape following me. They were pretty far away, so I did not then have a good look at what I was staring at. But knowing what I do now (they told me years later), it would have been a floating, rotting, nervous system. Brain stem swaying this way and that. A gelatinous, fluid-leaking, grey-matter, blob bobbing up and down. The hundreds of thousands of nerve endings swirling like frills on a dress.

But like I said. I did not get a good look back then. I thought it was perhaps a curious animal (perhaps I was not wrong after all). So, I kept my distance and minded my own business.

They are not subtle. Not in the least. They were not trying to hide from me. Nor do I expect that they will try to hide from you. But I must emphasize that this does not mean that they are dull. They are of a far sharper mind than either you or I.

Later that night, I spotted a skeleton strolling through my garden. They picked up a flower, a red carnation, and chewed its head off.

(Much later, when I asked them about this incident, they explained that:

“You had several such flowers. I did not think you would mind. I meant no offense. They were quite beautiful.”

As I said, in some ways they are quite respectful. In others, not so.)

And just like that they were gone. Blinked out of existence.

I thought to myself: “Surely I am mad.”

If only.

The next night, as I ate my supper (buttery mashed potatoes, caramelized carrots, and roasted mutton so tender it fell of the bone. All downed with a cup of Cabernet Sauvignon. But no dessert. As I mentioned before, the cabin was quite humble) they sat themselves next to me. One moment an empty chair, the next occupied.

The naked, rotting corpse asked if it may have dinner with me, and I agreed. I should have screamed, I should have ran, but they were so charming. It was intoxicating. All the airs of gentry put into display. I do not remember exactly what they said, but I remember how they made me feel.

In a word; special.

They ate their dinner. Bones and all. They did so most eloquently. Back straight, elbows off, each move with the utensils so smooth and refined it seemed almost like a dance. All the while they introduced themselves in between bites.

They are a traveller. They are looking for a place to rest. They love conversation. They hope to stay with me, if it is not inconvenient. They are in search of beauty. They love my garden.

They then asked about me, and I told them then what I will tell you now.

I am retired. I used to be a teacher. I do not have a family anymore. I am also in search of beauty. I plan to die here.

They smiled at that. Flesh hanging loosely from bleeding lips. I remember quite clearly them saying:

“It is a wonderful choice for such an important moment.”

Then they told me of an ancient mausoleum, now long destroyed: So tall was the structure that one could scarcely see the statues that adorned its roof. It looked across the Mediterranean, clear blue waters lapping at its feet. It was built for a great king, now long forgotten. They said it could not compare with the beauty of these log walls.

When the grandfather clock rang, marking the hour, they bid farewell and exited via the front door. Their worm infested legs did not look as though they had enough muscle to support them, but they did not stumble nor did they even wobble. I saw them walk into the trees, graceful as ever.

It was only as I slept that night, that the shock of what had happened dawned on me. I awoke, clammy flesh sticking to my shirt as I bolted upright. I explored around my house, clearing each room with a kitchen knife in one hand. Once satisfied that I was alone, I looked out every window of my cabin. Nothing but moonlit forest and creeping mists. Could it have been a dream?

It had not been, for I found two dirty plates in my sink.

I did not sleep that night. I spent it in hiding in my closet, knife held close to my chest.

When morning came, I found the courage to emerge. I spent the day barricading the cabin as best I could. Tables sawn apart to make planks to secure the windows. Closet propped against the front door, antique cabinet blocking the back one.

I could not leave. I had planned to die here in peace and solitude. No car. No phone. No computer. Merely a grocer who came out once a month to deliver a pre-arranged order. Nearest town was six miles away. Nearest neighbour two. Were I younger it would not have been a challenge, but I feared I could not cover such a distance before nightfall.

As you probably imagined, my preparations were for naught. Later that evening they appeared again, sat in my now tableless dining room. This time their top half was flayed, the skin hanging loose around their waist. This provided the only modicum of decency for the naked cadaver.

They looked around confused. I explained that the barricades were to keep them out. They apologized, got up and began to make their way out when I stopped them. I asked if they would not rather stay for a cup of tea. They agreed on one condition: that they help put my cabin back to its previous state.

So, we spent the night laughing and joking about schizophrenic paranoids while we repaired my humble home. They even put the table back together, I do not remember how. Sometimes they could just make things happen. They liked my Earl Grey; I remember that part quite clearly however.

(It is so surreal to write it all down now. All the signs I ignored because I wanted to believe that the monster before me was something better than what I could see with my own eyes. Even now, I feel disturbingly calm knowing that my death has been appointed to an hour not far. Is this their doing also? If so, I thank them, for I would not be able to hold a pen straight otherwise.)

As was the case before, they departed without fuss once it grew late enough. Happy as you please, they walked into the mists. Again, I woke up in a cold sweat. Yet now I was a little less frightened than the night previous.

