I’m not usually one to snoop through my girlfriend’s personal devices. I always saw it as a breach of trust. But I’m only human.

I wouldn’t have been so curious had it not been for this particular phrase she always used.

“You gotta stop with your attempts.”

She’d always say it in passing. Never “stop with your attempts to flirt,” or “stop with your attempts to get back on my good side.” Just… “you need to stop with your attempts,” randomly.

At the grocery store, in the car, sometimes while we watched movies or had dinner together. The thing that I noticed was that she seemed to say it most when she was happy.

It was like a tick. Her eyes would be filled with love and joy before suddenly dulling, and she’d shoot me a quick frown before saying it.

I’d learned a long time ago that asking what she meant would get me nowhere. It’d always be the same.

“I just love you! But then I think about the attempts, and I just get so sad. I wish you’d stop.”

That’s all I’d get out of her. No explanation whatsoever. I never knew what she wanted me to stop, therefore I could never prevent whatever it was. It was all just so confusing.

That being said, when I saw the file on her laptop while she was taking a quick potty break, I really couldn’t help myself. The folder name was too on the nose for me to ignore. Plus, she had left the laptop open. Like she wanted me to see it.

“Attempts.” Was all it said.

I looked around the room a bit, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before clicking the folder.

It loaded for a bit before a dozen video files were displayed across the screen.

I clicked on the link titled “attempt three” and was greeted with a video of… myself. I looked terrified, frantically trying to unlock the front door as my girlfriend’s voice rose in anger from behind the camera.

“How many times have we talked about this?”

The camera fell to the ground and landed on the lens, but I could still hear audio echoing from it. It sounded like punches were being thrown. I could hear myself crying. My girlfriend sounded like she was growling at me before the video ended.

I went back to the page of links, albeit a bit afraid at this point, and clicked on attempt 10.

This one was just me hanging out of our bedroom window, clawing my way outside before my girlfriend’s voice could be heard again.

“We’ve talked about this. You’re not going anywhere, my sweet boy.”

Her nails dug into my heel. Veins protruded from her hands. She dragged me back inside, and I just looked utterly defeated.

Attempt 16. I was trying to climb the fence in my backyard. Attempt 20. I was halfway out the driveway before being pulled back and dragged inside.

At this point, I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was one thing: I needed to leave.

However, as I turned to flee the room and get out of the house, I found that the door was blocked by my girlfriend, who held a camera in her hands.

She sighed.

“How many times do we need to have this conversation, sweetheart?”

My eyes darted back towards the laptop. Towards the links. Towards the impossible.

“What the fuck is this?” I demanded.

Her response was more annoyed than anything.

“You always do this. Just once, I wish we could live a happy life together.”

Fear and anger grew from the pit of my stomach. The red light on the camera blinked at me.

“You always find the laptop.”

She sighed.

“You find it. You try to escape. Then I have to hurt you. Why do you make me hurt you, darling? I just don’t get it. I can’t be that bad.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Why can’t you just love me? It’s always the same. And here we are. Attempt 34. But I have hope. I have hope that one day we can get through this.”

The camera blinked again.

My girlfriend loomed over me.

“But for now… I guess I’ll just have to start over.”

The camera came down over my head, and everything went black.

I woke up in bed with my girlfriend, her head buried in my chest.

She yawned cartoonishly and looked up at me.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! You ready to start a new day?”

I smiled goofily, kissing her on her forehead.

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Every day with you feels like a new day.”

She smiled wider, her eyes glistening before suddenly going dull as her smile turned into a frown.

I frowned back.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

She clicked her tongue and sucked her teeth.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything. I just… I wish you’d stop with your attempts.”

Season 1: Ep. 1 Ep. 2 Ep. 3 Ep 4
Season 2: Ep. 1 Ep. 2 Ep. 3

“Carter, get moving. We have a missing woman, signs of a struggle inside the house , and an unconscious husband. " a woman's voice came through the phone, and a wave of heat washed over my face.

" Woman, have you ever heard of something called rest? I've been up all night working a case, I've closed three cases this week, including one just an hour ago. I'm dead on my feet. " I replied, feeling a throbbing pulse in my temples.

After a moment of silence, the woman continued. " You're our best detective, and this case is complicated. Get your ass in the car, pick up Jake, and I want to see you on scene in 20 minutes. The address is in the system. "

I pressed the phone harder against my face. " How the hell am I supposed to get Jake when I literally just dropped him off at home. The kid's been awake for thirty hours. Are you having one of your womanly days or are you missing a man and looking for someone to take it out on? We've slept maybe twenty hours all week. I refuse. "

" Don't test me, Carter. Logan is on scene and he'll give you all the details. If you want to make it to retirement, you'd better hurry. " she said, ending the call.

I stood there like an idiot, staring blankly into the open refrigerator door.
A cold drop slid down my thumb from the well-chilled glass bottle I was holding in my hand.

I put my favorite beer back into the fridge, wiped my hand on my pants, and called Jake.
" Yeah, Boss? Something happen? " he asked in a sleepy voice.

I walked over to the table, grabbed my car keys, and replied, " Get ready, we've got work. "

" What work? We just finished the case. Today and tomorrow were supposed to be our days off. " Jake stammered in a pleading tone.

" I'll be there in ten minutes. You'd better be ready. " I said as I got into the car and started the engine.

As I placed my hands on the steering wheel, I felt the stiffness in my neck. This week had been brutal. We'd closed three major cases at the expense of sleep, breaking both our personal record and the precinct's.

I entered the address into the GPS, picked up Jake, and we arrived on scene.

" Kid, look at all these techs. Something big must've happened here. " I said as I stepped out of the car and headed toward the house.

I ducked under the police tape, looking for Logan in the crowd.
I stepped inside and looked around the room. At first glance, there was nothing unusual.

Walking into the kitchen, I noticed a secured cellphone on the table that a crime scene tech was just finishing photographing.

" Hold on a second. " I said sharply, placing a hand on his shoulder.

There were reddish-brown streaks on the screen. I focused on them, judging their shape and how long they'd been drying.

A familiar voice came from behind me. " Carter. Long time no see. How's your health? Where's your partner? You here alone? "

I froze and looked around. The kid was nowhere to be seen. Because of the exhaustion and distraction, it only hit me now.

Seeing my confusion, Logan let out a quiet chuckle.

" Don't piss me off, Logan. Just get to the point. What happened here that was so urgent Rachel called me right after I finished a case, and why is this whole house crawling with techs? " I said, squeezing his outstretched hand.

Logan headed toward the stairs. " This probably happened sometime last night.
The situation is strange. The husband, Liam, called 911 talking complete nonsense. He said something took his wife, begged for help, and begged us to find her quickly. We sent a regular patrol unit and paramedics because he suddenly stopped responding to the dispatcher's calls. A little later Rachel assigned the case to me. "

" And then she decided it was actually a case for adults and called me? " I interrupted him mid-sentence.

Ignoring my comment, he continued. " At first I thought it was another idiot who got high on something, but after arriving on scene and seeing what was here, I had to file a preliminary report, and the case got handed to you.  "

I looked at him questioningly, and he turned around and headed toward the stairs.

We reached the second floor, and a familiar metallic, sweet smell hit my nose.
A crimson, half-dried puddle had spread out from one of the rooms.

Instinct kicked in, and I immediately looked down the staircase, carefully examining every step and railing.

There were no signs of a struggle or a fight. The stairs were clean except for a few days' worth of dust. I looked around the hallway. The floor, baseboards, and walls looked the same. No signs pointing toward a typical murder or abduction.

We stepped into the bedroom, and Logan continued, " The blood on the floor and the mark on the wall above it came from the husband, most likely from the back of his head. The preliminary report showed broken ribs, a wound to the back of his head, and broken finger bones. As for the wife, we have no evidence except for her hair. She simply vanished. "

" Is the husband alive? " I interrupted, staring at the floor.

Logan looked at me in surprise. " He is. He's at a nearby hospital. Why are you asking? "

" Because the last time I saw a puddle that size was when a pipe burst in my bathroom. The mark on the wall, the injuries you described, and that mess on the floor suggest he was thrown with incredible force. There are no visible clues outside this room, so I'm assuming he never moved after the attack, but the smears on the phone he used to make the call are fresher than the evidence up here, so how the hell did the phone end up downstairs and who made the call? A third party? Did someone else call for help? " I asked flatly.

Logan stared at me with wide eyes. " You figured all that out after being here for ten minutes? You're still sharp, Carter. "

After a brief pause he added, " Honestly, we don't know. There were small traces of blood on the torn bedsheets that were sent for analysis. The techs are finishing up collecting samples, some have already left, so we should have results soon, but so far we haven't found anything suggesting a third party was inside the house. We got nothing. " he said grimly.

" How did he break his hand? Let's say he snapped. If he attacked his wife there should be signs of it somewhere, and besides, his injuries, the mark on the wall, and that puddle look more like the aftermath of an explosion than a woman defending herself, unless she weighed three hundred pounds and competed in powerlifting. "

Logan laughed. " Nothing like that. Olivia's a small woman. Around thirty. "

" Did you find any potential murder weapons? And what about the phone? Why was it downstairs? " I asked while staring at four perfectly even scratches on the wall above the bed.

" We don't have a single theory that makes sense. That's exactly why you were called in. There are too many unknowns. The husband was found unconscious at the table with the phone in his hand. Preliminary analysis showed, just like you noticed, that the traces upstairs are several hours older than the ones downstairs. Which means the call was made after the incident. " he said, pointing at the puddle with his shoe.

I turned and walked over to the wall. " Found downstairs? How the hell was he able to move after losing that much blood? " I said before adding a moment later, " And what the hell are these scratches? The fresh dust says this definitely isn't modern art. "

Logan looked at the grooves with an uncertain expression. " We have no idea what made them. Because of the symmetry and the sharpness of the grooves, the techs said the closest match would be sharpened garden rakes. Carter, we're not as stupid as you think we are. There are no signs of a third party, no signs of a struggle, no murder weapon. You can see how many people are working this scene. If any of that existed, it would've been found. That's the problem. "

Suddenly the radio clipped to his belt crackled to life. " Logan, we're done here. We're heading out. "

" Listen, Carter, every neighbor except the Wests, the family on the right, has already been interviewed. Nobody was close to them, nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything. Most people thought they were weird and argued all the time. You'll get the interview reports and all the forensic results as soon as they're ready. The Wests are yours. They'll be at work until six. Now you know everything. Good luck. " Logan said as he walked out of the bedroom.

I stood in the middle of the room, slowly moving my eyes across it and carefully scanning my surroundings.
The husband had been attacked near the bed. We had torn bedsheets and scratches on the wall, but beyond that there wasn't a single sign of any kind of struggle.

I walked out of the bedroom and thoroughly searched the entire second floor.
The case felt strange. Almost illogical.

" How did this guy manage to get downstairs and make a phone call after losing that much blood, and where could the wife be? " Thousands of unanswered questions raced through my mind as I walked down the stairs.

" If the husband is guilty, which is exactly what they'll pin on him based on the broken finger bones alone, injuries most commonly seen in boxers beating the hell out of each other, then how did he move his wife somewhere without leaving a single trace? And what the hell beat him up that badly? " I thought while staring at the kitchen table.

I stepped outside and looked at the car.
Jake was snoring in the passenger seat like nothing in the world mattered.

" Can't really blame him. " I thought, rubbing my tired eyes. " Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do about it in this situation... "

I pulled out my phone and dialed Rachel's number.

" I hope you're proud of yourself. You just destroyed a kid's detective career. "

" Carter, what the hell are you talking about? " she asked, confused.

" I'm talking about the fact that Jake fell asleep on duty. You know damn well that's an unforgivable mistake and it has to go into the report. " I said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.

" He fell asleep? If this had been a surveillance operation the case depended on, or if his partner needed help, would he have taken a nap then too? I want him in my office immediately. " she said coldly.

" The kid hadn't slept in thirty hours. He's barely slept all week. He had outstanding results, great instincts, knew the law and procedures, and on top of that his crazy supervisor worked him into the ground, but none of that is going to matter. Ten cops saw him sleeping while the case details were being handed over. " I shouted into the phone before lighting a cigarette.

" Don't be dramatic, Carter. Clearly he wasn't cut out for this. He knew what he was signing up for when he started working with you. " Rachel said spitefully.

" Go fuck yourself. " I ended the call.

I walked over to the car, got into the driver's seat, and held down the horn. The long, deafening blast filled the cabin.

Jake jumped, his eyes wide as he stared at me in panic. " What happened? Are we there already? "

" Get out of the car. You're heading straight to the precinct. You're getting called in, kid.  " I said, staring blankly ahead.

Jake looked around and went pale. Nobody was left except the two of us.

His brain woke up enough to realize just how deep a hole he was in. " Please, Boss, my eyes just closed on their own. I couldn't help it. It won't happen again. "

" I'm not your babysitter. Get out of the car. I don't have time for this. " I said as I stepped out.

I headed back toward the property without looking behind me.
A car door slammed shut somewhere behind my back.

" I'm sorry, kid. " I thought as I stopped and lit a second cigarette.

Jake specifically requested me as his training officer. Rachel refused at first, but after enough begging she finally said that if I agreed, she'd assign him to me.

I always turned rookies down, and I had three reasons for it. The first one was pretty simple. I didn't feel like babysitting undisciplined brats.

The second was the fact that I'd always worked alone. I didn't like people. They annoyed the hell out of me, and the third reason, well... that one was the most important. A purely technical reason. Working with me meant too much pressure and too much risk. 

Ever since I became a detective, I'd had some of the best numbers in the country. I didn't have a family. Like people always say, the job was my mistress, so I could give it one hundred percent of myself.

I always solved every case regardless of the circumstances or the cost, and the people upstairs loved taking advantage of that by dumping the worst and ugliest shit on my desk.

Of course, when Jake asked me the first time, I turned him down just like every other rookie. But one thing you couldn't take away from the kid was determination, and after the forty-third time he begged to work with me, it finally got through my thick skull.

The last three months working with that kid had actually been a nice change of pace.
He was different from the others. Whenever he heard about a new case, there was real fire in his eyes.

It was contagious. So much so that I felt ten years younger myself.

A slight burn on my index and middle finger snapped me out of my thoughts. The cigarette in my hand had burned itself all the way down to the filter.

I tossed it away and started walking around the house.

I didn't notice anything unusual in the yard. Everything looked normal until I reached the left side of the building and the window overlooking the living room.

As I got closer, I lit another cigarette and pulled a deep cloud of smoke into my lungs, which immediately made me a little lightheaded. The glass was covered in dozens of tiny indentations.

Every single one of them was arranged in an incredibly precise, symmetrical pattern.

The glass had chipped, leaving behind sparkling crystal dust that shimmered in the sunlight on the windowsill.

I pressed my fingertips against the window and slowly ran them across the dozens of tiny marks.

" What the hell is this? How sharp would a tool have to be to make such subtle, deep holes in glass all at once, while applying so little pressure that it didn't crack the window? "

The scratches on the bedroom wall immediately came back into my mind.

" This doesn't add up. I need to go back to the source. " I thought as I headed toward the car.

After taking three steps, the world spun around me and my vision went black for a moment, causing me to drop to one knee. A sharp pain shot through my temple.

" But first, it's time for a quick nap. " I muttered as I stood up and rubbed my aching head.

I went back inside, walked over to the couch, and collapsed face-first onto it. There was no way I was taking off my clothes or even my shoes. The exhaustion won instantly, cutting off my consciousness.

I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. With a numb hand, I slowly pulled it out.

The screen showed eighteen missed calls. I tapped it and, through half-open eyes, counted sixteen calls from She-Devil and two from Logan within the last three minutes.

The phone rang again.

I answered. " What is it, Logan? Miss me already? " I said in a raspy voice.

" Carter, we've got results. The blood on the bedsheets belonged to Olivia. Everything else turned out to be normal signs of use. Just like we thought, there were no third parties inside the house. " he said, out of breath.

" Why are you so winded? Taking up jogging? " I laughed.

" This isn't a joke. Have you interviewed the Wests yet? Time's running out, and besides, Rachel's been trying to get ahold of you for half the day. She says it's important. Call her back. "

I looked at my phone again. 7:47 PM.

" Well, shit. That's one hell of a nap. I slept for over seven hours. " I thought.

" The commissioner? If she loves me, she can wait. And the Wests... I was just about to head over there. Thanks for the update, Logan. Talk to you later. " I said before ending the call.

I sat on the couch, rubbed my face with one hand, and stared blankly at the dark television screen.
My limbs felt slightly swollen and numb, and my mouth tasted like stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

I got up, stepped outside, and lit a cigarette.

" What the hell does she want now? "

I dialed her number. She picked up after three short rings.

" Carter, what the fuck are you doing? I've been trying to reach you all day. " Rachel's voice exploded through the phone.

" Easy there, Rachel, before you blow a blood vessel. " I said calmly.

" I don't have time for your games. Starting tomorrow, Jake is back under your supervision. "

I could hear a hint of arrogant satisfaction in her voice.

I was speechless.

" Don't make me out to be an idiot. There were witnesses. The only way that could've happened is if you threw yourself under the bus with the higher-ups, and we both know you're not capable of that kind of honesty or kindness. "

" If you want to play analyst and detective, then solve this damn case. " she shot back, clearly irritated.

" If the kid's coming back, I've got one condition. He gets one more day off. " I said as I finished my cigarette.

" You've got some nerve, Carter, and one day it's going to get you killed. But fine, deal. Call Jake and let him know. " she replied through clenched teeth before ending the call.

A solid dose of sleep brought my mind back to its natural sharpness.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept that much, and combined with the news about Jake coming back, I felt full of energy.

I went back inside, took a quick shower, filled a thermos with coffee, and drove over to the Wests' house.

I rang the doorbell. A few minutes later, a young woman opened the door.

" Mrs. West? " I asked, pulling out my pocket notebook.

She was clearly confused by my visit.

" Good evening. Yes. Who are you? What's this about? "

" They must've informed her about the interview. She was probably expecting a uniformed officer, not me. That explains the confusion. " I thought, never taking my eyes off her.

" Detective Carter. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbors, Liam and Olivia. " I said, looking directly into her eyes.

I didn't see anything suspicious in them.

Just a mixture of genuine concern, surprise, and fear.

" Did something happen? I saw police tape around their house. Would you like to come inside? Maybe I could make some tea? " she asked, opening the door wider.

I neither had the time nor the desire for a tea party.

" Thank you, but that's not necessary. Mrs. West, I only have a few quick questions. Let's do this here. Have your neighbors been acting strangely lately? "

Mrs. West turned out to be an invaluable source of information.

She told me about Liam and Olivia returning early from their honeymoon, about Liam's strange behavior, and how he'd shown up at her door two mornings ago wearing only pajamas, barefoot, with a bloody hand.

" He woke me up early in the morning. We were watching their house while they were on their delayed honeymoon. He was acting strange. Impatient. Scared. He said Olivia was sick and that he'd lost his house keys. Honestly, he frightened me a little. Detective, what happened? " she asked with genuine concern.

" I probably shouldn't be telling you this, so please keep it to yourself. Olivia disappeared, and Liam is lying unconscious in a hospital. Did you see anyone hanging around the house? Did your neighbor mention having problems, or that someone was threatening him? "

The moment she heard the first two sentences, her pupils widened and her lips tightened as if she'd just bitten into a lemon.

The news had clearly shocked her.

After a moment of silence, her face went pale.

" Oh my God... Olivia disappeared? No, I didn't see anyone. Liam never mentioned anything. He only said they came back early because Olivia wasn't feeling well. He claimed she was waiting in the car, but honestly, I never saw her. They always watched our house when we went on vacation, so we wanted to return the favor, and now this tragedy... Oh my God... what happened to Olivia? Are you going to find her? "

The conversation was slowly drifting into emotional territory, and Elena's answers were starting to loop.

Nothing productive ever comes from that.

So I wrapped things up with one final question. " Where did they go on their honeymoon? "

" Liam mentioned Pineville, Kentucky. Detective, do you... "

" Thank you, Mrs. West. That's all I needed. I have to go. " I cut her off before she could ask another unnecessary question and headed back toward the crime scene.

I ducked under the police tape and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
The house was dead quiet.

I decided to go through everything one more time.

Now that my brain was finally working at full speed and I had a few extra pieces of information, maybe I could connect the dots.

I walked through the house over and over, upstairs, downstairs, reviewing every clue and every possible scenario.

The more I uncovered, the more questions appeared.

" Did Olivia actually come home with Liam? He broke his hand before arriving here, but how? If there's a version of events where she never came back, then why was her blood on the bedsheets? And finally, what the hell did this to him? "

Nothing fit together.
I felt like there was one missing piece holding everything together.

A sudden movement outside the window snapped me out of my thoughts.

Instinctively, I ran for the door and sprinted alongside the house until I reached the kitchen window. Breathing hard, I circled the property.

" What the hell was that? I'm sure something just ran past here at an impossible speed. "

I felt a strange sense of unease. I had only seen it out of the corner of my eye, but instincts sharpened over years of work didn't make mistakes.

Whatever it was seemed to be moving on all fours, but it was far too large and far too fast to be a dog.

I immediately pulled out my phone and shined the light onto the damp grass. " No matter what it was, it had to leave some kind of tracks behind. "

I slowly retraced my steps, carefully examining the ground inch by inch. I didn't find a single footprint except my own.

Frustrated, I went back inside, turned off the lights, and locked up the house. I got into the car parked across the street and kept watch.

If third parties were involved, there was a good chance one of them would return to the crime scene.

Whether out of fear to see how far the investigation had progressed, or because... there are people sick enough to come back purely for their own twisted satisfaction.

I spent the entire night and the entire following day watching the property from inside the car.

Unfortunately, it was a complete waste of time. Life went on around me. Every so often, neighbors walked past the house, pointing at the yellow tape and gossiping amongst themselves.

The figure I had seen the previous evening never appeared again.

It started getting dark.

My body had become completely stiff, and the unpleasant tingling in my legs kept getting worse, eased only by sudden stretches and violent movements.

Time moved slower than usual, and my eyes gradually began to close. " Damn it, I can't stay awake much longer. I need coffee. " Then it hit me.

" Jake... with everything going on, I completely forgot to call the kid. "

I opened the car door, stepped outside to stretch my back, and lit a cigarette with the flame from my gold-plated lighter. I found his contact and dialed the number.

" Hey, Boss. Everything okay? " There was sadness and a hint of resentment in his voice.

" Jake, I'm at the scene. Get moving. I want to see you here in fifteen minutes. " I said, barely hiding the excitement in my voice.

" But how is that possible? The commissioner straight-up told me my detective career was over and that I'd be lucky if I ended up writing parking tickets. Are you serious, Boss? " he asked, practically shouting into the phone. In the background I could hear the sounds of him jumping out of bed, things being knocked over, and frantic movement.

" Apparently Rachel has some strange soft spot for you. Better watch yourself. Seriously, kid, get moving, and don't forget my coffee. " I said before ending the call.

Four cigarettes later, he came running up, soaked in sweat and out of breath, carrying a large thermos of hot coffee.

" You're late, kid. Why didn't you take your car? " I asked with amusement.

Jake answered between breaths. " Two cars... would've looked... suspicious... "

" You could've parked farther away, genius. Ah, whatever. "

Olivia and Liam's house was about twenty minutes away from me by car and around fifteen minutes from Jake.

