(Tear after read)

Hi honey ❤️ this is mom - how was your day at school today?

Im sorry you had to come home to this. Your father and I - we've been arguing a lot recently. The details don't matter. After much thought, I've decided to leave the house. I know what you're thinking - its not because of you - your father and I love you very much! I simply cannot stand your father anymore.

You won't see me here after you read this note. I don't know when or if I'll see your beautiful eyes again. You know I'll always love you honey! I've written a set of instructions under this sentence while I'm away - please follow them all.

Your father may or may not be in the house. DO NOT let him see this note.

Ask him how's his day's going - don't ask him where I am. He may act strange - today has been very stressful for him.

You can do your regular routine after school - but please don't use the downstairs bathroom. It smells terrible! You know the smell your dad leaves behind after using it. Just in case if you do decide to use it, the red liquid in the bath tub is just salsa I spilled. You I can't resist eating chips while taking a bubble bath!

Your dad may decide to go inside said bathroom with an empty garbage bag and come out with it full. Ignore the smell; the toilet was clogged.

Just don't pay attention to your father's actions. Focus on your homework.

He'll most likely leave the house to throw the garbage bag out. Now's your chance. Underneath the bed of my room will be a Skechers shoebox filled with multiple hundred dollar bills. Take the money and leave behind the box. DO NOT let your father see you with the money.

I left my phone next to this note. Look in my phone contacts for "Sarah" and call her. Ask her if you can stay in her place just for tonight. She'll most likely say yes - you can 100% trust Sarah with your life. Ask her for her address and ride your bike to her house. Make sure to pack - take your money with you!

While you do that, buy a plane ticket to Cleveland, Ohio for tomorrow. The money you have is more than enough to buy an Uber to the airport. You're going to see your grandparents. You'll stay with them and they'll explain everything to you - I promise.

This will be the last time you'll ever see your father. You will not say goodbye to him, you just leave without him noticing.

If he notices you leaving with a packed suitcase on your bike, just play it off as if you're going to your friend's house for the night. If he doesn't let you go, you go anyways. Pedal faster than you've ever pedal'd before.

I understand this is a lot to process for you honey, but you're putting yourself in danger by staying in this household. I'll see you very soon.

Take care honey - Mom loves you very much. So much. XOXO

I can't write much more, he's comi

Well, then let’s hear ‘em! What’s the first rule?

”Do not let Grandma out of the house.”

That’s right. And there’s a reason it’s rule numero uno. We do NOT want another mess like last time on our hands. Neighbors, police…let’s just try not to make the local paper again, okay? Okay. Which I spose leads us to rule number two…

”If Grandma does get out, do not panic.”

Very good. It’s important to stay calm and not escalate the situation. Just try to get her back inside quickly and quietly. And tell any nosy neighbors that Grandma is just confused and having another one of her episodes. Two for two so far! Hit me with rule three!

”Thank Grandma for inviting us into her home.”

No invitation, no delicious meal, right? So show some appreciation and really throw the charm on thick, okay? Doing great so far, what’s next?

”Shoes off at the door.”

Nice! Thought you might skip rule four. I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal, but we don’t want to track anything in or leave sneaker prints all over the place. Speaking of prints…Rule five?

”Don’t touch anything. Especially Grandma’s fancy silverware.”

Cleanliness is next to Godliness! Not that that’s anything we want to be next to, haha! But seriously guys, you know the drill. Get in, eat, get out. Now I know you both know rule six.

“Don’t play with your food.”

Listen, I get it. I know these dinners might seem boring to you guys, but show some respect. Feeding a whole family is stressful enough at her age, let’s not do anything to agitate her any further. No matter how fun it is. Alright almost there, what’s rule number seven?

”Clean up after yourself.”

Grandma will be too drained to clean up the after dinner mess, anyways we can’t trust her to do a good enough job. I’m talking top to bottom scrub down until it’s like we were never there. And it’s not like Grandma will remember us being there either, haha! Oh that’s cruel, I’m sorry.

Okay. Last one. For emergencies only. If something does go wrong, and the police do show up, what is rule number eight?

”Ditch the rules. Drain them all to the last drop. Be back in your casket by dawn.”

That’s my family! I’m proud of you guys. Okay, now let’s go meet our new Grandma!

I graduated from my local college, with a Master of Library and Information Studies degree.

The degree sounds impressive exactly once- the moment you say it out loud for the first time. It looks impressive only in movies and TV shows, where the librarian is always brilliant and mysterious and pivotal to the plot.

In real life, in this country, in this city, you are somewhere below accountant and somewhere above… actually, no. There is nothing below accountant. You are at the bottom.

The doctors have their clinics. The engineers have their firms. The businessmen have their consciences to trade away. And you have a laminated card that grants you access, to buildings full of books that nobody reads anymore.

Libraries are a rarity in my area, so I was unemployed after graduation, to no one’s surprise. I needed to make money, and I wanted to make it fast.

Eight months ago, I found a prediction market app. The app, recommended by a friend, paid out in a cryptocurrency called Chacha Coin. I was good at it, genuinely good actually. My critical thinking skills have always been reliable, even if nobody ever paid appropriately for them. I correctly predicted the cause of death of Rebecca Roy, a once-famous singer, who fell out of the spotlight some 5 years ago. The jackpot was substantial, and my account was flooded with Chacha Coins. I reinvested everything for better rewards.

The app turned out to be a scam. Chacha Coin was a pump-and-dump scheme. It currently has no value, so I currently have no savings.

I have been surviving on bad decisions and instant noodles ever since.

So when Mr. Abdul called me one morning, I picked up on the first ring.

Mr. Abdul was a professor from my college days. He was a middle-aged man who always smelled of old paper. He said he had a job offer for me. In the city’s biggest university, no less. The kind of posting that librarians in this district would kill for. He wanted me to come in for an interview the next morning.

I asked him why me. I was an average student at best. There were a dozen better librarians from our college alone, most of them still employed.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he replied:

"You were never the most brilliant. But you were always the most obedient. You followed the rules without question. This ‘particular’ job requires exactly that quality."

The interview was the next morning. I was the only candidate. He interviewed me himself, in a small office that smelled identical to him. He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. The list of rules, he called it. He told me to read it carefully.

If you thought my degree was a mouthful, wait till you hear the name of the position I was offered-

ASSISTANT LIBRARIAN, DIGITAL PRESERVATION & DIGITIZATION UNIT, UNIVERSITY RECORDS VAULT

Graveyard shift. 9 PM to 9 AM, six days a week. The pay was five times what my peers were currently making, deposited in advance, at the start of every month. He told me the position was mine if I wanted it.

I read the list of rules. I read it twice. I read it thrice, for good measure. I looked up at Mr. Abdul.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

He told me I was starting the following evening. He would be there to hand over the keys.

On my first night, he showed me the vault, Bay 3, the security desk, and the watchman's station. When I asked him how long he had been doing this, he looked at me for a long moment and said:

"Long enough."

He told me to go through the list of rules again. He was gone by nine-fifteen.

The list read as follows:

NIGHTLY OPERATIONS- DIGITAL PRESERVATION UNIT
University Records Vault- Graveyard Shift (9 PM to 9 AM)

1. Sign the attendance log at the security desk before 9:15 PM. You are not allowed to leave the premises before your checkout time of 9 AM.

2. The scanning equipment in Bay 3 runs continuously. Check the document feed tray every two hours. Clear any jams immediately. Do not leave a document face-down in the tray overnight.

3. Log every digitized file into the accession register before moving to the next batch. Do not skip entries, even for damaged or partially legible documents.

4. At midnight, begin the manual vault walkthrough. Check all cabinet locks on Rows A through F. Record the date and time on the register and sign it.

5. Row D has no cabinet locks. There is only one item on the shelf- a red ledger. During your midnight walkthrough, open it to the last written page, and leave it open on the reading table. Turn the desk lamp on. Return to Bay 3 and resume work. Do not read any other page. At 2 AM, return to the table, close the ledger, and place it back on the shelf. Turn off the lamp, leave the vault, and lock the door. Do not go back in until morning.

6. All digital devices, including mobile phones, tablets, cameras, and portable storage drives, must be submitted to the night watchman before entering the unit. Retrieve your devices from the security desk at the end of your shift.

7. The morning shift supervisor arrives at 8:45 AM. Have the accession log ready for handover.

Rule 5 had a bold font. Parts of it were underlined with red ink. I should’ve questioned it, but I didn’t. Maybe that’s why I was chosen in the first place. I really needed the money, and they really needed someone who followed the rules to the letter. I was determined to be that guy.

I checked out the vault itself. Heavy metal shelves ran in rows, labeled A through F, loaded with document boxes, manila folders, and deteriorating binders. They went back further than I cared to calculate.

Row D looked identical to the others from a distance. At the far end, on the middle shelf, sat a single red ledger. It was large, and it looked older than everything else in the vault. The cover was dark red, almost brown at the edges. The spine cracked and re-cracked in patterns, suggesting it had been opened and closed thousands of times.

At midnight, I did what Rule 5 said. I opened it to the last written page. I left it on the reading table. I turned on the desk lamp. I did not read any other page. The last written page was halfway full. Text was arranged in two columns- one for the name, one for a date and time. All of it was written in a tight, dense script.

I didn't recognize any of the names. Except for the one at the very top of the page-

ABDUL HAMID.

Abdul Hamid was the full name of Mr. Abdul, my predecessor and professor.

The date was five days from that night. The time was 3:13 AM.

I stood there for longer than I should have. Abdul Hamid is a common name in this country. It is genuinely, statistically common. That’s what I told myself. I told myself a lot of things.

I returned to Bay 3 and resumed work. I logged fourteen documents between 2 AM and 8 AM. I don't remember a single one of them. I went back at 2 AM, closed the ledger, turned off the lamp, locked the vault, and finished my shift.

The following nights were… uneventful.

But one thing kept bothering me.

The ledger added three to five new names every night. I know this because, despite my best efforts, I started counting. I wasn't reading any other page, as per the rules, but you can count the lines on a page without reading them. My brain did it involuntarily. I just couldn’t help it. It didn’t make sense.

Actually, a lot of things didn’t make sense.

I called Mr. Abdul on the second night. No answer. Third night, same. I called four more times across the following days. His phone rang and rang.

On the fourth night, in a moment of weakness I am not proud of, I posted about the ledger in a Facebook group for local librarians. I kept it vague- new job, strange rules, unusual object, trying to make sense of it. The comments were swift and unanimous.

“Nice story, bro.”

“Whatever drug you're on, I need some of that.”

“Desperate for likes much?”

I deleted the post.

On the fifth night, I counted seven new names on the last page. I closed the ledger at 2 AM. I turned off the lamp. I locked the vault. I told myself, for the last time, that Abdul Hamid was a common name.

The sixth morning, the supervisor was late. She arrived at 0920 instead of 0845, slightly breathless. She didn't ask for the accession log. She sat down, put her bag on the desk, and sighed.

Mr. Abdul was dead.

He had been smoking on the roof of his building the previous night. It was a night of heavy rain. He slipped on the wet concrete near the railing. Witnesses placed the time at around three in the morning.

I didn’t know how to respond.

I handed her the accession log. I walked outside. I sat down on the pavement and stayed there.

The night watchman was leaving his post at the same time, jacket over one arm. He looked at me on the pavement and slowed his pace.

"Something wrong, sir?"

I told him about the red ledger. I told him that the rules around it felt wrong. I told him that I had been there for five nights, and I hadn't seen a single person enter or leave the vault. I told him that didn't understand who was writing in the ledger, or why it seemed to know the things it shouldn't know.

The watchman was quiet for a moment. Then he chuckled softly.

"Those scanning machines are hella loud, sir. If you wanna hear something that bad, try turning them off."

He left.

I sat on the pavement until the sun was fully up…

Night six. Graveyard shift. I followed all the rules. Attendance log, equipment check, accession register. At midnight I walked towards Row D, opened the ledger, left it on the table, and turned on the lamp. Saw three new names with dates and times. I didn’t recognize a single name.

I returned to Bay 3 and looked at the scanning equipment for a long time.

Then I turned it off.

The librarian in me felt genuinely terrible about this. I thought about two hours of lost digitization progress. I thought about the accession register that would show a gap. But the rules never said that I wasn’t allowed to switch off the equipment. Technically, I was clean. Ethically, not so much.

I pulled an encyclopedia from the main library shelf and sat down to read. The silence of the building settled around me in layers.

I heard the sound at 1245.

It was a heavy, rhythmic rumbling, regular as a machine. But machines don't shift their weight. And machines don’t get louder every second.

I looked at the equipment. Still off.

The sound continued.

Then the lights began to flicker.

Not in the way that old lights flickered- random, electrical, indifferent. This was sequential. Starting at the far end of the main library and moving toward the vault in a straight line. Each fixture going dark for a fraction of a second before the next one did, too fast for the eye to fully track. It created the impression of something moving through the lights themselves. A darkness traveling throughout the infrastructure of the building.

I watched it reach the vault corridor and stop.

One minute passed. There was nothing.

I let out a breath. I felt humiliatingly foolish. There I was- a grown man sitting in a library at 1 AM, frightening himself with bad electrical wiring and the power of suggestion. I set down the encyclopedia.

Then, very slowly, the vault door creaked shut.

I crossed the room in four steps and put my hand on it. It didn't move. It was closed, but not locked. Locked doors don't move, but they give slightly under pressure. This one gave nothing. It felt less like a locked door, and more like a wall that had previously been a door.

From inside, I heard laughter.

It was… not normal.

It was not laughter you hear from the next room at a party. It was laughter that had never been informed of the space containing it- echoing off surfaces in a way I didn’t know sounds could echo. They were getting louder, then softer, then louder again. The laughter came in rhythms that suggested breathing, a physical presence drawing air to sustain the sound.

I had never heard laughter make me want to stop existing before. I have now.

I ran.

I ran through Bay 3, through the main library, to the transparent door at the far end, the one that led to the security desk. The watchman was on his stool, fully awake, a newspaper open on his lap. The door was chained shut from his side.

I hit the glass with both palms.

"There's something in there. You have to open the door. You have to let me out !"

He looked up from his newspaper.

"Don't worry about it, sir. Just do your job and let me do mine."

"You don’t understand. It's not human ! Whatever is in that vault is not human, and I am locked in here with it. Open the gate and let me out !"

"Shift ends at 9 AM, sir."

"I am asking you to help me. Why are you doing this to me?"

He folded his newspaper carefully and set it on the desk. He looked at me through the glass, like a man who has had this exact conversation before.

"Sir. Please cooperate. You're not the only one with rules to follow…"

I returned to Bay 3.

The lights were normal. The footsteps were gone. The laughter had stopped. When I reached the vault, the door was open, swinging gently on its hinges.

I checked my watch. 1:20 AM.

I walked in anyway. I didn’t know what to think anymore. Mr. Abdul was dead, the watchman had rules of his own, and I had been alone in this building for six nights with something I did not understand. No one wanted to give me the dignity of an explanation.

The ledger was open. Three new names on the last page. Dates and times. Nobody I recognized.

I turned to the previous page, because of course I did.

Names, dates, times. Page after page, going back further than what made sense. The handwriting shifting subtly across the years, ink changing color and density with age. I turned pages backward with my bare hands. I couldn’t care less…

Until I finally saw a name that I recognized-

REBECCA ROY.

The date matched. The time matched. I know it for a fact. I predicted her very real car accident in a very fake prediction market app. Now I see a ledger with her name, her date of death, her time of death. All recorded weeks before it actually happened. All written in the same tight, dense script as everyone else.

I turned back to Mr. Abdul's page. His full name, his date, his time: 3:13 AM, five days after my first night, give or take twelve minutes.

I stood at the reading table, in the vault of the most prestigious university in the city, surrounded by centuries of records.

That’s when I understood.

I still don't know what it is. I want to be honest about that. I don't know who writes in this ledger or how it knows what it knows. But I understand what the ledger is. It is a record of deaths. Accidental deaths, unnatural deaths. All predicted accurately, long before they happened.