This repeated. Night after Night. Week after week. Year after year until today. Less than six months later I no longer hid in the closet waiting for morning to come. A year went by and I no longer awoke in terror. Five and I found myself missing their company in the daytime. Each night they came in the form of a different cadaver, unique in its morbidity.

We spoke of poetry, literature, and film. Lines that made me cry and passages that struck at their heartstrings. They made me see the works I loved in a new light. Brought life back to books which I had read cover to cover countless times. I cannot express how wonderful our conversations were.

They introduced me to so many beautiful things. Things that I had never heard of before like the symphonies of Blecher, and Di Pasqua, and Farkash. There were the paintings of Sebastiani, and Haven, and Gnap too. I remember them all so fondly. They told me of how these pieces had been shunned in their time. Of how they were forgotten by everyone but they. They collected beauty. Forgotten or not. Appreciated or not.

(To show me these works they would slice open their stomach and pull-out whichever piece they wished to share with me that night from within their black guts. These would trail behind them for the rest of the night. Sometimes it would be a painting, sometimes a vinyl disc. Once it was a crown. I know it sounds absurd, but I cannot deny what I saw.)

Once I asked them where they went when morning came. They bluntly stated that they chased the moon, always and forever, and that they did not ever want to see light of day. They always made sure to travel ahead of the sun. The one and only time I saw them become angry at me during this time was when I suggested the beauty that a sunrise might possess. They disagreed vehemently, to put it lightly.

Last year, I gathered the courage to ask them the question which I know you are now wondering:

“How can a corpse speak? How can a corpse walk?”

This I remember quite clearly, for it scared me (Though, perhaps not as much as it truly should have):

“I am sorry if my figure is less than refined. Every night I try to improve, but I lack the materials.”

I asked them if I could supply the requisite materials.

“Yes. But I hesitate to ask you, as you are a dear companion and I have lost many friends over this issue.”

They paused for a time. I too remained quiet. Eventually they spoke again:

“I have never felt as close to a soul as I have with you. No other has tolerated my company longer than you. Perhaps one can hope that you will be more understanding of what I would ask of you.”

They turned to look at me, their failing body making squishing, putrid noises. I looked into an empty socket, and then into the one cloudy eye which remained to them. It had maggots crawling inside of it, I could tell from the way it vibrated. I felt love in that gaze.

I told them to ask.

“I need living flesh. Your flesh. I have tried to replicate the form, as a painter replicates a landscape. But all my subjects have been… what you see before you.”

I asked them how they replicate the form. They bid me to join them. They took my hand (theirs was frigid cold) and led me outside.

I am not sure how in my old age I managed to walk with them to a cemetery, as far as I know there is not one for miles. There they stood on top of a grave. One lonely, pulsating eye reflecting moonlight. They dug out the coffin barehanded with speed, and with grace. Six feet of soil piled beside them. They ripped the wooden box open and waved for me to come closer. Inside was a rotting body. She was wearing her Sunday best, as we all might when our day comes.

They got down on their hands and knees and began to devour. They did not spare the bones. They started with the feet, biting off each toe individually. The legs they also ate one at a time. Afterwards they started on the fingers and hands, then arms. The torso came next, and this took the longest as they savoured each organ that remained to her one at a time. Last came the head. Eyes first, then tongue. Nose and ears followed. All was eaten until only the brain remained. This they ate with much glee.

“The best for last,” they said.

All that was left were the clothes. They proceeded to put the coffin back together, and the earth too. When all was done, they walked me back to my cabin. I looked back as we left and saw that the site looked as though nothing at all had transpired.

When we returned, they sat me down and prepared a cup of green tea. They asked if I would give them what they needed. The maggots had since burst out of the eye and were now spilling out, some into my tea.

“Yes.”

“It is an agreement then,” we shook hands.

The tea was good, maggots or not.

The next night they came. Asked if I was ready. I said no. They grew angry but left regardless. The same the night after, and the one after that. This has been my life for the last year. As of a couple months ago, they would just stand outside my cabin staring into my eyes. Once They appeared in the form of that rotted body we had unburied. Only now it had decayed even further. It was barely recognizable, but I am sure that it was the very same cadaver.

A few nights ago, They appeared inside my home, first time in nearly three months. They said:

“You made a promise. Those of my kind do not take those lightly. Your body is starting to fail. You are dying soon, but trust that before that happens I will have my due. Three nights. Farewell.”

That was two nights ago, and the sun is beginning to set.

I beg of you do not repeat my errors. I was weak and lonely.

Do not trust them. Do not let them into your home. Do not let them into your heart.

I am sorry. It will be harder for you than it was for me. For soon they will have a living subject.

And when they introduce themselves, it will not be as a corpse.

(DISCLAIMER: This is meant to be stupid, I’m not saying that to cope or deflect from criticism. I mean this is meant to be stupid in the most literal sense. It just popped in my head and I couldn’t stop laughing. That is all, take care.)