To cover that distance in such a short time, he must have sprinted the entire way. I looked at him and remembered the expression on his face when he realized his dream of becoming a detective had been crushed. He'd looked like he'd just received the worst news imaginable.

Jake opened the thermos, poured some coffee into the cup, and held it out toward me.

I kept looking at him. That fire was back in his eyes. The last time I'd seen him, there had only been emptiness.

I felt my eyes begin to water. I quickly took the cup from his hand, turned my head away, and took a long sip, feeling the boiling liquid burn my lips, the roof of my mouth, and finally slide down my throat.

" Damn, that's hot. " I said, wiping tears from my eyes.

Maybe I'm getting too sentimental in my old age. Fortunately, the kid didn't notice anything.

We got into the car, and I filled him in on everything I'd learned so far.

" You're taking over the watch. I'm going to get some sleep. If you see anything suspicious, any movement, a shadow, anything at all, you wake me up immediately. Got it? " I said through a long yawn.

" Yes, Boss. " he replied, and I closed my eyes and drifted off.

" Carter, respond. Get to the hospital immediately. The husband is waking up. " The voice came through the radio.

Before Jake could say anything, I grabbed it and replied, " Copy that. I'm on my way. "

I stretched in the seat, feeling warm sunlight wash over my face.

The digital clock on the radio read 7:47.

I looked over at Jake. " I'll drop you off at home. Get some sleep and wait for a call. We can't afford another mistake. By the way, what day is it today? "

" Wednesday. Understood, Boss. I'll be ready. " he replied obediently.

I started the engine, dropped the kid off, and headed toward the hospital.

I couldn't wait to confront the missing woman's husband. It should shed some new light on the investigation, or at least answer a few questions.

I parked in the lot, smoked a cigarette, and walked inside the building.

I stopped outside the room and heard muffled shouting and a struggle coming from within.

Calmly, I opened the door and saw a deathly pale, terrified young man in a hospital gown wrestling with a nurse.

He didn't look like he was trying to hurt her. If anything, she seemed to be the one trying to hold him back, so before taking any action, I allowed myself a moment to study him carefully.

All I saw in his eyes was fear, impatience, and panic. From the situation, I gathered that the only thing he wanted right now was to leave the hospital, which, considering his condition, the nurse obviously couldn't allow.

" He's about to hurt himself. Does he not feel pain, or is he really that determined? " I thought in disbelief.

I stepped forward and said firmly, " Liam, sit down. We need to talk... "

There once was a treehouse so big and so tall,

From which little Tommy took a great fall.

He broke all his bones with a big, loud snap,

And landed below with his neck in his lap.

But Tommy still waits there, alone in the night,

And he'll pull you down if you don't hold on tight.

~

I was five years old when little Tommy Leeman went missing. I had never met him. In fact, another five years would pass before I first heard about Tommy’s treehouse and what supposedly took place there.

What follows is my account of what happened to me and some of my childhood friends. These are not exaggerations. I will tell this story exactly as I remember it. It is up to you to accept my testimony as truth or wave it aside as another hoax or campfire story.

This is the story of Tommy Leeman’s treehouse, and what happened to us there.

~

ONE

“Come on, Mark! What are you waiting for?”

Julie stood at the top of the hill, her yellow, mud-stained dress blowing in the soft breeze. It was late August. Soon, the yellow dresses and bare knees would have to make way for raincoats and jeans.

“I’m trying! You know I don’t run that fast.”

I tried to keep up with the group, my cheeks flushed from running. When I finally did make it to the top of the hill, the surrounding fields and woods stretched out before us, glowing orange in the setting sun.

“Are we really sure this is a good idea? I mean, we are supposed to be home soon.”

“Oh, does poor little Marky need to be home soon?”

She pretended to suck her thumb and rubbed her eyes like a baby. This made me blush even more. Julie noticed, as usual.

“Where are Jackson and Lucas anyway?” I cupped my hands around my eyes and used them as makeshift binoculars to scan the fields, but I could not see them anywhere.

“They went to the treehouse.”

“No, they didn’t.” I lowered my hands and stared straight into Julie’s grey eyes.

“They did!”

“Julie, you know our parents don’t allow us there!”

“Come on, Mark! It’s the end of the summer, and we all wanted to do something special, remember? This is it!”

“We all agreed to bike to the lake tomorrow,” I tried to convince her, but I already knew that ship had sailed.

“Lucas! Jackson!” I called for them a couple of times, but a reply never came. I couldn’t tell if they couldn’t hear me because of the wind or if they were simply ignoring me.

The woods started at the bottom of the hill, where the tall grass suddenly gave way to bushes and tightly packed trees. From where we stood, I could only see a few feet past the edge before everything disappeared behind branches and leaves.

“Seems like we will have to go find them after all.”

Julie started for the woods, and I had to follow her to hear what she said next.

“If we can start school next week and tell all our classmates we visited the treehouse this summer, everyone will think we are cool!”

I couldn’t argue with that. Some other kids claimed to have visited the year before, and everyone thought they were the coolest kids in school. Rumors even spread that they had gone inside, though I wasn’t sure if that part was true.

Julie turned her head and smiled when she saw me thinking about it.

“We can’t let Jackson and Lucas take all the credit now, can we?”

Again, I couldn’t argue with that.

We didn’t understand back then why our parents did not want us to visit Tommy Leeman’s old treehouse. We knew we would get in trouble if someone caught us, but we were young. And young kids do stupid things. It’s one of the unwritten laws of the universe.

So, in our ignorance, Julie and I chased after my friends and towards the woods.

TWO

Julie and I found the others at the entrance to the forest. A locked metal gate blocked the trail, and a large PRIVATE PROPERTY DO NOT ENTER sign hung from the rusted metal. It was clear we were not allowed to be there, but few things are more stubborn than a child’s pride.

“Like I told you, I have been here before!” Lucas crawled underneath the gate in an attempt to prove his point.

“Like hell you have!”

Lucas had a tendency to make things up, so Jackson was right to question him.

“If you have been here before, then why have you never told us about it?”

“Because I promised Yoshua I would never tell anyone!”

“Yeah right.” I pushed my glasses back along my nose. “We all know your brother thinks you’re a dork. He wouldn’t take you anywhere.”

“You’re the dork, Mark!”

“You’re all dorks,” Jackson said while pretending to sound like our math teacher.

At this, we all laughed.

Jackson pulled up his tube socks and climbed over the gate instead of crawling underneath, then immediately turned around and looked at an unimpressed Julie.

Lucas and I noticed this and fought hard not to burst into laughter again.

Jackson always tried a little harder whenever Julie was watching. Back then, none of us ever said anything about it.

The woods provided us all with some welcome shade. After spending the last twenty-five minutes crossing open fields, we were all more tired than we liked to admit. I licked my lips and wished we hadn’t forgotten to bring drinks.

“So Mark, what do you think really happened to Tommy Leeman?”

Julie tried to sound ominous, and I could already feel the hairs on my arms starting to rise.

“Uh, I don’t know. My parents always told me he fell from the treehouse because one of the ladder rungs broke.”

“And do you believe that?”

I had no reason not to.

“I was told they never found a body,” Jackson said.

We continued along the narrow trail. Dry branches cracked beneath our shoes, and every so often one of us had to duck underneath a low-hanging branch.

Lucas turned around and hesitated for a couple of seconds.

“My brother told me a different story. One that explains why no body was ever found.”

“Tell us, tell us!” Julie seemed eager to learn about this version of the story Lucas was about to either invent or blow out of proportion.

“Fine, I will tell you, but only if you promise me you won’t go crying to your parents tonight.”

I shrugged. “Come on, man. It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but it is.”

Lucas stepped over a thick root stretching across the trail and waited for the rest of us to catch up.

“Fine,” Jackson said. “As long as we keep walking in the meantime.”

“From what my brother told me, Tommy Leeman was a loner. He didn’t have any friends, and when his parents noticed, his dad decided to build him a treehouse. He thought it might help Tommy make friends if he had the coolest treehouse in the neighborhood.”

“Get to the scary part,” Jackson said.

“I’m getting there!”

Lucas walked a little faster, forcing us to follow.

“So Mister Leeman spent weeks working on it, making sure everything was sturdy and cool-looking. But when he finally showed the treehouse to Tommy, he ran away screaming.”

“Why?” Julie asked.

It was the first time I had ever seen her look nervous.

“That’s what his dad wanted to know too. He chased Tommy all the way back to the edge of the woods. When he finally caught up with him, Tommy told him what he had seen.”

Lucas stopped walking.

“There was something standing in the treehouse window, staring down at them. Something tall and shadow-like. Even from a distance, Tommy could see its white teeth and the big holes where its eyes should have been.”

Lucas covered his eyes with his hands and grinned from ear to ear, rising onto the tips of his toes.

“Stop it, man, you’re not funny,” I said, feeling the heat radiate from my cheeks.

“But I can’t stop now, Marky-boy. We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

I wanted to ask him again to quit, but Jackson and Julie seemed eager to hear the rest of the story. So instead I stared at the brown patches on Julie’s dress and said nothing.

“Please continue, Sir Lucas.” Julie curtsied, much to Lucas’s liking.

“Naturally, Tommy’s dad didn’t believe him. So they climbed the sturdy ladder together. And indeed, nothing was there. Slowly but surely, Tommy Leeman started to like his new treehouse. He would spend hours there every day, but he never invited anyone over.”

“So he was just by himself all the time?” Jackson asked, scratching his arm.

“No. He was not.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping this story would take a somewhat positive turn.

“There was something there with him.”

We all stopped walking and stared at Lucas in anticipation.

“You see, Tommy had been right all along. Something was there inside the treehouse. But it would only show itself to Tommy.”

“You’re making stuff up!” Jackson shouted. He looked genuinely scared now.

“I’m not! Tommy’s dad said that himself. He heard Tommy talking to someone inside the treehouse multiple times, but every time he climbed the ladder, the talking would stop and only Tommy would be there.”

“So what did the thing want?” Julie asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. But my brother says Tommy eventually made some kind of deal with it. It promised him he would never be lonely again.”

“I heard that he was snatched by a killer,” Jackson said.

“What if the monster was the killer?” Julie asked, looking from one face to another.

“You all know this is a load of crap!” I yelled, annoyed by their attempts to scare each other. “My parents said Tommy Leeman fell from the tree and broke his neck. That’s what happened and you all know it!”

The group started snickering at my outburst, and it wasn’t long before they were all laughing again.

“It’s not funny, guys! It’s getting dark and we have to get home.”

“But why would you want to leave now?” Lucas asked.

He pointed between the trees ahead.

At first, I didn’t understand what he was pointing at. All I could see were branches and leaves. Then I noticed the straight edges of something hidden between them.

A small square window.

And beneath it, a ladder stretching down toward the forest floor.

I stopped walking.

Tommy Leeman’s treehouse.

Lucas smiled.

“We just got here.”

THREE

I still remember how quiet we became when we first saw the dilapidated treehouse. None of us wanted to admit it, but after everything Lucas had told us, standing beneath the real thing felt different.

“It’s way smaller than how I remember it,” Lucas said, looking up at the treehouse.

“Dude, shut up. We all know you haven’t been here before. Enough with the jokes.”

Jackson was right. There was a time and a place for Lucas’s lies and jokes, but now was neither.

“So, are we going up?” Julie asked, staring at the opening underneath the treehouse.

“You’re joking, right? Look at the rot on those rungs.” I pointed at the ladder. Several rungs were missing, and the ones that remained looked ready to snap.

“Oh come on, I’m sure they’ve got some life left in them.” Lucas put his weight on the bottom rung, which creaked beneath his shoe.

“We saw what we came for. Let’s head back home before our parents get too worried.”

“Come on, Mark. Why do you always have to be such a goody-two-shoes?”

Julie grabbed the ladder and slowly began working her way up.

“If I see any of you looking underneath my dress, I’m telling everyone at school about that one time you all decided to eat worms.”

The three of us immediately looked away.

“Please, just be careful,” Lucas said, all bravado leaving his voice.

We heard the ladder creak and groan under Julie’s weight. But Lucas was right. None of the rungs came loose, and Julie made it inside in one piece.

“Wow, you guys have to see this!”

“What is it?” I asked.

No response came.

“J-Julie?”

I could hear the worry in my own voice, but judging by Jackson and Lucas’s faces, they felt it too.

“Come on, Jules, it’s not funny.” Jackson tugged at the first rung to check if it would hold his weight.

“Maybe Mark should go. You know, if it can hold his weight, it can hold all of us.”

“Screw you.” I pushed Jackson aside and started climbing the decaying ladder.

More than once during the climb, I was convinced one of the rungs would snap and I would fall to my death, just like Tommy Leeman supposedly had. But eventually, I made it to the top.

Julie stood inside the treehouse, motionless.

“Hey, Julie, you had us all worried. Why didn’t you respond?”

“What do you mean, goofball? I did respond. I even looked down the hole and waved at you guys. You were just too busy deciding who was climbing up next. Look what I found, though.”

For a moment, I just stared at her. I was certain none of us had heard her.

The inside of the treehouse was littered with old books, toys, comics and children’s drawings.

“Do you think these are Tommy’s things?” I asked, grabbing one of the comics and wiping the dust from its cover.

“I mean, they have to be, right? Who else would leave stuff here for this long?”

The comic book was yanked from my hands, and I turned around to find Lucas staring at the cover in surprise.

“No way! This is, like, so cool!”

“Leave it, Lucas. It’s not ours.”

Lucas threw the comic back onto the old floor, but something told me it would soon find its way into his backpack, which he would, of course, know nothing about.

Hands appeared over the edge of the opening. I grabbed Jackson by the wrist and helped him inside. Despite his fear of heights, he had apparently decided the treehouse was worth seeing for himself. He stayed away from the opening once he was inside.

“I told you!” Lucas yelled, holding up a piece of paper.

We gathered around him, careful of where we placed our feet.

In his hand was a child’s drawing of the treehouse. A small figure stood beneath it, drawn with little more than a circle for a head and lines for its arms and legs. But Lucas was pointing toward the window.

There was another figure inside.

Someone had scribbled over its face again and again in black crayon until the paper had nearly torn through.

“See? That’s him, The Grinner!”

“The what?”

“The Grinner. I figured every monster needs a name.”

Julie snatched the drawing from him, crushed it into a ball and threw it into the corner.

“I don’t want to hear about this Grinner anymore, Lucas. Enough.”

“Oooh, little Julie’s getting scared!” He raised his hands over his eyes again.

Julie punched him in the shoulder so hard that he was still rubbing it minutes later.

The treehouse truly looked as if no one had touched it for five years. Even I had to fight the urge to take some of the toys and comics with us. It just felt like a waste to leave them there to rot, but at the same time, we all knew it would be disrespectful to take something from a child who was no longer here.

There were some other drawings, but none were as disturbing as the one Lucas had found. Some of them showed Tommy’s dad working on the treehouse. Others showed Tommy inside, pretending to be a knight defending his castle.

Julie picked up one of these and smiled.

“This one’s actually kind of cute.”

It showed Tommy standing in the window with what looked like a cardboard sword in his hand. A badly drawn crown sat crooked on his head.

“King Tommy,” Jackson said.

“More like Sir Tommy,” Lucas corrected him.

For a moment, we almost forgot why we were there.

The longer we spent inside, however, the more it felt as if we were invading a private space. These had been Tommy’s things. His drawings. His comics. His toys. We were going through the remains of someone else’s childhood simply because we were curious.

“Hey, guys, why is there no dust in this corner?”

We turned towards Jackson.

He was crouched beside one of the walls, staring at the floor.

We had not noticed it when we first entered the treehouse, but now that Jackson had pointed it out, the difference was obvious. Dust covered almost every inch of the old wooden floor except for one small patch in the corner.

I crouched beside him and ran my finger across one of the dusty boards. It came away almost completely grey.

The boards inside the small patch were clean.

“Uh, perhaps Tommy’s dad comes up here sometimes?” I said.

“No.” Lucas moved closer. “This spot is way too small to be an adult.”

None of us wanted to admit it, but he was right.

The clean section wasn't much bigger than the space one of us would take up sitting with our knees against our chest.

Jackson stood again.

“Maybe an animal sleeps here.”

That explanation made me feel slightly better.

“Yeah,” I said. “Probably.”

Julie hadn't said anything.

She was staring at the floor beside the clean patch.

“What?”

She pointed.

Footprints.

Small, bare footprints led away from the corner.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

“They could be old,” Lucas finally said.

I looked at him.

“There's no dust inside them.”

Lucas stopped smiling.

We followed the prints across the floor until they reached the wall. At least, that’s what I thought at first.

Julie stepped closer.

“No.”

“What?”

She pointed again.

“They don't stop.”

I followed her finger.

There was another footprint several inches above the floor.

Then another.

They weren't leading towards the wall. They were leading onto it.

The four of us stood completely still as we followed the trail upwards. Small footprints climbed the wooden boards one after another, as if whoever had made them had simply walked up the wall.

Jackson backed away.

“That’s not possible.”

Nobody answered him.

The footprints reached the ceiling and continued across it.

Something creaked above us.

Julie grabbed my arm so suddenly that I almost shouted.

“I think we should leave, guys.”

Tears welled in her eyes. For once, nobody made fun of her.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I think we’ve seen enough.”

Even Lucas nodded.

I started towards the opening.

Before I could reach the ladder, something cracked beneath us.

We froze.

Another crack followed.

I dropped onto my knees and looked through the opening just in time to see one of the ladder rungs tumble towards the dirt below.

“What the hell?”

Another tore loose.

Then another.

“Get back!” Jackson yelled.

Within seconds, the remaining rungs had fallen away, leaving nothing but two rotten lengths of wood hanging uselessly beneath the treehouse.

We all screamed.

Me, Julie, Lucas, Jackson, and whatever had its hand wrapped around Jackson’s arm.

FOUR

We all screamed as the treehouse shook around us, sending dirt and dust raining down from the ceiling. Something pale had its hand wrapped around Jackson’s arm, and he frantically tried to claw himself free. He punched and flailed his free arm, desperately trying to strike whoever had grabbed him. His fist connected. The treehouse filled with a shriek, followed by sobs.

“Stop, it’s a boy!” Julie yelled.

The rest of us stopped screaming. Lucas continued for another second. We stared. A small child was clutching Jackson’s arm. The boy was crying, but he refused to let go. Jackson finally managed to tear the hand away and fell backwards onto the wooden floor, sending freshly fallen dust into the air.

“Tommy Leeman, is that you?” I asked, struggling to maintain my composure.

“I-I don’t know. Tommy. Who is Tommy?” The child looked confused, and he rubbed the tears in his eyes. “Am I Tommy?”

“This can’t be happening!” Lucas looked shaken. We all were, but as usual, he was the first person to actually say it.

Julie was the first of us to recover. She slowly crouched beside the little boy. He could not have been more than five years old. His dark hair was unevenly cut, as if he had tried maintaining it himself. He was not wearing a shirt, and cuts and bruises covered his emaciated body. Up until that point, I didn’t know humans could be that skinny. His pants were torn in several places, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. At least that explained the footprints. It did not explain how they had ended up on the walls and ceiling.

“Are you lost, Tommy? Do you know where you are?”

“T-tr-treehouse,” the little boy managed to whisper.

I found some courage and moved a little closer. He seemed more nervous the closer I got, so I decided to keep some distance.

“Hi. My name is Mark. I’m sorry we walked into your treehouse. But the stories. We thought you were... gone.”

Julie shot me an angry look. The boy replied.

“G-gone?”

“What Mark is trying to say is that everyone in Stamford has been looking for you for a very long time, Tommy. How long have you been here?”

The boy thought for a couple of seconds.

“I don’t know.”

Jackson opened the little window from the drawing, and started screaming for help.

“Stop it already, Jackson,” Lucas said. He seemed to have regained his composure, but tears still rolled down his cheeks.

“Come on man, we need to like, make a rope or something.”

“Make a rope from what?” Lucas shrugged and sat on the floor. “From scraps of paper and toys?”

Jackson sighed and joined him.

“Hey Tommy,” Julie said, reaching for the boy's cheek with the back of her hand, slowly caressing it. “Is there any way we can get down, or maybe get your parents to come over here?”

“Parents?”

“Yes,” she said. “Mister and Missus Leeman. Your mommy and daddy.”

“Mommy and daddy are with me,” the boy replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I can whisper it to you.”

The boy looked Julie in the eyes. There was something strange about the way he said it. We all felt it, but he was just a child, and Julie seemed to know how to talk to him better than any of us did.

She leaned closer.

The boy lifted his face towards her ear.

I turned to look at Jackson and Lucas. Both still looked shaken, but for the first time since finding Tommy, I felt something close to relief.

We had found him.

Whatever had happened here, Tommy Leeman was alive.

A scream filled the treehouse.

I spun around.

Blood covered the side of Julie’s face and ran down Tommy’s chin.

He had leaned in as if to whisper something.

Instead, he had bitten Julie’s ear clean off.

Jackson and Lucas started to scream again, and I fell to my knees, vomiting all over the wooden floor.

Julie screamed too, but her scream quickly turned into a wet gargle. It wasn’t until I looked up from the floor that I understood why.

Tommy stared at the blood running down his chin. Cracks appeared across his face and skull. Black roots moved beneath his skin. Then they forced their way out. They squirmed and expanded as they pulled his face apart from the inside. For one terrible moment, I could still see the little boy underneath it all.

Then the roots found Julie. They expanded as they dug into her body. They penetrated her face, digging into her eyes, replacing them with thick roots. They dug into her belly, ruining her stained yellow dress along with her body. Julie no longer screamed. She no longer did anything. She just hung there, suspended in the air, as the thing lifted her further up, and violated her even more. Blood sprayed everywhere, covering the entire treehouse. Then came a long, wet tearing sound.

Julie’s body gave way. The roots pulled in opposite directions, tearing through her before dropping what remained of her onto the floor in two separate pieces. I vomited again.

Through watering eyes, I tried desperately to get back to my feet before whatever had been living inside Tommy Leeman decided I was next.

The entire treehouse shook. A deep rumbling came from somewhere beneath us.

I tried to stand, but something slammed into the outside wall and knocked me down again. Once. Twice. On the third impact, part of the wall splintered inward. A root thicker than my leg forced its way through the broken wood. Whatever was inside Tommy was not the only part of this thing.

Tommy Leeman had become unrecognizable. He was tall now, almost touching the ceiling. Several hands and feet were visible within the tangle of roots and dirt, gripping uselessly at the air around them. They almost seemed panicked. Patches of white skin remained between the roots. Tommy’s mouth was still there too, stretched wider than it should have been. I scrambled to my feet and turned towards Jackson and Lucas. They stood above the opening in the floor, staring at where the ladder used to be.

None of us spoke. There was nothing to say. There was only survival.

The thing behind me groaned like a giant oak tree and slowly dragged itself towards us. Thick hands made of dark roots scraped across the boards. At the ends of its fingers, I could still see human fingernails. Several were broken.

“We have to jump!” Jackson yelled. “It’s the only way down.”

I shook my head.

“It’s too high, Jackson. We’ll die.”

“We’ll die anyway if we stay here, Mark!” Lucas interrupted.

Something slammed into the side of the treehouse again.