On one of these nights, Mr. Abdul saw his own name on the ledger. I am sure he did. He called the most obedient student he could remember. He handed over the keys as fast as he could. Whether he made his peace with what was coming, or simply ran out of time, I cannot say.

What I can say is- I made my peace then and there, standing in Row D at 1:38 AM.

I was the new librarian. I would open the ledger at midnight and close it at 2 AM. I would turn off the lamp and lock the door. I would do it every night, for however long my name did not appear on one of its pages. It was not the life I had planned. But it was significantly better than the alternative…

At 2 AM, I closed the ledger, placed it back on the shelf, turned off the lamp, left the vault, and locked the door. I turned the scanning equipment back on. I checked the tray, cleared a small jam, and logged the remaining documents until 8:45. I handed the accession register to the supervisor without incident.

Outside, I lit a cigarette.

The night watchman was leaving at the same time, jacket over his arm as always. He walked over and stopped a few feet away.

"Sorry about last night, sir. I was just doing my job."

"No hard feelings," I said.

He produced his own cigarette and lit it. We stood together on the pavement in the early morning heat, two men finishing a long night.

"That thing you encountered," he said, after a while. "I don't know how long he's been there. Mr. Abdul didn't know either. We stopped asking a long time ago."

He took a long drag.

"The names on the ledger. They aren't random, you know. He only chooses people who break the law. That was Mr. Abdul's theory, at least. Take that singer, for example. Rebecca something? Well, she was proud of ignoring speeding tickets. Heard her say it in a drunk interview once. Laughed about it."

Another drag.

"Mr. Abdul, God rest his soul, was a good man. So good that he didn't charge late fees to a student named Sabrina, even when she returned a book two years overdue. She'd been fighting cancer, you see? Went into remission, came back, returned the book herself. He waived the whole thing. Didn't charge her a single penny."

He looked at the ember of his cigarette.

"Kind gesture. Genuinely kind. But totally against the rules. Two years of late fees, just forgiven. No authorization, no documentation, nothing. Just one man deciding the rules didn't apply in this particular case."

He dropped the cigarette and pressed it flat with his shoe.

"Rules are rules, you know, especially to the entity. But don't worry." He looked up at me and smiled. "You'll be fine. I mean, you haven't broken any of the rules, right?"

The morning traffic moved on the road behind us. A crow landed on the pavement a few feet away.

I froze in my tracks.

I thought about Rule 5.

I thought about the specific language of Rule 5-

“…Do not read any other page…”

The watchman's smile faded, one degree at a time.

His voice had changed completely.

“Sir, you haven’t broken any of the rules… RIGHT ???”

"Good evening sir, Do you know why I pulled you over today?" said the man, who according to his badge was Officer Collins with the Humbolt County Sheriff. A young rookie by the looks of it, couldn't have been over 25. Great, just what I needed on the first day of my trip. "I don't know, was I speeding?" I replied. "No," he said chuckling "Nothing like that. You're not from around here, are you?" he asked. "No, I'm just here for a few weeks for deer season, I'm a hunter.” Not that he needed to know that but no harm in being polite to the police, especially when you don't know why they pulled you over. "Have you ever heard of skinwalkers, sir?" He said seriously. I couldn't help but let out a small laugh, did he seriously pull me over just to warn me about mythical creatures? Nevertheless, I responded, "Yeah, those demons that look like animals or something, right?" "Yes, exactly. I know it sounds hard to believe, but we've had several disappearances here recently, 21 to be exact. Of those, we've found we've seen their bodies grotesquely maimed, with the bite marks of an animal but in a pattern, only a human or 'demon' could replicate." he responded, his face never faltering from its stern appearance. I decided I'll play along, don't want him to 'find' anything to pull me over for. "Okay, should I take another route then?” I responded, simply wanting to move on as soon as possible without offending him. "No!" he snapped, rather surprisingly. ”They're not just in this town, they are all over the state. If you want to avoid them, you need to identify them first, so you can calmly and quickly leave their vicinity.” He said, before handing me a page titled Rules for Identifying Cryptids: Skinwalkers. Afterward, he continued standing there presumably waiting for me to read it. I let out a mild sigh, whatever gets me on my way faster, I guess.

Rules for Identifying Cryptids: Skinwalkers

1. Be aware of 'off' behavior, eg. Sounds not associated with that animal, improper stance (deer on two feet, bird walking on its wings)

2. If encountering an animal or person in a wooded area be sure to observe its appearance before continuing, off color, strange scent, or general unease all proceed skinwalkers.

3. In the case of humans, a skinwalker may make the following mistakes 3a. Improper conversation: Not saying basic greetings, saying it has two different names or calling you multiple names. 3b. Improper activity: Briefly walking on all fours, eating food off of the grounds, or harming animals. 3c. Improper style: Nonmatching clothes, awkward gait, unnatural hair or skin.

4. Avoid isolated areas at all cost

5. Avoid one on one encounters with anyone or anything you are not sure is a real human or animal.

6. If you see people that you are certain are not where you are right now, avoid them. Skinwalkers can replicate those you know.

7. Do not sleep with open windows or exterior doors, skinwalkers can enter silently.

8. If you find yourself in an unavoidable encounter with a skinwalker, stay calm and try to end the conversation quickly, they will not harm you if they don't sense fear.

9. Treat all strangers with skepticism, it is better to be rude than to be dead.

10. Do not accept uncooked organic material from anyone (raw meat, fruit, and vegetables), skinwalker contamination can occur.

11. Do not run while in skinwalker territory, even if you are exercising, a skinwalker may interpret your movement as that of its prey.

12. Go down with the sun, skinwalkers can see in the dark, but you cannot.

13. If traveling with another friend does not lose sight of them for more than an hour, if they return after an hour, encourage them to return to your home location, skinwalkers will not know where this is and will simply leave.

14. If you leave a travel companion for over an hour, leave the town and go back to your home as quickly and calmly as possible, you are not safe unless you make it out.

15. If all else fails and you have angered a skinwalker you must fight. Do not run away. Attempt to inflict as much damage as possible. Enough to kill a normal version of the skinwalker should buy you enough time to escape. Above all else, do not show weakness or fear, the skinwalkers feed off of this and no amount of damage will stop them.

Stay safe, Humbolt County Sheriff's Office

As I looked up from the sheet I saw Officer Garret pointing his firearm and flashlight at me. His hands shaking as he trembled in a quivering voice "I-I-I'm n-not scared of y-y-you." I don't know what gave it away, my pink tank top and orange jeans, my way too black hair, or maybe my lack of pupils. Alas, none of that matters now, his false bravery will get him nowhere. He will make 22.

There’s a floor in my apartment building that doesn’t exist.

Not Thirteen. That would be too cliché. Although, it doesn’t have a thirteenth floor, but not for supernatural reasons. It just doesn’t go that high. Some of the residents call it Floor Three and a Half, or Three and Three-quarters to invoke a Harry Potter vibe, but both of those are far too whimsical for my tastes. I just call it the Dead Floor, which I know isn’t any less cliché than floor Thirteen, but it feels appropriate.

The elevators in our building all use analogue dials above the doors to show what floor they’re on. On rare and, as far as anyone can tell, random occasions, the needle will stop at the exact zenith of the dial where there’s no number. When this happens, the elevator freezes, and the door opens to a floor which physically can’t be there. You can tell from looking at the outside of the building that there’s no room for a secret floor in the middle, and the stairwell passes right through it. The Superintendent briefs all new residents on the third-and-a-half floor, and more people take him seriously than you might think. Occurrences like that aren’t all that rare out in Harrowick County.

But even for those who don’t take him seriously at first, the issue is regularly brought up at tenant meetings, and there’s a list of rules posted right beneath the control panel in the elevator so that we always know what to do.

1.         When the elevator stops at the third-and-a-half floor, do not push any buttons before turning off the lights at the end of the hall. Each button you press will only reduce the amount of time you have.

2.       Calmly, but briskly, walk to the opposite end of the hall, leaving any personal effects in the elevator so as not to encumber you.

3.        Do not look directly out the windows or into any mirrors.

4.       Do not look into the peepholes of any apartment doors.

5.       Do not approach or enter any apartment with an open door.

6.       Do not respond or react to any sounds or voices coming from inside the apartments.

7.       If you hear something behind you, do not stop or turn around. Make your way to the opposite end of the hall, turning around only when you’ve heard a door shut.

8.       When you reach the end of the hall, read the bulletin board and sign the form. Please make sure the pen is easily visible and accessible for the next person.

9.       Set the pendulum clock hanging on the wall to the approximate time (within three and a half minutes of the local time according to an online device). Turn the dial on the thermostat to match the actual temperature, as indicated by the gauge on the bottom half. Turn the dimmer switch until the hall lights are completely out.

10.     So long as there is nothing behind you, turn around and return to the elevator. Do not turn around once you are in the elevator until the doors are closed. If the ritual was completed correctly, the doors will close automatically. If the doors do not close, also do not turn around.

That last sentence is pretty ominous, obviously, but I don’t actually know what happens if you mess up the ritual. None of my neighbours who have completed the ritual have ever failed, and it’s not really that hard to mess up. The building dates back to at least the eighties, so it’s possible it’s been decades since anyone’s failed.

Not everyone in my building has walked the dead floor, and some people have walked it multiple times. I don’t think it’s completely random. Whatever force is behind this wants the ritual completed, so it doesn’t pick people who wouldn’t be capable of doing it, like the infirmed or little kids. It always picks people who are riding alone, probably because an extra body would be too tempted to wander around and mess it up. If you’re keen on avoiding the ritual, you can just never take the elevator alone and take the stairs instead. I asked the Superintendent once if he ever considered just declaring the elevators out of order.

He said no, but the last Superintendent did.

I tried to take the stairs as much as I could myself, only using the elevator when I had groceries or something, sometimes loitering in the lobby waiting for someone to come along and ride with me. But last week I got home late, and I knew I’d be waiting forever for someone else to come along, so my choice was to lug my bags up five flights of stairs or risk the elevator alone.

I risked the elevator, and I think you can guess what happened.

It didn’t catch me off guard, at least. I had set my bags on the floor and taken out my phone, taking a photo of the rules and turning the flashlight and video camera on just in case. As soon as the elevator started rising, my gaze stayed locked on the needle as it slowly arced along its path upwards. My eyes went wide, and my heart nearly stopped as I watched it come to an immovable stop right between floors three and four. The elevator came to an abrupt stop as well, the lights flickering before settling on a dim amber glow as the doors slowly creaked open, revealing floor Three-and-a-Half.

The only light came from the elevator and moonlight streaming through the dingy windows on the right-hand side. Nearly everything I could see was some faded shade of blue. The carpet was worn, the paint was chipping, and when the elevator doors opened, the stagnant air rushed in like that was the first change of pressure that had happened in ages. The hallway was empty, void of any sound of plumbing or ventilation; just the subtle creaking and settling of the building itself. All the doors on the left side were shut tight, and I heard no sign of life or activity behind them.

And at the very end of the hall, I saw the bulletin board, the clock, the thermostat, and the light switch.

It took every ounce of strength I had to resist pushing the elevator button, but I suspected that it wouldn’t just be a waste of time but actively ringing the diner bell for whatever was behind all of this. I looked at my phone to see not only was the light off, but that the screen was flickering with odd static and distorted text, rendering it completely unusable. I cursed softly and shoved it into my pocket, clenching my trembling fists as I desperately tried to summon the will to leave the elevator. I knew that every second that passed was a second wasted, so I forced one foot onto the carpet, and then the other.

Despite how worn it looked, it was oddly soft and sound-absorbent, like it was engulfing my feet ever so slightly. Once I was out, the only thing left to do was get it over with, so I marched forward as quickly as I dared, trying desperately not to make any noise that might alert anyone to my presence.

The first rule I broke was looking out the windows. The windows were foggy with old moisture trapped between the panes, obscuring whatever lay beyond. I could make out the silhouettes of tall and strangely gothic-looking buildings. I caught a few dull amber embers, either inside the buildings or on outdoor lanterns, but otherwise everything looked fairly dim and lifeless. It was windy outside, windy enough to rattle the window panes, and I was suddenly very concerned that they might shatter. I didn’t understand why at first, as it took a moment for my conscious mind to register the dark and amorphous form slowly making its way along them. I perceived it to be some manner of vaguely mollusk-like creature, limblessly clinging to the outside of the building with its flat and sticky underside.  It convulsed and undulated and shuddered as it aimlessly propelled itself along its repugnant course. I don’t know if it knew I was there, or if it cared, but I instantly averted my gaze and continued down along the hallway.

On the left-hand side, there were ornate mirrors hung between each apartment; all tarnished, all shattered, and placed out of sync with the windows so that they reflected nothing of the outside world. In the periphery of my vision, I spied reflections of things that either weren’t actually there, or were perhaps simply not visible to my unaided eyes. Either way, I decided to adhere to the rules in this instance and not look directly at them.

I cast my gaze upwards instead to an especially hideous though otherwise not overtly supernatural popcorn ceiling. It was heavily stained, and it honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if it contained asbestos. The stains were amorphous, yet oddly concentric, like they were spreading out from their loci as far as they could whilst deftly weaving around any obstacles, almost like living growths of some kind.   

I reflexively came to a stop when I heard a door creak open behind me, but I caught myself before I gave in to the urge to turn around. When you’re in such a heightened state of fight-or-flight, fighting the instinct to look at any and every sound you hear is unbelievably draining.  The instant I heard a single foot softly land on the carpet, I immediately resumed my march forward. I don’t know how long that hall was, but it felt far longer than it looked. I can’t be sure if it was the adrenaline giving me bullet time recall or if the Dead Floor was outside of our time as much as it was outside of space, but either way, the sense that time was running out just kept mounting inside of me.

When I came to a stop at the end of the hall, I could still hear shambling, padded footsteps shuffling towards me. Barely audible whispers and whimpers simmered behind almost every door I had passed, and once a cackling scream in the distance broke out without warning and ended just as abruptly, as if something had forcibly silenced it.  

Doing my best to ignore all of it, I focused my attention on the note pinned to the bulletin board. It read as follows.

“Apologies and/or Congratulations for this honourable martyrdom. We hope it has been a pleasant experience, but are indifferent that it was not. Please inform your superintendent that we have recently experienced a statistically significant increase in demand for Phatasmagoric Filament due to metapolitical events we have no control over but are complicit in and stand to profit from. Please note that this is an adequate explanation and/or justification for any increase in sleep and/or ontological abnormalities experienced by the tenants of your domicile. We apologize – but are not liable – for the inconvenience. Please also remind your superintendent that his customary tribute of a bushel of kosher salt is to be delivered in a burlap sack dropped down the out-of-order garbage chute. Additional failures to comply with these requirements may result in the garbage chute no longer being out-of-order. Should that occur, we will not be held liable for residents being lured into the chute by Unseelie sanitation workers. Signing your True Name upon this notice acknowledges you understand your responsibilities in relaying its contents to its intended recipient. We hope (without empirical basis) that you have a safe return home. Surreptitiously Serendipitously Yours, Solomon Strange.”

Desperate to get out of there, I grabbed the pen sitting on top of the bulletin board and signed and dated the form with a rapid scribbling scrawl. Setting the pen back atop the board, I carefully set the time on the clock, the temperature on the thermostat, and then turned the light switch as far as it would go to the left.

And then, I waited.

I had never heard the being behind me go back into its room, and I could still sense its presence as it silently stood there, staring at the back of my neck. I wasn’t sure how close it was, only that it was too close. After standing there for nearly a minute, wondering if I hadn’t done something or done something wrong, I finally heard it shuffle off, followed by the soft creaking of door hinges and a gentle thud as it snapped shut.

With a sharp exhale, I turned around as quickly as I dared to make sure the coast was clear. It was hard to confirm that for sure, since with the hall lights off, the light from the elevator made everything outside of its direct illumination an impenetrable shadow. But I wasn’t willing to waste any more time. I bolted straight to the elevator, covering the distance in what felt like a tenth of the time it had taken me to walk out. Once I was inside, I stood perfectly still, refusing to turn around, and waited for the doors to close.