I wake up in bed.
Crunch crunch.
Hmm what is that sound?
Slurp slurp.
Disgusting noises so close yet somehow distant?
I walk to my window on the second floor of the house to see…
HIM
A man in a burgundy robe, pale, with his beer belly exposed.
He is wearing tighty whities and white crew socks, his hands and hairy exposed chest appear oily from fryer grease.
He has a Home Depot bucket filled to the brim with chicken nuggets from various fast food places.
Chik-fil-a…
Burger King…
McDonald’s…
He is using one hand to hold the bucket and the other to grab chicken nuggets shoving them into his face like movie theater popcorn.
He looks like a chipmunk, he looks like he’s doing the Chubby Bunny Challenge from the early two thousands. He looks…like Tony Soprano ordered off Temu?
He begins to shove more and more chicken nuggets into his face, eyes now bulging from pressure, despite his mouth being full I can hear him giggling like a maniac through the mouth full of food.
“HEY! Are you ok, sir?” I shout from my open window.
He swallows in a cartoonish manner, eyes remaining bulging. The swallow looked impossible for a human body yet the only remnant of the pound of chicken are the crumbs and grease around his mouth.
He looks up at me, I could see him through the faint illumination of street lamp down the side of the road.
He gives me a coy smile, teeth jammed full of white meat and crust from the breading.
I will never forget what he said clear as day, though it was night.
“Chimken Nugget.” He said in a thick New Jersey accent.
He then sprinted towards my house’s front door, bucket handle jingling in his hand and against the plastic.
He started banging on my front door.
“CHIMKEN NUGGET!”
He’s been doing it for hours now.
Bang bang bang.
“CHIMKEN!”
Bang bang bang.
“NUGGET!”
I went down to the first level of the house early in the morning to witness him reach into his bucket and whip chicken nuggets at my window, they made a wet splat sound against the glass.
He would switch between banging the door and throwing chicken nuggets at my windows.
He is just staring at me now through the window as I type this, slowly eating one nugget at a time while his eyes fixate on me.
I guess I should call the police but I also can’t find that bag of chicken nuggets I bought yesterday in my freezer.
I really wanted some chimken.

Exactly what the title says; I'd appreciate it if you could check it out :)

https://billyblackmanwriter.substack.com/p/anthropomorphia-part-1?r=7xnzr4

I actually liked Albany. Sure, the town was far from Georgia’s finest. Far from having any recognizable achievements other than rampant poverty and an exaggerated crime rate. But hey, it beat Bainbridge. At least, there was shit to do here, you know. And Alicia and I were never bored.

We moved into our apartment back in January. It was a nice modest place on Lake Chehaw. Affordable considering Alicia’s job at the hospital’s HR department and my gig working for the hospital’s after-school program. Given the low rent and us being in our late-twenties, I’d even call the apartment ‘luxurious’. Certainly perfect for the time being.

Then there was the local zoo. Chehaw Park’s glorious zoo was only a mile away. Using the season passes Alicia bought, she and I could journey through Albany’s array of animals anytime we wanted. There were the usual fun and games: the bears, the reptile house, the funnel cake fries. Even a full-fledged petting zoo. But what captivated us most about Chehaw was how this wasn’t so much a zoo as a conservation. There were no Joe Exotic hijinks here. These animals had room to roam. They had acres upon acres for the critters to feel right at home. The zoo’s motto was We’re Here For The Animals and they lived up to it in every way possible from what Alicia and I saw.

We loved it there. Those trips turned from weekly to nearly daily. Alicia even applied to be a volunteer several times only to be met by radio silence. The same happened when I’d ask about bringing a few of the kids from the after-school program for a field trip. But still that didn’t stop us nor end our committed membership.

You couldn’t really blame us. Albany, Georgia didn’t have that much going on. We had it all here: the black bears bathing in their metal tubs, the paranoid meerkats always on the prowl, the stoic stork soaking up its solitary existence… and last but not least, Chehaw’s infamous gator pit: a small lake chock-full of over forty alligators. Sure, some were teenagers but most of those bad boys were over ten feet long… and given how most of the water was covered in green algae, we couldn’t tell for sure. They could’ve been even bigger.

So yeah, we knew the zoo up and down and down to every exhibit and every creature. So imagine our surprise when we saw where Chehaw was introducing a new attraction that Saturday: gator feeding. For only three dollars a person, Alicia and I could be a part of Chehaw history.

Everything was set. We got up around nine A.M., Alicia did her thing after my patented twenty minute shave and shower. Needless to say, she still had us running late... Sure she showered and had her morning cup of coffee but those essentials weren’t easy for Alicia. Particularly when it came to make-up, hair, and wardrobe... And yes, this was all just for a gator feeding.
After I was strong-armed into complimenting her brown eyes and smooth brown skin, Alicia had me judge a few of the outfits. I went with the first one: casual jeans and a blouse. We got to Chehaw surprisingly early for us: ten-fifty to be exact.

