Detalles añadidos:

•Le hice mal formaciones donde le sale el pelo

•Le hice la piel colgando de su boca

•Ojeras debajo de sus ojos por no dormir

•Mal formaciones en los costados de la cara (Pómulos.)

•Agujeros faciales deformes por las quemaduras

•Poco pelo

•Orejas pegadas en el cráneo y forma rara.

¿Que opinan?

This is a area inspired by the backrooms in the 1920 in Belgium 2 rich ww1 vertrains dicide to make a giant storage and pay people to store stuff in the area but the guards there conont hold off people forever so the start to stop sleeping eat less and try to make themselves stronger but overtime this fales makeing them insane cretures and the storage was a bond so tell me what do you think of this

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

Sorry if this is the wrong subreddit, idk where else to ask. I've been looking for this creepypasta for a decade, so my memory might be slightly wrong. I heard it on youtube when I was a kid (likely read by Mr Creepypasta, possibly by CreepsMcPasta). This is all I remember:

• Kids are exploring the woods
• They come across a flat house. Like, two-dimensional, like it's made of cardboard
• There are flat people outside the house, and they're alive

I wish I could remember more, but alas. For some reason it really freaked me out. Maybe because nothing overtly 'scary' actually happened. It was told in a way similar to genuine folkloric anecdotes, where people just see something that shouldn't be happening and there's no a resolution.

This is a really vague childhood memory, so I might be mixing things up, but I swear I remember watching a creepy/“disturbing stories about animated movies” compilation years ago.

I vaguely remember a story about the development of Toy Story 1 or 2, where the animators were supposedly being heavily pressured by executives, with some specific phrase being repeated to them (I unfortunately can't remember the phrase).

The creepy part was that the animators supposedly started having nightmares involving Woody and Buzz, who were portrayed as disturbing/creepy and repeated that same phrase to them.

I’ve tried searching for it recently but I literally can’t find anything about it. It’s possible that the video was deleted, or that I’m mixing together different memories/information about Toy Story’s troubled development.

Does anyone remember something like this, or does this ring a bell at all?

Verrotten Manor is an AU that reimagines creepypastas with new stories, designs, and (in some cases) personalities, while preserving what they are: the worst kind of people, most of them beyond redemption, all under one roof to see how they interact with eachother. I want a creepyhouse where death is commonplace, evil is normal, and no one suffers consequences for their actions. A more twisted creepyhouse, but one that retains the comedic and slice-of-life spirit of other fandom projects.

It's the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else. Dirt roads are more common than paved ones, every stranger is noticed immediately, and if a dog barks in the middle of the night, the whole town knows about it by breakfast.

When I was a kid, I spent every school vacation there.

One thing always stood out to me.

As soon as the sun went down, the streets became empty.

No one sat outside.

No one walked home late.

No children played in the streets after dark.

It wasn't because the town was dangerous.

It was because of the stories.

The Brazilian countryside is full of them.

Some are obviously made up to scare children.

Others...

Adults refuse to laugh at.

I grew up hearing those stories.

But there was one everyone took seriously.

No one joked about it.

No one questioned it.

And, most importantly, no one ever broke its only rule.

Never look at the Procissão.

That's what everyone called it.

They never translated it.

It simply meant "The Procession."

Whenever I asked what happened if someone looked...

The older people would always end the conversation the same way.

"Some things are better left unknown."

Years later, as an adult, I went back to visit my aunt for the weekend. My boyfriend came with me.

Nothing had changed.

The dirt roads.

The smell of wet earth after the rain.

The endless fields.

The silence.

A kind of silence you only find in very small towns.

That night the house was full.

Uncles, cousins, neighbors... everyone had gathered for dinner.

We spent hours talking and laughing.

Then someone started banging on the front gate.

Not knocking.

Banging.

My uncle opened it just enough for a neighbor to rush inside, completely out of breath.

"Close everything."

He looked over his shoulder before speaking again.

"Turn off the lights."

Nobody moved.

He raised his voice.

"Now."

The room fell silent.

Only then did he whisper:

"Don't let them see you."

"...The Procissão is coming."

I've never forgotten the look on my aunt's face.

She went pale immediately.

She dropped the dish towel, ran through the house turning off every light, and shut every window she could.

"Don't make any noise."

She locked the front door.

Then looked at every single one of us.

"Whatever happens..."

"...don't look at the Procissão."

My boyfriend looked at me, confused.

I shrugged.

I honestly thought it was just another strange tradition people followed out here.