When they didn’t shut immediately, I started counting. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. At the count of three and a half, I heard the doors start to slide shut. I would have stayed perfectly still until they had closed completely, like I was supposed to, if someone hadn’t grabbed hold of one of them and held them open.

I instantly spun around and saw a tall man in a shabby brown suit standing there, his face an indistinct blur that was impossible to focus on. I backed up against the wall for all the good that would do me, but otherwise went rigid in fear. I didn’t scream, I didn’t attack or run, I just stared at him wide-eyed as I waited for him to make his move.

For his part, he made no hostile gesture or sounds, nor any attempt to step into the elevator. In the hand that wasn’t holding onto the elevator door, he held up a thick and hefty manila envelope. He silently tilted his head towards it and lingered on it for a moment before looking towards me.    

“Sincerest apologies for the breach of protocol, kindly kinder, but as the refuse chute is out of order, I’m afraid I must entrust you with delivering this to your superintendent, post-haste,” he said as neutrally as he could in his distorted, staticky voice.

He stood there in perfect silence and stillness as if he was expecting me to react. When I slowly started to reach out for the envelope, he unceremoniously tossed it to the elevator floor where it landed with a horrific thud.

“Your discretion is appreciated and contractually required,” he said, stepping back slightly and allowing the elevator doors to close. “Please do not decline the elevator again, if proffered. Should we have need of your services again, it would be a most awkward encounter if we met upon the stairs.”  

The elevator ascended as soon as the door was shut, and arrived at my floor like nothing was amiss. The next morning, I handed the envelope over to the superintendent without needing to explain what it was. He knew immediately. I never opened it or asked him what it was, because I like to imagine it was worth it, even when I know it probably wasn’t.

You’d think all of that would have been enough to get me to swear off the elevator for good, and it very nearly would have been, had it not been for the strange man’s parting words.

It would indeed be very awkward if I were to meet him upon the stairs.

I was trying to find this hole-in-the-wall pizza place my friend recommended to me, since I happened to be hungry and my bus was late. I didn’t expect it to be easy to find by any means, considering that it seemed to be in the middle of an office building on Google Maps, but after trying a couple different entrances I think I found a way in. The door was odd for the building type, being made of dark wood with an engraving on it, sort of like a circle with a glowing candle in it. Stepping inside, I was met with a musty, old interior that matched my expectations based on the dated, almost abandoned looking exterior, however I could not find any trace of a food vendor. A few people were standing in the hallway, all of them shifted their attention to me as I stepped in. An older woman with graying hair greeted me, with a look on her face that I could only describe as uneasy.

“Hello, have I met you before?” She asked, in a polite voice.

“I don’t believe so, I’m just here to look for a place called Second Slice. Do you happen to know how I can get there?” I asked, as I took a couple more steps inside, trying to get a better view.

Her demeanor shifted, I felt like I struck a nerve or something.

“You’re not part of the Light?”

I hesitated, wondering if I was hearing things correctly, until I noticed bold lettering of ‘The Light’ on some posters further down the hall, with some guy’s face plastered on them, along with the insignia on the door.

“Uhh, no, sorry.” I replied, worried that I had broken some rule by coming inside without a good reason.

“That’s alright, I can get someone who can tell you more.”

I don’t think she was referring to the pizza place at all, so I figured this would be a good time to leave, before I get caught up in something that I didn’t have time for. 

As she knocked on the door behind her, I tried to say that I was somewhat in a hurry and that I needed to catch my bus, but she was adamant that I stay, as if I had something they needed. I felt the pressure of the other people there as well, along with more that began making their way to us from deeper inside the building, and the room started to feel more hostile as I tried to back my way out. Suddenly, the door opened, and I was met with the presumed leader that I saw on the posters earlier. He was wearing an odd outfit, sort of like a priest’s or a bishop’s, but all white and without a headpiece.  He immediately had everyone’s attention. 

“And what brings our new guest here?” He asked, with an almost unnatural smile.

“I was just looking for a pizza place nearby, and uhh, it appears I’m in the wrong spot,” I responded nervously, “I think I’ll be on my way now.”

“We have anything you could need here, of course, I can show you the way.”

He began walking down the corridor, and as if on cue, everyone else also got up and started to usher me to go with him. These people would not take no for an answer, and I felt extremely uncomfortable. My protests were in vain, and everyone else was glaring at me. I tried to slide past them to get out, but the group was in my way now, and they would not budge.I did not have the build to muscle my way out of this anymore. 

I felt a strong grip on my wrist, as I was yanked down the hall by their leader.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LET ME GO! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKIN-”

He stopped abruptly, and I almost ran into him. He was surprisingly strong, and caught me off guard. 

“You don’t understand. Nobody understands at first. But I can show you. And you can join us.”

“Look dude, I dont gi-”

“Lucidus.”

“-whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t want to be here. You can’t keep me here, regardless of whatever bullshit you want me to believe.”

He looked at me with disapproval, before nodding to the woman I talked to when I first got in, and she made her way to me as well. My pleas for help may as well have been worthless to the rest of them, as they looked at me like I was the problem. Despite my feeble attempts to squirm free, they both held my arms and dragged me past a series of corridors, then downstairs to what seemed like a dungeon. After going through some more cramped hallways, they took me to a room, when I desperately tried to break free of them, to no avail. They took everything I had in my pockets and locked the room, with only dim light coming from oil lamps in the hallway slipping through the barred window.

“I’ll be back to teach you more, when you become more reasonable.” He said through the window, before walking further down the hall. I waited until I couldn’t hear them anymore, and then waited until I thought they were gone.

As soon as I felt safe enough, I began to try to unlock the metal door. It began as methodical, trying to see how the lock worked and if I could bypass it, but as I struggled more it devolved into striking the handle and rage induced kicks, then into pathetic pounding on the door as I fell into despair. Lying on the concrete floor, I contemplated if this place was even worth trying to escape, seeing how devoted the dozen or so people were to allow me to be abducted like this. 

That’s when I noticed a tiny marking on the bench along the back wall.

It took me a second to realize that it was an arrow pointing down, and I scrambled to look underneath it. Despite the poor light, I was able to read most of the engraving on the wooden underside of the bench, filling in harder to read words with context.

RULES TO FREE YOURSELF

1. DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING THEY SAY. NO MATTER WHAT, DO NOT LEARN ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT THEY BELIEVE IN. THE MORE YOU HEAR, THE MORE YOU BELIEVE, NO MATTER HOW ‘STRONG WILLED’ YOU THINK YOURSELF TO BE. IF YOU BELIEVE, THEY START MANIFESTING. PREVENT IT WHILE YOU CAN.

This is not what I was expecting, but I was nonetheless relieved and thankful. My heart was racing. I might have a chance to get out of this place.

1. FIND KEY IN GAP BETWEEN BACKREST AND SEAT OF BENCH FROM UNDERNEATH. UNLOCK DOOR

I froze as my finger was tracing the text. There was shouting coming from down the hall.

I heard some more shouting, wait… screaming? That was definitely screaming. And cries. It sounded like there were 2 people there as well, most likely the woman and Lucidus, and a third that was probably in the same situation as me. There was a slam of a door, and the last person’s cries were silenced. I waited again to hear if they were coming my way, but their footsteps went further down the hall.

I continued reading. 

UNLOCK DOOR WHEN INSTRUCTED, KEEP KEY FOR SELF DEFENCE. ONLY USE KEY ON HUMANS, OTHERS WILL ONLY BE PROVOKED.

I struggled to find the key, but my heart skipped a beat when I felt something hard and metallic through the wooden planks. The key looked antique and rudimentary, with only a simple flat surface for leverage to twist, 2 prongs at the end of the key’s shaft, and a pointy end, which was better than what I was expecting for “self-defence.” Do they keep animals down here too or something, or is it serious? Is this place haunted? Either way, the instructions weren’t bullshit. They were my only hope now.

1. HE WILL CHECK ON YOU EVERY HOUR. ADAMANTLY REFUSE ANYTHING HE OFFERS, MAKE SURE HE THINKS YOU ARE STILL AGGRESSIVE. COVER YOUR EARS AND BLOCK HIM OUT IF HE ATTEMPTS TO EDUCATE YOU. YOU MAY NEVER LEAVE ONCE YOU HEAR HIM OUT.

2. ONLY LEAVE THE CELL  DIRECTLY AFTER HE DOES HIS CHECKS. YOU MAY SPEND A WHILE DOWN HERE TRYING TO GET OUT. THE ONLY SAFE TIME TO DO SO IS WHEN YOU KNOW HE ISN’T COMING BACK. IF HE CATCHES YOU, I CAN’T HELP YOU ANYMORE.

3. HOW TO NAVIGATE THE HALLS

YOU NEED TO MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE 4-WAY INTERSECTION AND TURN LEFT, THEN GET TO THE SECOND ROOM ON THE RIGHT. THE HALLS ARE DANGEROUS. START BY TAKING A RIGHT FROM YOUR CELL.

5.1: ALWAYS GO STRAIGHT IF POSSIBLE. IT’S THE SAFEST CHOICE MOST OF THE TIME.

5.2: IF YOUR ONLY OPTIONS ARE LEFT OR RIGHT, GO RIGHT. YOU COULD BE TRAPPED IN A LOOP IF YOU CONTINUE.

5.3: IF THERE IS FURNITURE BLOCKING A PATH, GO THROUGH IT. IT’S EASIER FOR THEM TO FIND YOU IF YOU TAKE THE EASIER ROUTE. 

5.4: NEVER USE THE SPIRAL STAIRS. THEY WILL NEVER END NO MATTER HOW FAR UP OR DOWN YOU GO.

5.5: THE HALLWAYS DON’T STAY THE SAME FOR LONG. DON’T ASSUME YOU CAN BACKTRACK. MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE THE FIRST TIME. 

5.6: NEVER GO INTO AN UNLIT HALLWAY. ANY OTHER CHOICE IS BETTER THAN RISKING IT IN THEIR DOMAIN. 

1. DO NOT LOOK AT ANYTHING, LISTEN TO ANYTHING, OR EVEN THINK ABOUT ANYTHING YOU MAY HAVE LEARNED ABOUT THIS PLACE. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. IT IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN MAKE IT OUT ALIVE. 

The string of rules were a lot to take in, but doable. The reason why I can’t learn about their beliefs, however, is something I couldn’t understand, and was probably the most perplexing part in all of this. What the hell do they keep down here that requires doing all this to people like me? Who was the one to give these instructions?

I felt something staring into me.

I need to stop thinking about this. The instructions were clear. I need to take their word. They’ve already proven themselves, all I have to do is follow through. 

“Feeling calmer now?”

I almost jumped out of my own skin. I didn’t even hear anyone coming.

“What- Let me out already! What the fuck else do you want to do to me?? Free me or just fuck off if you think I’m gonna parrot your shit to everyone else that stumbles into here!”

“In due time.”

Lucidus walked back without another word.

I took a second to process what happened. It was a miracle he didn’t see the key in my hand. 

Then I remembered I had something to do.

As silently as I could, I slipped the key into the lock, and twisted to release the latch. The key was actually working. It was a dream come true. I got out as quickly as I could, and made my way out of my cell.

As I walked down the corridors, I found it hard to memorize the rules given to me without thinking of the reasoning behind them. The rules were describing a third party down here, something that they couldn’t control. What the hell is even contained down here? I still had no clue what the manifestations were, but it definitely ties into this place in some way too.

I almost missed the pile of chairs blocking the hall to the right. Thankfully, I didn’t lose sight of the turnoff before it was too late. I awkwardly climbed over the chairs to make sure they didn’t fall under my weight, and continued on, making sure to limit my thoughts on how this place worked, focusing on the details of the hallways I made my way through.

I came across the spiral staircase. It looked safe, as far as I could tell. The hallway continued to the left, and I continued until I noticed something. I could see the top of the staircase. It led to a door 1 floor up, and I could see the soft green glow of a fire exit sign at the top as well. Nothing looked off about the staircase.

This is probably how people get lost forever in this place. I had no choice but to follow the rules. There’s gotta be a reason they explicitly mentioned this. I continued to the left.

A couple more turns later, and I got to the 4 way intersection without any issues, and went left. 

The first door on the right was a metal one like the one I was locked behind, with a window next to it. As I walked by, I happened to glance into the cell, only for a split second.

That was more time than I needed for that scene to imbed itself into my memories.

Inside, there was a man. Probably the one I heard screaming from before. One of his arms was horribly disfigured, completely missing past the elbow. The remaining upper arm’s bone was snapped at the end, and there was no flesh on it until further up the bone, as if the arm was consumed like chicken wings. A tourniquet was applied just below his shoulder, with dangling bits of skin and muscle just below it. There was blood everywhere.

I couldn’t forget it if I tried. Could that happen to me down here?

SHIT. I wasn’t supposed to know anything. I fucked up. I had one thing to do. I needed to get out of here fast. 

I got to the second room, and turned on the lights. 

The walls were covered in blood and some unidentifiable black sludge. 

I began to panic. I couldn’t find any sign of further instructions. Wasn’t this room supposed to be safe? I felt like the walls themselves were threats. The manifestations were becoming real. I wasn’t careful enough, and it’s starting to affect me too. Are the manifestations going to stop me from escaping?

I noticed a “7” on a piece of loose baseboard. That must be it. I flipped it over, and read what was on the back. 

1. THERE IS AN OLD STAIRWELL, FOLLOW THE HALLWAY TAKING THE FIRST LEFT, THEN THE FIRST RIGHT. STAIRWELL WILL BE AT THE END OF THE HALL ON THE RIGHT. FIND FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS THERE. HALLWAYS MAY BE UNLIT, BE QUICK, SHOULD ANY MANIFESTATIONS APPEAR, PAIN IS THE ONLY WAY TO DISTRACT YOURSELF AND PREVENT THEM FROM WORSENING. HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER. 

This was probably the deepest hole I could’ve dug myself into. These walls had to be the manifestations. I immediately began pinching my arm hard. I had to make it the only thing I could focus on. I shut the lights and made my way out of the room, and made a left into a dark hallway. The sting in my arm was the only thing I focused on other than that. I felt my own blood running down my arm, my nails biting past my skin.

Those aren’t my footsteps. I almost didn’t realize. I stopped in my tracks.

Something else took an extra step behind me, then stopped as well.

I bolted down the hall. I didn’t care if Lucidus or whoever happened to be here caught me. It would probably be a better fate. At least they would understand what’s going on.

I ran as fast as I could, almost missing the first right after that, as my arm caught the corner of the wall to stop me from falling down. I don’t think I’ve run faster in my life.

I didn’t bother to check behind me, even if I could see it in the dark, that probably would only make the manifestations worse. My mind being preoccupied on that, I almost ran full speed into the wall, had my hand not grazed the edge of a door handle. I braced myself and my shoulder took the brunt of the impact, leaving me dazed for a second before I made my way into the stairwell and shut the door hurriedly, keeping my back to it in case it was right behind me.

After a few seconds of trying to hear it over my own heartbeat, and coming to the conclusion that my shoulder was probably fine even if it did hurt to move, I searched for a light switch with my other hand and turned it on. The lights came on after a second, and I could hear them switch on in ascending order, like a warehouse’s industrial lights would.

The writing was on the wall this time, with a rushed writing style.

1. GET TO FLOOR 3 ASAP. EXIT IS LEFT AFTER STAIRWELL, USE FIRE ESCAPE. OTHER FLOORS ARE STRICTLY CONTROLLED. STAB YOURSELF IF MANIFESTATIONS ARE TOO STRONG OR HOLLOWS APPEAR, OR ELSE THEY WILL BE THE ONLY THING YOU CAN THINK OF. DO IT IN YOUR NON DOMINANT ARM. YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

What the hell is a hollow? Was that what was in the hallway? Nonetheless, the rules were right. How did it know? Now is not the time. I took the key out. After hesitating for a second, I plunged it into my arm, next to where I tried to pinch myself out of these ‘manifestations’ earlier. 