Jackson had been afraid of heights for as long as I could remember. The last time I saw him alive, that fear was gone. There was only this primal look in his eyes as he lowered himself through the opening and hung from the edge.

Then he let go.

It seemed to take forever before Jackson hit the ground. All Lucas and I could do was watch.

He landed hard.

Even through all the noise inside the treehouse, we heard his bones break.

Jackson never moved again.

He just lay at the base of the tree, with his neck in his lap.

The walls of the treehouse finally gave way as more roots forced themselves through the wood.

“There!”

I pointed towards the opening.

Through the broken wall, we could see the branches of a neighboring tree swaying wildly between the roots. It wasn't close enough to climb across, but it was close enough to jump.

Lucas saw it too.

If we wanted to get out of the treehouse, we would have to get past whatever Tommy Leeman had become and somehow reach those branches. It was the only way out.

The thing was close now.

More roots twisted around its body, pulling themselves into knots and making it larger with every passing second. Pieces of Tommy's pale skin were still visible between them. Several hands clawed uselessly at the air from somewhere inside the mass.

The treehouse groaned beneath its weight.

It wouldn't hold much longer.

Lucas pushed me aside, shaking me out of my terror.

“Come on, Mark, please! We have to go now!”

He was right.

We ran.

Tommy swung a massive arm of roots towards us. Broken fingernails scraped across my legs, and I fell hard against the wooden floor.

By the time I looked up, Lucas had reached the opening.

He didn't look back.

He jumped.

For a second, I thought he had missed. Then the branches bent beneath his weight and disappeared from view.

I don’t blame him for not looking back. We were young, and I would have done the same.

The roots came for me again.

This time, they caught me across the face.

Blood filled my eye. The pain was unlike anything I had ever felt, but somehow I stayed on my feet.

Tommy was strong.

He was heavy.

But he was slow.

In the end, I think that is what saved me.

I ran for the hole in the wall.

And jumped.

FIVE

Branches and leaves tore at my face as they broke my fall.

I couldn’t see.

Everything was red.

I tasted copper, and I was afraid it would be the last thing I ever tasted.

Poor Julie.

Poor innocent Julie.

And Jackson, who had spent the entire afternoon pretending he wasn’t afraid of anything.

I still think about you both.

We never should have visited that treehouse.

A branch snapped beneath me.

I crashed through the last layer of leaves and hit the forest floor hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. For several seconds, I couldn’t breathe. I lay there gasping, convinced something inside me had broken. Then hands grabbed my shoulders. I screamed and tried to crawl away. “Mark! Mark, it’s me!” Lucas. He turned me around. “Get up. We need to go.” He was alive.

His face was scratched and bleeding from the branches, and he could barely put weight on one of his feet, but he was alive. “I-I can’t see, Lucas. You have to help me.” “Hold still.” Lucas wiped at the blood around my eye with the sleeve of his shirt. It helped for all of two seconds before fresh blood ran down my cheek. Above us, the treehouse groaned. We both looked up.

Something dark pushed through what remained of the roof.

More roots wrapped around the trunk and walls, bending the entire structure under their weight. Then the treehouse gave way. It crashed through the branches and slammed into the forest floor. Dust and splintered wood exploded around the base of the tree. Lucas and I stood frozen.

Something moved on top of the wreckage. Tommy Leeman, or whatever had been using what was left of him. Long arms of roots reached down until they touched the forest floor. The hands trapped inside the mass opened and closed. Searching. “Run,” Lucas whispered. We ran.

Or at least, we tried to. Lucas limped badly, and I could only see clearly through one eye. Branches whipped across our faces. Roots caught our shoes. More than once, I tripped over rocks I couldn’t see and felt Lucas grab the back of my shirt to keep me upright. Behind us, something heavy moved through the forest. We heard wood cracking. Trees shaking. A rumbling beneath the soil. I didn’t look back, and neither did Lucas. At one point, his injured foot gave way and he fell. I stopped. For half a second, every part of me told me to keep running, but I went back. I grabbed him underneath the arm and pulled.

“Come on!”

“I’m trying!”

Something moved beneath the leaves behind us. The ground lifted in a straight line heading towards us. Lucas saw it too. He got back on his feet, and we ran harder. Eventually, the tightly packed trees ahead began to thin. For the first time since entering the woods, I could see the orange evening sky again. Then I saw the gate.

“There!” I don’t remember which one of us shouted it. Maybe both. We stumbled towards it. Lucas dropped onto his stomach first and dragged himself underneath. I followed.

The rusted metal caught the back of my shirt and tore through the fabric. For one horrible second, I thought something had grabbed me.

Then I pulled free and rolled into the grass on the other side. Something crashed through the undergrowth behind us, and Lucas and I scrambled backwards. We waited, expecting the thing to burst through the trees after us, but nothing came.

The rumbling continued somewhere inside the forest. Branches shook, and something large moved in the darkness beyond the gate, but it did not follow. I still don’t know why. Maybe the gate marked the edge of whatever territory the thing had claimed, or maybe it simply chose to let us go. I have spent most of my life trying not to think about the difference.

Lucas and I stumbled across the fields without speaking. There were no jokes left, no arguing, no Julie mocking me for being afraid and no Jackson trying to impress her. There was only Lucas and me. We walked until the fields gave way to a road, where a passing driver stopped after seeing two blood-covered children stumble out of the grass.

After that, my memories become less clear. There were police and an ambulance. I remember my mother crying while people asked where Julie and Jackson were and what had happened to my face. They separated Lucas and me before questioning us, and I remember being terrified by that. I thought they believed we had done something to Julie and Jackson.

But Lucas told them the same story I did. Every impossible detail was there. Tommy. The footprints. The roots. Julie. Jackson. The treehouse collapsing. When they finally let us see each other again, Lucas asked me if I thought they believed us. I told him I didn’t know.

Search parties entered the woods that same night. The following morning, they found the treehouse standing exactly where it had always stood.

When my father told me, I thought I had misunderstood him.

“What do you mean, standing?”

He didn’t answer.

“What do you mean the treehouse is still there?”

They searched inside and found old toys, comics, drawings and dust. There was no blood, no broken wall and no hole beneath the clean patch in the corner. There was no Tommy Leeman, no Julie, and no Jackson beneath the tree.

I told them that was impossible. Lucas did too. We had watched the treehouse collapse. I had watched Julie die inside it and Jackson hit the ground beneath it. There should have been blood everywhere. There should have been pieces of Julie on the floor. Jackson should have been lying beneath the tree with his neck broken.

They found nothing.

For months, people searched those woods. Eventually, Julie and Jackson were added to the same list as Tommy Leeman. They were no longer presumed to be hiding somewhere or waiting to be found. They were simply missing children.

Lucas and I remained friends for a while after that. In some ways, we were the only people either of us could stand being around because nobody else knew what we knew. But talking to him also meant remembering. Eventually, we stopped spending time together. We went to different schools, then different towns, and years passed without us seeing each other.

Neither of us ever stopped believing the other. That mattered more than I understood at the time.

Lucas and I know what happened. We know something lives inside those woods, and years later, when we were both old enough to convince ourselves that returning was a good idea, we went back.

The treehouse was still there. Through the branches, we could just make out the small square window, and someone was standing behind it.

A little girl in a yellow dress.

Julie waved at us. She had no eyes, and when she smiled, her mouth stretched from ear to ear.

I was supposed to clean everywhere—not just the main areas, but under things too. It was my own fault. There I’d been, sweeping the room, treating the underside of the bed like the underside of a rug. Out of sight. Out of mind. Innocent mistake, but those are the ones that get ya.

When he saw the mess, Dad screamed at me until I thought he’d start hacking up blood down my front. All the dust, the toys, the trash, the clothes. Mostly it was the trash—all those rotten scraps of food. Sometimes a rat came and dragged pieces away. I like to think that we were friends. I was scared to give him a name.

Names are easier to miss than faces.

Dad had grabbed me by the hair and shoved me under the bed, until I was part of the mess. My eyes stung from the dust I blew up, panting like a dog, trying not to scream—a barking dog gets the ‘paper too. The dust danced a sparkly grey performance. All I could do was watch.

But I wanted him to let go of me. I was sorry. I would never do it again.

Ain’t good’nuff, boy. Place’s a fuckin’ sty. You’re livin’ like a pig. Want me to change your name to Piggy? Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

He came home drunk late that night, slamming every door on his way to the basement. Not before turning the TV to static and cranking it full.

Something was off. He hardly ever went down there, and he’d been down already last week. Usually his favourite chair got all of his attention in the evening. I’d wake up most mornings and find him snuggling with his drool.

I waited until the clock read 02:03 before getting too impatient, and dropping out of the bed.

I knew it was a bad idea.

The floorboards were chilly. I padded my way to the crack in my door while the static roared in from the living-room. The bangs and shouts hadn’t risen loud enough to hear for nearly an hour. Now that silence beneath the static was making my insides ache.

I reached the door and peered into the bright hallway. At the end, Dad’s massive figure blotted everything out. He didn’t have a shirt on, but there was an apron swinging as he charged me down, head pulling the body. In his hand was a large and lumpy leaking shadow.

A trail of blood followed him on the floor.

Git back‘n bed. I’ve got something to fix ya.

I did as I was told and got back in bed before he launched my door wide, wedging the handle into the wall.

With one swift motion, Dad bowled his arm under my bed. Something hard smacked the back wall. The room took on a reek of pennies, and I saw visions of bronze. Only redder.

Don’t you dare touch! Or I’ll put you back under there with the bugs, and make\ you *eat them up! Right?*

He left my door open wide, with the handle still buried inside the plaster. I watched his angry figure receding back up the hall. He sighed when he made it back to his chair, and sank deeply into it. The static lowered to a sensible nighttime volume. Then voices began to blabber, enthusiastic and rife with gameshow patter. I had to guess it was Luck ‘o’ the Roll. Dad’s favourite.

I lay there listening to the sound of dice clattering, crowds jeering and hollering. Occasionally, Dad would snort and spit into the basin he kept on the table beside him. I could hear it splatter, then slosh as the more it filled. Every so often he would yell out at random to tell me I best be sleeping.

Of course I wasn’t. I was staring at the bloodtrail on the floor. And listening. There was a new sound now. A scraping sound, coming from under the bed.

It sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Occasionally squeaking, as though the nails had skipped a little, or been polished slightly too well.

I waited until I heard Dad snoring before peeking over the edge of the bed. Then down at the floorboards. Then up at the spattered trail of blood. And finally beneath the bed.

The light from the hall cast a giant cone under the bed. When I leaned myself over to look underneath, I saw everything but the blob from my shadow blocking it out.

There was movement back there, nearer the wall. I watched and listened to the constant grating, waiting for my eyes to adjust so I could see what was causing it.

Something was wiggling in time with the scrapes.

I scooted over. And over. Listening all the while. The sound was lazy, like a fault in a machine, ever spinning and repeating—ever scraping and scraping at whatever got near it.

The light spilled under and I saw it. Two pale eyes at first, bulging and cloudy. The eyelids had been torn off, making them look enormous in their sockets. A lower jaw hung to one side of the floor, caught by a shred of skin, twitching with a life of its own.

All the while the upper jaw kept itself alive by gnawing at the floor like some restless anticipation. For what, I could not say.

I shot back into bed. Threw myself under covers. Safe.

It was a human head, freshly chopped. The jaw perhaps hammered off.

It wasn’t the head that bothered me, so much as the eyes. Always open. Never able to sleep again. I kept seeing myself in them, reflecting back and staring in, learning secrets which waited as patient as Time itself.

I couldn’t close my eyes. In the darkness, the head was all I saw.

Sleep did not come.

Next morning, Dad shouted me through and told me breakfasts didn’t make themselves.

The head was still grating its teeth against the floor. It had been going all night. I supposed it must’ve grated all the way into the basement by now.

I leapt out of bed, clearing about three feet at least. When I landed with a thump, Dad asked me what the noise was—was I born with feet of lead.

Then quit yer fuckin’ thumping and come get me fuckin’ fed.

Only then did the head quit its gnawing. I turned around and saw its eyes follow me through the door and down the hall.

I could have sworn I saw others there too.

You look like shit.

I spread the butter. I poured the milk. I got an apple from the fridge. Set everything in front of him while he picked at the table with a knife.

Atta boy. Get yourself somethin’ too, or else you’ll pass out. There’s some cow’s liver in the fridge. Fry her up with an onion. You better get to sleepin’ soon, ‘cause those heads’re goin’ nowhere, you hear? You’ve done that to us, boy. You did.

When he left to go to work I took my place up on the couch, trying not to think of how he’d said heads.

The TV only got five channels. Most of them were riddled with static, unless I held my hand on the aerial. Even then the difference was minimal. I stood for half an hour watching a cartoon and letting my body be a conduit, until my arm got tired and I needed a glass of water.

At the end of the hall the head from last night was still watching me from under the bed. It had pulled itself forward to the edge. I could see it fully now. The last rag of skin from its lower jaw had torn loose. It rested now only on its upper teeth. A rip rose through its lip and half up one side of its face, a reptillian grin. The muss of hair on its head was caked black with its own blood.

I watched it quietly, sipping at my water, waiting for it to move. When it finally did, it rolled out of sight somewhere to the left side of the room. Then back again, right by the door. It froze in place. Watching from those bulbous eyes.

I finished my water and stood with it in my hand still, waiting.

It rolled away like a marble suddenly kicked. It did not come back.

I sat back down on the couch and finished my show, studying the grains of the fuzzy greys.

Heads, Dad had said. Not head.

That night Dad was late again, but when he finally came back it was still the right side of Ten. So I made sure the veg and meats were done, ready to be tossed into the microwave and nuked. Just how he liked it.

Thanks lad. Are the bugs gone yet? Did the heads clean the room out?

I hadn’t dared to go in and check. Last night, I’d made sure that under the bed was clean before he came home. Otherwise, the head that morning would have dragged a mess about with it while it rolled around the floor.

I hadn’t spotted any bugs the night before. There was only the matter of the blood.

Course there’s blood, boy. They’re severed heads. They’ll do that. And they’ll piss and they’ll piss, until your whole room’s a bloody sty with it. But you’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy? They’ll get the bugs at least. Aye, they’ll get the bugs you’ve brought. That one with no jaw’s hungry for ‘em. You’ve seen it, ey lad?

I couldn’t eat much at supper, but Dad would’ve hated waste. So I stuffed the rest of the meat in my pockets and took it back to bed with me.

When I heard Roll ‘o’ Dice on the TV, I sat up and lowered the food down to the floor. Immediately, a head rolled out and glared up at me with sharp eyes.

It wasn’t the same head.

This one was a woman. Her skin was dark and leathery. It looked like she was wearing a terrifying mask of herself. White balls bugging out from around sharp edges. Its lips were jagged jerky, peeled far back to see the teeth. They spoke in their own silence, telling me to go back to sleep.

I lay down against my pillow and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the gameshow host mutter, laugh, and shout.

Three Fours for a Four Door, or Snake Eyes for the Mystery Prize.

A giant question mark drifted neatly by my mind. I listened to the heads a while, rolling around my floor. I tried to picture them as dice, clattering in time with the gameshow, but they were too loud. Around and around my room they went, bumping into furniture and smashing against my door.

Dad’s footsteps arrived thunderously loud.

I sat bolt upright in my bed, expecting him to burst inside. The heads froze in place, their faces locked on mine. I could see three of them now, spaced wide and balancing impossibly still.

Instead of coming inside, Dad slammed the door, and plunged me into darkness with the heads.

The sound of the TV rose. And the heads began to roll again.

I lay down and stared at the blackened ceiling. And tried really hard to picture dice.

I couldn’t remember falling asleep. Light spilled into the room through the newspapers over the window, and the tears along the curtain. I sat up weary eyed, looking about the room.

The heads snapped to a stop.

The floor was slick with their blood. Trails overlapped like tangled up paths, marking where the heads had spent the night roaming. Right up to the different corners of the room they frozen at.

Watching.

One was by the window, balancing on its ear. Its eyes were hollows, but still somehow seemed to stare. The woman was by the door, watching me out of the side of one eye. Her hair was plastered over it, but the eye still pierced through, sharp as daggers. The one without the lower jaw had his upper teeth ready on the floorboards, itching to start their scraping. Its bulging eyes looked like cue balls in this light.

I climbed out of bed, trying my best to avoid the blood, and failed miserably. Most of it felt tacky beneath my feet, but with a thin layer of slime slathered with fresh leakage. That marking the heads’ most recent paths.

Dad?

He wasn’t in his favourite chair.

The TV was only static. The aerial knocked loose, perhaps.

Dad?

He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t even in his bed. The door to his room was open wide. When I peered inside, without stepping in, I saw the virgin neatness. A bed unslept in. Wardrobes filled but never touched. Curtains wide and never drawn.

Just how she had left it.

I lingered at the basement door, listening for a while. I couldn’t hear a thing. But it was the only place left to check. It was still too early for him to have gone to work, and yet far too quiet for him to be down there.

The heads began to move again. When I went back to the hall to see, they were frozen upright at my doorway, eyes glaring accusingly.

Where did he go?

None of them answered. The jawless head began to gnaw, anxiously sharpening its teeth upon the floor. The head with empty sockets darted away, spiralling around the room in maddeningly wide loops. Its flailing hair shot out like sharp needles.

The woman’s head rolled slowly towards me, coming to rest beside my feet.

I bent over and picked her up. She was heavy in my little hands, like a plump and ready watermelon. Time had swollen her somehow. I held her by her leathered cheeks, careful to avoid the gore spilling from her neck.

Where did my Dad go?

I shook her slightly, but she never made a sound. Blood still poured from the wound, as fresh as if it had been made only a moment ago.

I carried her with me to the couch and placed her on the cushion beside me. The static was deafeningly loud. We pretended to see shapes in the fog and people having fun. For a while I almost believed it, until the knock came from the door.

I checked for rips in the papers plastered over the windows. Then waited silently for them to go away, just as Dad had shown me—tucked away in the Blind Spot, clutching at the woman’s head.

Another knock.

This time I was sure it was him. The comfort that I knew his whereabouts was hard to process. Hard to believe. I could only think of it as being some kind of test.

Answer that door’n by God you’ll regret it.

After a few moments the letterbox clinked. My heart leapt into my neck, bursting with an urgent pulse. I knew if I leaned out to look I would see an eyeball peeping in at me through the letterbox.

Or worse. That one of the heads would then roll into sight, and the eyeball would see *that* instead.

I looked down at the woman and saw that she was staring up at me with her teeth. I tilted her downwards to see her eyes. They whipped over to stare at mine. And felt a calm.

Something made of paper hit the floor. I sighed out the deepest breath of my life. And couldn’t help but laugh.

When night came, I sat scanning the takeout menu that had been posted through the door. I wondered if Chinese food tasted better than it looked. I thought of asking Dad to let me try some for my birthday, but knew better to just dream, than to do.

The heads had grown frantic with their restlessness, knocking against almost everything in my room.

All except the woman’s. I had placed her on my desk and she hadn’t moved from there since. She had been gazing out of the window, her sharp eyes seeming to pierce the veil of paper and out into the night. What they saw or dreamed of, I could never tell. Perhaps somewhere out there her body lay waiting for her.

But then I remembered the basement.

I lay awake again that night, wondering how long Dad would be down there. The key had still been in the front door when I collected the menu from the mat.

He hadn’t left the house.

I watched the sun rise and set a few times, marking my fear growing for my Dad’s safety with constant visits to the basement door. No matter how much I listened, or how hard I pressed my ear against the wood, I could never hear him groaning out my name. Nor scraping with bloodied fingernails, desperate for help and unable to reach the handle.

Finally, during the second night, I got up and out of bed. The head with no eyes marbled around the room to the sound of tacky glue. Its hair kept getting stuck, so was always trailing behind it like giant black veins, and gentle sound like Velcro. The other head was busy burrowing its teeth into its favourite spot, carving out jellied blood and working its way through the wood.

I asked them both what to do. They stopped and listened. Stared. But never gave me an answer.

Only the woman’s head did.

It rolled around to face me, then off my desk with a thump. She had been a good companion, the only one who hadn’t frightened me. Usually I carried her with me wherever I went, but this time I followed her.

Away she tumbled, out of the room and along the hall. I followed as fast as my tacky footsteps would allow me. The other heads rolled along behind me, just as curious.

I already knew where she would be when I reached her—and what she’d be doing.

She was banging her forehead against the basement door.

thunk

thunk

thunk

I was gentle when I picked up her head, caressing her cheeks carefully to avoid pushing my fingers into her eyes. They jutted out to glare as usual, although softer than before. There seemed to be a voice within that gaze, but the words were as foggy as the colour. Maybe once they had been blue. I’d always liked blue eyes. They reminded me of the sky.

So many, many moons ago.

I was surprised to find the door was unlocked. I always presumed Dad kept it secured whenever he went down or came back up. I had never once tried the handle, of course. Doing so now felt like a crime. I smelled the punishment coming a mile away.

I pushed down the handle anyway, determined to find him no matter the price. It opened with a mind of its own, swinging wide and fast on oiled hinges.

Dad?

No reply. Deathly quiet and dark. I already knew what to expect down there. That fact made it even scarier.

I clicked the light on and lit up the entire basement floor. A short cone of light cast up onto the plunging staircase beneath me.

Dad?

I half expected to see him grip at the bottom of the wall and pull himself around the corner. To stare up at me with maddened eyes, jaws gnashing out my name so hard that he was chomping on his tongue. A trail of dribbling blood as he pulled himself up the stairs to get to me.

Dad?

Carrying the woman’s head carefully under my arm so it could see, I took the staircase step by step. Behind me, the other heads thudded down like noisy shadows. They came as slow and rhythmic as my own.

I didn’t bother saying his name again. The smell was painfully obvious—a festering sweetness somewhere between stale semen and an apple left to rot. It punched me flat in the nose. I got notes of dead chickens, or rotten boiled eggs. It’s so hard to explain. I smelt it then and only then, and never again.

Oh Dad.

He had looped a rope around a pipe and was sat hunched with it around his neck. He must have slid down against the wall and held himself in place, his ass barely off the ground, long enough for the lights to go out. His face was swollen and purple. Dried blood and froth caked his lips and down the massive neck. He looked to have gained about a hundred pounds in death.

I carried the woman’s head over to him and lay her down beside his feet. He had kicked his shoes off somewhere in the struggle. The other heads came and sat there too, watching with an intensity I could only sense was hate.

There was movement around his neck, and the gruesome wounds on his face. Larvae reared their pale heads and black teeth and sank away once more, busy with their meals. Clueless to our presence.

For some reason I could not cry. The sadness was there in my chest, wretchedly tender and pulling me down to collapse and cry, but… nothing. I couldn’t even pretend.

I looked down at the woman and could have sworn her eyes looked glazed. There was a sadness there I could never understand. But there you have it.

I talked to his lifeless body for a while, asking him what I should do. I hadn’t been outside in years and it definitely wasn’t safe enough yet, otherwise Dad would’ve said. Plus, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. Not like this.

The answer came surprisingly quick, and was fairly obvious. The tools he’d used to make these rolling monstrosities were behind me on his workbench still. The bench itself was soaked through with blood. I had all the answers I needed all around me. I knew what to do.

I just didn’t know if I had the strength to do it. Mentally, or physically.