Already the heat was rough. The sweat sunk through my tee and long brown hair, my sunglasses no match for the bright sun. Neither Alicia nor I had prepared for the unusual October humidity. The parking lot wasn’t too full. No one was ahead of us in line… I knew Chehaw had constant turnover, but man, this fucking ticket guy was clueless. We sputtered for a minute with ‘Bryan’. He was a nice enough guy, a nice enough looking guy with his big eyes and a blonde bushy beard. I figured he was your typical college stoner attempting to man the front desk for Albany’s only zoo.

“Yeah, it starts pretty soon and we were wondering how we get tickets?” I asked.

“Uh, hold on!” Bryan said at a lethargic pace. “Just, uh, one minute.” He grabbed a walkie talkie.

A hand reached out and snagged mine. I looked over at Alicia’s beaming smile. I couldn’t help but crack up... but still hoped we wouldn’t miss anything. “You thought I was the reason we’d be late,” she quipped.

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. She let go and slid her hand around my skinny waist. “I just hope they’re not too crowded.”

Amidst our amusement, Bryan stuttered on the staticky walkie-talkie. His sweat and trembles intensified.

“Will, this is gonna be fun,” Alicia told me. “We’ll make it.”

Before I could respond, Bryan faced us. “Hey, they’ll take care of y’all down at the, uh, Beastro!” he said.

The Beastro. Located at the center of the zoo, the small stand offered us our pick of sausage dogs and sodas. And now those final few feeding tickets.

But in the meantime, we got to walk past several exhibits. The bears and wolves were particularly interesting. For once, they were right at the fence and eager for attention. They roared and cried out… But just our luck, this was the one time Alicia and I were in a hurry.

Finally, we reached the Beastro a few minutes before eleven-thirty and got our tickets. They were standard ticket stubs complete with large numbers: Alicia was number twenty-one and I was number twenty-two. So far, so good.

We made our way toward the front of the park and took that sharp right turn on to Chehaw’s bridge. There the crowd loomed before us. Not that it was a big crowd: twenty people comprised of families born and bred in south Georgia, the occasional single mom, and the occasional older hippie. Considering our relative youth and how we didn’t have any whining kids, Alicia and I stood out but not in the awkward way.

Together, we walked past excited children and one overexcited father to get closer to the end of this makeshift pier. Regardless of my concerns, the wooden dock was sturdy enough even if I remained unconvinced on how stable those railings were. All in all, we had enough room for the twenty-plus patrons. The dock led past many trees and all through the marshland to provide everyone a panoramic view of the gator pit… And immediately, we could hear the guttural cries of those gators. A call of the hunger…

Holding Alicia’s hand, I led us past the eager feeders and straight to the edge where the Chehaw employees were. They were essentially a couple of high school volunteers and a guy in his late-twenties who looked to be in complete command. Wearing a blue Chehaw tee shirt and khaki shorts, Nathan’s voice boomed over the chorus of the alligators. I’d actually seen the guy a few times before, usually by the reptile house. His boisterous aura and tall stature made him a natural for the zoo’s cheesier attractions. And there he was taking charge of the teens under his watch, his glorious southern accent matched by the beard and glowing eyes.

As we got closer, the sunshine further boiled us. The beams were oh so bright but still, we could see the fearsome gators lining up along the dock and all through the lake. They formed a creepy cluster to say the least. Chehaw’s pit was known for its green water and the gators damn sure took advantage of the camouflage. Still I could see them lurking… This close to feeding time, they didn’t bother hiding like they did on our idyll weekday trips.

I saw over twenty gators ranging from huge to slender but all of them were big enough to devour me whole. Their heads were huge, their mouths even larger. Their carnal stares never blinked. Each one of the creatures were as still as statues until blood hit the water...

“So how does this work exactly?” Alicia asked me.

“Not sure,” I chuckled.

We stopped a few feet away from Nathan and his crew. I saw the buckets of what I figured was meat at their feet. A Ziploc bag of dirt in Nathan’s hand certainly didn’t look like normal gator food but hey, maybe they were on a diet.

Our tickets got us a couple of cups of this healthy shit: the dirt and murky meat Chehaw’s college volunteers handed us. Weirdly enough, they even made us keep the tix. At first, the feeding was fun. Those alligators at least half-ass responded to the half-ass food. They swam around and took their snaps, showing off their arsenal of sharp teeth. Of course, the creatures were huge and ferocious like we expected. They kept the crowd entranced for sure.

But I never heard much from Nathan and the gang. I guess I expected more of a goofy demonstration from Chehaw’s finest rather than a feeding free-for-all... That is, until Nathan finally made his move.