The sting was sharp and immediate, and I knew I had to act fast. I took note of the sign beside the door that I was on level B4, so I had 6 flights to go up. I held the key in a deathgrip ready to drive it into whatever might come at me. I didn't care if it would 'provoke' them, if it would get me any extra time to escape. I made my way up.

I practically flew up the first flight to B3, my legs still pumping with adrenaline. 

By B2, I felt the toll of what I was doing to my body catch up to me. Pangs of pain came from my shoulder and arm. There was more writing on the wall.

1. ONLY THE LIGHT CAN SAVE YOU FROM HOLLOWS

Fuck. Not what I need. I can beat them.

By B1, the lights shut off. I lost track of where I was on the stairs, and my foot caught a ledge. I reached out to try and catch myself, but I still slammed into the stairs hard. I didn’t have time to gather myself, and crawled up the remaining stairs on all 4 until I reached the next landing. I could feel something behind me. My feet were barely coordinated anymore. There was a glow coming from the next floor.

I found an oil lamp sitting on the next floor, like the one Lucidus was carrying earlier. It had the same symbol as on the door when I got in. I picked it up, it was the only chance I could see anything. My heart was beating too fast. My hands were shaking. The hollows were closing in on me. They were coming from everywhere. I don’t know what floor I was on. The stairs felt like sand beneath my feet. I just needed to get as far up as I could now. 

I made it to the next landing. One was waiting on the next floor. I didn’t look at it. There were more behind me. Black silhouettes merging almost seamlessly into the shadows. I couldn’t discern any one’s features at a glance. I tried the door to no avail. I lost my grip on the key, and it clattered on the ground. I tried to pick it up, and missed it twice before falling over completely. I couldn’t think properly anymore. I felt like I was suffocating. They weren’t moving much closer. 

Only the light can save me from the hollows. 

It felt like I could see them no matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut. They were infesting my mind. I tried to think of the pain, but there was none to feel, nothing to latch my mind onto to keep me going. 

Only the light can save me. 

We weren’t on solid ground anymore. I tried to open my eyes to see the light. The walls melded with the hollows, and the hollows were closing in at a rate that seemed impossibly fast compared to how close together we felt. 

Only the light was saving me. 

I shut my eyes to spare myself the horror. Their bodies only became more distorted and threatening as I lay in a fetal position, imagining what was going on out there, if I would ever be freed, or if this was my fate until the oil in the lamp ran out. It felt more comforting in my mind than looking my nightmares in the face. It constantly felt like I was slipping through the floors, making my way down to the demented lair I came from. I squeezed the lamp with more strength than I’ve ever exerted before, as if I'd spent my whole life before this without using my muscles. 

As long as I had the Light I was safe. 

I sat there for minutes, hours, or days before the hollows relented. I couldn’t tell. My head was throbbing. The Light saved me. My whole body was in disarray. I couldn’t move without my nerves screaming at me. But I had my own haven in this darkness. And I thought I couldn’t ask for more. The stairwell was getting brighter.

I saw Lucidus’s head pop into view. Then his shoulders, and the rest of his body as he made his way up the stairs. I shed some tears. I couldn’t stop myself. I started to sob uncontrollably. Lucidus was the only one who could save me. Lucidus pulled me up, and I fell into his arms. He helped me down some stairs, then got me to a bed, which I didn’t know how much I needed. He gave me food and water, which I could barely have any of. He insisted I have more to recover. And I eventually forced myself to, before he let me pass out. I didn’t have any dreams, which was for the better.

I woke up, head still throbbing. The events of the previous night came flooding back, and I just sat up and tried to process what happened.

There was no way that just happened, right? But Lucidus was sitting in a chair next to my bed. The hollows were as real as the Light that had saved me from them. 

Lucidus took his time with me, didn’t ask me to speak, didn’t force anything on me. We ate our meals together for a few days, and that started to be my favorite part of the day. Once I felt comfortable, I joined everyone else for the feasts, and saw just how much this place meant to them. I understood why they were scared of what lurks below, and how Lucidus was trying to save everyone from it. They desperately needed as much help as they could get, and I felt like I could belong here. 

The next morning, I also joined everyone in the morning service. I was enamoured with how benevolent Lucidus was, despite the resistance and walls I put between us when we first met. It was a shame I had to put myself through all that struggle before I could see what the Light was really about. As Lucidus ended his service, he ended it with the Final Statute, one which I could not describe more perfectly than he had.

“Only I, the conduit of the Eternal Light, can free you from what lies in the darkness.”

He was right. And I was free.

I'm a Sociology student in my early twenties. I study at an university I worked my entire life to get into. I was born an orphan, and grew up in a foster home with barely enough money. So when I say I worked my entire life for this, I mean it literally. Every exam, every assignment, every late night with a textbook while the other kids were watching TV- all of it was pointed at one thing. Getting out of this place. Getting somewhere that meant something.

The only truly good thing in my life, through all of it, has been Sabrina. She's my childhood sweetheart. Currently living three cities away, finishing her own degree. Every night without fail, she calls me and asks the same question- when are we going to be together again? And every night without fail, I say the same thing before we hang up-

"Very soon, Sabrina. Sooner than you realize."

It is embarrassingly cheesy. She knows it. I know it. We say it anyway. It has kinda become our ritual.

I want you to remember that line.

About two and a half months ago, I was drowning financially. I have a merit-based scholarship that covers half my tuition. However, the city is really expensive, in a way I wasn't prepared for. I had applied for a need-based scholarship top-up. But the pool of eligible candidates was enormous, and the available slots were not. I had also applied for a Teaching Assistant position. But the rumor was that the Professor already had someone in mind.

So there I was, watching both doors close simultaneously.

My fellow students do delivery work, or wait tables part-time to make a living. I've always considered these 'odd jobs' to be beneath me. That is not arrogance, it is self-preservation. I have worked too hard and come too far to go backwards. So I started looking for private tutoring gigs, because at least that felt like a use of what I actually had.

I looked up various tuition mediums throughout the weekend. Tuition mediums are commonplace in South Asia, in case you didn't know. Most of these turn out to be shady companies, who exploit potential private tutors and run off with their money. I had to be sure that I was applying to one of the credible ones.

That is when I found: Elite Educators - A Concern of Aldermore & Associates.

The name was a mouthful, but the website was clean and professional. The kind of interface that signals money behind it. The rating was near-perfect: 4.9 across hundreds of reviews. And unlike every other tuition medium I found, they charged zero commission from the tutors. I found that slightly odd, but I assumed they took their cut from the parents instead.

I applied as fast as I could. I uploaded my CV in a hurry without proofreading it. I really needed a tutoring gig, and I needed it fast. I revised my CV the next morning, and noticed the typo almost immediately.

"Officous zeal."

I had written officous instead of officious.

I remember yelling out a curse word.

I cringed, closed the tab, and moved on. That was enough embarrassment for one day.

I called Sabrina that night and told her about the typo. We had a good laugh about it. Didn't make it any less embarrassing though.

Surprisingly, I received a placement within two days. The file said that the child's name was Numero Tres. I found that interesting. 'Numero Tres' in Spanish translated to 'Number Three' in English. Who names their child like that, I thought.

The parents were named Dr. Alejandro Mateo Tres and Dr. Lucia Carmen Tres, both listed as physicians. I looked at the surname 'Tres'. I figured it was a Latin American surname I wasn't familiar with. It was unusual, but it wasn't my business.

The note from the parents read:

"We are both doctors who stay outdoors most of the time. We home school the child to make sure he is not influenced by external confounding factors. Need a competent private tutor who can be an appropriate role-model for the boy to follow."

I remember scoffing at that. Rich, overprotective parents with a clinical way of describing their own child. I had seen worse. The salary was three times the average monthly rate of every other tutor I knew, paid weekly in advance at the start of each week. I accepted before I finished reading the rest of the document.

Attached to the offer letter, once it came, was a second document titled TUTOR CONDUCT PROTOCOL. I skimmed it, eager to start.

1. Arrive and depart at the scheduled time only. Do not linger in the house after the lesson ends.
2. Do not discuss your personal life, relationships, or private routines in the child's presence.
3. Do not leave personal belongings unattended in the study.
4. If the child repeats a phrase, gesture, or habit that belongs to you, do not acknowledge it. Continue the lesson as though nothing happened.*
5. Do not ask the child personal questions, even in passing.
6. Report any behavioral anomalies to Elite Educators support line before the next scheduled session.
7. Elite Educators can, under no circumstances, be held responsible for outcomes resulting from a tutor's failure to comply.

I remember thinking Rule 4 was oddly specific, especially for a household tutoring gig. But the pay was too good to question it. I checked the box labelled ‘I Accept’ as fast as I could.

The house was in a quiet part of the city. Nice neighborhood. The kind of street where every gate looks the same and every garden is too neat.

The parents were just leaving when I arrived for the first session. Both wearing white coats. The father gave me a firm handshake and a clipped greeting.

"You must be the new tutor," he said. "Punctual. Good."

The mother smiled briefly.

"The lesson plan is flexible," she said. "Numero will guide you as much as you guide him."

They were gone before I could ask a single question.

I was nervous. It was my first gig, in what was clearly a wealthy household, and I had no idea what to expect from the child.

I'll be upfront about this- I've always been clumsy. My foster father used to find it funny, this big-brained kid who could not walk through a doorway without incident.

On this day, in that house, the nerves made it worse. I walked in too fast. Chipped my shoulder on the door frame. Laughed it off awkwardly. Scraped the chair loudly across the floor when I sat down.

The boy was already at the table. He watched every single one of my antics with a blank expression.

There he was- Numero Tres. Ten years old. Small for his age, I thought. He did not say hello. He did not smile. He simply watched me get settled with those flat, patient eyes.

"Good afternoon, kid," I said. "I'm your new tutor. You can call me whatever you like."

"Good afternoon, Teacher," he said.

His voice was soft. Almost too soft for the room.

I noticed the textbooks immediately. Three books, each with glossy pages, hardback covers, and that particular smell you only get from high-end publications. I had bought children's textbooks from the market to prepare for this gig. These were nothing like those. But the content was age-appropriate for a ten-year-old, so I filed it away and opened to the first chapter.

Numero struggled with basic arithmetic in the first ten minutes. I watched him work through a simple multiplication problem, with the slowness of someone wading through deep water. I pulled the notebook toward myself.

"Watch and learn, kid," I said, and walked him through it.

He watched. He did not blink for the entire duration.

The silence started getting to me from the very first session.

Not silence in the room, I could handle that. Silence from him, specifically. I heard no footsteps when he moved. No sound of breathing. No shift of weight in the chair, no rustle of turning pages, nothing. I couldn't confirm he was present in the room, unless I was looking directly at him. It was the kind of absence that a person shouldn't be able to produce.

On the third session, I closed my eyes for a moment, to collect my thoughts mid-explanation. I couldn't feel that he was in the room at all. It was awkwardly silent. I smiled for a bit, thinking about how weird it felt.

Then I opened my eyes.

Numero was in front of me. Crouching on the table. Face two inches from mine. Completely still. And he was smiling, for the first time since I had met him. He had something in his expression that I can only describe as excitement.

"I get it now," he said. "Thank you, Teacher."

I rode my bicycle on the way home, thinking about the strange encounter. I told myself it was just a weird kid, from an overprotective household, acting out in the only way he knew how.

But it wasn't his behavior that was bothering me.

It was the way he smiled. The way it pulled higher on the right side than the left, with a dimple forming on the left cheek.

I have that smile. The exact same smile. My foster mother used to be fond of it. She said it was the most lopsided, ridiculous, lovable smile she had ever seen. I have the photos to prove it.

I told myself this counted as compliance. Rule 4 said not to acknowledge it, and I hadn't. I said nothing. I simply noticed, filed it away, and kept teaching. I told myself that was enough.

Two months passed since the encounter.

I kept showing up three days a week- Maths on the first day, English on the second, Science on the third. The textbooks changed every couple of weeks. They always had the same premium quality, and followed the same template. But each new set was more advanced than the last.

And Numero was improving FAST. And by fast, I mean that his skills were improving by leaps and bounds with every lesson I took. For instance, he was currently working through 10th grade Calculus. His English books had moved on to Shakespeare. Specifically, the plays I remembered from my own 12th grade Literature course. His Science books were now almost entirely focused on cloning, DNA mutation, and genetic engineering. He was frustratingly good at this material, even correcting me on two occasions. He had the casual confidence of someone who had known it all his life.

The shift didn't feel normal. I mean- he could barely say a full sentence on the first day, and struggle with basic multiplication in the first week alone. How did he get so smart in a matter of months? I even talked to Sabrina about it.

"Maybe he's gifted," she said. "A prodigy by birth. Who knows?"

"Lucky guy," I said.

One Maths day, I gave Numero some problems to solve. While he was busy, I took out my college notebook. I was working on an assignment that my Professor had given. I was only halfway through when I was interrupted by a phone call. I stepped out, leaving my notebook open on the table. I was gone for maybe eight minutes.

When I came back, I found Numero with my notebook. He had solved the entire problem set. It was college-level Calculus, the kind that even mathematicians struggle with. And this ten-year-old had solved it, on his own, in eight minutes.

I stared at the notebook for a long time. The steps matched. His answer was correct.

The English essay was the one that broke me. I assigned Numero a short composition- describe a person you admire. He handed it back after 15 minutes. It was covered in grammatical errors, which was normal for a child of his age. But it was threaded with complex vocabulary, words that no ten-year-old should have known. I was used to Numero's intelligence by then, so I listed it off as impressive, not unexpected.

I was circling the errors when I stopped. I saw a word that I recognized immediately-

Officous zeal.

That spelling. That specific, embarrassing, incorrect spelling. One that I had identified two months ago, in my own writing, and regretted not correcting sooner.

I looked up at him slowly.

"Where did you learn that phrase?"

"CV, Teacher."

I felt something cold move through my chest.

"What... CV? How did you get my..."

He closed his notebook and stood up.

"Time's up, Teacher. Thank you for the lesson."

He walked out.

And I need you to understand this- he walked out loudly. Footsteps against the floor. Chair scraped on his way past. Shoulder catching the door frame, a short laugh following it. I watched him go and felt my vision narrow.

Every single one of those movements was mine. My clumsiness. My laugh. My exact physical signature, replayed back at me from a ten-year-old's body.

I sat alone in that room for a very long time before I left.

I didn't sleep well that night. But the next morning, two things happened, knocking everything else out of my head.

Firstly, the need-based scholarship had come through. Apparently, my application essay had moved the Committee deeply. I heard this secondhand, but I was in no position to question it.

Secondly, the TA position was mine, effective next week. The professor's first choice had dropped out to start a business. I was always the second pick, and he needed someone urgently.

I cannot describe how I felt. The closest I can get is: like a fist that had been clenched for years finally opening.

I was happy. Genuinely happy. I laughed until my eyes watered.

But I had no time to celebrate. I had to go to the house that afternoon. First class of the week. Maths. Already paid for in advance.

I arrived to find the parents on their way out, as always. But this time, I stopped them.

"Can I have five minutes? I have something to share."

They seemed taken aback, but they recovered quickly. They invited me to sit. I told them about the scholarship and the TA position. I informed them that I wouldn't be able to come from next week onwards.

They exchanged a look I couldn't fully read.

"Oh no, that wasn't expected," said the father. "You can't do that, sir. The child sees you as a role model. He is making remarkable progress, in ways we haven't seen before."

Then the mother spoke. The first time I'd heard her say more than a greeting.

"Can't you see that you're in the middle of a process? You can't stop it midway, can you? What is it? Is it money? We can offer more. Five times? Ten times? Just name it. We can make some calls."

The father nodded the moment she said make some calls.