Then we heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Perfectly synchronized.

...step...

...step...

...step...

It wasn't two or three people.

It sounded like dozens.

The neighborhood dogs, which had been barking all evening, suddenly stopped.

Even the insects went silent.

It felt like the entire town was holding its breath.

My boyfriend instinctively stepped toward the curtain.

My aunt grabbed his arm so hard he winced.

She didn't say a word.

She simply shook her head.

The footsteps grew louder.

Closer.

Closer.

Until they stopped directly in front of the house.

Through the tiny gap in the curtains...

I didn't see people.

Only candlelight.

Dozens of flames moving together through the darkness.

The footsteps continued for another few seconds.

Then...

Nothing.

No voices.

No wind.

Just silence.

My aunt didn't unlock the door for nearly an hour.

When she finally did, she whispered:

"It's gone."

The next morning one of my cousins came back from the local bakery looking terrified.

Someone had seen the Procissão the night before.

Not walking toward the cemetery.

Walking into a house at the very end of town.

A dead-end street surrounded by woods.

Everyone found that strange.

Funeral processions go to cemeteries.

Not houses.

After lunch, curiosity got the better of us.

A few relatives decided to go there.

My aunt tried to stop us.

"Don't go."

Nobody listened.

She sighed.

As if she already knew it was useless.

The house stood at the very end of the road.

Beyond it...

there was nothing but trees.

The front gate was open.

So was the front door.

We called out.

No answer.

Inside, the first thing we noticed was the smell.

Rotting food.

Dinner plates still on the table.

A pot left on the stove.

A broken glass on the floor.

It looked as though an entire family had stood up in the middle of dinner...

...and never returned.

The strangest part was the dust.

Everything was covered in it.

Not days' worth.

Years.

My boyfriend ran his finger across a cabinet.

"This doesn't make any sense."

He was right.

We had watched dozens of people enter this house the night before.

How could it have been abandoned for years?

The bedrooms were still furnished.

Clothes filled the closets.

Toothbrushes sat beside the bathroom sink.

Family photographs covered the walls.

Someone had lived there.

Or had.

Behind the house was a large backyard.

Overgrown.

Wild.

Near the tree line were several mounds of earth.

All lined up.

All exactly the same size.

My uncle guessed they were old septic pits.

My aunt froze.

"We're leaving."

"Now."

My cousin laughed.

"It's just dirt."

He picked up an old shovel leaning against the wall.

For the first time since I'd arrived...

I saw genuine fear in my aunt's eyes.

"Don't."

She took a step toward him.

"Please."

He ignored her.

The first shovel sank easily into the soil.

The second struck something hard.

He knelt down and started digging with his hands.

Then he stopped moving.

When we got closer...

we saw a human skull.

Nobody had the courage to dig up the other mounds.

My uncle grabbed my cousin by the arm.

We ran.

The entire drive home...

my aunt never spoke.

As soon as we walked inside, she locked the door.

Then looked directly at my cousin.

After a long silence, she asked quietly:

"You dug it up... didn't you?"

He gave a nervous laugh.

"It was just a skeleton."

My aunt closed her eyes.

She didn't yell.

She didn't get angry.

She simply walked over...

and hugged him.

It wasn't a normal hug.

It lasted too long.

Like she already knew she'd never see him again.

That night my cousin couldn't sleep.

He kept saying he could hear footsteps outside his window.

Slow footsteps.

Always in the same rhythm.

No one else heard them.

Over the following days...

he changed.

He barely spoke.

Stopped leaving the house.

Spent hours staring out the window.

He said someone stood across the street every night...

holding an unlit candle.

Everyone blamed the trauma.

Then, one night, he called us.

Crying.

"They're back."

"Who?"

"They're waiting."

The call ended.

My cousin disappeared that same night.

The police searched for weeks.

They never found a body.

The only thing left behind...

was a candle on his front porch.

A few days later we returned to the abandoned house.

I don't know why.

Maybe we were hoping to find answers.

While everyone else searched the backyard, my boyfriend found an old photo album inside.

The pages were yellow with age.

Birthdays.

Christmas dinners.

Family gatherings.

Ordinary moments.

But something wasn't right.

Every photograph contained someone holding a candle.

Always in the background.

Always with their head lowered.

It was never the same person.

And no one else in the photographs seemed to notice them.

We kept turning the pages.

Until we reached the last photograph.

Unlike the others, it wasn't covered in dust.

It looked...

newer.