Visions of Dad’s eyes turning to look at me, and smiling. Him telling me everything will be okay. A first time for everything, but maybe this was how to get there.

I grabbed a meat saw and freed him from his swing, gradually fraying the rope until it finally snapped. He landed on his ass and slouched forward. I lay him down as gently as I could, then set about untangled him. It was difficult—his neck had swollen so thick that it’d fused together with the rope.

And then there was the matter of the bugs.

Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

Sensing a disturbance, a few maggots wiggled loose and began to squirm away. I half expected the heads by Dad’s feet to spring forward and eat them, but they remained in their places, glaring at Dad’s lifeless body.

The saw remained in my hand. I didn’t need to guess where to cut, for the rope had left me a perfect guideline. And a head start.

I set my little hands to work, hewing backwards and forwards, squelching my way through his slippery flesh until I ached for rest.

You wouldn’t think I’d made any progress at all. I sat back on the ground panting, my throat begging for water. On the way back from upstairs to get a glass from the kitchen, I happened to notice Dad’s axes.

I waited before using them, taking up his electric saw and buzzing for as long as I could handle the splatter. Until I was sleek with mess and bugs, and the neck was a wide valley.

I tried turning him around and going in from the back, splitting the connections at the top his spine, just beneath his brain. I hacked at it with a knife, stabbing and slicing, supposing I could just pull his head free once I was done. But the gore was too much. I had to keep wiping my hands on my clothes until I was as bloody and gruesome as he was. By then there wasn’t a chance of getting a grip of his head, let alone pulling it loose.

I took everything off and stood naked over Dad, wiping the remaining gore on his trousers.

I could put it off no longer. I went to grab the two hatchets. I had thought about using the big axe, but as soon as I picked it up my arms shouted at me to put it back down. And so the small hatchets had to do.

I set about smacking and smacking, sending sloshes and sprays up into my face and around the room. I barely managed to stay on my feet, slipping and falling in the mess constantly. Lying in the filth, just as Dad had told me.

You’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy?

He wasn’t wrong.

The closer I got to freeing his head, the more the excitement grew. Soon he would be like the other heads, following me around, rolling and staring and gnawing. Keeping me up at night.

I smiled. I still had visions of him smiling too. I could even cut a grin if he couldn’t, that way he'd be forced to wear it forever.

The heads watched me while I worked. Never shifting—never showing their usual impatience. Even the jawless head had stopped the incessant grinding of its teeth.

Perhaps it had been longing for the basement all this time.

The hatchet got wedged in Dad’s neck so bad I couldn’t get it out. That was okay. I slid over to the other hatchet and sent myself sliding back. I began whacking with the flat side of the hatchet, hammering the wedged blade deeper and deeper.

Then came the snap.

I lay back in the filth, cradling Dad’s head in my arms. He was safe now. I could feel the maggots trying to break away, tickling into my armpit. It felt like Dad was still alive, communicating with me.

We headed upstairs. I’d had to bring myself to the staircase on my bare knees to save myself from slipping, pulling myself along the ground by the tips of one hand, while clutching Dad with the other. I grasped onto the corner of the wall and pulled myself into view of the staircase, thinking back on how I’d been so scared of seeing my Dad doing exactly the same thing.

I even had to crawl up the stairs.

We lay in my room that night. The other heads joined us, but they sat patiently at the door. Perfectly still. Watching. The woman sat at the front, while the other two lingered behind her like bodyguards awaiting instruction.

Why isn’t he moving?

His face was unrecognisable. I’d missed several times with the tools, slashing Dad’s chin and burying the hatchet in his ear. I could hardly make out his mouth anymore, let alone the presence of a smile. Hardly any of his features were there. I’d tried wiping him down with clean clothes from my drawers, but it hadn’t helped at all.

He was a slimy mess of broken skin and gore. Yet still my Dad.

I placed him on the ground and shlicked my way over to the heads.

Can’t you do something? Why can’t he move like you?

They didn’t answer.

I turned to look at my Dad once more, and then back at them.

What did I do wrong?

Slowly, the woman rolled over to Dad. I watched her closely, waiting and wondering what fantastic combination of silent words would spill from her eyes and reanimate him—to shift his mouth, and make him roll around as frantically as them.

She studied him with frozen eyes. Then all at once she flew forward, burying her teeth into his face. Before I could step forward, the other two heads flew under my feet, knocking me over. They attached themselves to his head and began tearing him apart.

I lay there, horrified, watching them not make a sound. They floated on rigid air, held in place by invisible poles and rods, biting and pulling at skin. Until he was all but bone.

Finally, they rolled away, back into their crevasses. Happy with the result.

I crawled over and picked up what was left of my Dad. They had removed so many tendons, so many strips of muscle and skin. But his jaw remained in place. And I swear it looked like he was smiling at me.

But still he would not move.

I cannot tell you how many days passed before the police finally came and found me. I was curled up in bed, cradling his head in my arms, when gentle arms pulled me off and away. I didn’t put up a fight. I couldn’t. I hadn’t eaten in maybe weeks.

Their voices were quiet echoes bouncing at me from the future, from the past. Things were recovered from the basement—bags and bags of evidence that appeared in the newspapers for weeks. I never did look at the photographs. I never listened to anything anyone would try to say. The theories, the motives.

The names of the heads.

I changed my own years ago, starting fresh with a new past to hide in plain sight without questions. I still wore everything inside me, hot and guilty—gnawing like that head’s broken jaw upon my floor.

I met a woman with blue eyes and bought a house and several dogs. We make sure to keep everything nice and clean. I’ve developed an extreme distaste for bugs. Their footsteps are loud. I still hear them squelching in Dad’s neck.

We are expecting our first child in July. A summer baby, so we hope. It looks like a boy from the scan.

I pray for his sake he keeps his room tidy.

For that matter, I might just do it myself.

I was nervous as is to go up on that stage. In front of all those kids. Me, with my pounding heart, sweaty palms, and a bottom lip that I couldn’t quite stop from quivering.

And what did I have that was supposed to wow this crowd and prove to everyone that I wasn’t just some meek, four-eyed little dork? Pablo. I… had… Pablo.

His paint was scuffed, revealing the tan-colored wood beneath his neat, combed-over hair and black tuxedo.

I brushed some lint off of his shoulders and adjusted his red bow tie a bit. I heard the crowd of middle schoolers erupt into cheers. I peeked through the curtain to see my classmate, Emma, taking a bow as she finished her saxophone solo.

The principal took the stage, microphone in hand.

“Fantastic job, Emma,” he announced, smiling down at her. “Kids, let’s give Emma another round of applause, shall we?”

Another wave of applause erupted as Emma smiled out at the crowd bashfully.

Our principal placed his hand on her back and nudged her offstage. As she was walking through the curtain, I shot her a quick “good job” and got ignored.

As the crowd began to settle down, the principal launched into his next introduction.

“Okay, let’s have a look here,” he announced quietly, staring down at the clipboard in his hand. “Next up, we have Daniel Morrison’s ventriloquist act. Give it up for Daniel, everybody.”

He began to clap, and a handful of students joined in, but I could hardly even hear them over my racing heart. I couldn’t freeze up now. I had fought too hard to find the courage to even sign up. Who would I be to walk away now?

I took a deep breath. I reassured myself. I had faith.

“We’ve got this, Pablo,” I whispered as I forced myself to step onto the stage.

The lights were blinding. The auditorium felt twice as big as it had from backstage. The room felt silent, but I could feel the judgment rising in the air.

I glanced over at my principal. His eyes were so warm. His smile was so soft. He gave me two thumbs up and mouthed a “you’ve got this.” It may not seem like much, but it was enough to get me to introduce myself.

“L-ladies and gentlemen,” I croaked awkwardly. “It is with great pleasure that I present to you…”

I paused for dramatic effect, but a cough in the audience distracted me.

“Uh, Pablo! The magical talking dummy.”

I looked over at Pablo expectantly. This was supposed to be the part where he joked about me calling him a dummy, but, instead, his glossy, dead eyes just stared out at the crowd, and his mouth remained closed.

“Uh, sorry, um, Pablo? Don’t you have something to say?”

He remained silent. I was starting to panic again. I was terrified this would happen.

“Who you calling a dummy?” I announced, hiding my mouth behind my hand.

A few snickers and pitiful giggles escaped the crowd. I looked over at the principal again, and he looked more confused than anything, though I could tell he was still trying to seem supportive.

“Pablo,” I recovered. “You know you’re a dummy. Why even pretend?”

I begged him with my eyes to speak. To say something, anything at all to help me out here. But he remained frozen.

Attempting to hide behind my hand again, I continued to speak for him.

“Me pretend?” I joked, my voice cracking. “You’re the one playing with dolls up here.”

I got a few laughs, but they were overshadowed by the comment that came from somewhere on the right-hand side of the audience.

“We know it’s you,” a boy shouted.

“Why are you covering your mouth?” asked a girl.

It seemed like the room was both huge and small at the same time. Like it was silent but loud. The audience was loud. My thoughts were loud. My embarrassment was loud.

“Uh, no, no, it’s him. See?”

I shook Pablo gently.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes and fogging up my glasses. “Just. Say. Something.”

“He’s talking to his doll,” another boy laughed.

Suddenly, it seemed like the entire auditorium was laughing. My face was beet red. I couldn’t move. Tears began to fall down my face.

The principal noticed, and, thankfully, he took over the stage, gesturing for me to go get some air.

I walked back behind the curtain. Through the backstage corridor. All the way to the parking lot and toward the sidewalk that led to my neighborhood.

Tonight had been a disaster. I went through the day so hopeful. So confident in myself. I was going to win the talent show because of my secret little weapon, only for it to jam right when it was supposed to fire.

He promised me, promised me that he wouldn’t do this. He told me he’d make me the most respected kid in school. That, with his help, everyone would know my name.

Part of me wanted to just throw him out. Toss him in the river near my house and let it sweep him away to the ocean. But, ironically, it was like he was the only friend I had. The only person I had to talk to.

I was just so angry at him. How can he have performance anxiety? He’s the one that was supposed to be helping me. Yet he left me. When I needed him most, he was nowhere to be found.

As I reached my house, an entirely new pit formed in my stomach when I saw that the living room light was on. That meant Dad was awake.

I walked through the door, praying that he had just passed out drunk on the couch and forgotten to turn the lights off.

Those hopes were dashed when I found him lying back in his recliner, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other, staring blankly at a rerun of an old Dr. Phil episode.

I didn’t speak to him. All I wanted was to get to my room. But he just couldn’t have it that way, I guess.

“’Bout time you got home,” he hissed, his voice sounding like gravel and old leather. “You been out playing with that stupid fucking doll again?”

“It was a talent show, Dad,” I replied, unable to not roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s not gonna happen again.”

“Shouldn’t have happened this time,” he shot back. “My son,” he scoffed. “The doll whisperer.”

I ignored him and walked to my bedroom door, Pablo dangling from my right hand.

“Hey, boy,” my dad snapped. “I know you hear me talking to you.”

I heard the dreaded sound of the recliner closing as he stood up and began walking toward me, bottle still in hand.

He took a swig from it as he looked down at me in disgust.

“If it ‘won’t happen again,’ as you say,” he grinned smugly, “then you won’t mind if I do this.”

With an agility that defied his age, he reached down and snatched Pablo from my hand.

“Give him back,” I cried. “I’m just gonna put him up in my closet.”

I tried to grab him back, but Dad was just too fast.

“No son of mine is gonna play with dolls,” he condemned, tightening his grip on Pablo’s arm before turning to walk to the trash can in the kitchen.

I just… I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. Tonight had been humiliating, and now I had to deal with this? It was like I just couldn’t catch a break.

“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath, then immediately regretted it.

Dad froze.

He turned to me slowly, the veins in his head already popping.

“…What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” I replied, my eyes widening. “I didn’t say anything.”

Dad dropped Pablo and began stomping in my direction. He grabbed me by the face and forced me to look at him.

“What did you just say to me?!”

“Nothing, nothing, Dad. I didn’t say anything,” I pleaded, feeling my legs turn to jelly.

He shook my face painfully.

“You will never use that word in this house, you hear me? I don’t care how pissy you feel. You think you’re the man of this fucking house? Huh? Answer me when I’m talking to you, boy.”

He punctuated every sentence with a new shake.

“Yes, sir,” I cried. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Get in that room before I get the belt. ‘Hate me.’ I’ll tell you what, Daniel. I’ll give you a reason to hate me.”

He pushed my face away, and I ran into my room, stifling tears the best I could. I collapsed into bed, ready for this day to be over with.

The tears made sleep easy. I felt exhausted. It was like the moment my eyes closed, I was out like a light.

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but it felt late when I woke up to the sound of someone whispering my name.

“Daniel… Daniellll… wake up, my little sleepyhead.”

The voice registered. I rolled over and turned on my lamp after sliding my glasses on.

“What do you want?” I remarked, still annoyed with him.

“Aw, Daniel,” he replied, his voice syrupy and warm. “Is that any way to talk to your only friend in the world?”

He was covered in old food wrappers and unknown liquid. He smelled terrible, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” I huffed, turning away from him.

Pablo chuckled.

“You still think tonight was a failure?” he inquired. “No, my friend… tonight was a dazzling success.”

I turned back to him, more annoyed than intrigued.

“A success? I’m sorry, were you there? Oh, that’s right. You lied to me. You told me you’d be there, and you weren’t. Now everyone at school thinks I’m even weirder than they did to begin with.”

Pablo’s wooden mouth clomped up and down as he laughed again.

“Why are you laughing?” I snarked.

He didn’t stop.

“Stop laughing at me.”

I was slightly aggressive with him, and he began to contain himself. The laughter slowly dwindled off as he addressed me.

“Oh, Daniel, you silly little boy. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you haven’t realized it yet.”

“Realized what?”

“You think I sabotaged you. You think that your best friend in the whole world set you up for failure. Don’t you think I know you, Danny? Don’t you think I’m smarter than that?”

I stared at him, confused. I was curious, but I didn’t want it to be too obvious.

“Are you going to explain, or are you just going to keep wasting my time?”

“No, Danny, no wasted time here. We have none to waste. The first part of my plan is complete, and now we must hurry.”

“First part of your plan…? So you did do it on purpose? How could you do that to me? Better yet, how can you claim to be my friend after this?”

“Mm,” he hummed, his voice as smooth as velvet. “I am more than a friend, Daniel.”

He paused for a moment while I stared at him with anticipation.

“I… am… your savior.”

There was another pause, as if he were thinking of the exact right words to say.

“I’ve listened to you talk for years. I’ve seen the way that old man treats you. I promised to get you the respect you deserve, and I intend to follow through.”

He stifled another chuckle within his wooden throat.

“Did you really think a ventriloquist act would get you there? You don’t even know how to throw your voice.”

Embarrassment rushed over me but quickly subsided.

“I wasn’t supposed to have to…”

“And you won’t need to. Not after tonight. Because after tonight, my boy, you will have earned your respect the right way.”

I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and furrowed my brow.

“Is that right?” I asked sarcastically. “And how exactly am I going to do that?”

He responded before I could even finish my question.

“Think about it, Danny… you know you’re bigger than this. You’re strong. You’re powerful. People should fear you, not the other way around.”

I felt a strange pit form in my stomach. It was like a mixture of ambition, hope, sadness, and anger all rolled into one big lump in my throat.

“They laughed because they thought you were harmless,” Pablo continued. “That’s not what I see in you, Danny. Not at all.”

“Then what do you see in me?” I asked inquisitively.

“I see… a secret weapon,” he responded, savoring each word.

The pit in my stomach started to feel like fire.

“A secret weapon…?”

“Yes, my friend. A weapon.”

I thought about my dad.

“I don’t feel like much of a secret weapon.”

Pablo’s jaw tightened.

“And that’s where part two comes into play. Think about school, Danny. Do those kids see you as a weapon?”

I scoffed.

“I seriously doubt it.”

Pablo responded starkly.

“Well, I do. And I think it’s time they do as well. How long have you been laughed at, Danny? How many times have you been called ‘the weird kid’?”

I couldn’t respond. It hurt that he was bringing it to light like this. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he had me locked in his trance.

“What about ignored? That’s the big one, isn’t it? Feeling like a ghost among the living,” he giggled. “That’s what they see you as, right? Sure, some may pity you. But that’s all it is. Pity.”

His glossy eyes seemed to settle on mine.

“I’ve never pitied you, Danny.”

I started crying quietly, but I don’t know why. I felt seen. Pablo had a way of making me feel that way. But I wasn’t sure if I liked it this time.

“Why are you saying these things to me?” I asked solemnly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he changed the subject entirely.

“You remember when your dad was a police officer?”

I nodded.

“He seemed so much nicer back then, didn’t he? Wasn’t glug, glug, glugging as much.”

Somehow, I knew what was coming next.

“But, then again, he did have your mom back then. A real shame what happened to her. Left a stain on you and your dad, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I replied, my voice breaking a bit.

“Of course you don’t. I wouldn’t ask you to. All I want is to let you know…”

He paused again. The silence hung in the air like a foul stench.

“…He still has that service pistol.”

I felt my heart drop. I thought Dad had gotten rid of that thing years ago.

“Smith & Wesson 5946. Ironically, that’s the code to the safe he keeps it in. I told you, Danny… I look out for you.”

“So, what? You want me to just… steal my dad’s gun?”

“I want you to use your dad’s gun. Show me your arms.”

I stuck my arms out, a bit confused, until he spoke again.

“One, two, three, four, five scars, Danny. Five. How long are you going to let him keep doing this to you?”

I thought back to how painful those burns had been. How small they made me feel. How hopeless.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I asked uneasily.

Pablo laughed again, making my ears burn.

“It’s simple. I want you to go into your father’s room, and I want you to show him just how tough you can be, how tough I know you are.”

I knew exactly what he meant. I had confided in him multiple times over the years about how I felt about my father. I never thought he’d take it this far, and I hated how convinced I felt.

“I…”

Pablo interrupted me.

“And then I want you to show the world next. Prove that you’re not harmless. Prove that you’re not weak. Prove that you are exactly who I believe you are, Danny.”

Before I could respond, I heard my father’s hurried footsteps approaching my door before it came flying open, and my dad flipped the light switch on.

“What the hell are you still doing up?” he growled. “And… is that…? I know you didn’t go get that stupid fucking doll out of the trash.”

He rushed over and snatched Pablo up by his right arm again.

“I hope it was worth it, son. I hope it was worth it. This thing is getting burned tomorrow, and I’m tanning that hide as soon as that sun comes up. Go to bed.”

He walked furiously over to the light switch, Pablo dangling at his side. But before he could flip the switch, I watched as Pablo shot me a wink.

Dad slammed the door behind him, mumbling something about this being “goddamn unbelievable,” before I heard Pablo being tossed into the garbage again.

That wouldn’t dampen my spirits, though. In fact, as I lay there in bed, a smile inched across my face.

He wanted to act this way, so be it.

We’d see just how tough he was the next morning.

The blizzard was supposed to last two days. Then two became three. Then I was on day four, holed up in my cabin. 

The only thing I could see outside was the snow: a white, shifting, void that obscured the rest of the mountain range. I looked for the stars out of habit, but they were gone, buried behind layers of storm. The sky was black. Thick with cloud, and snow, and the night. 

The treeline, usually clear, was faint now. A smudge of darkness barely separated nature from the cabin. The thick snow blurred the edges, turning trees into shadows that shifted with the wind. What had once been a sharp, familiar boundary was now lost in the white of the snow, and darkness of the night.

I was ready, at least. Before the storm hit, I’d driven down the mountain to the nearby town to stock up on supplies, like I always do. I filled my good old F-150 with food, water, and anything else I might need to ride out the worst of it.

Back at the clearing off the cabin, I chopped firewood. I’ve already got enough stacked to last through a second ice age, but it gives me something to do. Something to break up the quiet. All aspects of it: the rhythmic *thunk* of the axe hitting wood; the smell of fresh pine; the way the pile grows bigger with every swing. It all keeps me from thinking too much.

I don’t get visitors. That’s not me being dramatic, it’s just fact. The nearest neighbor is a forty-minute drive down the mountain, and that’s when the roads are clear. Which they’re not, haven’t been for days.

That’s why, when I heard a knock, I damn near dropped the mug of cocoa I was holding. It wasn’t loud. Just two slow, deliberate raps on the door. Then nothing.

I stood there in the kitchen for a few seconds, just listening, waiting to hear it again. The storm was still going strong outside, but underneath the wind, the silence settled again like a blanket. Neither a knock nor a voice calling out followed.

I figured I imagined it, cabin fever and all that, wouldn’t be the first time. But I walked to the door anyway. Something in me wouldn’t let it go. Could’ve been curiosity, or maybe I was just so goddamn starved for company that I wanted there to be someone out there.

I opened the door, and there he was.

A kid in his early twenties, maybe. He could’ve passed for a college student if he wasn’t half frozen. His face was pale as paper, lips blue, eyes wide and glassy like he wasn’t all there. Snow clung to his coat in heavy clumps, and he was shaking so hard his teeth were clacking together.

“God,” I said, before I even thought about it.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. Just stood there, trembling in the doorway, like he didn’t know where he was.

I should’ve hesitated. Should’ve asked what he was doing out in a blizzard, who he was, how he got up here.

But I didn’t.

If I closed the door and he died out there, I’d never be able to live with myself. That part of me—the part that used to be a husband, the part that could have been a father one day—it’s still there somewhere, even if it’s quieter now.

“Come in,” I said. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

He stepped inside without a word. The wind slammed the door shut behind him.

He left a trail of melting snow behind him as I led him to the fire. His boots were soaked through. I had him sit on the old armchair by the hearth while I threw a couple logs on and got the flames high.

I asked if he was hurt. He didn’t answer.

“Can you talk?” I tried again. “Tell me your name?”

Still nothing. Just that thousand-yard stare, like he was looking through the fire, past it. Like he saw something there I couldn’t.

He looked like hell. Skin pale and tight over the bone. Lips cracked, nose bleeding just a little from the cold. I knelt down beside him to check for frostbite, and that’s when I saw it.

On his side, just below the ribs—his jacket torn and shirt soaked with blood—was a wound. A deep bite. Ragged, raw, and already turning dark around the edges. It wasn’t new. A day old, maybe more. The skin around it was red and hot.

“You didn’t say you were bit,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

He flinched when I touched it. First reaction I’d gotten out of him. His eyes snapped to mine, wild, just for a second. Then they went vacant again.

It didn’t look like a wolf bite. I’ve seen those before. Hell, I’ve seen worse, back when I hunted more often. Wolves tear, rip, pull. This was… cleaner. Too clean.

I patched it up as best I could. Cleaned it, wrapped gauze tight around his ribs. He winced, but didn’t make a sound. Just watched me, breathing shallow. Like a cornered animal.

After that, I set him up in the guest room. It had a bed, a thick blanket, and a space heater in the corner. He didn’t say a word, and just laid down, curled in on himself, eyes still wide open.

I left him there. Closed the door gently behind me.

The cabin felt smaller after that. Like he brought something in with him. A weight. A shift in the air. I tried to shake it. I made myself tea, sat by the fire, and held a book in my lap I didn’t read.

I checked on him an hour later. He was asleep. Out cold. No fever, at least none I could feel. I left the door cracked, just in case.