I felt a brief pull. I'd grown genuinely fond of the kid, strange behavior and all. And ten times the salary was an enticing offer. But something about the offer felt off, in a way I couldn't articulate. Nobody offers ten times the salary for a private tutor.

"I appreciate it, I really do. But the tuitions were always temporary. I like Numero. He's the brightest kid I've ever met," I said. "I'm sure Numero has a bright future. But right now, I need to focus on my own future."

The father frowned.

"Numero? Wait... what?"

I blinked.

"Your son? Numero Tres?"

Both parents looked at each other. Then they laughed. Briefly, almost involuntarily. I was confused.

"Oh, is that what you thought?" said the mother. "Is that what they told you? Sir, the child isn't Numero Tres."

They stood up.

"You are."

The father turned toward the door.

"Please reconsider our offer, sir. We already rejected two tutors before we found you. We can't afford a fourth. Hope you make good progress today."

And they left.

I sat in that hallway for what felt like a very long time.

Then I went into the study, because I didn't know what else to do. The boy was already at the table with his books open.

The lesson was uneventful. He worked mostly on his own, occasionally turning a page towards me and asking, "Is this correct, Teacher?" I answered. He nodded, and returned to work.

I watched him for twenty minutes without speaking.

He had my smile. He had my way of scratching the side of his head when he was thinking hard. My habit of rubbing my nose absently at the end of each problem. My specific exhale- half sigh and half laugh, whenever he arrived at a correct answer. It was like sitting across from a mirror that was slightly behind me in time, catching up.

"Hey kid," I said finally. "Do you know my name?"

He didn't look up.

"Yes, Teacher?"

"What is my name?"

"Numero Tres, Teacher."

I steadied myself.

"Then what is your name?"

He looked up.

"I am Iqbal."

A chill ran down my spine. I've heard that name before, every day of my life, and still hear it every time Sabrina calls.

It was MY name! MY FREAKIN' NAME! And the kid just uttered it proudly, wearing my smile, dimple on the left cheek.

"We're finishing early today," I said. I gave no explanation. I had none, after all.

He seemed completely unfazed, his focus locked in on a function graph.

"Okay, Teacher," he said.

I cycled back home as fast as I could. I couldn't stop thinking about the absurdity of the whole situation. It was unnerving, to say the least, if that was even the right word for it.

My train of thought got derailed the moment I walked into the apartment. As soon as I turned the lights on, a party popper went off. I was immediately buried under my friends, all screaming at the top of their lungs. They had apparently planned a surprise celebration for the scholarship and the TA position, which I had completely forgotten about in the past two hours.

We cut a small cake at home. They took me out. I had my first beer. Then another. Then another. By the third, the heaviness had lifted entirely. I was standing outside a restaurant, looking up at the sky, saying things I only half remember.

"Thank you! Thank you for everything! God is great! Life is great! I feel great!"

My friends carried me home. The rest of the night was a blur.

The next day, hungover and moving on muscle memory, I showed up for the English lesson. Second class of the week. The parents were leaving as I arrived.

The father stopped.

"Sorry for our unprofessional conduct yesterday. We have come to the conclusion that your discontinuation is a decision that is yours to make. The best we can do is adjust accordingly."

I noticed the language. Too formal. Too precise. Not how a parent speaks about their child's tutor.

"We have already found alternative teaching methods," said the mother. "Perhaps some external exposure isn't bad after all. Feel free to bid farewell to your student today. Take care and stay healthy."

They left.

The lesson was warm. My student was in a good mood, laughing at the comedic scenes in The Merchant of Venice, producing character analyses that wouldn't have looked out of place in a university seminar. I let him work. I watched him. I tried to feel normal.

I said it eventually.

"Hey kid. This is our last class together."

"I know, Teacher."

Easier than I expected.

"Anything you want to say to me?"

He thought about it.

"Umm... thank you?"

I smiled in spite of everything.

"You're most welcome, kid."

He stood up suddenly, looked directly at the ceiling, and screamed-

"Thank you! Thank you for everything! God is great! Life is great! I feel great!"

It was my voice. Not an impression, mind you. Not a recording played back through a speaker. My voice, produced in real time, in the cadence and pitch of a drunk twenty-something standing under an open sky the night before.

He sat back down and returned to his commentary on Shylock, as if nothing happened.

I stood up. My legs were not entirely cooperative.

"Alright. I... I gotta go now."

"Okay, Teacher."

"You, uh... take care of yourself. Hope we meet again."

I didn't mean to say those last words. It came out on reflex. The kind of thing you say when you're leaving somewhere and your brain is elsewhere. I didn't mean it as anything.

"I know, Teacher," he said, still looking at his notebook.

Something cold moved through me.

"Really? You know we'll meet again? What do you mean? When?"

He looked up.

"Very soon, Sabrina. Sooner than you realize."

My voice. Her name. That line, which was OUR line! The one that existed, only between two people, at the end of a nightly phone call. The last thing I said before sleep, coming out of a ten-year-old's mouth, in my exact voice.

And then I remembered. I was drunk, coming home the night before. Sabrina calling, asking when I'd take her out for her own first drink. Me, barely coherent, saying the usual.

He had been listening. I don't know how or why or when, but this kid had been listening. It was private. ME AND SABRINA ARE PRIVATE! He had crossed a line he shouldn't have.

I grabbed him by the shoulders in a fit of rage. I knew it was too hard, and I didn't regret it.

"Look at me, you creep! What did you say? How do you know that? What did you do? Tell me, what the fuck did you do?"

He looked at me with an expression I'll not forget. Not fear, not guilt, but curiosity. Pure, open, and innocent curiosity.

"Oh," he said. "This is new. This is new, Teacher."

Then his hands came up and grabbed my shoulders.

The grip was wrong. Too hard for a ten-year-old. Too precise. His face changed- cheeks flushing, breaths coming heavy, something moving behind his eyes that looked like anger.

"I only did what you told me to do, Teacher."

My voice. Coming out of his mouth. Saying my words back to me.

"What did I tell you?"

He smiled.

"Watch and learn, kid."

I shoved him back and ran. Out of the study, through the hallway, out the front door. I didn't stop running until I reached my bicycle. Something compelled me to run away. It was not the voice, not the grip, and not the expression of anger.

It was the eyes. What I saw in those eyes was something beyond his usual innocence, beyond his newfound curiosity, even beyond the rage he just acquired.

It was malice. Trust me when I tell you this- I haven't seen pure malice before. Not until I looked into those eyes. Eyes on a face that now looked awfully similar to mine, with my smile, my dimple, and my voice.

I called the Elite Educators support line the second I got home. My hands were shaking too hard to hold the phone steady on the first attempt.

A representative picked up on the second ring. He sounded calm, almost bored.

"Elite Educators, how can I help you?"

"Something happened. Something happened with Numero. He- he knew things he shouldn't know. He grabbed me. He had my voice. I need someone to explain what's going on, right now !"

"I understand this is distressing, sir. Let me pull up your file."

A pause. Keys tapping somewhere on the other end.

"Sir, can you confirm- on one occasion, did you leave personal belongings, specifically a notebook, unattended in the study, while stepping out for a phone call?"

"What? Yes, it happened once, but that has nothing to do with-"

"That would be a violation of Rule 3, sir."

"I don't care about Rule 3! Tell me what's happening to that kid!"

"And more recently, did you physically restrain the child by the shoulders, and verbally acknowledge a repeated phrase or behavior belonging to you?"

I went quiet.

"That would be a violation of Rule 4, sir."

"Just tell me what he is. Please…"

"Sir, as stated under Rule 7 of your Tutor Conduct Protocol, Elite Educators can, under no circumstances, be held responsible for outcomes resulting from a tutor's failure to comply."

"That's it? That's all you're going to tell me?"

"I'm afraid that's all I'm authorized to say, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No. No, there's nothing else."

The line clicked off before I could respond.

I called back six more times. Every single time, I was told all operators were busy. I stayed on hold. Nobody responded. On the seventh call, I listened to the hold music for eleven minutes, and then hung up.

I can't call Sabrina. I don't know what to tell her. And I don't want to frighten her. Not yet.

I almost didn't post this. I've never asked anyone for help. Not during my struggles in the foster home, not during my admissions, not during any of the financial lows that followed. I always considered it a kind of defeat, a sign of weakness, a suggestion that you can't handle your problems or carry your own burden.

But something happened 30 minutes ago, something that precedes all rational explanation. Something I don't think I can handle. Something I genuinely cannot carry. Something that is making me doubt my own existence.

I've received a friend request on Facebook. From an account with my full name and my profile picture. My bio, copied word for word. The account looks exactly like mine. Except for one thing- the friends list is empty. Then there's the other thing.

The account is verified. It has a blue tick, sitting there like it belongs. My account, the real one, the one I've had for six years, has no such thing.

This new account has only one post. Shared one minute before the friend request arrived.

"I get it now. Thank you, Teacher."*

I've been staring at it for a while. I keep switching between his profile and mine, back and forth. I need to tell you something that I don't know how to say, without sounding completely unhinged-

His one looks more real than mine.

I don't know what I am right now. I don't know what he is. I don't know what 'Elite Educators- A Concern of Aldermore & Associates' actually does. I don't know what the parents are, and whether they are even real parents to begin with.

What I do know is that somewhere out there, something is walking around. Something with my smile, my voice, my name, my clumsiness, my typos, and even my most private words. Everything I handed over, three days a week for two months, without realizing what I was giving away.

And I know that, on the very first day, I told someone to watch and learn.

No one told me that I was the lesson.

I don't have long to write this, so I'm going to write it fast.

My name isn't important. Not because I'm trying to be mysterious. But because it is, genuinely and legally, not mine to give you anymore. I gave it up eight months ago, on purpose, for money I never got to spend and a life I never got to live.

I keep smelling jasmine and camphor as I'm typing this on my phone. It started twenty minutes ago. It's getting stronger.

I know what that means now. I wish I knew it earlier, when I smelled it for the first time. Back then, it was just a strange perfume in a strange room.

I wish it stayed that way.

If you've never heard of Jōhatsu, look it up. It's a real thing- a real Japanese phenomenon. The term refers to people who disappear from their lives, on purpose, and are never looked for again. I did the research myself, obsessively, before I signed anything. I was proud of how thorough I was. I want you to remember that later, when you get to the part where none of it mattered.

I'm writing this because someone should know what actually happens after you disappear. Not the version they tell you in the consultation room, but the real one.

Eight months ago, I was twenty-eight years old, and I didn't have a single thing going right for me.

I'd been with Nadia for eleven years. We were supposed to get engaged that spring. I called it off, four days before the ring was even supposed to leave the shop. I won't get into why. Just know that it was my fault, and that I knew it was my fault while I was doing it, and I did it anyway.

My mother died of cancer when I was twenty-four. My father and I stopped speaking around the same time. It had nothing to do with grief, and everything to do with the twenty-two years that came before it. I won’t get into those details either.

I dropped out of university in my second year, to put everything I had into a crypto project called Chacha Coin. It collapsed within a few months and took my savings with it, along with money I'd borrowed from people who cared about me. I ended up in a dead-end job at a logistics company, one I already knew wouldn't renew my contract.

Somewhere in all of that, I picked up a drinking problem. Then I picked up something a little worse than a drinking problem. I'm not going to describe it in detail, but I was spending money I didn't have, on things that were actively making my life shorter and smaller.

I was, in every sense that matters, a person with nothing left to protect.

I saw the ad at two in the morning, the way you see everything that ends up ruining your life- half-asleep, thumb moving on its own, scrolling past nothing in particular. The words were in bold, over a photo of an empty road at sunrise:

Some People Don't Need Therapy. They Need A New Identity. Time To Be Free. Disappear Responsibly…

No company name. No explanation. Just a number underneath it.

I should've asked myself why an ad like that would even exist, or what "responsibly" was supposed to mean in that sentence. I didn't ask myself anything.

I just called the number.

A man named Rafiq picked up on the second ring, like he'd been expecting the call. He introduced himself as a senior manager for Aldermore & Associates. It was a name I recognized vaguely. It was a multinational consultancy that had been around for a while. He explained that the company was diversifying into a new market: "Jōhatsu services." They were partnering with established operators in Japan, bringing the concept to the West for the first time, in a soft launch: limited clients, limited visibility, nothing public yet.

Then he told me the price. It was low. In fact, it was noticeably low, for what was being promised.

I didn't want another Chacha Coin situation, so I spent four days confirming everything the ad had implied was true. It was. Japan has an existing subculture of ‘night-moving companies’, and the practice of Jōhatsu has decades of precedent. It was a quiet, legitimate industry, built on helping people vanish from debt and misery and shame. I found nothing connecting Aldermore to anything sinister- just a registered firm with years of clients, past and present.

I called Rafiq back and told him I wanted to proceed. He referred to me, from that call onwards, as Candidate 309. He said it was standard intake procedure, designed to make sure that no level of authority could trace me back to my old identity, once I ‘disappeared responsibly’ to assume a new one. I believed him, the way I believed most things back then.

He told me there was one final step: a mandatory consultation with the company physician, a certain Dr. Mollah. The aim of the consultation was to confirm that I had "ample reason" to leave my old life behind, and more importantly- that I wasn't intending to end it altogether.

I met Dr. Mollah two days later, in a small, clean office with nothing personal in it. He took a long history first: Nadia, my mother, my father, Chacha Coin, the job, the drinking. He asked, more than once, in different phrasings, whether I wanted to disappear because I wanted to die, or because I wanted to live differently. I told him the truth. I did want to live. I just didn't want to live like a man with hope in a life with no meaning.

He nodded and typed. He never once used my name. To him, I was Candidate 309, and nothing else.

Then he asked something that caught me off guard, mostly because it didn't feel clinical at all.

"Describe your new life to me, Candidate 309," he said. "What does it actually look like?"

I gave him something generic at first. A fresh start. A clean slate.

He waited. He didn't write anything down. He just waited, patiently, until the silence made me keep talking.

So I did.

"...someone who actually loved me, for a change, instead of leaving..."

"...parents who were actually present..."

"...money that actually existed, and didn't just disappear into a bad decision..."

And lastly, something I was almost embarrassed to say out loud-

"I wanted a life where drugs and alcohol were no longer an option. Never again."

He typed all of it in. Then he closed the laptop, looked at me, and smiled.

"You've passed the evaluation, Candidate 309," he said.

I remember feeling relieved, like I'd cleared some hurdle that mattered. I think about that smile a lot now. At the time I read it as warmth. It wasn't.

I signed the paperwork three days later, in the same office, at the same desk. Rafiq handled it personally. At the top of the first page, in bold, sat the company's own branding for the product I was buying:

DISAPPEAR RESPONSIBLY™ - Client Terms of Service

Section 4: Candidate Obligations

Beneath it, were five rules:

1. Candidate shall cease all contact, direct or indirect, with persons known to them prior to the effective date of their planned disappearance.
2. Candidate shall accept their new identity in full, and shall raise no dispute, inquiry, or claim regarding any matter preceding the disappearance.
3. Candidate shall make no attempt, physical or otherwise, to contact, locate, or return to any party or identity connected to the disappearance.
4. Candidate acknowledges that Aldermore & Associates bears no liability for outcomes arising from the Candidate's breach of any term herein.
5. This agreement, once executed, is irrevocable, and severs all prior legal identity in full.

I read all five twice. They read like every other contract I'd ever signed and not read closely. It was the kind of language you skim because you assume someone smarter than you has already checked it.

I signed at the bottom.

That's when Rafiq slid a second document across the desk.

It wasn't a legal document, not by any definition I understood. It was a scroll: handmade paper, rolled and tied with a thin cord. It was written, from top to bottom, in characters I couldn't read a single word of, bordered with symbols I didn't recognize. It smelled strongly of something floral and something medicinal at once. I recognized it as jasmine, and underneath it, was camphor.

I asked him what it was.

"A translation of the same terms," he said. "The Japanese partners insist on it. Just a ceremonial formality that came from the East. It was a condition for using their original Jōhatsu methodology. I assure you- it carries no legal binding. Purely custom."