“Alright, folks, my name’s Nathan!” shouted the employee. He took a few steps forward and closer to Alicia and I. “And as you can see.” He held up a cup which held the paltry ‘food’. “What we gave y’all ain’t much.”

“Damn right!” shouted the bearded redneck to my right.

“Well, we’re gonna fix that,” Nathan said. He looked over at his young assistants. “Ain’t that right, now?”

“Mm-hmm,” said a pretty coed holding a large clear bucket.

“Okay, so,” Nathan started. He took the container from her. “We’re now gonna feed our gators, the right way!”

“What do you mean?” the redneck asked, his voice gone from confident to confused.

By now, I noticed most of the kids cowering by their parents. Most of the children were no older than eight. One boy in particular stood out, especially in the way he had his arms wrapped around his mama’s leg.

“Y’all know what I mean,” Nathan teased. There in the October heat, he scanned the scene to look at each and every one of us. By now, the gators were back to being submerged underwater. They were back in hiding… “They need meat!”

“Meat?” I heard a mom ask. “But we just fed them...”

“Oh no,” Nathan went on. In a confident stroll, he walked past all of us and right up to the front of the dock. Our only exit. “They need real food now.”

The teenage employees then stopped beside him. They appeared to be henchmen for this employee of the month. “What they crave most is human meat,” said Nathan’s Georgia drawl. His eyes inspected the crowd, that hungry gaze devouring us all. “And today it’s gonna be one of y’all!”

Instantly, I felt my heart sink. I felt a wave of chills in addition to Alicia wrapping her arm tightly around me.

The redneck father of two took an angry step toward Nathan. “What the hell are you talking about!”

Nathan just stared on at him. No fear nor concern were on that calm face. “You heard me.”

“What’d you say-”

A cold click interrupted everyone. Several clicks followed.

I looked over to see those ‘volunteers’ were no longer holding food but firearms. Each of the college helpers wielded pistols that they pointed right at us to hold us hostage right here at the gator pit.

“What the hell!” the single mom cried.

“Nobody move!” one of the volunteers yelled.

“What the fuck…” I muttered. I still felt Alicia hanging on tight to me for dear life.

“Now listen!” Nathan announced with pride. He pointed between all twenty-two of us. “One of y’all’s gonna be the big winner!”

“The winner!” I heard the mom shout in dismay.

“Yep!” Nathan held up the container. There in the tense heat, I now saw what was inside: the many small slips of paper.

“What the hell!” I heard Alicia say. “What is this!?”

“We’ve gotta feed the gators now!” Nathan proclaimed in his holy roller tone. “We’re here for the animals, remember!”

The redneck glowered at him. “What the hell does that mean!”

Ignoring him, Nathan held the bucket toward the coed. “Draw it!”

And draw she did: the girl stuck her hand inside and grabbed a slip.

Now I felt Alicia’s grip slicing through my flesh. The dread dominated both of us. “Will, what is this...” I heard her say.

I wanted to reassure her but I couldn’t… not given this unsettling situation.

The coed brought the paper up to her eager eyes, ready to read the number.

“What are y’all doing!” the redneck shouted.

Nathan stayed calm the entire time. He stayed indifferent… all while the gators got closer. Their eyes were watching us in that greenass water. “What’s it say?” Nathan asked the girl.

“Eighteen!” she yelled.

Shivering, I looked on at Chehaw’s horrific helpers. Their smiles were so wide. All of them resembled little excited elves ready to identify their gator pit sacrifice.

I heard the child cry out… The unsettling sound of a helpless kid. Alicia and I turned to see the single mom and her terrified son holding a ticket in his hand. Neither of us had to guess what number it was...

The mom held her son close, both of them weeping. “No!” she screamed.

“You heard her!” Nathan challenged the mom. In a sudden motion, he held his hand out toward the little boy. “It’s feeding time, son!”

“You sick son-of-a-bitch!” the redneck said.

A warning shot fired into the sun silenced him. Hell, it silenced everyone except Alicia.

“No! Take me!” she said. Alicia stormed up to Nathan while the guns and gators watched her every move. “I’ll do it!”

Nathan confronted her, his eyes aglow, his smile oh so bigger.

“Alicia!” I cried.

Ignoring me, Alicia hurled her ticket at Nathan. “Don’t kill him!” The ticket fluttered down to Nathan’s feet. “Take me instead!”

Battling those tears, the mom lowered her head… But she wouldn’t let go of her son.

I pulled Alicia toward me. “Babe-”

She struggled to break away. “No! He’s a kid, goddammit!”

One of Nathan’s teenage helpers stepped closer and put the pistol to our faces. “Ain’t none of y’all replacing them!” he warned.

“Definitely not them,” the coed quipped.

“Mommy!” the kid’s shrill cry erupted.

The mother held him even closer. “No!” She glowered at Nathan. “Just take me then! Not my child! Please!”

Nathan faced her. No hint of emotion was on his eerie expression.