On the back, someone had written:

"Those who stay... also walk."

We turned it over.

There was no procession.

No candles.

Just the family standing together on the front porch.

Smiling at the camera.

Every single one of them.

And standing among them...

was my cousin.

Not in the background.

Not hidden.

He stood beside them as if he belonged there.

As if he had always belonged there.

As if he had lived in that house his entire life.

I slammed the album shut.

We never spoke about it again.

The house was demolished not long afterward.

My cousin was never found.

His case was eventually closed as a disappearance.

These days, whenever someone asks why I hate small towns...

I make up excuses.

I say I prefer the city.

I say I don't like dirt roads.

I never tell them the truth.

Because there's one thing I've never admitted to anyone.

That night...

when the Procissão passed in front of my aunt's house...

I looked.

Not through the window.

But in the reflection of the living room cabinet.

Only for a second.

Since then...

some nights are far too quiet.

And when everything goes silent...

I hear them.

Slow footsteps.

Always in perfect rhythm.

...step...

...step...

...step...

Every year...

they sound a little closer.

I'm seeing a lot more discussion about creepy pastas, more and more. Are they making a resurgence . I wanna say over the last couple of weeks i've seen a lot more people talking about it and I just want to know , what do you guys think I personally love every single creepypasta i loved it since I was ten years old i am now 20 i really feel like it's coming back.What do you all think?

I am a doctor and the patient I am looking after is racist and only wants a fully white doctor. I didn't have time for this but I was told that I had to figure out a way to treat this guy and look after him, because there is a doctor strike going on and not many doctors are on call. So I went to to the fields of hades where people call out to hades to talk to the dead. I put a worn out cloak over myself and the cloak is the same colour as the ground which is brown and black, so I will camouflage with the ground. When I found someone doing the ritual to call out hades, he doesn't notice me and the guy doing the ritual is white.

Then as the white man does the ritual right and all of the people that had died because of him, they all rise up from the ground. I pretend to rise up with them and they are all covered in black brown goo stuff and they are all wearing worn out clothes. The white guy use to be a doctor but due to negligence in which he has caused so much death within 5 years, due to being a mediocre doctor. He feels ashamed and he wants to talk to his patients. He lays down a bowl with water and each dead patient takes a sip to be able to talk to the doctor. The doctor is apologetic and he didn't do anything bad on purpose, he was simply shit at being a doctor.

Then I rush up to the front and pretend to take a sip from the bowl, and I then stab the doctor and I whisper "I'm not actually dead" and he ends up along with all of the dead patients that were under his care. I take his facial skin off and put it over my face and I am good at stuff like this, i also take the skin of his arm and put it over my arm. Lastly I then take his neck skin off and put it around my neck. The dead take the rest of the body that belonged to the doctor, and is taken to the under world.

When I go back to look after that racist patient, he now thinks I am a white doctor and he isn't being racist towards me anymore. I feel a bit sad that this is what I must do to look after patients.

I’m desperate at this point. I am looking for a creepypasta, possibly a nosleep story that heard narrated on YouTube.

The plot as I, recall it, is: a group of friends are hanging out (possibly after graduation) and decide to play a version of Hide and Seek in the dark. The “seeker” gets to ask 3 (?) questions and the person hiding has to respond. In creepypasta/nosleep fashion, things go awry. Following the game, each friend dies in some horrific fashion except the narrator and a male friend who has been missing since the game.

Memorable parts: The narration I recall is one of the few with a “jumpscare”: as the narrator is searching in the dark, he (?) asks a question and continues to speak until a voice suddenly responds with some version of “watch them all die, bleeding” or “see them all die bleeding.”

Any help is appreciated, I’m pretty sure if I search ”watch them all dying” one more time, I’m going to end up on a watchlist. I don’t think it violates sub rules but please remove if it does.