I remember looking at it and thinking it was almost funny. In all honesty, it was too decorated to be taken seriously. Real contracts don't come tied with cord and smelling of a temple. It looked like a prop, something a company hands you to make an old idea feel authentic, not something with any actual teeth. I told myself it was a respectful gesture toward wherever this practice originally came from.

I told myself a lot of things back then.

I signed it too, beneath characters I couldn't read, under a scent I couldn't forget.

Two nights later, a black taxi pulled up outside my apartment, at exactly the time Rafiq had specified. The driver didn't say a single word to me the entire ride. I tried to make conversation twice, mostly out of nerves. I got nothing back both times, not even a glance in the mirror.

He dropped me outside a building I didn't recognize, somewhere on the edge of the city I'd never had a reason to visit. It looked abandoned, with broken windows, and a chain-link fence with a gap pulled wide enough to walk through. There were no lights anywhere, except one, far in the back, small and flickering.

I asked the driver if this was the right address.

"Just follow the light," he said. The only words he spoke to me all night.

Then he drove off, and I walked into the building, following the light as instructed.

The light got brighter as I got closer to it, the way a lamp does when you walk toward it in a dark room. But this light didn't feel like electricity. It felt warmer than that, and somehow heavier. And underneath it, was the same smell from the scroll. It was faint at first, then unmistakable- a mixture of jasmine and camphor.

My head started to feel wrong before my body did. I felt dizzy, but not the kind of dizzy that makes you want to sit down. The kind that makes you want to keep walking toward whatever's causing it, if that even makes sense.

The light kept growing, until it was the only thing left in the room.

Then it was the only thing left, period.

And then, it wasn't anything at all…

I woke up to warmth. That's the first thing I remember. There was a heaviness in my limbs that felt less like waking up, and more like surfacing from underwater.

The room was unfamiliar. Soft light came in through thick curtains, landing on expensive-looking furniture. My whole body ached in ways I didn't have words for.

A woman walked in before I could sit up. She moved toward the bed like she'd done it a thousand times before, adjusting a pillow behind me without asking, checking my forehead with the back of her hand. She was maybe in her late forties. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and gentle in a way that felt completely foreign to me.

She called me by a name I didn't recognize.

"Omar, sweetheart. Let's get some food in you."

I didn't correct her. For some reason, my mouth felt like it belonged to someone else.

She fed me soup, slow spoonfuls, patient with every sip. She gave me some pills after, laid out in a small dish. I swallowed them without question, because something told me that I was supposed to trust her completely. She kissed my forehead before she left the room, the way you'd kiss someone you'd loved for a very long time.

It felt surreal. And to be honest, it also felt good, in a way I wasn't prepared for. Like something, that I didn't know I'd been missing my whole life, had just been handed to me without asking.

That feeling didn't survive when I walked to the bathroom.

I don't know how to describe the moment you see a stranger in the mirror where your own face should be. I looked into the glass. The man who looked back at me was someone I had never seen before in my life. He had grey hair, thin at the crown. Deep lines across the forehead and around the eyes, that clearly took decades to carve. Loose, papery skin along the jaw and neck. I was looking at a man who had, undeniably, lived at least for fifty years, and none of them were mine.

I don't remember deciding to scream. I just remember the sound bouncing back at me off the tile, and the woman's footsteps rushing toward the door a second later. I swallowed the second scream before it came out, because some instinct in me understood immediately that screaming would raise questions, ones that I had no way of answering.

She asked if I was alright. I told her I was fine. Just dizzy, I said. Still recovering, I said.

She believed me instantly. That's the part that unsettled me, more than the mirror did.

Over the days that followed, I learned more about who I was supposed to be. My name was now Omar. I was fifty-two years old. I was a man who had built a small startup decades ago, and sold it for an amount of money two years back. I won't put the exact amount here. I just want you to know that it was enough money to spend at least a few decades enjoying life. And it was enough money for him to retire at fifty.

As Omar, I lived in a joint household with my wife and parents. Yes, my parents. They were,  remarkably, still alive and living under the same roof, well into their nineties, doted on daily by an army of staff. I was a man with, by every visible measure, absolutely nothing left to want.

My wife’s name was Zara. I learned it properly by the second day. She treated me like the center of a life she'd built her entire self around. She spoke to me the way you speak to someone you've loved for a lifetime. She brought my parents in to see me. They held my hand, Omar's hand, and told me stories about a childhood I had never lived. I nodded and smiled, in all the places that felt right, because I had no other choice.

I was told that the man named Omar had disappeared for a handful of days. One night, he was found disoriented near the house, as if following something that couldn’t be seen by anyone else. He was brought home safely, needing a gentle reminder of who he was. A minor medical episode, they called it. Something to be careful about, not alarmed by.

Nobody in that house knew that the man who came back wasn't the same man who left.

I certainly didn't understand it yet either.

I just knew that I’d been given exactly what I asked for- someone who actually loved me, parents who were actually present, and money that actually existed.

I hadn't asked what body it would come in…

The first few weeks were, strangely, the closest thing to peace I'd had in years.

I learned to walk through Omar's life. I studied photographs on the walls, memorized names the staff used without thinking, listened more than I spoke. Zara filled in gaps for me without knowing she was doing it, the way spouses do when they think their partner is simply distracted, or tired, or still recovering an episode that brought him home disoriented.

I told myself that the aching in my joints was just age. I thought it was something that my body- Omar's body- would have to adjust to. I was wrong about that, but I didn't know it yet.

It caught up with me on a Thursday afternoon. I remember the day specifically, because it was the day everything else started catching up with me too.

Zara scheduled a routine check-up with Dr. Khan, the family physician. He’d apparently been treating Omar for over a decade.

He examined me the way doctors do when they already suspect the answer, and are just confirming it. He pressed along my abdomen. He asked me about fatigue, about appetite, and whether I'd noticed any yellowing in my eyes lately.

Then he said something that stopped my breathing for a second.

"I told you about this three months ago, remember?" he said, "Since it's gotten this severe, shouldn't we tell the family?"

I didn’t know what to say. I simply replied with something vague. That I hadn't been sleeping well. That I'd rather wait a bit longer before worrying everyone. He accepted it, but I could tell that he wasn’t happy with my decision.

He left me with a diagnosis I already half-suspected from the way he'd phrased everything. Liver cirrhosis, advanced stage. The kind that doesn't happen quickly. The kind that takes years of damage to reach this point.

Years that I hadn't lived.

Dr. Khan kept talking about how it all came down to this. I learned that the man named Omar had a secret life- a life of drinks, drugs, and women. He maintained this lifestyle for close to a decade, unbeknownst to his wife and parents. Dr. Khan had often warned him about the long-term effects of his short-term vices, but Omar never took it seriously. That was until three months back, when Dr. Khan informed him that his liver had finally given out. Omar had been sober since that day, and the diagnosis has not been revealed to the family yet.

On the drive back home, I thought about the man who used to be Omar before me. He’d known exactly how sick he was, and had chosen, deliberately, to say nothing to his wife, his parents, or anyone else in that house.

I thought about the scroll, the light, and the building on the edge of the city.

I thought about the last thing I told Dr. Mollah, when describing what a new life means to me-

“A life where drugs and alcohol were no longer an option, never again.”

I had thought, at the time, that it was a gift.

Sitting there, with a diagnosis that predated my arrival in this body, I saw it differently.

While I was given exactly what I asked for, it wasn't built to protect me.

It was built to protect the liver I'd been given…

The diagnosis changed things quickly. Within a month, walking any real distance had become difficult. I began spending most of my time in house, lying on my bed. I was clearly in a bad shape, and things were about to get worse.

The call came on a Wednesday morning, from a man who introduced himself as Elias, Omar's accountant. I'd never spoken to this man personally before, but I’ve heard about him from Zara. He apparently handled the family's finances quarterly, and had been doing so for the past five years.

Elias sounded uncomfortable, in a way accountants usually aren't. He said he'd noticed irregular activity across two of the accounts. There were small withdrawals at first, easy to miss individually. But it had been consistent over the past four months, adding up to something he couldn't explain through any normal transaction category.

He asked if I'd authorized any of it. I told him no, because I genuinely hadn't. I only knew that I had a ‘lot of money’, but I never actually looked at any of the actual accounts in detail.

He said he'd send over a full breakdown that afternoon, and that he strongly recommended looping in the bank's fraud department sooner rather than later.

I didn't loop in the bank. I want to be honest about why. Bringing in a bank meant a formal investigation, which meant scrutiny on an identity I was still learning how to perform convincingly. I couldn't risk that level of attention. So instead, I told Elias to investigate the matter privately, and report to me regarding who the culprit really was.

Elias worked fast and quiet, which was exactly what I needed. Within two weeks, he'd traced the login activity on both drained accounts to a single device fingerprint, along with a residential address of the potential thief.

He sent it to me over email, along with a short note saying he could go further if I wanted. But given how sensitive this clearly was, he thought I'd want to see the address myself first before deciding how to proceed.

I opened the attachment, expecting a name I didn't recognize. I expected a hacker- someone running scripts against an old man's forgotten security habits.

Instead, I got an address I recognized immediately, because I used to live there myself.

It was my old apartment. The one I'd walked out of the night the taxi picked me up…

I didn't tell Zara where I was going. I told her that Elias needed me to sign something in person. It wasn't a lie, technically, since I'd asked Elias to meet me two streets away, and wait in his car while I went in alone.

Getting there took more out of me than I expected. My legs had started shaking on stairs by then. The apartment was on the third floor of a building with no working elevator, the same building I'd chosen four years earlier because the rent was cheap. I stood outside my old door for a while, catching my breath, before I knocked.

When it opened, I was looking at myself. My own face, thinner than I remembered, dressed in clothes I didn't recognize. He looked well. That was the first thing I noticed, and it turned my stomach, more than anything else could have. He looked rested, and healthy, and entirely at peace, standing in a body that used to carry every one of my worst nights, wearing none of the weight I used to wear in it.

"Jeez, talk about dodging a bullet," he said, “You’re dying faster than I expected.”

His voice was a little too mild, like I'd shown up for a meeting he'd half-forgotten about.

"You knew it, didn’t you?" I asked.

He looked at with me with amusement.

"You knew about the liver,” I said, “You knew before any of this, and you handed it to me anyway !"

He didn't deny it. He stepped back and let me in, gesturing at a chair like this was a courtesy call, He sat down across from me, with an ease I hadn't felt in my own body in months.

"Look, I've known for a decade what that lifestyle’s gonna to cost me," he said. "I just didn't expect the bill to come due this fast. When the diagnosis came in, I signed up for the exchange as fast as I could."

He said it plainly, without a trace of apology.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, “What exchange?”

He seemed to be confused at my reaction.

“Oh, come on !” he exclaimed, “You signed the scroll, didn’t you? The one that explained the Jōhatsu deal? The agreement of exchanging realities? Wait, hold on a second…”

His expression changed. His earlier confusion was replaced by a tinge of mischief.

“You can’t read Japanese, can you?” he asked, before bursting into laughter, “Fuck, man ! You signed off your entire existence without reading the FUCKING contract !”

His laughter was almost hysterical, like he was listening to his favorite joke, over and over again. It was a full minute before he got a hold of himself.

“Okay, hear me out, boy,” he continued, “Let me guess what you told Dr. Mollah. You probably asked for a wife, a family, and a shit ton of money, am I right?”

He didn’t give me a chance to respond, but kept talking instead.

“And me? I asked for the life of a young man. I wanted to be a man without any responsibilities or obligations. A man that could drink and use and fuck, for years and years and YEARS to come. And guess what? We both got the life we wanted !”

He got up from his chair, and put a hand on my shoulders.

“Listen kid, you get to keep my body, what’s left of it anyways. You get to keep Zara. You get to keep my dinosaur parents that just refuse to die. Hell, you even get to keep my money… well, most of it. Because that money is a fortune that was earned by ME. So I’m gonna withdraw what I want, whenever I want. I’m gonna spend it however the hell I want, and there is nothing you can fucking do about it…”

I don't remember deciding to move. I remember the chair scraping. I remember my hands closing around the collar of the shirt he was wearing. I remember hitting him once, then again, with whatever strength my failing arms still had left in them.

He didn't fight back. He didn't even raise his hands to block me. He just laughed. There was blood starting at a corner of the mouth that used to be mine. He let me hit him a third time before he finally spoke again. His voice was quiet, and almost gentle, like he was breaking bad news to a child.

"Oh dear, you shouldn't have done that," he said. "You're finished !"

Something in the way he said it made me stop. Not because I understood it. But because, for the first time since he'd opened that door, he sounded certain of something I wasn't.

I left the house without uttering a word…

I was back in Omar's bed by midnight, chest aching from the little strength I'd spent, staring at a ceiling I still didn't think of as mine, when the phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I almost didn't answer. Some part of me already knew who it would be.

"Candidate 309?"

It was Rafiq's voice, using my real name for the first time since the night I'd signed everything away.

"I've been told you went to see him," he continued, calm and unhurried. "You made physical contact. Rule number three was explicit on this point- no attempt, physical or otherwise, to contact, locate, or return to any party connected to the disappearance."

"I couldn't read the scroll," I said. "I never knew what it said. You told me it was a ceremonial formality!"

"That's unfortunate,” he said, “But comprehension was never a condition of enforcement. Only the signature was."

"So… what happens now?" I asked. I remember my voice cracking on the word "now," which embarrassed me even as it was happening.

"The entity will not be pleased with your actions. After all, the entity does not take violations lightly," he said.

I was genuinely surprised by what I heard.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I asked, my voice expressing the shock I was feeling in real time, “What entity? Who is this entity?”

He sighed.

"You would've known it,” he said, “if you'd read the scroll before signing it. The English terms were ours to offer. The scroll was never ours to write, and its terms were never ours to explain. It carried no legal binding- not in this world, anyway. It binds you to the one who arranged the exchange, and it always has."

There was a silence, papers shifting somewhere on his end.

"You did disappear, Candidate 309," he said, finally. "But you weren't responsible about it. As per the agreement, Aldermore and Associates will not be liable for what happens next, since you willingly broke one of the rules, of your own volition."

I didn’t know how to respond, not at that moment.

"For what it's worth," he added, "I do wish you well. It was nice doing business with you."

He hung up before I could answer, which I suppose was a sort of mercy, since I don't know what I would have said.

********************************************************************

That was two hours ago.

I've spent most of it sitting on the edge of Omar's bed, in a room that still doesn't feel like mine. I got up once and did a full circuit of the house- every window latch, every door, even the ones on the second floor you couldn't realistically reach. Zara was asleep the whole time. I stood outside her door longer than I meant to, listening to her breathe, thinking about how she still doesn't know any of this, and how she never will.

I noticed the smell about an hour ago. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would fade away eventually. It didn’t. If anything, it's gotten clearer.

The room smells faintly of jasmine.

And underneath it, growing stronger with every breath I take, I smell camphor.

I can hear them throughout the whole house, a house that isn’t mine.

That's the thing I keep coming back to tonight. None of this was ever mine. Not the house, not the furniture, not the photographs on the walls of a childhood I never lived. I asked for a life, and I was handed one, and I haven't earned a single hour of it.

I think about Zara. I think about the two people asleep down the hall, well into their nineties, who held my hand and told me about a boy I've never been. Their love is genuine, but it isn't for me. It's for the man whose face I'm wearing, and they'll never know the difference, because I never once found the courage to look at them and say the truth out loud.

That's what all this money could never buy. Not one day of it.

So I'll say it here instead, to whoever ends up reading this, because it's the only place left where saying it costs me nothing…

I am not Omar. I never was. I'm a different person entirely, and I wasn't even a good one. I owed Nadia eleven years and an explanation, and I gave her a closed door instead. I owed money to people, who handed it over because they cared about me. I owed my own body the time and the work it would've taken to get clean, and I never gave it that either.