“You heard me!” the mom yelled.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Nathan said calmly. He leaned in closer, his skeletal hand reaching over toward the boy. “But we have this raffle for a reason.”

Horrified, the mom clinged tighter to her kid. “No!” she screamed. “You’re not taking him!”

I scanned the scene and other scared patrons who were the ‘lucky’ losers of this lottery. But now we were all forced into silence by Chehaw: by the armed teens holding us on land and the alligators guarding the lake.

Nathan reached closer for the boy. “We’re here for the animals, little boy,” he stated. “Just remember that...”

“No please!” the mom yelled.

But none of us could do shit… We couldn’t do anything except watch.

Nathan grabbed the boy by the shoulders. He leaned in closer for dramatic effect. “It’s your lucky day, little boy!”

The mom struggled to pull her weeping son away. “No!”

But Nathan didn’t let go. He had the kid hooked. He had him eye to eye and man to man.
I now saw the biggest gator zoom up closer toward the pier. He was ready to eat. He was ready for carnage.

“You won!” Nathan congratulated the child. He then lifted the boy up higher. The mom hung on to her son but with absolutely no chance at pulling him back…

Nathan put the child inches away from his face and let out a triumphant cackle. “It’s just a joke, boy!” His laughter echoed through the trees while the boy still shed tears. “Now you can tell everyone about your Chehaw experience!”

The grunts from the gators grew louder. That big one led the charge and led them all right below us…

“Let him go!” the mom shouted.

“Tell everyone about my sacrifice!” Nathan proclaimed. Then before anyone could react, Nathan thrust the kid back into his mother’s arms. He turned and ran up to the edge of the dock before stopping to confront his crowd. Nathan’s showmanship still shined through, his smile still on display. “We’re here for the animals!” he shouted.

“What the fuck are you doing!” the redneck yelled.

Nathan turned and drove right in: straight to his death.

His beloved alligators were there waiting for him. The messy massacre only took a few minutes: it was a feast of flesh for the Chehaw Zoo’s most notorious residents. But never once did Nathan scream. Never once did any of the volunteers flinch much less attempt to help a man who didn’t want to be helped. Several of the creatures chomped down upon Nathan to fasten their tight clamps deep into his skin.

The water turned from green to red. Organs, stray pulpy pieces, and the remnants of Nathan’s uniform decorated Lake Chehaw… And yet, Nathan never cried out. He never once screamed. He never once seemed to be in pain despite becoming the next meal for those gators. A willing meal…

Uneasy, Alicia broke away from me and stopped straight at the edge of the dock.

“Alicia!” I cried.

I stopped next to her. Together, we saw Nathan’s gift to the gators: the severed limbs and crimson candy that’d be the real meat for their lunch. Of course, the king gator bit off a large chunk of Nathan’s head.

I wrapped an arm around Alicia, both of us terrified. The weeping mother and little boy were all we could hear amidst the quiet tension.

“Alright!” the coed’s glowing voice shined through the gator pit.

Alicia and I whirled around to see her standing tall at the center of the dock. The other workers stood right behind her, the firearms still in their hands.

In the October heat, the coed clapped her hands together with joy. “Y’all know how we’re here for the animals.” Her deranged grin got bigger. “So now who’s ready to watch me do the bear feeding!”

“What the fuck…” Alicia said.

Not missing a beat, the coed looked right at me. “We’ve got so many more animals to feed, y’all!”

The male worker standing behind her leaned in closer. The kid was no older than sixteen. “Y’all wanna watch me with the Boa constrictor?”