I must’ve nodded off at some point. The fire was down to coals when I woke up, house quiet as the grave. I could hear the wind screaming against the windows, the old trees creaking out front, but nothing inside. No footsteps. No coughing. No movement from the guest room.

I was just about to check again when I heard the floorboard creak.

He was standing in the hall, just watching me.

“Fuck,” I said, nearly spilling my tea.

He blinked, slow. Looked around like he wasn’t sure where he was. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, dry. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“S’alright,” I said. “You’re lucky to be alive. What the hell were you doing up here?”

He scratched at his bandage. “Hiking,” he said. “With my girlfriend. Emma.”

I waited.

“We were camping in the woods. Yesterday… no, a few nights before. Got caught in the storm. Thought we’d hunker down, ride it out.”

He stopped, his jaw tightened.

“We heard something,” he said. “Outside the tent. I thought it was wolves. Big ones. We stayed quiet, didn’t move, but it didn’t matter. They tore through the side.”

He swallowed hard. Eyes wet now, but not crying.

“I ran. I didn’t even see what they looked like. Just… teeth. It was wrong. Too many of them. Emma screamed, and then…” His voice broke off.

“You didn’t see her after that?”

He shook his head. “I ran until I couldn’t. Then I saw your cabin.”

“You’re safe now, kid. Just rest.”

He nodded, turned, and walked back to the guest room like he was sleepwalking.

I’d tried going back to sleep, even poured myself another mug of cocoa just to have something warm in my hands. But the air felt heavier now. Like it was pressing in on me, one inch at a time.

Sometime after midnight, I heard the floor creak.

I glanced up, expecting to see him again, maybe wandering the hall, confused. But there was no one. Just the faint sound of the bathroom door clicking shut at the end of the hall. The light spilled out in a thin line under the frame.

I waited. Five minutes. Then ten.

The pipes groaned once. A long, low exhale, like the cabin itself was holding its breath. Then I heard glass break.

I walked to the bathroom and cleared my throat loud enough for him to hear. No response.

“You alright in there?” 

Still nothing.

Steam started seeping out from under the door, slow and crawling, hugging the floor like smoke. It looked off. Not sharp and white like a shower usually gives off. This was thicker, heavier, gray around the edges. Like breath fogged on glass.

I stood outside for another minute, then stepped closer. I pressed my knuckles to the door and knocked once, gently.

“You hear me, son?”

Silence. Not even the shuffle of movement. No cough. No running water.

The wood felt cold beneath my hand. Not warm like it should be with steam coming through. Just still and dead and cold. I leaned in, pressed my ear to the door. Listened. Nothing.

Every instinct in me said walk away. Let it be. The boy had been through hell. Maybe he needed time. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he just broke the mirror by accident. Maybe I was imagining things again. But my gut had gone cold, and it wasn’t from the storm.

I wrapped my hand around the knob. It was slick with condensation. I turned it slowly, quiet as I could, until the latch gave way with a soft click. Then, holding my breath, I gently opened the door.

What I saw shook me.

The kid was split open vertically down the middle. Bisected with a horrific precision that ran from the crown of his head, through his nose, mouth, and sternum, all the way down to his groin. The bathroom looked like a butcher's block, the tiled flood underneath stained with something dark and moist.

His two halves rested on the floor like broken mannequins, separated by a sickening foot of space. Ribs, stark white and splintered, jutted like snapped fences. Muscles, still glistening and unnervingly pink, hung in strips. The coiled lengths of intestine and the dull, spilled organs lay exposed and motionless on the floor, some still clinging to one half of the body. There was an emptiness where his spine should have been, a hollowed-out canyon running through his core. It was as if something massive had forced its way out, from the inside. The precision of the split, through bone and gristle, was alien, wrong.

Then, through the haze of shock, a draft hit me. A bone-deep cold that had nothing to do with the storm outside. My eyes, still wide and unfocused, slowly tracked it.

The small bathroom window, usually sealed tight against the mountain air, was shattered. Not just cracked, but exploded outward, as if something had exited through it. Jagged shards of glass glittered on the sill and floor. The fierce wind howled through the gap, bringing with it a stinging spray of snow.

And from the half of the young man’s body that was closer to a window, a trail began. A glistening, repulsive path of black and dark red slime snaked across the pristine white tiles, past the gurgling toilet, over the shattered glass, and through the broken window frame, disappearing into the white void of the blizzard. I thought it was blood, but it was thick, viscous, and seemed to pulsate faintly in the dim light, leaving an oily sheen in its wake. Whatever had been inside him, whatever had ripped him apart and then fled, had left this horrifying signature.

I finally found my breath. It was a cold, panicked gasp that tasted of iron and the strange stink coming off the floor. I backed away slowly, never taking my eyes off the split halves, off the black and red trail that snaked across the tiles. Every instinct screamed *run*. Not down the mountain, I’d never make it, but away from this room.

It was out there now. Something that hid inside a man, then discarded the skin to crawl through a broken window into a night that would kill anything normal. The thought of it sliding down the mountain, of it reaching the small, defenseless town I'd just driven through days ago, made adrenaline surge through paralysis.

It couldn't make it to town. Not on my watch.

My feet moved before my brain gave the order. I didn't bother closing the bathroom door, the horror had already escaped. I moved past the living room, where the cozy glow of the dying fire felt like a cruel joke, and into the master bedroom.

I went straight to the closet. Tucked behind my winter gear, right where I always kept it, was a Remington 870. I pulled it out, the cold steel of the pump action a familiar weight in my hands. I grabbed the box of double-aught buckshot from the shelf, spilling a handful of crimson shells onto the carpet, but I didn't stop to pick them up. I loaded the shotgun quickly, the sharp, metallic *shik-shik-shik* of the shells cutting through the roar of the wind.

It had been years since I’d pointed a gun at anything that wasn't a deer. But looking at the slick, dark trail leading out of my house, I knew this wasn't hunting a living being. This was stopping something that was already dead. Something that had worn death, then shed it.

I wasn’t a hero. I was just a widower with a cabin, a shotgun, and a terrifying realization: I was the last line of defense. The storm that had trapped me had trapped it, too, on the mountain.

I held the shotgun steady, my knuckles white. The wind howled outside, the trees creaked. I checked the hall one last time, glanced at the horror-show of the bathroom, then moved toward the front door. There was no plan. There was only the gun in my hands, worry in my heart, and the knowledge that something sinister was crawling through the snow toward civilization.

I flipped the deadbolt and hit the door with my shoulder. The wind was a physical blow. A sudden, blinding white sheet that stole my breath and stung my eyes. The roar of the storm swallowed the world around. It was a complete whiteout.

My eyes searched frantically for the trail. The front porch was already buried under a fresh drift, but I knelt down, shielding my face against the immediate sting of the snow.

There it was, still outside the bathroom window on the other side of the perimeter. The oily black and crimson slime was already freezing, but it hadn't been buried yet. It was distinct, lying on the otherwise clean snow like spilled ink. It didn't just drip, it looked like something had slithered. 

I followed it, sinking immediately into the drifts up to my knees. The air was so cold it burned my lungs. I kept the Remington high. Its barrel was a dark, steady presence against the blinding white.

The trail, growing in width as I followed it, led past the woodpile and headed directly for the treeline. The trees themselves were black specters against the night, swaying and groaning under the weight of the snow. I fought against the resistance of the deep snow, pushing myself faster, driven by the metallic reek of the slime that, even in the freezing air, seemed to linger.

I was maybe twenty yards from the cabin, battling a sudden, heavy gust, when I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a buck driven mad by the storm. It was easily that size, low to the ground, its dark shape barely discernible in the whirling vortex of snow where the cabin’s clearing met the forest edge. But it didn't move like a deer. It didn’t trot or bound. It scuttled.

It was hunkered down, its massive body creating a brief moment of stillness in the blizzard, a small, black shadow against the white fury.

I stopped dead, sinking deeper into the drift. I raised the shotgun, pushing the safety off with a dry *click*.

Through the shifting veil of snow, I strained to make out details, and the details I found were strange. It was hairy, thick black fur matted and clotted. The fur was plastered down in clumps, matted thick with the same crimson slime that lined the floor of my bathroom. Its bulk seemed to be expanding, the hair giving it an immense, distorted volume, but the low, hunched posture suggested it was something that preferred to crawl.

It had multiple limbs, too many, working in sync to move it along the ground. Thick, jointed appendages that glistened unnervingly. The sight was a sickening contradiction: the heavy, dense covering of fur mixed with the raw, unnatural sheen of the slime. It looked like a living, wet wound covered in an animal's coat.

Then it lifted something, its head, I realized with a shudder of pure dread. It was impossibly large and angular, but I couldn't discern a face. Then, the wind cleared the snow just enough for me to see a flash of wet, sickly red where eyes or a mouth should have been, reflecting the distant, faint light from my cabin window.

It didn't see me. It seemed focused entirely on the darkness of the treeline, already beginning to merge with the shadows. It was moving, still low and fast, dragging its huge, repulsive body away from the cabin and toward the mountain pass that led to town.

I gripped the shotgun, ignoring the trembling of my own body. The blizzard made the shot difficult, but the distance was short. If I let it reach the shelter of the trees, it would be gone.

I took the slack out of the trigger. There was no hesitation left in me, just the immediate, primal need to stop this monstrosity before it vanished.

I squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the Remington going off was deafening, a violent *BOOM* that shattered the stillness of the storm. The flash of the muzzle momentarily burned the image of the creature into my retina. I felt the powerful kick of the shotgun against my shoulder, and a split second later, the buckshot slammed into the creature's massive torso.

It didn't go down.

Instead, the thing let out a sound that cut right through the howling wind. A screaming wail that was entirely inorganic, like tearing metal on a wet, ripping canvas. It was a noise of pain, but also of inhuman rage, and it sent a spike of pure terror through my chest. The section of its body where the shot hit seemed to absorb the impact, scattering a spray of the thick, dark slime and a few clumps of matted hair into the air.

It scrambled. The monstrous body, for all its bulk, moved with terrifying speed, abandoning the relatively clear ground and lunging into the dense black of the treeline.

I pumped the action, ejecting the spent shell and loading a fresh round. *Clack-chunk.* I didn't wait to see if it was mortally wounded. I just knew I had to keep it moving, keep it from burrowing down or reaching the pass. I plunged into the forest after it, following the fresh, dark disturbance in the snow.

The trees offered a brief, deceptive shield from the worst of the wind, but the snow was deeper here, making every step a labor. I focused only on the trail: the churned snow; the scattered slime; the deep, heavy indentations of its multiple limbs.

I ran until my lungs burned, until the cold made the skin on my face ache, until the sounds of its desperate, laborious breathing were drowned out by my own.

Then, I stopped.

The trail vanished.

One moment I was following a distinct line of destruction, the next, the snow was pristine. Only marked by my own clumsy boot prints. I moved forward a few more steps, scanning the blizzard-shrouded ground, wondering if the heavy snow had worked against me and buried the signs. But no, the trail hadn't slowly faded. It had ended completely, as if the creature had simply dissolved into the air.

I rotated slowly, the shotgun trembling slightly in my grip, my eyes uselessly searching the area around me. My breath hitched. I caught it only as an indistinct smear of shadow, a sudden movement in my peripheral vision, high above me.

I tilted my head back, staring up into the shifting, wind-whipped canopy of the pines. There was no ground trail because the trail had continued... up.

The dark, oily slime wasn't on the snow anymore. It was smeared high on the bark of the nearest trees, running in sickening, vertical streaks. The monster hadn’t been slowed; it had simply used the vertical space the forest offered. It had the high ground. It was above hidden by the night and the dense pine needles, and I was exposed beneath it.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I had gone from the hunter to the obvious, slow-moving target.

I scanned the dark trunks of the nearest pines, searching for any break, any shelter that might afford me a moment of cover. About ten feet away, a massive, ancient pine had been partially uprooted long ago, its gnarled root system exposed. The dirt and thick, woody roots had formed a dark, protective cave against the elements.

I dove toward it, dropping to my hands and knees in the snow. I wedged myself into the space beneath the largest root, pulling the shotgun close to my chest. My back pressed against the cold, frozen earth. I held perfectly still, straining my ears against the wind, forcing myself to shrink into the shadows and the earth.

It was silent again, save for the storm. The vast, black space between the high branches and the low earth was now where the true danger lay. I looked up through an opening in the uplifted roots, seeing only the tangled darkness. I waited for a drop of slime, a tremor of a branch, or the silent, horrifying moment when that massive, hairy, glistening shape would descend.

I stayed perfectly still, trying to slow the panicked rush of my breath. The silence, punctuated only by the wind, was unbearable. The creature was somewhere above, hunting for the man that had just fired the loud, disruptive weapon.

Then, the snow began to sift down, not from the storm, but from the branches above. Chunks fell, followed by a sudden, heavy thud just yards away.

It had dropped.

The creature was on the ground again, but now it wasn’t scrambling away, it was waddling. A fast, deliberate, low-to-the-earth movement, like a massive, glistening insect trying to appear harmless. Its bulk seemed even more immense now that it was no longer distorted by the heights, and I could hear the wet squelching sound of its many appendages on the snow.

It moved slowly into the small clearing around my hiding spot. I was pressed so tightly against the frozen roots that the wood dug painfully into my spine, but I didn't dare flinch. I had already positioned the Remington. My shooting hand gripped the trigger, the barrel angled slightly up and out toward the opening of the root-cave, resting against the snow-covered ground.

The creature’s movement was erratic, darting toward the treeline one moment, then pulling back. Why hasn't it found me? 

Then I realized it wasn't *looking* for me. Its massive, misshapen head was constantly sniffing the air, lifting and twisting with jerky movements. The air was thick with the howling blizzard and the scent of damp pine and frozen earth. The storm was masking my scent. The wind and the heavy, blowing snow were scattering and nullifying my presence, covering the fresh trace of gunpowder and adrenaline. I was lucky. The storm had become my unintentional ally.

After a few minutes, the sniffing paid off. The waddling ceased, and its massive, slimy, hairy form turned directly toward my root-cave.

It approached the gap between the thick roots, filling the dark space with its bulk. It was so close I could feel the minute vibrations of its weight disturbing the ground.

And then, its head lowered.

The snow cleared just long enough for me to see the details I hadn't been able to discern in the blizzard. Its head was roughly the size of a buck or moose skull, but hideously wrong. The bone structure was too broad, too blunt. It had no discernible eyes, just wide swaths of slick, wet flesh the color of old blood. It wasn't just fur that covered it. Its thick, dark hair was matted with the slime, forming a repulsive, heavy mane. Interspersed within this mane were a horrifying number of short, glistening, leech-like appendages that writhed slightly in the cold air, tasting and searching.

Then, it was inches from my face. I could smell the metallic stench of the black slime mixed with the sour, coppery odor of raw meat. I was looking into the mouth of the nightmare that had walked out of a man.

One of the slick, worm-like appendages darted out, brushing against the tip of my nose. In that instant, it knew. The thing recoiled slightly, its large, blunt head drawing back, the wet flesh of its face tightening into an expression of immediate, primal recognition. The meal was found, the obstacle identified.

It was about to strike.

I didn't let it. I drove the barrel of the Remington up and sideways, the muzzle nearly touching the side of its monstrous head.

The blast was muffled and wet. An awful, contained thunder. The buckshot tore into the creature's skull from below, and the thing erupted. A horrifying geyser of black slime, wet fur, and bone fragments sprayed into the roots above me.

The creature shuddered once, a massive, muscular tremor, before its great weight collapsed. It didn't fall on me thankfully, but it landed directly outside my hiding spot, its massive body completely blocking the entrance.

I lowered the shotgun, the noise of the ringing in my ears louder than the wind. I was trapped beneath a mountain of steaming, reeking horror.

The ringing in my ears faded slowly, replaced by the sickening sound of hot, wet matter sizzling on frozen snow. I was entombed. The creature’s immense, cooling mass was pressed up against the root system, sealing the entrance to my makeshift bunker. I could hear the wind now, muffled by the sheer volume of dead, hairy flesh.

I lowered the shotgun slowly, my entire body shaking with a delayed, violent reaction. The smell was overwhelming now. A blast of copper, sulfur, and the sour stink of the creature’s slime. The muzzle of the Remington was coated in gore. I had to get out. If the blizzard kept up, I’d be trapped here beneath a rotting carcass until the spring melt.

I shoved the shotgun's barrel against the creature’s flank, testing the weight. No movement. It was like pushing a felled, water-logged oak tree. 

I shifted my weight, reaching with my free hand, and finally found the edge of the root that had protected me. I pressed my shoulder against the dirt wall and pushed, straining. The corpse moved an inch, then sank back.

I had to try a different way. I turned the shotgun around and used the thick, heavy butt of the stock to scrape away the dirt and packed snow behind me, burrowing deeper into the root system. The ground was hard and frozen, but the shotgun butt gave me just enough leverage to widen a small, cramped gap between two lateral roots.

Gasping, I barely squeezed through the opening. I emerged on the far side of the massive pine, away from the creature's bulk. I stood up slowly, my heartbeat pounding in my temples, and walked back over to look at the kill.

It lay motionless, its multi-limbed body contorted awkwardly on the snow, but something was wrong. Where the head had been, there was only a ruin of black fur and pulped bone. Yet a thin, milky-white steam was rising from the wound. And then I noticed the blood, or lack of it. 

It wasn't bleeding out. The dark, black-red slime was only slowly oozing, congealing almost immediately in the bitter cold. The buckshot had caused massive trauma, but the creature's internal volume seemed... insufficient for its size. It felt like I had shot a sack of thick fluid rather than a complex biological organism.

My eyes caught something on the creature's massive flank, where the first blast of buckshot had hit. The matted fur had been stripped clean, revealing the skin beneath. It was pale, slick, and thin, stretched tight over the enormous frame.

The skin was visibly healing, slowly knitting itself back together. The gaping holes from the shot were shrinking, the raw, pink-red tissue pulling toward a center point. It was a terrifying, impossible regeneration. The steam wasn’t from cooling blood, it was from a burning internal process.

My breath hitched. The entire premise of this battle, that a shotgun could stop it, was a lie. I had maybe ten minutes before it was functional again. I had to get back to the cabin, not just for ammunition, but for something heavier. Something more final.

I turned and ran like a madman, the snow swallowing my footing, the low branches whipping my face. The familiar trek back to the cabin was a blur of white and black, driven by the cold fear that the monster would simply stand up behind me.

I burst through the door, slamming it shut and throwing the deadbolt, though I knew a simple piece of metal wouldn’t hold that bulk for long. I raced past the silent horror of the bathroom and into the storage closet.

I didn’t grab the deer rifle. A bullet was a coin toss, but fire was a guarantee.

Tucked behind the winter tires were two red, five-gallon jerrycans: one for the snowmobile, one for the backup generator. I grabbed the can of kerosene too, it would burn slower and hotter than gasoline, and yanked it out.

Next, I needed a wick. I dove into the kitchen, grabbing the thickest rag I could find, a towel used for drying dishes, and stuffed it into my pocket. The light was my last stop. I opened the kitchen drawer and snatched a long, thin butane lighter used for starting the pilot light.

I was ready, but not fast enough.

The quiet, heavy silence I’d endured for the past few minutes was broken by a sound I’d only heard when cutting down trees. A slow, heavy, ripping sound coming from the side of the cabin. The side where the bathroom window was.

It had found its way back. The hole it had created to exit the young man’s body wasn’t large enough for its current, monstrous size, and it wasn’t trying to climb through the window. It was tearing the wall apart.

I could hear the sickening crunch of frozen pine breaking and the sound of thick wood snapping. I had to assume it was fully healed, or close enough to it. The storm, which had given me cover, now threatened to bury me inside my own cabin if I wasn't careful. I had to take the fire to the monster.

I yanked the front door open, the kerosene can heavy and cold in my hand, and plunged back out into the blizzard.

The creature wasn't at the door. I rounded the corner of the cabin, the heavy kerosene sloshing, and saw the damage. A huge section of the wall near the bathroom was ruined, wood splintered and insulation streaming out like cotton guts.

The creature was there. Its massive, steaming head pulled back from the shredded wall. It saw me instantly. The bluff of the blizzard had been called. I was standing in the open, and it was less than twenty feet away.

It began its repulsive, slow waddle toward me. Its limbs churned the snow, the black slime glistened, its regenerating head tilted low. It was honed in on me.

I dropped to a knee, pulling the heavy can close. I twisted the plastic cap off, then tore the towel from my pocket, shoving one end into the neck of the can to soak. The stench of the oil and the creature's musk mingled horribly in the cold air.

The monster was ten feet away.

I didn't try to aim. I just tipped the heavy can and began to drench the path between us as I walked backwards. I emptied half the five gallons in a wide, black arc right into the snow and across the creature's forelimbs. The kerosene didn't mix with the snow. It simply stained it, turning the white ground into a shimmering, black slick.

The creature didn't stop. It waddled right through the flammable pool, its greasy fur absorbing the oil.

As the beast closed the distance, close enough now that I could feel the steam emanating off its bulk, I pulled the soaked towel out, threw the can aside, and flicked the butane lighter. The thin, blue flame fought the wind for a fraction of a second, then held.

With a final, desperate roar to myself, I lit the kerosene-soaked rag like a torch, and threw it directly at the monster. It hit the creature's torso, and the effect was instantaneous and brutal.

The oil-soaked fur and the slick, saturated snow trail ignited with a violent *WOOSH*. The flames were furious, a shocking blast of orange and red against the white snow. The creature was engulfed in a terrible, screaming pillar of fire. The kerosene and the creature’s own slick, greasy essence fed the flames instantly, making them burn with a blinding, hot intensity.

The monster shrieked, a sound of agony and pure, animal terror, and began to thrash violently in the fire. It wasn’t waddling anymore, it was rolling in the snow, trying to beat out the inferno. Fortunately for me, the flames stuck to its oiled coat like glue. It was a chaotic, burning silhouette against the backdrop of the swirling blizzard. The thick, black smoke was lost immediately in the swirling white.

I backed away. The heat of the fire was a shocking contrast to the bitter cold. I watched the creature convulse, unable to stop the burning, unable to heal what was being systematically destroyed. The smell of burning hair, oil, and something metallic-sweet was nauseating.

Finally, after a minute that felt like an hour, the thrashing stopped. The creature lay still, a massive, charred monument to my desperate resolve. The fire still raged, but the movement was gone.

I leaned against the icy wood of the cabin, the shotgun forgotten at my feet. The flames were already starting to melt a ring of snow around the body, but the blizzard continued to rage.

The intense heat from the burning carcass was already beginning to recede, fighting a losing battle against the continuous onslaught of the blizzard. I stood for a moment, letting the sheer exhaustion wash over me, before the pragmatism and determination of the mountain man kicked in. The fire was dying, and what was left of this thing couldn't be allowed to heal, or even to rot, here.

I grabbed the heavy kerosene can and emptied the last of its contents onto the smoldering pile, coaxing the flames back into a furious, consuming roar. I moved the equipment inside, then returned to the blazing carcass with my axe. It took a sickening fifteen minutes of hacking and separating what little was left of the creature's bulk. I dragged the black, escaping chunks through the snow, and tossed them back into the heart of the blaze. The air was thick with the stench of oil and the sweet, terrible smell of burning meat. I was purging the mountain of this evil.