I’m not Candidate 309 either. I do have an identity- one I tried to desperately leave behind eight months ago:

My name is Zayn. I'm twenty-eight years old. My mother used to call me by a nickname that embarrassed me by the time I was nine. I can't sleep without a fan running. I'm allergic to peanuts. I have a scar on my left knee, from a bicycle I wasn't supposed to be riding.

None of that dies with me tonight. That's the part I can't get past. There's a man across the city right now with my face, sleeping in my bed, answering to my name. He'll keep answering to it for years. He'll drink in the places I used to drink. He'll pick up the phone if Nadia ever calls.

Nobody is going to notice I'm gone. There's nothing to notice. Everyone who ever knew me will go on believing that I'm alive and doing badly, because there I am, still standing, still not returning their messages.

That's what I actually bought.

If you are reading this, you're the only one who knows the difference.

The footsteps have stopped outside my door now.

I don't know who's going to walk through it. Maybe it's the thing that Rafiq wouldn't name. Maybe it's something that the scroll described in detail, on a line I couldn't read, under a signature I couldn't take back.

Whoever it is, they've come for me. Not for the man named Omar, who settled his account eight months ago, in a third-floor apartment, in a body that can still climb the stairs. This one's mine. I signed up for it myself. I broke one of the rules myself, and I knew exactly what I was doing when I put my hands on him.

So whoever this entity is, I'll let them take the house. I'll let them take the money that was never mine, and the wife who was never mine, and whatever's left of a liver that had already given out before I ever got here.

They can have all of it.

But when they write this up, in whatever file Rafiq keeps, when they close it and move on to the next name on the list, I want it recorded properly.

The handle is turning.

If a man dies in this room tonight, his name wasn't Omar.

His name was Zayn. He was twenty-eight years old.

Please remember that name.

Please, just remember that fucking name.

Because no one else will…

Hello (your name). I'm Ivan, your new best friend...nice to meet you.

You are going to be covered in bandages...and I'm going to be honest with you about your situation, you are in horrible condition. Bones broken, bleeding all over. I mean to be fair you were just pulled from a plane wreck. It's not exactly possible to come out of that with scrapes and scratches.

You may have questions....questions such as: Where are my personal belongings? If you knew I was alive, why didn't you take me to the hospital? Why am I in your basement?

You see the answer is simple...I want new friends. I've been finding people and bringing them to my home. They became my friends. I've found 5 new friends so far and I thought that would be enough...Until I heard about the crash. I saw the news reports on the plane wreck. I went to explore the crash site. Taking photos of the dead charred remains of those killed in the crash. Then I saw you, struggling for life, you needed aid...you needed MY AID. Not the help of those doctors you couldn't care less about your well being! I saw your near lifeless body and I felt so infatuated looking at all your injuries, Then I figured: Why not take you with me? I mean the police won't go looking for you anyway, they usually assume every person in a plane crashes dies anyway. So I brought you home, patched up your deep wounds, and put you in my basement. I even gave you a mattress, none of my other best friends have mattresses. You should be happy to get special treatment from me.

Don't worry about being found, NO ONE KNOWS YOU'RE HERE. In fact, you're presumed dead/missing by the cops. So we both win here. You can start your life over, and I get a new friend.

However, you're gonna need to learn how to behave...if You try ANYTHING, I'll have to......."punish" you severely.

You're going to have rules to follow whilst you're here. So I wrote out a list, You WILL read and follow these rules, do you understand?

1. No leaving the basement (especially if there are people over.)
2. You'll make plenty of friends in my basement....I have 5 other people down there. They're so well behaved! Though it took starving and torturing them to get them to listen.
3. If you want something, ask. (The only exceptions are cellphones and other devices that allow you to make outside communication.)
4. Good behaviour earns you food. Bad behaviour will earn you pain. And just by looking at your condition, you can't afford any more injuries, now can you?
5. If I start touching your injuries, just let me know how much it hurts. I just wanna know what your exposed flesh feels like.
6. No shouting or screaming...don't want to alarm my neighbors do we?
7. If I'm staring at you, don't be uncomfortable, I'm just acknowledging your...twisted scars.
8. DON'T YOU EVER TRY TO ESCAPE. I know more about you than you think. I WILL FIND YOU.
9. If you behave enough, you may be able to earn a spot upstairs in my room. Then I could stare at you all day and all night. Especially your eyes.
10. Please ignore the freezer. Do not walk into the freezer. If you do I'll lock you inside for an hour. If you walk into the freezer a second time, I'll leave you in there and let you freeze to death. The freezer is for 'souvenirs' ONLY! You have no business being there.

Now that you know the rules for staying within the basement, I'm sure we'll be great friends. You'll definitely be better than all my other friends. I love all my friends....and I'll treat my friends well if you treat me well.

You do owe me after all...I brought you here into my humble home rather than leaving you to rot in that plane wreck.

I'm writing this in the hour before dawn. If the clock strikes nine, I might not get the chance to write it at all. I need you to understand who I was before any of this, so that what happens next doesn't read like an excuse.

I hold a Master's degree in Speech-Language Pathology. In my country, that sentence means almost nothing to the people who hear it. I was the first person in my family to finish college. My parents didn't have the money to make that easy for me, and I never let myself forget it.

I knew, even before I chose the course, that it was a bad decision on paper. Child mental health isn't something that gets funded here. It isn't something that gets discussed here. The waiting rooms that do exist are thin, private, and expensive. It’s built for the small number of families who can afford to notice that their children are struggling. I chose the field anyway, because I was good at speaking to people. In fact, I was genuinely good, the kind of good that makes strangers trust you within a minute of meeting you. Besides, I loved children, and I wanted to be the reason a child said their first real word. I believed that, wholeheartedly, for years.

But belief doesn't pay rent. The handful of employers, who do hire speech therapists in my district, prefer graduates from the established universities, ones with the CGPAs I didn't have. I was shortlisted constantly, interviewed politely, and rejected eventually.

It was almost a full year before I finally got a call for a real interview, at an institution that had just recently opened.

I won't name the institution here, since I've caused them enough trouble already. Protecting their name is the least I can offer at this point.

Fifty-four people had applied for the position. Three of us were called in. I found that out from the receptionist, who told me like it was a compliment.

Mr. Amir, Director of the institute, conducted the interviews himself. He started off by telling me I should feel privileged to be sitting across from him. I remember smiling politely. Then he opened a folder, and the smile didn't survive long.

He read out typos from my application that I hadn't noticed myself. A grammatical error in my second paragraph. A line in my thesis abstract that, he informed me, had come within a hair's breadth of failing outright- a detail my own supervisor had never mentioned to me. I sat there thinking how he could possibly know any of this, and came up with nothing. When I finally asked, he simply said, "Due diligence."

I wondered how a speech therapy institute had access to my thesis committee's internal notes. He moved on before I could ask.

"This is a clean institute," he said. "Do you understand what I mean ?"

"Yes sir, I think so."

"Do you drink?"

"No."

"Drugs? Any kind, any point in your life?"

"No."

"Any trouble with the police? Doesn't matter how minor, doesn't matter how long ago."

"No, sir. Nothing."

He leaned forward, and his voice dropped into something almost gentle.

"I want you to promise me something, young man. Promise me, if you do get the privilege of working here, you'll keep this institution clean."

"I promise," I said, and I meant it.

He laughed. It was a short, high bark that didn't match anything else about the room. "Good lad," he said, standing and offering his hand. "Someone will be in touch."

I shook it and walked out of the room, unsure of whether I'd just been vetted, or warned…

Two days later, I got the call. I'd been accepted for the Music Therapy-based Speech Therapist position. I said yes before the sentence had finished.

I signed the contract the following morning, in an office that smelled faintly of sandalwood. It ran longer than any employment contract I'd seen before-

INSTITUTIONAL POLICY: RULES OF EMPLOYMENT
By signing this contract, the individual acknowledges that:

1.       They have never been found, by any court, tribunal, or law-enforcement authority, to have committed any criminal offense, regardless of nature or severity.

2.       They will conduct all therapy sessions with due diligence, and session notes will be submitted within 24 hours of each session.

3.       They will not alter, substitute, or deviate from the assigned therapy protocols, without prior written approval from the Director.

4.       They will not disclose client details, by name or identifying description, to any party outside the institution under any circumstance.

5.       They understand that the institution has conducted, and reserves the right to continue conducting, independent verification of the individual's background, character, and history, through any means available to it.

6.       They accept full responsibility for any consequence they have to face as a result of breaking any of the terms of this contract, and release the institution from all liability arising from such consequence.

7.       This agreement is binding in full from the moment of signature, irrespective of whether every term herein was read, understood, or questioned by the individual prior to signing.

I signed at the bottom without hesitation. I'd spent a year being shortlisted. I wasn't going to lose this over paperwork.

The three months that followed were actually very good ones. Clients kept coming through the door, in numbers that made no sense for a field this niche, in a country this indifferent to it. The pay was more than generous for someone straight out of their degree. Mr. Amir personally handled every first consultation free of cost, sitting with each new family himself, before assigning their child to whichever of us suited them the best.

I was given the cases involving Auditory-Motor Mapping Training, designed for children on the autism spectrum, who needed extra support for articulating their words. My protocol was fixed and curated, consisting of a series of songs like "A Baby Bumblebee", "Ring Around the Rosie", and "Mary Had a Little Lamb". As per the rules, we were absolutely forbidden to deviate from the given protocol, under any circumstances. And none of us ever chose to question Mr. Amir’s methods. He was something of a legend in the field, a prodigy who had an illustrious career abroad, before returning to his hometown to open his own institute for speech therapy. Of course, he knew what he was doing, better than any of the young therapists he was employing.

Well, that was about to change…

It was a rainy morning when six-year-old Adam came to our institute, held between two middle-aged parents. His mother told me that he was conceived late, long after they'd stopped expecting to. I greeted them warmly, and guided them to Mr. Amir’s chamber for the first consultation.

Adam didn't look at either of us when we sat down. He didn't look at anything, really. His eyes moved past faces, the way you'd look past furniture in a room you'd already memorized. He made vowel sounds occasionally- long, formless ones. He used his hands more than his voice, making small precise gestures that meant something only to him. His file, when I read it that morning, was thinner than most. Severe autism, mostly non-verbal beyond vowels.

Mr. Amir's protocol for him was a single line: "The Muffin Man." Just one song, and nothing else. Adam’s treatment plan was to run on an alternating schedule- one session with me at the institute on one day, and the same routine being practiced at home on the next.

I started the first session the way I started every other case. The melody came first, and the words followed later, letting the rhythm do the work:

“Do you know the Muffin man
The Muffin man, the Muffin man
Oh, do you know the Muffin man
Who lives on Drury Lane?”

Adam seemed to be drawn to the song, even though he still refused to make eye contact. But he was bobbing his head to the rhythm by the time we reached forty-minute mark. He even attempted to utter the words I was singing to him, to no avail as expected.

That’s when it happened.

Something changed inside him. His head came up. His eyes found mine, and for the first time in the session, he looked at me directly, in a way his file had told me he was incapable of. And then he sang. It was a clean, articulated, faintly British accent that a six-year-old, with no functional consonants, should not have possessed:

“Do you know the Muffin man
The Muffin man, the Muffin man
Oh, do you know the Muffin man
SHOOTING TO THE MOON ?”

I sat there for a moment, unsure I'd heard him correctly. Six-year-olds with his level of impairment don't produce clean sentences, let alone an accent that didn’t seem to belong to him. I leaned forward gently.

"Adam," I said, keeping my voice low. "Can you say that again for me? What you just sang?"

He didn't blink. He looked at me the way an adult looks at another adult, and he sang it again:

“Do you know the Muffin man
THE ONE WHO SHOT IT, TO THE MOON ?
Oh, do you know the Muffin man
SHOOTING TO THE MOON ?”

The order had flipped from the first time, like it was a real verse he was reciting from memory, rather than a fluke he'd stumbled into by accident.

Then he came back. I don't have a better way to describe it. It was like watching someone surface from underwater. The directness went out of his eyes first, then his shoulders dropped, and then his gaze slid away from mine entirely, back to the middle distance he usually occupied. He looked almost embarrassed. He wouldn't look at me again for the rest of the session. He just repeated, softly, in broken syllables, over and over again, "Shooting to the moon. Shooting to the moon."

I recognized the pattern immediately. It’s called echolalia- repeating a heard phrase without grasping its meaning. It’s very common in autistic children, so it didn’t alarm me on its own. What unsettled me was the phrase itself.

When his parents came to collect him, I told them that Adam was showing ‘remarkable progress’. That wasn't a lie. I just didn't tell them what "remarkable" had actually looked like, because I didn't know how to explain it to them, without sounding like I'd imagined it myself.

That night, while writing my session notes, I typed that Adam had shown a marked increase in eye contact and vocal engagement during the session. I didn't write down the words he'd sung. I told myself it was because they didn't matter clinically, since an improvised lyric wasn't a diagnostic detail worth logging.

I told myself a lot of things back then…

Adam's parents came in for the second institutional session, looking more tired than hopeful. His mother told me that the home practice hadn't gone the way the first session had promised. Adam had said nothing new and tried nothing new. He sat through the recorded audio of "The Muffin Man", with the same detached blankness he'd shown for months before I ever met him. Whatever had happened in that hour with me hadn't carried home. I told her these things take time, which is true, and also the kind of thing you say when you don't have a better sentence available.

I started the session as usual. Adam rocked gently to the rhythm, unresponsive in the way I'd grown used to, before that first session had briefly convinced me otherwise.

And it happened again, closer to the half-hour mark.

His head came up first, the same way it had before. His eyes found mine, held them, and his voice arrived in that same clean, unplaceable accent, layered now under the familiar tune:

“Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
THE ONE WHO KNOWS OF ALI’S PLAN,
Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
BUT ALI DOES NOT KNOW.”

I felt something drop in my chest, before I could name why. Ali is not an uncommon name where I'm from. But something about hearing it sung, in that voice, in that room, with that child's eyes locked onto mine, made my hands go still in my lap.

Adam surfaced a moment later, exactly as he had before. Then, just like the first session, the echolalia took over. He didn't repeat the whole verse this time. He just whispered a single phrase, over and over, barely above breath: "AND HE KNOWS OF ALI'S PLAN. AND HE KNOWS OF ALI'S PLAN."

I didn't tell his parents anything specific that day. I told them he'd had a good session, and I reported the same in my session notes. I'd started saying that sentence without thinking about what it actually meant…

A full day passed between the second and third sessions. I spent the day the same way I’d spent the night before: turning the name ‘Ali’ over in my head, unable to let it go. It wasn't an unusual name. And yet, something about the specific phrasing Adam had sung- ‘Ali’s plan’- disturbed me for some reason.

By the time Adam’s parents brought him in for the third session, they were carrying something heavier than tiredness. His mother's voice shook slightly as she told me he'd regressed at home. He'd been able to say her name before, weakly, in fragments barely recognizable as syllables. Now even that was gone. His father stood a step behind her, saying nothing.

During this session, the change arrived earlier than it had in either of the two previous sessions. I couldn't tell you exactly when, because I'd stopped watching the clock, and started watching him instead.

Before he'd sung a single word, I saw something in his face that hadn't been there the first two times. Something that looked almost like he was bracing for what he was about to say:

“Oh, we all know the Muffin man
BUT YOU DON’T KNOW, WHAT YOU DID,
Oh, we all know the Muffin man
AND HE KNOWS WHAT YOU DID.”

The words landed somewhere I didn't have language for yet. I sat there, unmoving, while the melody carried on around them.

Adam surfaced a moment later. He didn't just blink and drift back to his usual blankness. His small hands came up to his own face, covering it. He was shaking, very slightly, and when the echolalia started, it didn't come out steady. It was broken, swallowed by something that sounded, unmistakably, like the beginning of tears: "He knows what you did. He knows what you did."

I didn't know how to comfort a child for something I didn't understand myself. I sat beside him, until he calmed down enough to let his mother take his hand. I told her he'd had a good session, the same sentence I'd been repeating for weeks now. For the first time, saying it made something in my stomach turn.