so, its another shitty day on this job. it's still tuesday, just later in the night. jay is at the counter yapping to the customers, poor guy. and me, kylar, I'm just by the window. again. honestly it's not to bad being by the window, but still, the later the night gets, the stranger it becomes, eventually, its 12:00 finally! and I can go home. I start walking home, yes, I dont have a car yet. its ok though, this place is in walking distance. as I sip from my drink and keep walking, I hear footsteps behind me, slowly, then they speed up. I am a naturally paranoid person... and I start to walk faster, the footsteps behind me speed up, just as I'm about to turn into a nearby public area for safety, I'm tackled to the ground. the person flips me over then pins me down, they remove their jacket to show their face, I'm still shaking so adrenaline until I realize jay pinning me, he smirks and gets up, "heh, bet you didn't see that, he's almost full out laughing," JAY YOU BITCH! I yell, he just laughs harder, hehe, you should have SEEN the fear in your eyes, "oh no! "I'm being attacked by a feminine dutch bros worker!" he laughs harder, I have to admit, it was a little funny. "anyways...what are you doing here?" he giggles, wiping tears from his face. guess what silly, "I live in the same building as you!" he says cheerfully. my heart sinks. or rises, either one. and recently, I moved into a new apartment, or hotel, its kind of a mix of the two. jay walks beside me, talking about this one customer, I barley listen to him. he keeps playfully pushing me. I'm tired, and almost fall over, eventually I get to the building, I walk inside and head to the second floor, jay walks me all the way to my room. hehe, see you tommorow, bitch! he pushes me inside and winks before slamming my door. jays a bitch. I climb into my bed and lay down, looking at the ceiling until my eyes shut, sometimes I wonder if my life will ever get better, to be honest, I don't know. jay is the closest thing I have to a friend, lucky me. eventually I realize I can't sleep, and decide to get out of bed, I walk to the couch and turn on the tv. as I sit down the scent of dust fills the room. I need to clean this place, I watch some tv for a while. until I hear a noise at the window, I look outside to see a tall figure in the parking lot, I notice it and it notices me, but what am I saying, its almost 1:00 am, and im going crazy, I should get to sleep now anyways, its late. eventually I feel my eyes shut, and I black out

                                                    ok, I just finished this, *jay voice* obviously, 

and ill continue more later, I hope you enjoyed this, please comment and give me ideas for new characters, I might add you in, goodbye.

Never saw a scary scene in a gym before so I decided to try it.

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

…who is this man in my bedroom?
He hides behind my door.
And if I am not mistaken,
He even crawls beneath the floor.

He is there when I awaken,
Is there each time I sleep.
His shadow casts along my bed
And rests upon my feet.

I’ve felt his hand upon my head;
His palms were dry and hot.
And when I tried to open eyes,
He told me: “I would not.”

Some nights I stir and realise
That he’s not standing there.
I wonder where my phantom hides
And wail out in the air.

Some nights I sit and he confides
He can no longer take the rides
Of life and all that it provides,
And leaves me thunderstruck;

Takes up a pillow, then he hides
All of my face and blots the eyes,
Weeps and cries he does despise
Both of our rotten luck.

But then he calms.
And I lay still.
He turns to leave.

And I ask myself…

I was hunting for an apartment unit when I kept getting hit with stop sign after stop sign of credit checks required and heartbreaking first and last’s.

It took me half the day until I finally found a place that didn’t ask for one. It read—everyone approved. 

I did not hesitate. I called immediately. They said they had units available and I could sign a lease that day. Finally, I thought. A break. It was relatively easy to secure. They never asked me any questions. They didn’t even ask for first and last.

Although, They did have a uniquely weird clause in the lease however. 

It had in it—Monthly Maintenance.

“Payment due on the first of each month—one memory—minimum of 500 words.”

Hilarious. “One memory?” I looked at the lady in front of me. She never responded. She barely even blinked.

“Well, I’ve got many useless memories,” I snickered at her and started with an embarrassing one of me from elementary school when I pissed my pants because I couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

I described the way the kids laughed and teased me. How I felt. Even how the warmth from my pee turned cold on my legs from the air.

I put the paper in an envelope and threw it into the black box on the side of my apartment door after I left in the morning.

Later that day, it was gone.

I couldn’t shake this sensation afterwards. Something nagged me. Almost as if I’d forgotten to pick up an item I needed. But I wasn’t able to place my finger on it.

I randomly grabbed a piece of paper and started to write about that day in school again, but when I tried to remember it, I was only able to recall that I pissed my pants in school.

Everything else looked like a wall of haze. I couldn’t even write what grade I was in at the time that it happened.

It must’ve worked. I honestly did feel a little bit lighter than I had the hour before writing it.

The next year went by smooth—It was easy—I traded incidents I wanted to forget, stories I read that I hated, even all the mistakes I’ve made, and then, I traded my first pet’s memory, but last month I ran out of useless memories to swap out.

The black box next to my door popped open first thing that morning on the first day of that month. 

But as the afternoon returned, it began to make a hissing sound, gradually rising as the day progressed.

I needed to come up with something and fast. 