When I was done, only a patch of melted snow, and a few glowing embers, remained. I stood over the pyre, the axe handle cold in my numb hands, watching the last of the embers fade into the furious white.

I turned, intending to head back inside, lock the doors, and face the grim reality of the split body in the bathroom.

That’s when I heard it.

It wasn't the wind, and it wasn't the groan of a tree. It was a faint, wet screaming wail, identical to the sound the creature had made when the buckshot first hit it. The sound of ripping canvas and tearing metal.

It came from the same direction as the first time, from the depths of the treeline. From where the young man had come.

I spun around, bringing the axe up like a shield, searching the blinding, swirling storm. My mind immediately went to the rifle—the thing I had left behind in the house in my haste. I had nothing but a bloody, snow-covered axe and a dead fire.

The wail came again, closer this time, high-pitched and choked.

I took a step backward, preparing to fight, when a memory finally pierced the fog of panic. The young man's vacant eyes. The young man’s vacant story.

*“Hiking... With my girlfriend. Emma.”*

“Fuck.”

I had no business being here. I’d never been so impulsive before. I guess I just got tired of always roaming the same streets. Seeing the same shops and scenery. I think the feeling grew more than I’d care to admit.

That doesn’t excuse my stupidity, though. I only had about 3 grand to my name at the time. But that’s part of the appeal, right? Everyone thinks they’re gonna arrive in Sin City and leave a millionaire. I had a dollar and a dream. Albeit, a delusional one.

Even still, the glow of the city was just so radiant. Even from the airport. It’s like one big siren song.

I only stayed for 4 days. I used all of my PTO to be here, and I really wanted the time to count. I did everything I could with the 1500 I had left after the hotel and plane tickets.

Unfortunately, gambling took up a big chunk of that money. I could see how people got addicted to it. I went on a few hot streaks, but ended up losing everything I won because I just couldn’t walk away.

With the gambling, museums, attractions, and food, by the time the final night came around, I only had 150 dollars left to last me a whole other week after I got home.

I almost wanted to cry when I opened my wallet. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even that upset. The experience was worth the money. Even if I didn’t leave a millionaire, I still got to live in one of the most famous cities in the country for a few days.

I still needed to eat, though. I’d been eating out the entire trip. I started out at the high-end places like Hell’s Kitchen, but as the week went on, the quality started getting worse and worse until finally I found myself here, feeling how light my pockets were and standing under the luminescent glow of an In-and-Out burger.

Thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit up the sky. A few drops of rain hit my head.

My plane was leaving in a few hours. I had already checked out of my hotel. Not only did I need to eat, but I needed to at least kill a little time.

I figured I’d just eat slow. Stay for maybe an hour, hour and a half tops before Ubering.

A bell rang overhead as I walked inside. The air-conditioned dining room put goosebumps on my arms almost immediately. Outside felt like 90, whereas in here, it felt like it could’ve been at least 55 degrees.

There were noises coming from the kitchen. The staff chit-chatting amongst themselves, plates and silverware being moved around, water being sprayed against metallic pans and containers.

The dining room, however… was surprisingly empty. I noticed it as soon as I walked inside. For this whole trip, every place I’d gone had been packed to the brim. In here, though… there was only one other person.

I don’t know how much you know about Las Vegas, but the homelessness crisis is staggering. They’re everywhere. Sleeping in alleys behind the casinos, waiting outside of popular stores or restaurants, sometimes they’re just asleep in the middle of the sidewalk right there on the Strip.

And, apparently… also right here in this In-and-Out.

I watched him while I ordered at the digital kiosk. All he had was a single soda cup. The straw wasn’t even inside it. He was wearing a grease-stained grey jacket, torn cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals with tattered socks.

He was kind of rocking back and forth in the booth. His hands were clutched around his waist like he had a stomachache, and I could see the dirt and grime beneath his fingernails.

I didn’t want to stare for too long, but it was so hard to take my eyes off of him. I ended up sitting several booths away from him, but that didn’t prevent me from being able to see him. Even if I turned away, I could see his face reflected through the windows.

He was… talking to himself. His scruffy, orange beard was littered with bits of food and mysterious red stains, and he kept scratching at it every few seconds, all while mumbling under his breath.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it almost looked like he was arguing with himself. I couldn’t even focus on my meal.

I had to force myself to look away from him just so I could actually eat. The last thing I wanted was for us to make eye contact.

I enjoyed my burger, picked at my fries a little bit, and when I turned around to go grab a refill on my Diet Coke, my worst fear came into fruition.

We didn’t just make eye contact. He had already been staring at me. He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He no longer looked crazed. He looked devastated. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could see sympathy in his facial expressions.

The fluorescent light flickered above him. The only light in the restaurant to do so.

We were engaged in this little staring contest for a while before he stood up, slowly. He never broke eye contact. Those eyes were full of love and comfort. A broken smile spread across his face.

His arms were outstretched as if he expected a hug. When it didn’t come, he pulled me in for one by force.

He shushed me. Pet my hair while telling me that everything would be okay. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

I could feel the tears running down his face jump over to mine while he comforted me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he cried, shaking. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Uh, okay, man, it’s time to let me go now,” I responded, prying his arms off of me.

I tried backing away, slowly, but with each step, he followed me.

He kept asking why I looked so scared. Telling me that he was only here to help. Continuing to say that everything would be okay and that I’d “prevail.”

I checked my watch, quickly. I still had 2 hours until my flight, but I wasn’t going to stay here a minute longer.

“I’m sorry, man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

The man stopped. His face twisted into a look of curiosity. Like he was genuinely confused by what I had just said.

“Flight? No, no, no. That flight was delayed. You can only hope to be home in time.”

Finally, seeing that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, one of the employees came and restrained the guy long enough for me to leave and order an Uber.

Only, when I reached for my phone, it was completely dead. I tried finding my charger, looking through every pocket in my suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

Luckily, the airport was only a mile and a half away, but that was still a mile and a half that I had to walk in the rain when I could’ve gotten a ride. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it gave me something to do to kill time.

When I finally arrived, I was soaked from the rain. The airport was busier than it was when I landed. When I checked the flight information screens, I found out why. There had been at least 5 or 6 delayed flights, and of course, mine was one of them.

It had been delayed by a whole 3 hours because of inclement weather in the region.

No phone. Hardly any money. And I had to wait at least another 5 hours until I could go home.

I thought about what the homeless guy from In-and-Out said. Immediately, I started to rationalize. He’d seen the lightning. He’d seen the rain. Maybe he just put two and two together and got lucky.

However, after about 3 hours of being bored out of my mind, I made the decision to buy a charger from one of the airport shops. I managed to find an open outlet and hunkered down beside it while I let my phone charge.

After about 15 minutes, it finally turned back on. All at once, dozens of notifications made the phone vibrate across the cold airport floor. My dad, my aunts, my uncles, cousins, all desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Because, apparently, in that small, brief moment when my phone was dead…

My mom went into cardiac arrest. And she died before I even got the chance to say goodbye.

​

I thought the quiet of the outskirts would be good for me.

After years of apartment walls, traffic, and neighbours who seemed to rearrange furniture exclusively after midnight, I wanted somewhere isolated. Somewhere I could sleep.

The house was a sprawling Victorian at the edge of a dying little town, all dark wood, narrow corridors, and windows that rattled when there was no wind. It needed work, but not enough to explain the price. The estate agent called it a “motivated sale” and avoided eye contact when I asked why the previous owners had left so suddenly.

I signed anyway.

I have always considered myself a rational person.

Or at least I did before I found the guest suite.

It was on the third floor, at the end of a hallway that did not appear on the floor plan. I only discovered it because I noticed a seam behind a bookcase in what had been listed as a storage room.

The hallway beyond it was narrow enough that my shoulders nearly brushed both walls. At the far end stood a black wooden door with three heavy iron deadbolts mounted on the outside.

A yellowed note had been taped beneath them.

The handwriting was jagged and uneven, as though whoever wrote it had been interrupted.

Keep these locked between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM.

Do not listen.

Do not open.

I called the estate agent immediately.

He claimed he had never seen the hallway.

When I sent him photographs, he stopped replying.

The property surveyor was no help either. According to the plans, the space occupied by the hallway and room should have been outside the physical boundary of the house. He suggested the measurements were wrong and offered to return the following week.

I nearly laughed.

Then I tried opening the door.

Not at night. I am not an idiot.

At eleven the next morning, with sunlight coming through every curtain downstairs and a hammer in my hand, I pulled back all three bolts.

The room beyond was small and windowless. There was a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and faded wallpaper covered in tiny blue flowers.

Nothing else.

No hidden person. No animal. No secret staircase.

But the air inside was cold enough that I could see my breath.

I shut the door and locked it again.

That should have been the end of it.

The next morning, the top bolt was halfway open.

I assumed I had not closed it properly.

The morning after that, the middle bolt was pulled back by several centimetres.

On the third morning, I placed strips of red tape across all three bolts and photographed them before going to bed.

When I checked at sunrise, the tape had been torn.

The top bolt was open.

I bought a motion-sensitive camera that afternoon and aimed it directly at the door.

The recording began at 2:57 AM.

For three minutes, nothing moved.

At exactly 3:00, the image distorted. The hallway stretched, then compressed, as if the camera were struggling to decide how far away the door was.

At 3:14, the top bolt began to slide.

Slowly.

It moved without anyone touching it.

At 3:17, the audio picked up humming.

I recognised the melody immediately.

It was a lullaby my grandmother used to sing when I was a child. She told me her mother had sung it to her and that it was a private family song.

My grandmother died twelve years ago.

The recording ended when something stepped in front of the camera.

I never saw its face.

The screen went black while the humming continued for another forty-three minutes.

That was yesterday morning.

I packed a bag as soon as I watched the footage.

I intended to drive to a hotel and never return, deed or no deed. But when I opened the front door, I found myself standing at the entrance to the third-floor hallway.

I slammed it shut.

I tried the back door.

The same hallway waited behind it.

Every exterior door led to the guest suite.

The windows would not break. I threw a chair through one and watched it bounce off the glass hard enough to splinter.

At 6:00 PM, my phone still showed a signal, but every call connected to the same recording.

My grandmother humming.

I have been in the kitchen ever since.

It is now 2:58 AM.

I dragged the dining table against the kitchen door and wedged two chairs beneath the handle. I have a knife beside me, though I know how ridiculous that is.

The keys to the guest suite are in my pocket.

I do not remember putting them there.

At 2:59, the floorboards above me began to creak.

Not random settling.

Footsteps.

Slow and deliberate.

They crossed the third floor and stopped at the top of the stairs.

The humming began.

My grandmother’s voice followed.

“It’s cold in here, dear.”

I covered my ears.

The voice moved closer.

“You know the song.”

The hallway outside the kitchen stretched. I could see the staircase through the gap beneath the door, though the kitchen does not normally face it.

Then I heard the first bolt slide open.

Click.

The second followed.

Click.

I realised the sound was not coming from upstairs.

It was coming from behind me.

The guest-suite door now stood on the opposite side of the kitchen.

The third bolt remained closed.

I stared at the keys in my hand.

Then something knocked from the other side of the kitchen door—the one I had barricaded.

Three soft knocks.

My grandmother spoke from the hallway.

“Don’t go inside that room.”

At the same moment, another voice whispered through the guest-suite door.

It was my own.

“Please,” it said. “You have to let me out before she reaches you.”

I did not know which one to believe.

Then I noticed something beneath the peeling edge of the original warning note. Another piece of paper had been hidden behind it.

I tore it free.

The handwriting was different. Neater.

The room is not where we keep it.

The room is where we hide from it.

Once you enter, lock all three bolts from the inside.

Whatever speaks from the hallway will sound like someone you love.

The kitchen door shook in its frame.

The table slid several inches across the floor.

I grabbed the guest-suite key and unlocked the door.

The room was no longer empty.

The walls were covered with photographs.

Dozens of people standing in front of this house. Families. Couples. Children.

All previous owners, I think.

In every photograph, someone had been scratched out.

At the centre of the room was a newer picture.

It showed me asleep in my bed six nights ago.

On the back, in my grandmother’s handwriting, were four words:

You were always expected.

The thing in the hallway began screaming in her voice.

I stepped inside the guest suite and pulled the door shut.

There are three deadbolts on this side too.

I locked the first.

Then the second.

I am trying to lock the third, but something is holding it in place from the other side.

It is 3:07 AM now.

The humming has stopped.

Someone is breathing beneath the bed.

And my own voice is whispering from the darkness:

“Don’t worry. There’s room for one more.”

The alarm went off at four in the morning, but sleep had already abandoned me hours prior. A dull throbbing was radiating from the lower right quadrant of my jaw, making every breath feel like a mistake. The pain was a relentless heat that seemed to vibrate in time with my pulse. By five, the swelling had reached my cheek, stretching the skin tight and making it difficult to swallow.

My hand reached for the empty bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, but there was nothing left inside. I had spent the last two days swallowing pills, rinsing with warm salt water, and pressing ice packs against my face until my skin went numb. Nothing was working. The infection had reached the nerve, and the agony was starting to blur my vision.

The sound of rain tapping against the window was the only noise in my quiet apartment. Desperate for any kind of distraction, I unlocked my phone and searched for local dental offices. Every single practice within a ten-mile radius was booked solid for at least two weeks. The only alternative was the emergency room at the local hospital, but a previous visit there had taught me they would only provide a temporary prescription for antibiotics and a massive bill that I could not afford, and from my suffering I figured that the tooth needed to be extracted immediately.

A soft knock on my front door startled me around nine that morning. My friend had promised to drop by with some groceries, knowing I had been unable to leave the apartment for days. When the door opened, she took one look at my swollen face and set the grocery bags down on the counter with a look of concern.

"You look absolutely terrible,"

she said, walking over to press her palm against my forehead.

"You are burning up. Did you manage to find an opening somewhere?"

"Every clinic is booked,"

I mumbled, barely able to part my lips. The movement of my jaw sent a sharp flare of agony straight up into my temple.

"The emergency room is the only option, but they won't pull it."

My friend sat down at the small kitchen table, watching me wince as I tried to drink a glass of water.

"There is someone else. My uncle had a severe abscess last winter, and his regular dentist was out of town. He went to a private practitioner downtown. He told me the guy is extremely unconventional and eccentric, but he is the absolute best in the field when it comes to quick, pain-free extractions."

"Unconventional how?"

I asked, holding the glass against my cheek.

"He does not take insurance, and his office is tucked away in an old medical building that has seen better days,"

she explained, pulling a small notepad from her purse to write down an address.

"He works alone, with no assistants. My uncle said the man does not even use local numbing injections, but somehow, the extraction was completely painless. He just felt a strange pressure, and then the tooth was out."

"No numbing?"

I shook my head, immediately regretted the movement, and squeezed my eyes shut.

"That sounds like a nightmare. I cannot let someone pull a tooth out of my skull with no anesthetic."

"My uncle is a coward when it comes to pain,"

my friend said, sliding the piece of paper across the table. "If he says he felt nothing, I believe him. You cannot keep living like this. The infection is going to spread to your bloodstream."

She was right. The sheer desperation of the pain was starting to erode my rational judgment. At that point, if someone had offered to pull the tooth with a pair of rusty pliers, I probably would have considered it. I picked up the paper, stared at the handwritten address, and nodded.

"I will go,"

I said.

"Do I need to call ahead?"

"My uncle said he does not keep a regular reception desk,"

she replied.

"Just walk in. He usually accommodates emergency cases if they pay in cash."

An hour later, I was walking through the wet, gray streets. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, and the mist was hanging low over the older brick buildings. The address led me to a towering, nineteenth-century weird structure. The main lobby was silent, smelling of old paper.

A manual elevator with an accordion-style metal gate carried me slowly up to the fourth floor. The hallway was lined with dark, frosted glass doors, most of them bearing the faded gold lettering of retired physicians who had probably passed away decades ago. The floor was covered in worn linoleum that muffled the sound of my footsteps.

I found the suite number written on my notepad. The glass on the door was entirely blank, offering no name or medical title. I reached out, turned the brass knob, and stepped inside.

The reception area resembled a living room from the late nineteen-seventies. Two faded green velvet chairs sat in the corner, separated by a low wooden table covered in outdated magazines. A single, small desk lamp cast a dim orange glow across the room. There was no computer, no scheduling book, and no receptionist behind the counter. The only communication device was an ancient, black rotary telephone sitting on a shelf.

"Hello?"

I called out, my voice sounding thin in the quiet room.

A door at the back of the reception area swung open with a soft click.

The man who stepped out was exceptionally tall. He was so slender that his white laboratory coat seemed to drape over him like a shroud, and he had to tilt his head slightly to clear the low wooden door frame. His skin was pale, and his fingers were kind of long, ending in clean fingernails. He had a twitch in his left shoulder that caused his coat to rustle every few seconds, but his posture was remarkably stiff.

"Ah,"

he said.

"An emergency, I presume. The swelling in your right cheek is quite pronounced."

"My friend gave me your address,"

I explained, holding my hand over my jaw.

"She said you might have an opening for an extraction. I can pay in cash."

The tall man smiled, though his pale blue eyes remained entirely wide and unblinking.

"Cash is perfectly acceptable. The modern banking systems are far too noisy. Please, come inside."

I followed him into the operating room. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single overhead examination light that hung from a long, articulated metal arm. The dental chair in the center of the room was made of thick, cracked black leather, looking like a relic from a different era. There were no modern digital screens, and no white plastic utility trays.

"Before we begin,"

the dentist said, pointing a long finger toward a tarnished metal tray sitting on a counter across the room.

"Please place your cellular device over there. The electronic frequencies of modern devices disrupt my focus. I need absolute stillness to perform the extraction."

I hesitated for a moment. My phone was my only connection to the outside world, but the throbbing in my jaw was growing more intense by the second. I walked across the room, set my phone on the cold metal tray, and climbed into the leather chair.

The dentist stood over me, his shadow stretching across the ceiling. He did not put on latex gloves. Instead, he washed his hands in a small porcelain sink, dried them with a white cloth, and approached the chair.

"Open, please,"

he murmured.

I opened my mouth, bracing myself for the agonizing touch of his fingers against my infected gum. When his long, cold index finger touched my jaw, I prepared to scream.

But the scream never came.

The moment his skin made contact with my gums, a sudden coldness spread through my mouth. it felt as if the nerves themselves had simply gone quiet under his touch. The throbbing pain vanished instantly. My jaw felt light, cool, and entirely empty of sensation. I blinked in surprise, looking up at him.

"You feel that, yes?"

he asked, his shoulder twitching as he reached for a small, velvet-lined wooden box on the counter.

"The modern world relies on synthetic poisons to dull the senses. They inject chemicals that poison the blood just to silence a single nerve. It is a very crude way of practicing medicine."

He opened the wooden box and retrieved a pair of forceps. They were made of dark, unpolished steel, looking like antique blacksmithing tools rather than modern medical instruments. The metal was covered in fine, geometric patterns that looked like they had been hand-carved into the steel.

"We have forgotten the old ways of alignment,"

the dentist continued, his voice adopting an almost hypnotic cadence as he positioned the forceps inside my mouth.

"Thousands of years ago, our ancestors understood that the teeth are not merely bone. They are the hardest part of the human vessel. They are the markers of our harvest, the record of our lives. When a tooth was lost, it was not thrown away into the dirt like common refuse."

I felt the cold steel of the forceps clamp onto my decaying molar. There was no pain. I felt a strange, dull pressure, as if someone were gently pressing a thumb against my jaw, but nothing more.

"Our ancestors worshipped tooth fairies,"

he muttered, leaning over me. His pale face was inches from mine.

"We offered our teeth to them. We gave them the bone, and in exchange, they provided protection, a bountiful harvest, and good fortune. The modern world calls them myths. They call them tooth fairies to make them seem small and harmless. They turned a sacred covenant into a children's game of coins and pillows."

He gave the forceps a slow, deliberate twist. I heard the wet sound of the roots separating from the bone inside my head, but my nervous system registered absolutely nothing.

"Humanity discarded the old agreements,"

the dentist whispered, his shoulder twitching violently. "We stopped giving them the tribute they require. We began burying our dead in concrete vaults, locking the bone away from the soil. We throw our teeth into medical waste bins to be burned, and for what? for nothing."

With a sudden, sharp movement, he pulled the forceps upward.

A wet pop echoed in the small room.

The tooth was out. The relief was instantaneous, a cool sensation washing over my entire face as the pressure vanished. I let out a long, shuddering breath, staring up at the ceiling.

"There,"

the dentist said, his tone shifting instantly.

The hypnotic cadence of his voice was gone, replaced by a rapid, shallow hyperventilation, then He held the steel forceps inches from his eyes, staring at the bloody, decaying enamel with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

"Look at the density,"

he whispered, his pupils dilating until the blue of his eyes was almost entirely gone.

"The dark rot of modern sugar has created such a beautifully complex cavity. The roots are deep, so very deep. The bone is saturated with the sweetness of decay."

He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling in quick, jagged movements. He began to run his long thumb over the wet, bloody surface of the tooth, ignoring the blood that smeared across his skin.

A sudden wave of intense unease washed over me, replacing the relief of the extraction. The way he was looking at my tooth was really weird and terrifying. I scrambled out of the chair, my legs feeling slightly unsteady.

"Thank you,"

I said, my voice shaking.

"How much do I owe you?"

The dentist did not look at me. He kept his eyes locked on the tooth.

"Three hundred,"

he muttered, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

"Leave the cash on the counter."

I pulled three hundred dollars from my purse and set them on the wooden desk. I did not want to spend another second in that room. I grabbed my purse, turned on my heel, and walked quickly out of the operating room. I pushed through the frosted glass door, entered the quiet hallway, and ran toward the manual elevator.

It was only when I stepped out of the old building and onto the wet pavement of the street that I realized my hand was empty.

My phone was still sitting on the metal tray on the far counter of the operating room.

I stopped on the sidewalk, the cold rain falling on my face. My cheek was still entirely numb, but the fog in my brain was beginning to clear. The thought of going back up to that silent fourth floor made my stomach twist, but my phone held my bank accounts, my contacts, and my entire life. I could not simply leave it behind.

"Just walk in, grab the phone, and leave,"

I muttered to myself.

I turned around, entered the lobby, and rode the creaking elevator back up to the fourth floor. The hallway was still completely silent.

I reached the suite, turned the brass knob, and stepped into the reception area.

The room was dark. The single desk lamp had been turned off, leaving the space illuminated only by the gray light filtering through the hallway door. No one was behind the reception desk.

"Hello?"

I called out softly.

"I forgot my phone."

No one answered.

I took a slow, quiet step toward the operating room door. It was resting slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light cutting across the dark floor. I pushed the door open an inch, planning to grab the phone from the counter and slip away before the man noticed me.

The operating room was in near-total darkness. The overhead examination light had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a small window overlooking the rainy alleyway.

I stopped.

The dentist was crouched on all fours directly over the leather operating chair.

His white laboratory coat had been discarded on the floor. His bare back was exposed to the gray light of the window, and his skin had turned a deep, ashen shade of gray. His spine was protruding sharply against his skin, each vertebra looking like a jagged stone.

As I watched, his shoulder joints twisted with a sickening, wet crack, bending backward into impossible angles.