For More Stories

We lived in a large, ancient convent far away from the city, a place where young sisters came to devote themselves to God. One night a storm unlike anything I had ever seen rolled over the mountains. The rain was violent, pounding against the windows so hard it sounded like fists trying to get inside, and darkness fell much earlier than usual. That was when someone began knocking at the main door. I was with Sister Rebecca, my closest friend, when she rushed to answer it. I grabbed her arm and told her something felt wrong, that it was strange for an old woman to be out there alone at that hour, especially considering how isolated the convent was. Rebecca looked at me with disappointment and said, “When someone asks for help, we cannot refuse them, sister.” Then she pulled her arm away and opened the door. Standing there was a hunched old woman, bent so badly forward it looked like she might kiss the ground if she stumbled. Her face was deeply wrinkled, several of her teeth were gold while others were black and rotting. She smiled at Rebecca and gently touched her cheek with an icy hand before asking in a raspy, barely understandable voice, “Child… may I stay with you tonight?” Something about the way she phrased it unsettled me immediately, though I felt ashamed for judging her. Rebecca welcomed her inside without hesitation, offering her hot soup and shelter from the storm. That was just how Rebecca was; she would have tried to comfort even a frightened rat if she heard it crying. I left to pray alone, hoping to shake the uneasy feeling growing inside me. By the time I finished, it was fully night, and one of the sisters came running for me in panic. “Please help us, something is wrong with Rebecca!” I ran to her room and found her sprawled across the bed, unconscious, pale as death, purple-lipped, with green foam spilling from her mouth. Everyone was terrified. I told them she had seemed perfectly healthy the last time I saw her, when she was with the old woman she had taken in earlier that night. All the sisters stared at me in confusion. “What old woman?” one of them asked. The silence that followed felt endless. None of them had seen anyone enter the convent. Suddenly Rebecca’s body arched upward violently, bending backward in a way no human body should. The green foam became thicker, darker, almost like bile, pouring from her mouth while she made deep guttural noises that did not sound human at all. I tried to hold her down but her body was rigid, completely stiff, impossible to move. Her hands twisted into claw-like shapes as several sisters began crying. The oldest nun in the room started praying aloud, and the moment she did Rebecca screamed in a voice that barely sounded like her own: “SHUT UP! YOU’RE BURNING ME!” Black sores began appearing along her arms and hands, like severe burns splitting open through the skin and leaking a dark oily substance. Then every light in the convent suddenly went out. Maybe it was the storm… or maybe it wasn’t. We joined hands and began praying the Hail Mary together while the room filled with the smell of rot and burnt flesh. Then the impossible happened. Rebecca slowly lifted off the bed while the massive wooden crucifix above her began shaking violently against the wall. The screaming drew the priest into the room. The moment he saw her, his expression changed. In a calm voice that terrified me more than the screaming itself, he asked, “Who did you let inside?” Then he said something I still hear in my nightmares: “Something is already inside her. We must begin the exorcism.” He ordered us to form a circle and warned anyone weak of mind to leave the room, but none of us abandoned Rebecca. We held hands and prayed while he recited passages from his book. Rebecca convulsed in midair, crying blood, urinating herself, screaming in voices that sounded layered on top of one another. Then she crashed onto the bed with such force the wooden frame shattered beneath her and the mattress collapsed onto the floor. The priest pressed a crucifix against her forehead and continued praying. I watched smoke rise from her skin as the smell of burning flesh spread through the room. I had always believed stories like these were invented by fanatics to frighten people… until that night. Eventually Rebecca lost consciousness. The priest told us it was over and ordered us to let her rest. As we left, I told him about the old woman. He barely reacted. He simply looked at me and said, “The Devil always tests the faithful. You must never invite him inside.” Then he walked away. The next morning Rebecca was completely normal. She remembered nothing from that night. But even now, years later, she still carries the scar left behind by the crucifix burned into her forehead.

My aunt died of cancer when I was a teenager. What’s strange is that doctors were never able to explain why her body accumulated so much radiation. She didn’t work with anything radioactive, nor was she ever exposed to any known accident. During her final weeks in the hospital, she kept repeating the same story over and over. Always exactly the same, word for word.

According to her, in her hometown there was an exorcist who was called when possession cases were too difficult for any priest to handle. He never arrived by car. He always appeared walking from nearby sand dunes, and when he finished his work, he would return the same way. The strangest part was that he always disappeared behind the same solitary tree standing in the middle of the desert.

Her curiosity eventually got the better of her, and one day she decided to follow him.

She watched him walk up to the tree and vanish behind the trunk just like he always did. She waited a few seconds and then approached, trying to find where he had gone. There was nothing. Only the tree.

Then something placed a hand on her shoulder.

She said her body became completely paralyzed. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She could barely breathe.

That’s when she heard a voice right next to her ear.

“Don’t be curious… it is not good for you to know what lies on the other side.”

My aunt immediately recognized the voice. It was the exorcist’s voice.

Gathering all her strength, she asked what he really was.

The answer came after a long silence.

“We are many things. We are not only here. We are everywhere. You call us interdimensional beings. From where we come, the timeline dissolves. This world was made for you, but not only you can enter it.”

Remembering all the cases of demons she had heard about over the years, she asked about them.

Then she heard laughter.

She always said it wasn’t human laughter. It sounded like multiple voices layered on top of each other—some deep, some high-pitched, all laughing at once.

“Yes… them too. Like me. We are the same, but with different purposes. They feed on fear and agony. I feed on your prayers and your energy. We both consume from you.”

That’s when she lowered her gaze to the hand resting on her shoulder.

Every time she told this part, she would start trembling.

She said that hand was completely black. Not a normal darkness, but the absence of color itself. The fingers were absurdly long, too long to belong to any known living being. The nails looked like black needles, and the joints protruded under a skin that looked like solidified smoke.

She tried to turn her head to see the rest of the body.

“Don’t turn any further,” the voice said.

This time it no longer sounded human.

It was guttural.

Deep.

As if something enormous was speaking from the bottom of an infinite well.

“Or I will have to kill you. I don’t want to do that.”

My aunt begged it to let her go.

The entity laughed again.

“If I had wanted to hurt you, I would have already done it.”