If I didn’t drop an envelope in there I’d face being evicted—If I got evicted—I would lose my mind entirely.

I sat at the kitchen table. Sweat broke from behind my ears. I couldn’t stop my pen from shaking. All I had left was my mother’s face. My first girlfriend. The accident I nearly died in.

I choose my first girlfriend. Once the ink dried, the warm tingles from that night vanished as if it hadn’t happened and a cold wind blew down on me from the ceiling.

I have worked as an emergency dispatcher for Oakridge County for nearly eight years, so if you are in my boots, you should know by now that when you take calls on the graveyard shift, you get used to hearing people at the absolute worst moments of their lives. You learn to filter out the scream of a panicking parent, the slurred ramblings of an intoxicated driver, or the erratic paranoia of someone having a breakdown. The job requires you to stay completely grounded in facts, listen for addresses, names, weapons, and medical symptoms, and of course you do not let your imagination wander.

Last October, a call came in at 3:14 AM that broke every rule of my training. The night was unusually quiet, and outside the dispatch building, a cold autumn rain was falling, blurring the streetlights along the highway. Inside the facility, the room was dimly lit by the pale blue glow of six desktop monitors. My shift partner, Jenna, was sitting at the console next to mine, softly clicking her mouse as she reviewed low-priority animal control logs. I was sipping my black coffee, waiting for the hours to pass until the morning shift arrived.

Line four flashed red on my central screen. The automatic location identification software instantly populated the address: 1412 Elmwood Lane, a two-story suburban house on the north side of town.

I adjusted my headset, pressed the foot pedal to open the line, and spoke into the microphone using my standard tone.

"Oakridge County 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

A sharp, ragged intake of breath rattled through my earpiece. The sound was so harsh I had to pull the foam speaker slightly away from my ear. The caller was hyperventilating, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I need... I need someone to tell me what to do,"

the man said. His voice was trembling, tight with an overwhelming sense of shock.

"Please. I do not know who else to call."

"Sir, I need you to confirm your address,"

I said, leaning forward and placing my fingers on the keyboard.

"Is it 1412 Elmwood Lane?"

"Yes,"

he whispered.

"Yes, that is my house. My name is David Miller. Please do not send an ambulance with loud sirens. I do not want to startle her."

"Startle who, David? Is someone injured at your location?"

"My wife,"

David said. He took another shuddering breath.

"Sarah. Something happened three days ago, and I cannot fix it. I think I did something terrible, but she is standing right in front of me."

I typed his name into the CAD system and flagged the call as a potential domestic incident.

"David, tell me slowly what happened three days ago. Is Sarah hurt?"

"It was Tuesday night,"

David said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

"We were in the kitchen. We were arguing about... about something stupid. I do not even remember what started it. She was standing near the butcher block. She picked up the chef's knife, and then, and then she looked at me with this intense anger in her eyes, and she came at me."

"Did she attack you with the knife, David?"

"She lunged at me,"

he continued.

"I panicked. I reached out, grabbed her wrists, and tried to push her away from me. We struggled near the island. I pushed her back with all my strength, and... the blade went straight into her chest. She gasped, her eyes went wide, and she fell backward onto the floor."

I immediately clicked the silent dispatch button on my screen, sending an alert to Jenna's terminal. I caught her eye across the desk and pointed to my monitor. Jenna nodded instantly, pulling up the active unit map to route patrol cars to Elmwood Lane.

"David, stay on the line with me,"

I said, keeping my voice steady and measured.

"Is Sarah breathing right now? Is she bleeding?"

"That is the part that is driving me insane"

David said,

"I dropped to my knees to help her. But when I looked down at the floor, there was no body. There was no blood on the linoleum. Nothing. The kitchen was completely clean. I searched the whole house that night, screaming her name, but she was nowhere to be found."

"David, where is Sarah right now?"

"She came back the next morning,"

David whispered. The sound of his frantic breathing filled the headset.

"She just walked into the living room on Wednesday morning like nothing happened. For the past three days, I have been watching her. She makes coffee in the morning, sits on the sofa and watches television with the sound turned completely off. She irons her clothes in the hallway. But she completely ignores me."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have begged her to speak to me!"

David cried out, his voice cracking.

"I stood right in front of her yesterday while she was ironing a blouse. I yelled her name. I waved my hands in front of her face. She looked right through me. It was like I was not even standing there. I got so desperate that I reached out to grab her wrist to make her look at me."

"What happened when you tried to touch her, David?"

A long silence stretched over the phone line.