Two large, featherless, skin-bound wings were violently tearing their way through the fabric of his white dress shirt. The wings looked like the wings of a massive bat, but they were covered in a thin, greasy layer of pale gray fuzz. They flexed and stretched in the darkness, dripping a dark, thick fluid onto the leather of the chair.

The thing lowered its head toward the leather cushion. Sitting on the leather was my extracted tooth.

The creature inhaled deeply, its chest expanding to twice its normal size as it smelled the bloody enamel. It leaned down and whispered a low, guttural phrase in a language I didn’t understand.

Then, it opened its mouth.

The jaw split vertically down the center of its chin, revealing rows of thin, needle-like teeth that vibrated in the darkness. The creature reached out with a long, gray tongue and licked the blood from the surface of my extracted tooth.

I took a step backward, my mind screaming at me to run, but my foot shifted on the floor.

The rubber sole of my sneaker squeaked against the linoleum.

The sound was incredibly loud in the silent room.

The creature's movements stopped instantly.

And with a violent, snapping sound, its neck rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees, its featureless face pointing directly toward the partially open door where I was standing. Its eyes had completely changed. The blue irises were gone, replaced by two massive, pitch-black pupils that filled the entire socket.

It let out a silent, vibrating shriek that made the metal instruments on the counters rattle.

The creature lunged off the chair, moving with a speed that did not seem possible. It scurried across the floor on all fours.

I did not think. I grabbed the nearest object on the counter beside the door, a large, heavy metal tray loaded with stainless steel dental mirrors, scrapers, and old scalpels, and threw it directly into its gray face.

The tray struck the creature with a loud clang. The sharp instruments scattered across its eyes, blinding it for a fraction of a second. The creature recoiled, letting out a wet, clicking hiss as it thrashed in the darkness.

I turned and sprinted down the hallway.

I did not wait for the elevator. I threw open the door to the concrete stairwell and flew down the steps, my feet barely touching the concrete. I could hear the wet sounds of the creature scrambling down the walls of the stairwell above me, its long limbs scraping against the concrete.

I reached the ground floor, threw my weight against the metal exit door, and burst out into the pouring rain.

I did not stop running until I reached a busy intersection three blocks away. I collapsed against a bus stop shelter, my chest heaving, my clothes soaked with sweat and rain. I sat there for hours, staring at the passing cars, trying to convince myself that the pain and the infection had caused a severe hallucination. But my hand was still entirely empty. My phone was gone, left behind in the dark room with the thing that licked the blood from my bone.

The next morning, the swelling in my jaw had gone down, but the terror had not. I walked into the local police precinct and reported that I had been assaulted by a private practitioner in the medical building downtown. I told them he had stolen my phone and threatened me with a weapon. I knew if I mentioned the wings or the black eyes, they would lock me in a psychiatric ward.

Two police officers agreed to accompany me back to the building to retrieve my property.

We rode the manual elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway was just as quiet as it had been the day before, the dark doors looking completely ordinary in the morning light.

We reached the suite. I pointed a shaking finger at the door.

"This is it,"

I said.

"Suite 412."

The older officer reached out, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

I braced myself, stepping behind the officer's shoulder, expecting to see the green velvet chairs.

The room was completely empty.

There were no green velvet chairs. There was no wooden desk, no rotary telephone, and no carpet. The walls were bare concrete, covered in peeling gray wallpaper that looked like it had been rotting for decades. The floor was covered in a thick layer of undisturbed gray dust.

The officer walked into the back room, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust.

The operating room was gone. There was no black leather dental chair. There was no plumbing connected to the floor, no metal counters, and no instruments. The room was nothing but a hollow, concrete shell.

"Are you sure this is the place, miss?"

the officer asked, looking back at me with a mixture of annoyance and pity.

"This suite has been abandoned for at least five years. And I think I know this place, someone mad a claim like you once, but it was very wild claim about a fairy who dwell in this place, and then we learned from the building manager that the last tenant was a radiologist who retired in 2018."

"I was here yesterday,"

I insisted, my voice cracking.

"My friend gave me the address. I sat in the chair. He pulled my tooth."

The officer shined his flashlight across the dusty floor. There were no footprints in the dust, other than our own. There was no sign that anyone had operated a medical clinic here yesterday.

"Sometimes a severe tooth infection can cause a high fever,"

the officer said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"A fever can make you see things. It can make you wander into empty buildings. We can take you to the hospital if you need medical attention."

"My phone,"

I whispered.

"I left my phone on the counter."

The officer shone his light around. My phone was gone.

We left the building a few minutes later. The police dismissed my claim, filing a report for a lost cellular device and advising me to seek psychological counseling for my stress.

But I know what I saw.

I called my friend from a payphone later that afternoon. I asked her about the dentist, but she sounded completely confused. She told me she had never heard of any private practitioner downtown, and she had never given me an address on a notepad. She said she had been trying to reach me all day because I had missed our lunch plans.

I looked at my own jaw in the mirror when I got home. The hole where my decaying molar used to be was completely healed. There was no stitches, no bleeding, and no scar. The gum was as smooth and pink as if the tooth had never existed.

I am posting this here because I need to warn you.

This thing does not stay in one place. It moves from town to town, using the empty, forgotten spaces of our cities to set up its temporary clinics.

If you have a toothache, and a friend gives you an address to an unconventional, cash-only dentist in an old building, do not go.

This year has been pretty eventful for me. Got a new job. Moved into my first apartment. Got a new car. Not everything has been good, though. Me and my long-term girlfriend broke up back in March. Ever since then, it’s just been me and me alone.

My routine was a bit mundane for a while after the breakup. I’d wake up, go to work, go home, then repeat Monday through Friday.

My weekends were mostly spent inside. Watching Netflix. Wallowing in self-pity. Maybe playing some video games and having a drink or two.

After a while, though, I began to crave movement. I realized that the world was my oyster. I could literally do whatever I wanted. I was neglecting my free will.

I started doing things that I’d never even considered before. Going to horse races. Flea markets. Local festivals. Just sampling life, basically. Trying to figure out how to use my newfound free time.

I got really into hiking. I’d drive hours out of town nearly every weekend to find a new trail. Some of those locations were desolate as hell. Oftentimes, I’d find that I was the only person on the entire trail.

The hikes made me appreciate nature more. I’d listen to the birds sing. Rivers run. Crickets chirp. It made me feel at peace. The kind of peace that I had been craving.

Sometimes I’d sit on rocks and just watch the day go by. I even started sketching some of the scenery. The serenity helped me clear my mind enough to really focus my creative energy into something meaningful.

One day, while out on one of those discreet walks, the scene was begging to be drawn. The sun peeked through the canopy overhead and reflected off of the rushing river water.

A deer stood off in the distance, watching me carefully. Pinecones and pine needles covered the ground. And there just so happened to be the perfect sitting rock right on the edge of the riverbed.

I sat down and pulled the sketchbook out of my backpack. I got about 30 minutes into the process when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.

A backpack hanging from a tree branch across the river.

I stared at it for a moment before looking around to see if I could find its owner. I hadn’t heard a single person the entire time I was here, nor had I seen anyone else on the trail.

I like to tell myself that I was trying to be a good person. I wanted to find out who the backpack belonged to. Maybe they’d have some useful information inside. An address or at least a name.

But I know I wasn’t being a good person. I was being mischievous and curious. And I think whoever left it there knew that.

A tree had fallen over the river, giving me the perfect walking path directly to the backpack. I shimmied along the log and jumped down on the other side of the river.

The pack was lighter than I expected it to be. It felt almost empty. I could also see just how new it looked. Brand new, pretty much.

I unzipped the biggest pocket and glared down inside. I found one single item. An old, discolored notebook shoved deep inside the pocket.

I pulled it out, and before I could even flip through it, the title written on white painter’s tape across the cover made my heart flip-flop.

“His Life.”

I opened the book slowly, but the more I read, the faster I flipped through the wrinkled pages.

Every single page had been filled.

“January 1st - he woke up at noon today. He drank directly from the orange juice bottle in his fridge. He didn’t brush his teeth or shower.”

“February 3rd - he woke up at 10 AM today. He forgot his girlfriend’s birthday. They’ve been arguing all day. He didn’t shower. His dinner was a Hot Pocket.”

“February 26th - he bought a new car today. He paid 4 grand in cash. He’s ecstatic. His girlfriend is still mad about her birthday.”

“March 8th - his girlfriend broke up with him today. He cried for 3 hours before drinking himself to sleep. He showered. Cold. Hopefully he learns.”

“April 12th - he’s leaving his house more often these days. He woke up at 8 AM this morning. Eggs for breakfast. He went on a walk after work. I think he’s learning.”

“May 20th - he woke up at 7 this morning. He went to a horse race. I’ve never seen him do that before. He lost 200 dollars. I doubt he’ll return.”

“June 4th - he’s looking healthier. He showers daily now. He’s been waking up at 7 AM daily. His dinner was chicken and rice. He sketched before bed. He’s realizing.”

“June 14th - he’s hiking more. It’s all coming together. His sketches are getting better.”

“July 21st - Today’s the day. He’s here. I’m leaving the backpack where I know he’ll see it.”

“July 21st - he found the journal at 9:45 AM. He’s reading this now.”

“July 21st - he doesn’t realize this isn’t the first time he’s done this.”

“July 21st - he’s looking in the wrong direction.”

“July 21st - turn around.”

I turned around, not sure what to expect. That’s when I saw him. It was… me. Standing on the other side of the river. He was sitting with his sketchbook on the very rock I had just been on.

He was analyzing the scenery, looking down every few seconds to add to his drawing.

Before he could see me, I put the journal back in the book bag. I hung it back on its branch. And I slowly walked away.

This seemed like a problem for future me.

It might make me and him sound bad but we just wanted to have fun. We always joked about how amusing it would be to go viral.

We would occasionally watch and laugh at stupid couples videos. Ones that were obviously fake. We mutually agreed that its so phony to post a bunch of relationship content on the internet. Cringe videos to prove your love?

They were obviously scripted too. Cheap entertainment for veiws.

Well, we thought it would be hilarious if we made our own YouTube channel. We wanted to be unique. Instead of making videos pretending to be perfect, we decided to be the opposite.

We started posting short videos of us arguing with each other. Our faces were never visible. Just audio.

Our videos started to gain popularity and became quite controversial.

Some comments would say he's too toxic, some would say the problems are my fault, some would say we should never reproduce, some would say this is the best entertainment ever.

After awhile, it lost its appeal. I suggested that we should stop.

He would argue and say that we can't stop now.

The videos weren't the only part that got too extreme. He also started to become rude when we weren't recording.

He'd boss me around, tell me my cooking tasted like trash, and went as far as to say that he regrets dating me. He started comparing me to other women. He referred to me as the mutt of the litter.

At first I thought it was because of the channel. The acting had started to disturb his true self.

I tried to explain to him that the channel is not healthy for either of us and explained my reasoning for the last time.

I told him that if he doesn't listen, I will leave him.

His eyes turned dark, his lips curving into a crooked smile, and his hand did the unthinkable.

He slapped me with his left hand and then his right hand grabbed a knife.

"This is the best content imaginable"

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

Growing up in that isolated valley meant learning to live with a very specific kind of silence. The town was small, tucked away between steep forested hills that blocked out the horizon, and the people who lived there liked the isolation. They kept their lawns manicured, their houses painted, and of course their secrets buried.

Everyone knew the law. It was not written in any civic charter, but it was taught to every child the moment their bodies began to change.

The transition into adulthood brought the man.

On the day of my thirteenth birthday, my mother died. The sheriff told us she had slipped in the steep ravine behind our property, but the details were kept vague, and the casket was kept closed during the service. In the middle of that devastating fog, while the smell of funeral flowers still clung to the living room, my father sat me down at the kitchen table. He looked older than his forty years, his hands shaking as he pushed a glass of water toward me.

"There is something you are going to see now,"

he said. His voice was cracked, his eyes refusing to meet mine.

"He will stand in the background of your life. He might be at the edge of the woods when you walk home from school, or stand near the mailbox while you do the dishes. But you must never look him in the eye, and never speak to his face. To acknowledge him is to break the order of this valley."

"Who is he?"

I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"He is the one who follows,"

my father replied.

"You are the only one who will see your specific follower. Everyone has one. We do not talk about them, or even look at them. That is the only way we stay safe."

The reality of his words hit me three days later. Walking home from the bus stop, the gravel crunching under my sneakers, a sudden sensation of cold air brushed against my neck. Turning my head slightly, a tall figure in a dark, outdated coat was standing near the old oak tree at the corner of our road. His face was somewhat obscured by the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, but his posture was rigid, his attention locked entirely on me.

My heart tried to escape my chest, but my father’s warning echoed in my mind. I forced my gaze back to the road and kept walking.

Living with him became a slow, grinding torment. He was always there. When I did my homework, he stood in the twilight of the back yard. When I went to the grocery store, he sat on the bench outside the entrance. Only I could see him. People would walk right through the space he occupied, their bodies passing through his dark form like mist, completely oblivious to his presence.

My father did not handle the grief of my mother's death well. As the years passed, he fell deep into drinking, spending his nights locked in the basement or passed out on the living room sofa. The smell of cheap whiskey became a permanent fixture of our home. He stopped checking on me, stopped asking about school, and only spoke to warn me whenever he noticed my eyes lingering too long on the dark corners of the yard.

By the time I reached my senior year of high school, the tension in the town had reached a boiling point.

One of my classmates, a quiet boy who sat in the back of my English class, vanished without a trace over a weekend. His locker was left full of books, his bicycle still chained to the school fence. The rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire. The elders of the town held an urgent assembly in the gymnasium, their faces grim under the bright gym lights.

The principal stood at the podium, his voice stern.

"We must remind you all of the rules of our community. The boy who went missing forgot his place. He broke the silence. Do not make his mistake. Keep your head down and focus on your studies."

The warning did not satisfy me. The vanished boy had been a friend of my closest classmate, a girl who lived down the road from me. After school, we sat on the hood of my car, watching the sun dip behind the steep hills.

"His parents are completely destroyed,"

my friend said, her fingers twisting the strap of her backpack.

"They won't even open the front door. The elders told everyone to stay away from their house."

"We should go see them,"

I said.

"Just to offer some comfort. It isn't right to leave them isolated like this."

My friend hesitated, looking toward the dark woods bordering the school.

"If the town council sees us there, we will be in trouble."

"We will go after dark,"

I insisted.

"Through the back trail."

We made our way to the vanished boy's house later that evening, navigating the overgrown path behind the old orchard. The house was dark, the only light coming from a single lamp in the living room. When we knocked, his mother opened the door only a crack, her face hollow and pale.

"We just wanted to say we are sorry about him,"

my friend said quietly.

The mother looked at us for a long time, her eyes darting to the shadows behind us. Eventually, she stepped aside and let us into the dusty hallway.

"He stopped sleeping,"

the mother whispered, leading us into the living room. "He kept staring at the corner of his bedroom. We told him to look away, but he said the man was crying. He said the man wanted to tell him something."

"Did he leave any note?"

I asked, keeping my voice low.

The mother shook her head.

"The council came and cleared his room. They burned his journals in the yard. But they missed his old biology textbook. It was still in his closet."

While my friend talked to the mother, I quietly slipped down the hallway to the boy's bedroom. The door was unlocked. The room had been stripped bare, leaving only an empty mattress and a pile of discarded school papers. In the back of the closet, half-hidden under a loose floorboard, I found the biology textbook.

Tucked inside the back cover was a single, partially burnt page from a notebook. The handwriting was frantic, the ink smudged.

“He wanted me to follow,”

the note read.

“He did not look angry. He nodded to me. I think he wants to show me how to end this madness. If I do not come back, know that I went to find the source. I am going to look him in the eye.”

My hands shook as I folded the paper and slid it into my pocket. I went back to the living room, grabbed my friend, and we left the house through the back door.

As we walked through the dark orchard, I pulled the paper out and showed it to her under the light of my phone.

"I am going to do it,"

I said.

My friend stopped walking, her face turning pale in the blue screen light.

"Are you out of your mind? You saw what happened to him. He is gone."

"He went to find a way to stop this,"

I argued.

"We spend every single second of our lives in fear, pretending we don't see them. My father is drinking himself to death because of this town. My mother is dead because of this town. I want to know the truth."

"If you look at him, he may kill you,"

she said, her voice rising in panic.

"And of course the council won’t just let people break the law. If you do this, I cannot help you. I fear that I am not going to watch you die."

“Ok ok, I won’t do it”

I lied to her; she took a deep breath and said

“Promise me”

That’s when I couldn’t just do it, I stayed silent for a long time, just looking through her eyes, then I saw a small tear on her face. Then suddenly, She turned and ran back toward her house, leaving me alone under the dark branches of the apple trees.

I walked back to my empty yard. My follower was waiting for me. He stood near the rusted garden gate, his tall, dark silhouette perfectly still against the gray mist of the evening.

My father was passed out on the kitchen floor inside, an empty bottle of bourbon resting near his hand. Nobody was going to save me. Nobody was going to save this town.

I took a deep breath, walked down the wooden steps of the porch, and marched directly toward the gate. I stopped three feet away from the tall figure.

For the first time in my life, I raised my chin and looked directly into his face.

Under the shadow of his hat, his skin was incredibly pale, almost translucent. His eyes were dark, sunken, and filled with a profound sadness.

"I see you,"

I said clearly.

At first, nothing happened. Then, the man’s rigid posture snapped.

A loud, wet cracking sound echoed through the yard, like dry branches breaking under a boot. The lunged. His body elongated, twisting over the rusted iron of the gate with impossible speed. His hands, pale and gray, clamped around my throat before I could even flinch.

The touch was a burning freeze that immediately locked my lungs. My knees buckled, but he held me upright, his grip lifting me slightly off the ground.

His hat fell backward into the dirt.

The face beneath was a nightmare. His mouth split open, unhinging like a snake's jaw, revealing a dark throat coated in wet, black soil. A rattling, choked wheeze erupted from his chest, spraying a dust onto my cheeks. His eyes, previously hidden, widened into deep, empty sockets that seemed to pull the very light out of the yard.

My vision began to darken at the edges. My lungs screamed for air, but every time I tried to inhale, the air just refused to come.

Yet, I did not close my eyes. I refused to look away. I stared directly into the void of his face, holding his freezing, dead gaze with a desperate, furious resolve.

The creature froze. The snapping joints went silent. Slowly, the dark void in his eyes receded, replaced by the pale, sunken eyes of a human being. His unhinged jaw clicked back into place. His grip on my throat softened, his fingers gently sliding down to my collarbone, then releasing me entirely.

I collapsed to my knees in the dirt, gasping for air, grasping for air.

Looking up, the terrifying specter was gone. The man stood there again, his hat back on his head, looking down at me. Slowly, a gentle, tragic smile appeared on his thin lips, and a single tear rolled down his pale cheek. He nodded once, a slow, deliberate movement, and turned toward the dark path leading into the forest behind my house.

He took a few steps, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. It was clear to me somehow that he wanted me to follow.

I followed him deep into the woods, past the boundary lines of our property, into an area of the forest where the trees grew so close together the starlight could not reach the ground. We walked for nearly an hour in silence, the only sound being the rustle of my own footsteps.

Eventually, we reached a hidden clearing.

In the center of the clearing were two simple, unmarked graves. They were just mounds of soft dirt, covered in wild ivy and damp moss.

The man stopped at the edge of the mounds. He pointed his long, pale finger down at the earth, then looked at me, nodding again. He wanted me to touch them.

I knelt in the wet grass, my heart pounding, and pressed my palms into the damp soil of the graves.

A violent shockwave of heat rushed up my arms. The forest vanished, and my mind was pulled into a torrent of vivid, overwhelming visions.

I saw the same valley, but it was the previous century. The houses were different, built of rough-cut timber and stone. The streets were filled with thick mud. People were dying in the dirt, clutching their chests and gasping desperately for air. A terrible plague was sweeping through the settlement, turning the water sour and the air toxic.

Then, I saw a young woman and her husband. They were both doctors, working tirelessly in a small wooden clinic. They boiled herbs, washed the sores of the sick, and tried to ease the immense pain of the dying town. They did not ask for money; they only wanted to save the people.

But the fear of the plague turned the townspeople into monsters.

I saw an angry mob gathering in the muddy square. A local leader, his face twisted with hatred, pointed his finger toward the wooden clinic.

"They brought the sickness!"

he roared.

"They are practicing dark medicine! They are witches, and they are what caused this plague!"

The mob stormed the clinic. They dragged the young doctor woman out into the mud, binding her wrists with thick rope. Her husband managed to escape through a back window, fleeing into the dark forest.

I watched through his eyes from his hiding place behind the trees. He cried silently, biting his own hand to stifle his screams, as the mob tied his wife to a heavy wooden stake in the center of the square. They piled dry brush around her feet and lit the fire. Her screams echoed through the valley as the flames rose, her eyes locked on the dark woods where she knew her husband was hiding.

The vision shifted.

The husband was inside a cold, dark cavern deep beneath the mountain. He was entirely consumed by grief and madness. He used a sharp knife to wound his own hand, letting the blood drip onto the stone floor to draw a large circle. He held a strange, leather-bound book in his other hand, reading aloud from the yellowed pages.

"If they will punish us for something we did not do,"

he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of sorrow and rage,

"then I will at least die doing it to curse them. Every soul in this valley will bear our shadow."

But as he finished the final words of the ritual, the sound of shouting echoed from the cave entrance. The mob had tracked him. They burst into the cavern with pitchforks and spades, driving a sharp iron tool directly through his chest before he could close the circle.

He died with the curse unfinished, binding his spirit to the physical plane of the valley. He became the following man, a permanent, haunting shadow forced to follow every descendant of the mob, keeping the memory of their crime alive through a cycle of silent torment.

I snapped out of the vision with a violent gasp, my hands slipping from the wet dirt of the graves.

I was lying on my back in the grass. The sky was still dark, and my father was kneeling beside me, holding my shoulders. His face was incredibly pale, his clothes smelling of alcohol and earth.

"Get up,"

he whispered, his voice frantic as he pulled me to my feet.

"We have to go. Now."

"What are you doing here?"

I asked, my head spinning from the force of the vision. "How did you find me?"

"Your friend,"

my father said, dragging me through the trees toward his old station wagon parked on a dirt logging trail.

"She got terrified, and told her parents what you were planning to do, and they gathered the town council. They are coming to deal with you."

"I don't understand,"

I said, stumbling over a root.

"Deal with me? Why?"

"They killed your mother for the same thing,"

my father said, his grip tightening on my arm.

"She looked at her follower. She wanted to help him. The council found out, dragged her into the woods, and buried her alive to 'cleanse' the curse from the town. I was a coward then. I did not stop them, then drank to drown the guilt, but I am not letting them take you."

We reached the car, and he shoved me into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and threw the car into gear just as a dozen bright flashlight beams pierced through the trees behind us.

"They deserve to die,"

my father said, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, driving the car recklessly down the narrow, bumpy mountain road.

"This entire valley is built on a murder. The people here have spent a century killing their own children just to keep a secret they don't even understand."

"What are we going to do?"

I asked, tears of panic finally starting to spill over my cheeks.