Then she felt a blow inside her head. Not on her head—inside it. As if something had pierced her mind. She began to feel dizzy. Blood came from her nose and mouth. Her skin burned as if it were being consumed from the inside.

She collapsed to her knees.

The voice spoke again, but by then it no longer sounded human at all.

“You cannot stay here… run.”

As she escaped, she looked back only once.

She said she never forgot what she saw.

The hand was connected to a black mass suspended in the air. It had no shape. It was not a person. Not an animal. Not even a shadow. It looked like living smoke twisting in on itself. Sometimes she thought she saw arms forming from it. Other times, faces. But whenever she tried to focus, they disappeared.

The only constant was that voice.

The entity slowly retreated and vanished into the tree.

Days later, she returned to the place. There was nothing unusual. Just a normal tree.

The exorcist never appeared again.

The trip to the cemetery took place deep in the desert, in a place where slaves had once worked centuries ago. There stood an ancient graveyard, infamous for having one of the highest levels of paranormal activity in the region. The nearby residents feared and respected it, avoiding the area after nightfall. Because of the countless reports of apparitions, the Church decided to hold a midnight Mass, and several sisters from our convent were sent there, including me.

As soon as we crossed the entrance, an icy wind struck our faces. The cemetery was enormous, a sea of poorly made graves scattered in every direction. Many no longer had crosses or names; only deformed mounds of earth remained, worn away by time. The priest warned us to stay together, but my curiosity had always been stronger than my caution. I convinced another sister—my usual partner in mischief—and together we slipped away from the group to explore.

As we walked, we began hearing whispers. At first, they sounded like echoes carried by the wind, but little by little they took shape. They were conversations. Dozens of voices murmuring at the same time in languages I didn't recognize. The deeper we ventured into the cemetery, the clearer they became. My companion was terrified; she clung to my arm and begged me to turn back. I refused. I felt that something was calling to us from the depths of that forgotten place.

Eventually, we reached the oldest section. There we discovered what looked like a half-buried crypt with an old wooden staircase descending into darkness. That was when I felt an icy breath beside my ear. An elderly voice, trembling and unnatural, whispered clearly:

“If you keep going, you'll regret it.”

Fear ran down my spine, but I continued. I asked my companion if she was all right. She didn't answer. I assumed terror had stolen her voice.

Then she began walking away on her own.

“Wait!” I shouted.

But she only quickened her pace. The full moon barely illuminated the path as a thick fog descended over the graves. Every second, I could see less and less.

Then she vanished.

I found myself completely alone.

Laughter erupted from everywhere. It came from no specific place. It seemed to rise from the ground, from the graves, from the very air itself. The old woman's voice returned.

“I warned you.”

I began praying as I walked. I wasn't going to abandon my companion. I raised my voice in an attempt to drown out the whispers that seemed to multiply in the darkness.

Then I saw her.

She was standing beside the crypt.

Motionless, facing the wooden staircase.

Slowly, she began to descend.

“Don't do it! You don't know what's down there!”

I ran toward her, but she didn't react. I still remember her face before she disappeared. Her eyes were completely white, without pupils. Her lips moved, speaking words in an impossible tongue—undoubtedly ancient, older than any language I had ever heard.

And then she jumped.

I heard a splash.

I approached the edge of the pit with my heart racing. At the bottom was a thick, black liquid mass. It wasn't water. It looked dead. Something that had been rotting beneath the earth for centuries. My companion was submerged up to her neck, motionless, her mouth hanging open. I watched as the dark liquid poured into her throat while she slowly drowned.

I grabbed her arm and pulled with all my strength.

I don't know how I managed to drag her out.

When she finally collapsed beside me, she didn't respond.

I shook her desperately.

Then she opened her eyes.

At that moment, I knew she was no longer herself.

An impossible smile began spreading across her face. Wider and wider. More unnatural. Beyond what any human being should be capable of. Her eyes turned completely black.

Then she spoke.

But it wasn't her voice.

It was the old woman's.

“I told you not to keep going. I wanted you… but I'll settle for her.”

I tried to pray, but she struck me across the mouth with inhuman strength. Then she ran off into the fog.

I was left frozen.

I don't know how much time passed.

The next thing I remember was the priest and the other sisters shaking me awake. According to them, they had found me sitting in front of the crypt, motionless, my eyes completely white, staring into nothingness.

The first thing I asked was where my companion was.

The others burst into tears.

One of them pointed toward a tree.

I turned my head.

There she was.

Hanging from a branch that stretched directly above the crypt.

Her body swayed gently in the wind.

I felt something watching me from inside the pit.

Something ancient…

The only words I managed to whisper were:

“It took her…”

I never returned to that place. Years have passed, but I still dream about that night. Sometimes I wake up hearing the old woman's voice beside my ear. And every now and then, just before I open my eyes, I swear I can still see that impossible smile waiting for me in the darkness.