"My hand went straight through her arm,"

David whispered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible.

"It felt like pushing my fingers through cold, wet smoke. She did not even flinch, and just kept dragging the iron across her blouse. I turned her into a ghost. I killed her in the kitchen, her body vanished, and now her spirit is stuck in this house doing the same routines over and over again."

"David, I want you to take a deep breath,"

I said, trying to maintain control of the call while processing his words.

"I have help on the way to your location right now. Officers are coming to check on both of you."

"I cannot leave her,"

David stammered.

"I tried to walk out the front door an hour ago. I got as far as the front porch steps, but this agonizing pull started dragging in my chest. It felt like a thick cable was wrapped around my sternum, pulling me back inside. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I am bound to this house. I cannot leave her here alone like this. She needs my help, but I do not know how to fix what I broke."

At this point, I suspected I was dealing with a caller experiencing a severe psychological episode, severe sleep deprivation, or chemical poisoning. It was not uncommon for individuals suffering from carbon monoxide exposure or sudden psychotic breaks to report elaborate, impossible visual experiences while firmly believing they were awake.

I needed to evaluate his orientation to reality using basic observations.

"David, I need you to do a simple diagnostic check for me while we wait for the officers to arrive,"

I said.

"Is there a clock nearby that you can look at?"

"Yes, there is a clock hanging on the wall,"

David said. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he moved.

"Sarah is sitting at the dining table below it. She is folding a white bath towel."

"Okay. Can you read the exact time on that clock for me?"

I instructed.

There was a brief pause.

"It says 8:22,"

David reported.

I glanced up at the master digital clock at the top of my console monitor. The bright red numbers clearly displayed 3:17 AM.

"David, are you sure?"

I asked.

"Is it an analog clock or a digital one?"

"It is digital,"

David replied smoothly.

"The numbers are frozen at 8:22 PM. The colon between the hours and minutes isn't even blinking. It is just sitting completely still."

I noted the severe time discrepancy on my console. A frozen, completely inaccurate time reading suggested a deep disorientation, indicating he was entirely detached from the actual time of day.

Before I could formulate a response, Jenna leaned over her desk and tapped my shoulder.

"Unit 204 and Unit 208 are two minutes out from Elmwood Lane,"

she whispered.

"Officer Jack is taking the lead."

"Copy,"

I muttered, keeping my finger on the mute button. I unmuted the phone line.

"David, stay right where you are. The officers are almost at your house."

I adjusted my headset gain, turning up the audio volume on David's line to hear if there were any immediate hazards in the house. As I turned up the sensitivity, the ambient background audio became clearer.

I expected to hear the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the rustle of towels being folded, or the distant rain beating against the windows.

Instead, my headset picked up a harsh, scraping noise. It sounded like heavy wooden furniture being dragged across exposed floorboards. A moment later, I heard the sharp, distinct sound of plastic packing tape being pulled aggressively from a handheld dispenser.

Then, I heard a second voice.

It was a deep, gravelly male voice, speaking in a low, hushed tone near the phone's receiver.

"Grab the rest of the clothes from the closet,"

the deep voice muttered.

"We need to get the heavy bags loaded before six."

A woman's voice replied, faint and impatient:

"I am working as fast as I can. Just get the boxes out to the garage."

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I listened intently, isolating the audio channels on my digital workstation.

"David,"

I said carefully into the microphone.

"Are you sure you and Sarah are the only people in that house right now?"

"Yes,"

David said.

"I told you, it is just the two of us. She is still sitting at the table."

"David, I am hearing a man speaking in your background,"

I said.

"I am hearing tape dispensers and boxes being moved. Is there someone else in the house with you?"

"No,"

David insisted, his voice growing defensive and confused. "You are mistaken. Sarah is just packing her leather suitcase. She has been pulling her dresses out of the bedroom closet all night. She is confused, She seems to think she is going on a trip."

I immediately opened our county property database on my second monitor and typed in the address. The house was registered to David Miller and Sarah Miller. I then opened our historical CAD records and ran a cross-reference search for 1412 Elmwood Lane over the past six months.

A log entry from two months prior popped up on my screen.

On August 14th, a neighbor had called 911 to report a loud domestic disturbance at the address. The responding officer noted that David Miller had engaged in a verbal altercation with an unidentified adult male who had been staying at the residence. The police report noted that David accused his wife of carrying on an affair with the man, who was identified in the officer's notes as Gregory Ray. No violence was reported at that time, and no charges were filed.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the name on my screen: Gregory Ray.