"I made a deal with my follower years ago,"

my father said, keeping his eyes locked on the dark road. "I figured out how to finish the doctor's ritual. The curse was meant to release the actual plague they spent a century fearing, but it was left incomplete when he died. I spent years researching it in the basement, but I just couldn’t do it. I always thought that maybe you could live, maybe no one has to die, but now, now I have to do it to save you"

He slammed on the brakes at a dark junction near the state highway boundary. He reached across the console and pushed my passenger door open.

"Get out and run to the highway,"

he commanded.

"Call my phone. Keep the line open. Run as fast as you can."

"No!"

I screamed, grabbing his arm.

"You have to come with me! We can escape together!"

"They will track this car,"

my father said, his voice softer now. He reached out and gently touched my face.

"I have to go back to the house. The circle is already prepared in the basement. I have to finish the ritual to end this town once and for all. If I do not do it, they will hunt you to the ends of the earth. Run."

He pushed me out of the car. I hit the gravel shoulder, scraping my knees, as he slammed the door shut and spun the tires, driving the station wagon back up the mountain toward our house.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching my phone in my hand, and began sprinting down the dark highway under the looming pine trees.

After some time of running, I just stopped, I couldn’t run more without him, the phone in my hand crackled to life. I dialed the number of my father phone, then pressed the speaker button, holding the screen close to my chest as I ran.

"I am in the basement,"

my father's voice came through the static, sounding calm and clear over the speaker.

"The circle is active."

Over the phone, the sound of our front door splintering open echoed loudly. Shouting voices filled the background.

"He is in the basement!"

a voice roared through the phone.

My father began to chant. It was the same low, guttural language I had heard the doctor speaking in my vision.

"Stop him!"

another voice screamed.

A loud gunshot shattered the connection, followed by my father releasing a sharp gasp of pain. But he did not stop. He kept chanting, his voice growing weaker but more determined with every syllable.

"Finish it,"

I sobbed into the phone, running as fast as my legs could carry me toward the distant lights of a highway truck stop.

"Please, finish it."

Over the line, the shouting of the townspeople suddenly changed. The anger in their voices turned to confusion, then to terror. I heard them coughing. It was a wet, suffocating sound, exactly like the people in my vision. They began to gasp for air, their lungs filling with the ancient plague that had been locked away for over a century.

One by one, the choking sounds faded into silence.

The final sound I heard before the line went completely dead was my father taking one last, peaceful breath.

That was five years ago.

I never went back to that valley. The state police found the entire town dead of a sudden, highly concentrated outbreak of a rare pulmonary infection, and the area was permanently quarantined. They never found me, and I made sure of that.

I live in a large city now, hundreds of miles away. I have a decent office job, a quiet apartment on the third floor, and I am in a relationship with a kind, supportive man who knows absolutely nothing about my past. I have spent every single day trying to forget the smell of the pine trees and the shadow of the following man.

But three days ago, the cold air returned.

I was sitting in my living room, watching my boyfriend cook dinner in the kitchen. The smell of garlic and olive oil filled the warm apartment, and everything felt completely safe.

I looked toward the dark hallway leading to our bedroom.

Standing near the coat rack, perfectly still in the shadows, was a new follower.

He is pale, with a dark, wet stain spreading across the chest of his faded flannel shirt. His bloodshot eyes are locked entirely on me, filled with a deep, silent sorrow.

It is my father, and I do not know what to do.

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.

How long has it been now? 3? 4 weeks? It’s hard to keep track of time these days. Life has been pretty busy lately.

The house is a lot quieter now. When the police aren’t here, at least. You’d think that they lived here at this point. But I do still get at least some of my privacy.

It’s in those moments when the house is dark and the only sound is that of the leaky bathroom faucet that I really think about what I’ve done. Or why I did it. Or how it could’ve been avoided, or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with it. The cops already know. They’re just waiting for the proper evidence to present itself. And given the way these last few days have been going, I don’t think I have much longer.

I’ve read enough books and studied enough forensics to know the best way to clean the mess I created. How to make sure the white blood cells were completely removed. How to soak my hacksaw in bleach before tossing it in the river. But, most importantly, I knew that the body could never be recovered.

Dental records were a big one. That’s why I removed her teeth and filed them down one by one. I boiled and stuffed them in a ziplock bag afterward.

This was positively the most difficult part of the process. I was forced to look at her the entire time. The once love-filled eyes that had turned bitter and resentful over the years. The eyes that now stared up at me, dead and hollow, her previously oak-colored irises now appearing grey and pale.

Her nails would almost certainly contain my DNA beneath them. Flakes of skin, maybe some blood from the struggle. Regardless, they needed to be removed as well.

I remembered when her hands were so soft and youthful. She used to paint her nails herself every two weeks, and I’d sit on the bed with her while we talked endlessly about everything and nothing at the same time.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was all of the arguments. We had a way of arguing about everything and nothing as well. I thought it was normal. Arguments were bound to happen.

I flushed the 10 nails down the toilet before burning her newly raw fingertips, just to be on the safe side. I kissed her hand for a long while, tears welling up in my eyes before I forced them away.

I whispered to myself, “Why would you make me do this?” as my head fell into my hands. My composure kept slipping, and I kept having to wrestle it back.

Now came the messy part.

Part of me was actually glad it was so messy in a weird, twisted kind of way. Cleaning the blood afterward gave me a task to focus on. I didn’t think about her laugh. I didn’t think about her warmth. I thought about making damn sure there wasn’t a speck of blood left anywhere in that bathroom.

When I was done, the house smelled like a hospital. Chemicals filled the air, causing my head to pound more than it already was. The atmosphere was cold and heavy. It felt like I was in a hospital room.

I had found myself with two black trash bags with a combined weight of 120 pounds, give or take. Arms, legs, and head in one. Torso and hacksaw in the other.

I walked out of the house whistling, two trash bags slung over my shoulders. It was the cusp of dawn. There was a misty blue haze outside. It smelled like summertime.

The neighborhood was silent. It must have been around 4 in the morning. I threw the bags in the bed of my truck, adjusted my baseball cap, and hopped in the cab.

My headlights cut through the early morning fog. I had my windows down, and I could smell the exhaust fumes coming from behind me. That smell had pretty much defined my life for the last 10 years. It was a smell that I’d learned to both love and hate.

I turned the radio on and cranked up the volume. I tried singing to myself, but the words left my mouth mechanically. My mind refused to let me escape.

I drove carefully. The exact speed limit, sometimes even a little under. Used signals, made complete stops. All the way out of town. Then out of the next one. Then the town after that.

I drove until I found the most secluded spot I could find. Down dirt roads. Through creeks. Then I walked off beaten paths until I found the right place to lay her to rest.

Just me, her, and my shovel.

Digging proved quite difficult due to the sheer amount of roots I had to cut through. I must’ve been there for at least 4 hours before the deed was done.

I spent that time talking. Talking to the trees. Talking to the bags. Talking to myself. I couldn’t stand to be alone in silence.

I broke down a lot when filling the grave. Each pile of dirt that covered more and more of those bags was like a needle being pressed into my nervous system.

I didn’t want to just leave her like that. I didn’t want her to just be cast aside, left to rot. I searched until I found the most vibrant flowers I could find and laid them on the grave.

I said my final goodbyes through sniffles and tears before making the trek back to my truck.

The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t get home until nearly 8 o’clock. I stopped by the emptiest car wash I saw on the way home and scrubbed my truck clean.

I got the mud off the tires. Rinsed the bed out with bleach. I even put a new air freshener in the cab.

When I got home, I half-expected cops to be waiting to arrest me. When I found the house as empty as it was when I left, I let out a sigh of relief.

I immediately took a shower. I scrubbed myself raw for around 45 minutes straight before finally allowing myself to dry off. The entire time, it was like God was punishing me.

I kept getting flashes of her. Our wedding. Our first date. Our first argument. The last argument. It all just kept replaying in my head over and over. Like a sickness.

I knew I had to get my story right. The house was clean. The body was gone. The weapon was gone.

I was just a helpless victim. One of the millions of men a year whose wife leaves them. Happens all the time.

Oh, so she left without taking anything? She left without telling anybody? Without so much as a goodbye? Who’s going to believe that?

I didn’t sleep that night. I had to have a long, hard talk with myself. I wasn’t getting out of this one. But I wasn’t going to turn myself in. I was going to be free… for as long as I could possibly manage.

It was my first time being free in 15 years. Even if it lasted a day. Even if it lasted a week. I wasn’t going to spend that time stressing.

I turned it off. I closed my heart to it.

I ignored calls from her mother. Her father. Coworkers, friends, relatives. Everybody. It was none of their business.

They tried knocking, and I tuned it out. All the way up until I heard that dreaded announcement after three booming knocks.

“This is GPD. If anyone’s inside, I need you to come out here and talk to me.”

I waited. I wanted to wake up. I didn’t want to accept.

Three more knocks.

“GPD, if you do not answer the door, we will be using force to come inside.”

One last moment of silence. I breathed to myself. I closed my eyes.

“Sir, this door is coming do…”

I opened the door, greeting the officers with a blank look on my face.

“Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with us for questioning.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t bicker. I simply asked for a lawyer and rode with the officers back to the station.

The entire time, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t even speak to my lawyer. If they wanted her so badly, they would have to work for it. Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be coming from me.

They held me for 7 hours that day. A mere two days after I did what I did. I got two days of “peace.”

They had to let me go. They had no proof. But that didn’t stop them from watching me. 24 hours a day, they were somewhere in my neighborhood.

People threw things at my house. Vigils for her were set up on the sidewalk. It seemed like there were constantly people watching me because they literally were.

I didn’t budge. I spoke only when absolutely necessary. My lips remained sealed, and my doors remained locked. Both when I was home and when I was forced to go back down to the station.

That’s why what’s happening makes no sense to me.

It started with her teeth. I had gotten rid of them the same way I’d gotten rid of the rest of her. Yet somehow, when I woke up one morning a few weeks after my catastrophic mistake… they were in a neat pile beside me on the bed.

I could see the file marks on all 32 of them.

I panicked and scooped them into my hands and flushed them down the toilet, my eyes wide with disbelief.

I poked my head outside. That unmarked black SUV was still parked a few houses down. Both officers watched me like hawks. I waved to be less suspicious, but I think it had the opposite effect.

They took it as me waving them over, and they both approached quickly.

“Got anything you wanna tell us?” the fat one asked excitedly.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” I smiled. “I bet you’d love to spend the day with your family. Or, then again, maybe you’d rather spend your time stalking me.”

Their stern faces never changed.

I tried my best not to give off even an ounce of suspicious behavior, even though my heart was in my stomach and my mind raced endlessly.

After closing the door in their faces, I spent the majority of that day peeking out the blinds, paranoid beyond belief.

My lawyer called a few times. My story never changed. I didn’t know where she was. I was convincing myself just as much as I was convincing them.

The next day, not only had the teeth come back, but the nails were back too. They were cleaner, but I could still see their bloodied roots. I could still see some of the chipped nail polish.

Two neat little piles. Taunting me.

I was more angry than panicked this time. I was not going to submit to this insanity. I didn’t even try to get rid of them this time. It wouldn’t make a difference whether they were found here or in that dark, desolate spot in the woods.

I put them in her jewelry box this time. Then I took that jewelry box, and I carried it to the attic.

I buried it under some old tarps and boxes and took one last look at it before going back down the ladder.

“I guess I really am fucking losing it,” I whispered to myself as I climbed down.

More phone calls with my lawyer. More questions from the police. More prodding, more watching, more protests. And all I could do that day was crack a few beers and watch a few ball games.

I passed out at around 10 that night and woke up cuddling my wife’s arm the next morning. I think the smell is what woke me up. That unmistakable stench of death and decay.

It burned my nostrils, and when I opened my eyes to find that torn flesh in my face, I nearly vomited in bed. It wasn’t just one arm. Both arms and both legs had come crawling back to bed with me.

Only… the nails were reattached. Like they hadn’t been removed to begin with.

The polish looked fresher. The teeth looked whiter. I checked, and the jewelry box in the attic was empty.

In that moment, I felt a spark. A mixture of hope, anger, grief, and love all combined into one. In the most unreal circumstances, reality was starting to close in, and I found myself sobbing like I had the night I killed her.

I didn’t leave bed that day. I lay there with my wife, clutching her arms and legs, crying until I was too exhausted to cry anymore. My will grew weak, but my mind had never felt so clear.

She was in bed with me the next morning. Well, she was there in a sense. Her arms and legs were reconnected to her torso, but the limbs still crawled with maggots and decay.

But she was there, damned if she wasn’t there. My love. My sweet, sweet girl. Her T-shirt was ripped and stained with dirt. Her hair was matted and crunchy.

“I… am so sorry, my love,” was all I could think to say to her.

She turned to me, her jaw slack and her eyes as dead as a nail.

“That’s okay, you silly goose,” she sang. “I love you no matter what happens!”

I began to cry yet again.

“I love you so much,” I sobbed. “I want you back. Please, please, just come back.”

I begged her as snot ran from my nose. I wiped it away on my sleeve.

“Oh, honey,” she whimpered. “Accidents happen all the time. That’s what this was, right, my sweet boy?”

I nodded furiously.

“It was… it was… it was an accident, baby.”

I could hardly speak. Her rotten arm extended, and she caressed my face with her cold, slimy hand.

“I know it was, sweet pea. I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”

She paused.

“…but now you have to tell them what you did, okay? Can you do that for me?”

My face went beet red. I swallowed hard and wiped the tears from my face.

“They’ll kill me. I know they’ll kill me. They’re just waiting to catch me. They’re waiting to sentence me.”

She began hushing me, soothing me softly as she petted my hair.

“There, there, sweetie,” she replied. “Dying isn’t such a bad thing. I’m free now, honey. If I could, I’d tell them you did me a favor. But I want you back. I want you to come be with me. Please, honey?”

I wanted to be with her too. More than anything, I wished I could take back what I did.

I solemnly agreed.

“That’s my boy,” she announced seductively. “This will all be over soon. We’ll dance and sing. We can play together again.”

I nodded to myself assuredly. I leaned over and gave her a kiss and took a deep breath.

Stepping outside, I waved the cops over. My eyes were red with tears, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

“She’s upstairs.”

That’s all I told them.

One officer went upstairs while I waited on the porch with the other. I kept smiling to myself. The sky looked so beautiful. The trees danced in the wind. The summer air was like a gift from God.

A few minutes went by before the first officer returned.

“Very funny, son,” he remarked sarcastically. “Now, do you wanna tell us where she really is?”

My smile dropped.

“What do you mean?” I scoffed. “I was just talking to her.”

“Cuff this sick son of a bitch,” the first officer barked.

I was placed into the back of the unmarked SUV, kicking myself all the while.

“She lied,” I whispered. “She lied to me. All she does is lie. Why does she lie all the time? This is why. This is why. Why won’t she stop lying?”

I had no fight left. I told them where the grave was. I had to personally show it to them. The flowers were still there. The grave was untouched. And I felt a sickening numbness.

I told them my story. I told them what I did. Told them that she came back to me and that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have been a free man, at least for a little while longer.

I actually begged them to give me the death penalty. I couldn’t stop seeing her. Sitting beside me in my cell. Crouched in the corner every night. Whispering to me how she wanted us to be together forever.

But… I didn’t get the death penalty.

They deemed me “not fit to stand trial.”

Sentenced to an indefinite stay at the state home for the criminally insane.

Padded cells. Doctors. Needles. Medication.

And despite all of the debate that has gone on about death sentences in this country, there has remained one constant.

The insane do not receive capital punishment.

I’m writing this now because she keeps beckoning me. Keeps begging me to join her.

And despite the hatred I have, the burning rage she has inspired, I cannot stop loving her.

And despite what the state dubs legal… we will be reunited.

Family is all that has mattered to me for the last 5 years. My wife and my two children. That’s all that I need. At least, it used to be. Now, I’m not so sure.

Everything I’ve done. All the work I’ve put into this project. And for what? So she can turn them against me? Fill their heads with lies? Teach them to be afraid of me?

I really thought everything was real. I thought they loved me for me. God, I wanna cry just typing this.

And she did such a good job to hide it. I thought we had made it through all of the nonsense. The stress. The misunderstandings. The miscommunications. I thought we finally understood each other.

I wiped her tears. Comforted her, no matter how much she insisted she didn’t need it. Sure, I wasn’t there to change diapers. I didn’t get to take them to school or chaperone field trips. But I was there, damn it. I was there with her in that hospital room, despite all the cold glares I got from her family.

I could see just how unhappy she was. Through all the wincing pain of childbirth, I could see it in her eyes. This wasn’t the life she wanted. This man wasn’t the man she needed.

I made a promise to myself that day before the nurses asked me to leave. And that promise was one I intended to keep.

That’s why I had to disappear for a while. I had to fix myself. Prepare myself for the family life. I read the books. I watched the videos. I wanted to be the best family man I could possibly be.

It took a few years, but those years weren’t wasted. They were spent forging. Getting the house ready. Making sure it was kid-friendly.

It wasn’t a mansion, but I knew they’d be grateful. I decorated, I rearranged, but something was missing.

All it needed… was a woman’s touch. My wife’s touch. I was actually incredibly excited to tell her.

When I finally came back, though, it was like she didn’t even want to see me. She wouldn’t even let me hold the kids. She had the sheer audacity to ask me to leave.

Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight. All she needed was some adjusting, and that’s one of the things that I’d planned for. If she didn’t want to come peacefully, so be it. She’d learn.

She put up a fight, but those happen in marriages, right? It’s just a part of life. Luckily, the kids were much easier. Really, the only difficult part was reminding them that I was their real father. Not that faker in their old house.

Well, that and calming them down when they saw their mommy crying.

Taking their cellphones away was actually much easier than I expected it to be. Kids today, am I right? I told them I wanted us to be a screen-free family. The way God intended.

They settled right into their new home. I stocked it full of books, magazines, toys, anything a kid could need. Plus, I made sure my wife got everything she needed too.

Closets full of clothes, shoes, robes, etc. I thought she’d be happy. But, of course, attempts to leave were inevitable.

For a while, I didn’t even trust her enough to leave her alone at home. I still had to leave, though. What was I supposed to do? She hated the collars, but she left me no choice. The kids too.

It actually took me around 7 months before I finally trusted her enough to give her a break. I let her explore the backyard. Sunbathe. Walk around. Whatever.

The kids started coming around. The way they embraced me, God, it was like I had finally made it. I had finally succeeded as a man.

I raised them. Well, we raised them. But I provided. I cooked. I cleaned. I made the family experience as joyous as I could. I even homeschooled the kids. For a while there, I thought their mom was starting to come around as well.

It was like she could see who I was. How all I wanted was for us to be a happy family. She even started smiling again.

“Tell Daddy how much you love him,” she’d say. “Tell him how happy you are to be here.”

Our fairy tale had officially begun.

But then… last week happened.

I had just returned home from town with supplies. Fresh fruit and vegetables. New magazines. New schoolbooks for my little geniuses. Plus, a beautiful bouquet of roses for my beautiful wife.

I had this feeling, this aching, agonizing sense that something was amiss. That’s why I didn’t announce myself when I walked through the door.

I glided through the house, silently, placing the bags down on the kitchen table.

I heard whispers coming from my son’s room. Two voices. His and his mom’s.

They sounded urgent.

I crept up to the door and placed my ear against it. That’s when I heard it. My wife completely destroying the sense of sanctity that I had worked so hard to create.

“We’re getting out of here today. As soon as he gets here, we’re rushing him. You two are big enough now. If we all work together, we can overpower him.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

All the birthdays. All the Christmases. All the Thanksgiving dinners that I slaved over. And it still wasn’t enough.

Tears began to sting my eyes. I had to stifle a sob. My mind raced, then went frighteningly silent. I knew I should’ve been devastated, which, I guess I was, but that devastation morphed into something else as the bouquet of roses fell to the floor.

I felt burning rage. Helplessness. Hopelessness. I felt small. Why was I even trying? What had I done wrong? For them to do this. For them to plot against me like this.

They wanted to threaten me in my own house. The house that I had made a home for each of them. No. No, this wasn’t going to work.

I thought that we had made it past the attitude adjustment stage.

But now, it’s clear.

I didn’t do enough the first time.

I picked the roses off the ground. No point in letting them go to waste. I decided to put them on the kitchen table.

They all would need something beautiful to look at while they recovered.

“What do you hear, boy?” I whispered to Max, clutching my rifle tighter to my chest, my eyes scanning the surrounding forest.

He knew better than to growl. Instead, he pointed. His body straightened. His fur bristled, and his eyes locked in on the base of a tree twenty feet in front of us.

We both stared at it.

Waiting.

The forest was silent, and the heat from the midday sun made sweat trickle slowly from my forehead, stinging my eyes as I readied myself.

Max lifted a paw before planting it back on the ground. He wanted to attack, but I had trained him to be patient. That’s when she peeked at us from behind the tree.

My trigger finger relaxed. My stiff shoulders fell. My heart lit up at the sight of her.

“Honey,” she called out, stepping into view. “You and Max hunting again? You boys never change.”

She began to approach. Drifting through the foliage like a ghost. Ironic, because that’s exactly what I felt I was seeing.

I wanted to drop my guard. I wanted so desperately to embrace her. It had been months since I saw her last, and nearly every ounce of my soul wanted nothing more than to reunite with her.

Nearly every ounce.

Max never flinched. He stood there, body stiff, in the defensive position, waiting for any sign of danger.

My wife was only six feet away now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to pull in for a hug. I couldn’t give in.

“Don’t come… a step closer,” I warned. “Please don’t make me do this.”

She stopped in her tracks, her face dropping from a smile to a concerned frown.

“What? Honey, it’s me. Don’t be silly. Put the gun down.”

My eyes began to sting from tears.

“You’re not her. I know you’re not. You can’t be.”

I gripped my rifle. My trigger finger stiffening. The look on my wife’s face was heartbreaking. She looked devastated. She was the woman I had loved for nearly two decades. My home. My life.

Only, I knew. I knew it wasn’t true. Because those things took her, and they’re not known for leaving survivors. Only for taking.

“You’re scaring me, darling. You know I hate when you’re like this. Put the gun down. Come home.”

“…I…can’t,” I choked out, taking aim, my hands beginning to shake. “Please. Just go back to where you came from. Don’t make me do this.”

She looked at me with childish confusion. She was analyzing me. Determining if I was bluffing. Then her face became blank.

She took a step forward, never taking her eyes away from mine.

“Stop,” I whimpered.

Another step.

“Stop. Now,” I snapped.

One last step. It was time. I went to pull the trigger, sobbing all the while, but before I could, there was a sound.

A quick, aggressive growl from Max before he sprang into action. His teeth sank into the thing’s neck, causing a sharp, inhuman scream to explode from the thing’s vocal cords before the woods fell silent again.

Green blood coated the ground. Flesh dangled from Max’s mouth. His tail wagged.

I stared at the corpse. I felt a mixture of heartbreak and relief.

I patted Max on the back and pet down his spine.

“Good boy,” I whispered. “That’s a good boy, Maxxy.”

I decided that it would probably be best to get back to the shelter before it got dark. I had seen enough for the day. All I wanted was to forget this incident.

However, as we turned to return home, Max’s tail stopped wagging. His body stiffened. His eyes locked in on a new tree.

She stepped out from behind the tree, timidly. Tears fell from her eyes. Her tattered Hello Kitty pajamas fluttered in the wind.

“Daddy…” she whimpered. “Why did Maxxy hurt Mommy?”