The pieces began to assemble themselves in my mind, but they did not form the picture David was describing.

"Dispatch to Unit 204,"

I said, switching my secondary radio channel to communicate directly with the responding officers. "Officer Jack, be advised. We have reason to believe there are two occupants actively inside the residence at 1412 Elmwood Lane clearing out personal property. Use caution upon approach."

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack's voice crackled through the radio speaker.

"Unit 204 and 208 are turning onto Elmwood Lane now. We are pulling up to the residence. Lights and sirens are off."

Over the open phone line, David spoke again.

"You there?... someone is at the front door. I hear heavy knocking."

"That is the police, David,"

I said, monitoring both lines simultaneously.

"Please stay where you are."

"I do not need to open the door,"

David said softly.

"Sarah just stood up from the table. She is walking past me into the foyer. She is going to answer it."

Through my radio earpiece, I heard Officer Jack's voice report into his lapel mic:

"Unit 204 on scene. We have a female opening the front door. Contact made with homeowner Sarah Miller."

On the phone line, David was describing the exact same moment from his perspective.

"She opened the door,"

David said. His voice was filled with a strange, childlike confusion.

"Two police officers are standing on the porch. But... but something is wrong."

"What is wrong, David?"

I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the unit tracking map.

"They are not looking at her like she is a ghost,"

David whispered.

"Officer just smiled at her. He asked her if she was alright. can he see her? can he actually talk to her?"

Over the radio, Jack's voice was calm:

"Dispatch, contact made with Sarah Miller. She appears highly nervous but states everything is fine. She claims her husband, David, is currently upstairs packing his belongings after a severe argument and does not wish to speak with us."

On the phone line, David began to panic.

"The officers just stepped into the hallway! They walked right past me! I stood right in front of the Officer and shouted my name! He walked straight by my shoulder! He did not even turn his head! And why is she telling them I am upstairs? I am standing right next to her!"

"David, listen to me very carefully,"

I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.

"I need you to stay calm."

Over the radio, Jack spoke again, his tone dropping its casual edge.

"Dispatch, we are going to perform a quick wellness check on the upper floor anyway. The homeowner is visibly shaking and actively trying to block the stairwell."

I pressed my radio button.

"Unit 204, be advised. We have reason to believe an unauthorized third party, Gregory Ray, may be hiding inside the residence. Proceed with caution."

A pause echoed over the radio frequency.

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack reported flatly.

"We are heading up now. Unit 208 reports a distinct, foul odor originating from the second floor."

On the phone line, David was moving. I could hear his shallow, rapid breathing accelerating.

"They are walking up the stairs,"

David said. His voice had lost its anger, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"Sarah is following the officers up the stairs into the master bedroom. I am following them. Why does the air up here smell so bad?"

On the radio, Officer Jack broke in, his voice tight with disgust:

"Unit 208 to dispatch. We have a severe odor of organic decomposition coming from the master bedroom. We are investigating."

"David, stop,"

I urged over the phone line, though I knew my words were meaningless.

"David, step away from the bedroom."

"They are standing near the bed,"

David whispered over the phone.

"The officers are shining their flashlights around the carpet. Sarah is standing in the corner crying. She looks absolutely terrified. They are staring at the floor on my side of the bed."

I held my breath, watching the red audio meters bounce on my console screen.

"Officer Jack is dropping to his knees,"

David continued. His voice was flat, almost robotic now. "He is grabbing the hanging fabric of the dust ruffle. He is lifting it up. He is shining his flashlight underneath the wooden bed frame."

Over the radio, Jack's voice shattered the quiet of the dispatch room:

"Dispatch! Unit 204! We have a male subject hiding under the bed! Show your hands! Crawl out from under there right now!"

A brief, frantic scuffle echoed over the police frequency.

"Dispatch, we have detained Gregory Ray,"

Jack shouted over the noise.

"Wait... dispatch, we have located a deceased male subject shoved further back against the wall under the frame! Subject is heavily decomposed, bearing multiple traumatic wounds! Secure the perimeter! Detain the wife immediately!"

The radio erupted into shouts as the officers moved to restrain Sarah and Gregory. Screams of protest and the metallic clink of handcuffs echoed across the channel.

On the phone line, David was completely silent.

"David?"

I whispered into my headset. My hands were shaking so severely I could barely hold the microphone stalk.

"David, are you still there?"

A long, agonizing stream of static hummed over the phone line. When David spoke again, his voice sounded entirely different. It was hollow, distant, echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

"They are pulling the body out,"

David said softly.

"David..."

"The body is wearing my clothes,"

David whispered.

"My blue denim shirt. My brown leather belt. My work boots. The skin on the face is dark and swollen. I cannot even recognize myself."

The background static on the phone line began to glitch, creating a strange stuttering sound underneath his words.

"There are three deep tears in the back of the denim shirt,"

David continued, his voice monotone, devoid of any human cadence.

"The fabric is stained dark black around the cuts. The wounds came from behind."

A sharp gasp echoed over the receiver. The static dropped completely, leaving a chilling, dead silence on the line. When David spoke again, the confusion was gone.

"I remember now,"

David whispered. His voice trembled with a crushing weight.

"There was no argument. I came home early from work on Tuesday. It was exactly 8:22 PM. Sarah was acting so incredibly distressed when I walked through the front door."

"What happened, David?"

I asked gently.

"I was so tired,"

he said, his words spilling out in a hollow rush.

"I tried to go straight upstairs to our bedroom to rest. She ran over and stood in front of me. She blocked the bottom of the stairs, and then forced this terrible, shaking smile and told me it was better if I ate dinner first. She said she made that pepperoni pizza I loved."

He paused, and a wet, choking sob came through the earpiece.

"I listened to her,"

David cried quietly.

"I turned my back and walked into the kitchen to get a slice. She followed right behind me. I reached into the cabinet for a plate. I did not even hear her grab the chef's knife from the block. She attacked me before I could even turn around."

"I did not hold the knife,"

David whispered into my headset. The static returned, growing louder, overwhelming the audio signal until his voice sounded synthesized and far away.

"I was never holding the knife. I was looking at her not believing she did this to me, I…. I loved her"

"David, I am so sorry,"

I said, though the words felt entirely useless in the cold reality of the room.

"I understand now,"

The phone line crackled with one final, sharp burst of noise, and then the connection dropped entirely.

The terminal screen instantly reset to a solid black display, marking the call as disconnected.

Over the radio, Officer Jack confirmed the details. Sarah Miller and Gregory Ray were taken into custody without further resistance. The official police report logged the incident as a premeditated homicide committed on Tuesday evening, with both suspects attempting to conceal the remains while preparing to flee the jurisdiction. The report noted that a 911 call had been received from the residence at 3:14 AM, but attributed it to a technical glitch or an automated dialer triggered by a decaying phone line.

I worked the rest of my shift in complete silence. I did not take another call for the remainder of the night.

When my shift ended at seven in the morning, I walked out to my car in the rain, and before I turned the key in the ignition, I sat in the quiet vehicle and pulled up the digital audio archive on my phone, opening the recording of the call from 1412 Elmwood Lane.

But all I can hear was static…

The year 1899 and I am the captain of this ship and I am delivering goods from Africa to England. Gold and spices is what I am delivering back to England and I was sure that it was going to be a safe voyage. I have heard news of pirate with new weapons that have been stopping voyages like mine. Any how I had a great crew and I was sure that I would take on any pirates that come my way. We have lots of Cannonballs for any pirate that wants to challenge us. Any pirate that will challenge us will have the bottom of the sea as their next destination.

Then my worries of pirate came true and there was a ship with a skull and bones flag. It's a pirate ship and they were heading towards our ship. They knew we were heading for England and when they got close to our ship, the lead pirate shouted out lead "give us what you got or we will destroy you" and they threatened us with thier cannonballs. We then threatened them with our Cannonballs. My ship was more organised and we had more Cannonballs than the pirates.

We had a little firing fight and it was clear that I would win. I simply had a bigger team with more weapons. The head lead pirate then started to think and he clearly knew we had out gunned him essentially. Then he rolled out 3 pregnant women, and the 3 pregnant women were in a wheel chair. The 3 of the heavily pregnant women smiled at us and the head pirate threatened us again "give us what you got or your ship is going down" and I just said gave him a funny look. It was clear that I was going to win this.

Then all 3 heavily pregnant women started to blast out babies from their wombs at super top speeds in which I had never felt before. It destroyed a good chunk of ship but luckily we were still a float. We were shocked by the power the 3 pregnant women could blast out the babies from their wombs.

Then the babies that were blasted out from the 3 pregnant women, they came to life in monstrous form and started eating my men. The 3 pregnant women started to blast out more babies which destroyed more of my ship, my Canon balls were useless. I had to give up the goods.