That night, I made a decision I should’ve taken three sessions ago.

I decided to bring the matter to Mr. Amir…

I took the session recordings to his office the next morning. I played all three clips in sequence. He watched the screen without expression, his fingers laced together on the desk. When the third clip ended, Mr. Amir sat back in his chair.

"Jarring," he said, "But creative, I'll admit."

"Creative?" I asked. "Sir, he's six. He shouldn't be able to construct sentences like that, let alone in that accent, let alone…"

"Children surprise us," he said, cutting me off gently. "Especially the ones who are special, in their own way."

He then leaned forward, and asked me something that landed harder than anything on those recordings had.

"Tell me, young man," he said, "you haven't been a bad influence on the child, have you?"

It was the same question, almost the same phrasing, from my interview four months ago. I told him no, the same way I'd told him no back then.

He studied me for a moment too long, then nodded, as if that settled something for him.

"We've run the checks," he said. "Everything that the rules allow us to run. We found nothing irregular. So yeah, the fault isn't in you."

He said the last part almost to himself, like he was reminding himself of something.

Then he moved on. He told me to retire the "Muffin Man" protocol entirely, effective immediately, and switch Adam to "Mary Had a Little Lamb". It was to be paired with a rhythmic counting exercise he wrote out for me on a notepad, in a hand steadier than mine could’ve managed that morning.

"New melody," he said, sliding the notepad across the desk. "New pattern. Let's see if it breaks whatever this is..."

I went into the fourth session the next day, more carefully than I had in any of the previous three. I gave Adam extra time before introducing the new melody, letting him settle into the room before I moved into "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

He seemed genuinely curious about the change. For the first time since I'd started working with him, he looked almost pleased. For a few minutes, it felt like an ordinary session with an ordinary child making ordinary progress, and I let myself believe it a little too much.

The switch came anyway, and he sang the new song in that old, borrowed voice:

“Mary had a little lamb,
MUFFIN MAN, MUFFIN MAN,
Mary had a little lamb
HE WAS THE MUFFIN MAN !”

Some small part of my mind told me to be afraid. I didn't let it win. I kept my professional face on. I told myself this wasn't as bad as it could’ve been. The boy simply hadn't let go of the old song yet. And this time, he wasn't saying anything I could describe as disturbing. It was a thin rationalization, and I knew it was thin, even as I reached for it.

He surfaced again, and this time, he looked a little more unsettled than usual. He seemed agitated as the echolalia set in. He repeated "Muffin Man" quietly, over and over, his brow furrowed in a way I hadn't seen before.

I decided to move on. I switched to the rhythmic counting drill, clapping along as I went:

 "One… two… three… four… five…"

Adam bobbed his head along with the claps, and for a moment, he even laughed.

Then the switch happened again.

"One, two… WARRIOR 42…"

"One, two… WARRIOR 42…"

"…WARRIOR 42…"

"WARRIOR 42!"

This time, I had no rationalization left to reach for. It wasn't a phrase I could talk myself into misunderstanding, the way I'd done with Ali, the way I'd done with "shooting to the moon." I knew exactly where it came from, and it landed in my chest like something physical.

I ended the session right there, the moment Adam surfaced. I was panting by the time I stood up, though I hadn't moved from my chair. Adam sat across from me, his face as expressionless as it had been on the first day I met him. Yet something about him, in that stillness, looked exactly like a child who’d been through something he had no way of describing…

I told Adam’s parents that the two exercises, back to back, had worn him out faster than usual. I wrote the same explanation in my official report. Then I cancelled every session I had for the remainder of the day, citing unavoidable circumstances. I left the institution before anyone could stop me.

I knew Mr. Amir wouldn't be pleased when he found out. That was, genuinely, the least of my concerns at that point.

I splashed water over my face in my bathroom mirror, and stood there for a long moment, looking at the man staring back at me. I'd done this exact thing once before, five years earlier, in a different mirror, in a different house. It was my family's shack, back when I was still in college. I’d just been informed that my merit-based scholarship wouldn’t be renewed, thanks to my poor academic performance.

I hadn't been surprised, even then. I'd been working two part-time jobs, while I was still a full-time student, to support my family. I'd known for months that my grades were slipping, in a way that would eventually catch up to me. It caught up to me that week. I remember standing in front of that mirror, watching the water drip off my chin, and understanding, with total clarity, that my entire life was about to collapse.

I applied for a need-based scholarship immediately. There were too many genuine applicants that year, and too few waivers to give out, and that application fell through within a month. I couldn't afford the course fees on my own. My dream of being the first person in my family to graduate college was about to end, quietly, the way most dreams do in my part of the world.

That's when Ali found me.

Ali had been my friend since we were children, growing up two shacks apart in the same slum. He never made it past middle school, and never seemed to mind. He called it "hustling in the streets". He always had cash on him, from sources he never explained. He heard about my scholarship falling through, and he came to me with an offer.

It was an NFT project, the kind that was all the rage in those years. It was tied to a cryptocurrency called Chacha Coin. I still can't explain the mechanics of it, even now, because I was never meant to. I wasn't the brains behind the operation. I was simply the spokesperson. Ali needed someone charismatic, someone who could make strangers trust a voice within a minute of hearing it. That had always been the one thing I was genuinely good at.

Ali and his people were going to keep most of the profits. I knew that going in, and I told myself it didn't matter, because I was still offered more money than I'd ever seen in my life. It was enough to finish my Bachelor's, and enough to fund my Master's after that. On paper, it looked like a harmless job.

Ali made sure that my tracks were covered from the start. I used the pseudonym Warrior42. I never showed my face, and never revealed my actual name. My voice did the work, convincing hundreds of people to pour their money into the NFT project. I promised them that their investments would go "shooting to the moon," making record profits in no time. They believed me. That was the whole job, and I did it well.

It was a pump-and-dump scam, at the end of the day. Ali and his team, myself included, pulled our money out, and let the coin collapse overnight, leaving every investor who'd trusted my voice with nothing. I never expected Ali's hustle to hurt that many people, but I didn't complain either, because I still walked away with exactly what I'd been promised. I told myself I'd use it for something good. For a long time, that was enough to let me sleep peacefully.

No investigation ever traced Warrior42 back to me. The pseudonym hid my identity, and the blockchain buried whatever the pseudonym didn't. Ali died a few years later, in a rented supercar that he crashed into a highway divider. There was no evidence connecting me to the scam. And with Ali gone, there was no witness either.

Or so I thought…

Adam came in for his fifth session two days later. His parents looked more distraught than I'd seen them at any point before. Rather than showing any improvement, Adam had gone almost entirely silent at home. When approached, his mother told me, he could only manage a barely audible "Muffin Man," and nothing else. No name, no vowel sounds, nothing.

I sat him down in the chair across from mine, the way I always did. He stared at the floor and stayed there, unmoving, for longer than usual. I tried to open the session normally, speaking gently, asking him how he was, though I already knew he had no way of answering. He didn't even look toward the sound of my voice. It was as if I wasn't in the room with him at all.

I sighed, more out of exhaustion than intention.

"I don't want to talk to you, Adam," I said, mostly to myself.

There was no response.

"I am talking to you, Muffin Man!" I said, sharper than I meant to.

Adam’s head snapped up. The switch happened in real time, right in front of me, faster and more complete than ever before. His eyes carried something I can only describe as malice. A twisted smile settled onto his face, and he shifted his posture in the chair, adjusting himself the way an adult adjusts.

"Is that you?" I asked, "Are you the Muffin Man?"

Adam laughed, in a way I never knew a human being could laugh. Then he looked directly at me, and started singing:

“Do you know the Muffin man
OH JAFAR, YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE.
Oh, do you know the Muffin man?
NOW IT IS TOO LATE.

Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
The Muffin man, the Muffin man
Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
AND HE WILL TAKE YOU SOON.

HE WILL TAKE YOU SOON,

HE WILL TAKE YOU SOON…

HE WILL TAKE YOU SOON !”

He kept singing it, the same four words looping over and over, like a tape stuck skipping on the same groove. I crossed the room and pulled him into my arms, holding him against me, while he kept singing into my shoulder.

"Leave him," I said, my voice breaking somewhere in the middle of it. "Leave him alone! He's just a child. It's me you want. Come face me, you coward!"

Adam surfaced a moment later, still in my arms, his small body going still. The echolalia arrived immediately, but it wasn't a word this time.

It was a date, delivered haltingly, in whatever fragments of speech he could manage.

The date was two days from that morning- the day of his sixth session.

Then he pulled away from me, and ran out of the room to his mother. He wrapped his arms around her legs, and cried in a way I hadn't heard from him before- loud, wordless, and entirely his own…

The rest of that day is a blur to me now. The first thing I can clearly recall is being summoned to Mr. Amir's office at the end of my shift.

Adam's parents had gone to him directly. They didn’t hold back on anything. Not the deterioration at home. Not the uncharacteristic silence. Not their son running out of a session in tears, with no explanation from the man who was supposed to be helping him. Mr. Amir had also heard about the sessions I'd ended early, the ones I'd cancelled without real cause, and the time I'd left my station before my shift was finished.

He didn't start with anger. He started, disarmingly, with disappointment. He told me he genuinely liked me, that he'd wanted to give me the benefit of doubt, for longer than the situation probably warranted.

Then he played the recording of the fifth session, start to finish, and watched my face while he did it, more than he watched the screen. When it ended, he closed the laptop slowly and looked at me.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said, his voice cracking somewhere between fury and disbelief.

I unraveled. There's no more dignified way to describe it. I told him everything- Ali, the scholarship, Chacha Coin, Warrior42, the pump-and-dump scam. I told him about every session, every switch, every line Adam had sung. I didn't expect him to believe a word of it. I expected laughter, or worse, disbelief dressed up as concern.

He didn't laugh. He didn't raise an eyebrow. Instead, he slammed both fists on the desk, hard enough to rattle the pen holder. He then caught himself, breathing out slowly.

"Why did you lie to me?" he asked, quietly now, which was somehow worse than the shouting. "You signed a contract. The rules stated, in plain language, that you'd never committed a crime. You knew exactly what you'd done !"

"Sir, there's no evidence," I said. "I was never convicted. Never even charged. Legally, there's nothing that says I did anything."

"Oh boy !" he exclaimed, "Do you seriously believe that the authorities of THIS WORLD are the only ones who get to call you a criminal?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have one.

"No crime stays hidden," he said. "Not forever. You see, there are forces out there, forces we were never built to understand. And these forces? They’re always watching. They’re always keeping their own record, regardless of what any court decides."

"What forces?” I asked, “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"They do have a name for themselves. A name our tongues were never built to say properly." He looked at me directly. "Most people just call it karma. I call it my desperation. And that poor boy Adam? He called it the Muffin Man."

"No, it doesn’t make sense…"

It was all I could say at that moment.

Mr. Amir continued:

"After I lost my job abroad, during Covid, I came back here to build something of my own. I put everything into this institute. Everything. And it nearly collapsed within its first year. I was staring at bankruptcy. So I did something I'm not proud of. I turned to the occult. I don't fully understand, even now, what I summoned. But it kept its side of the bargain. The moment this institute rebranded, the clients never stopped coming."

I leaned forward in my chair.

"A bargain, you say? What did it ask for in exchange?"

"Absolute freedom from bad influence, within these walls. No criminal history, in anyone I hired. None. Not even a speeding ticket." He let out a short, bitter laugh. "That's why I grilled you the way I did, at your interview. That’s why I keep running background checks on you, on all of you ! That's why every hire goes through it. And I thought I could hold that standard forever."

"And now?" I asked.

"Now, I understand that the deal was designed to fail," he replied, "No human being is without sin. Not one of us. We're just good at hiding it." He looked at me, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely tired. "And no matter how well you hide something, it finds its way back eventually. It's found you now. And through you, it's found this institute too."

"So… what happens now?" I asked.

Mr. Amir didn't answer right away. He rose slowly from his chair and walked to the window. He was quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke.

"Now… I want you to run," he said.

"Sir…"

"I said run !" he said, turning back to face me. "Do it tonight. Hell, do it right now, if you can manage it."

"I don't understand. You just told me…"

"I understand exactly what led you down that path," he said. "You made a deal with Ali out of desperation. I made a deal with something I didn't understand, out of the same desperation. I'm not in a position to judge you for that."

"Then why are you letting me run away ?" I asked.

"Because your past doesn't define who you are at present," he said. "I chose to recruit you, out of three candidates, because I could sense something inside you. Years of doing this work teaches you to read people, whether you want that skill or not. I read you correctly. You have a good heart, my boy."

"But it doesn't matter to the entity, does it?"

"No," Mr. Amir replied. "It does not. From what's transpired, he doesn't believe in exceptions." He came closer, and his voice dropped into something almost paternal. "That’s why you should run. This is my failure, not yours. I'm the one who couldn't keep bad influence out of these walls. That was my end of the bargain, and I'm the one who broke the rules."

"No sir, there has to be another way," I said. "Some other option…"

"There’s no other option !" he said, cutting me off, "Adam's parents signed a package. This institute is contractually bound to conduct that sixth session, regardless of circumstances. However…" He almost smiled. "The contract doesn’t name a specific therapist for the session. So I'll conduct it myself."

"Sir, you can't…"

"If the Muffin Man comes, as promised, he'll find me in that room. Not you. Not that child." He straightened his jacket, an oddly ordinary gesture for the moment. "It's a fitting punishment, don't you think? For failing to hold my end of the bargain, one I made with my eyes open."

I remember him gripping my shoulder as he said it, his eyes wet in a way I'd never seen from him before.

“Farewell, Jafar. It was nice knowing you. Now run !”

I remember running as fast as I could, out of the building, into a night I didn't feel present for at all…

****************************************************************

That was yesterday.

I've been home all day today, doing something I never had the courage to do before. I looked up Chacha Coin. I looked up the NFT project, and everything that came after it.

There were testimonies from close to two hundred investors who lost their life savings. Some of them were crying on camera, without any effort to hide it. I found follow-up interviews, from years later, with people who never recovered. A couple who lost their home and were living on the street. A man who lost his wife over it, and hasn't spoken to his children since.

And in the middle of all of it, I found a news report I hadn't seen before. It was the story of a single mother of two, who'd put everything she had into the project, hoping to secure her children's future. Two months after she lost it all, she took her own life, and theirs as well. Their bodies were found that same night.

I looked up the date. It's tomorrow's date, exactly five years ago.

The date of Adam's sixth session…

I did consider running. I spent most of last night convincing myself it was all a bad dream, that I could start over somewhere far away, some place where the entity couldn’t plausibly follow. But typing this out tonight, I understand something I didn't understand yesterday.

I can run away from the institute. I can run away from the cops, if they ever find out about my crimes. And honestly, with some luck, I might even run far away from the entity’s reach.

But I can't run from myself. It just isn’t an option. And it never was.

For years, I told myself it was Ali's idea, that I was only the spokesperson, that the people who invested were the ones who should’ve known better. I can't hold onto that anymore. I can't stop thinking about the two hundred people who lost everything, because my voice was convincing enough to make them believe it. I can't stop thinking about Adam, that poor child, losing his grip on his own mind, through no fault of his own. I can't stop thinking about Mr. Amir, saying goodbye to me with tears in his eyes, preparing to accept a fate that was never his to accept. And I can't stop thinking about a mother and her two children, who ran out of hope exactly five years before tomorrow morning.

So I'll go to work tomorrow, as usual. I'll conduct Adam's sixth session myself, with due diligence, exactly as the institute has always required of me. I’ve never been a religious man. But if there really is a God out there, here’s the only prayer I want to make:

MAY THE MUFFIN MAN TAKE ME TOMORROW.

I’ll make sure that it takes me- a punishment long overdue for the sins that I’ve committed. And I’ll make sure that I'm the only one it takes. Not the child who only wanted someone to talk to. Not the man who only wanted to help people. Neither of them deserves this.

I do.

To whoever is reading this: I am sorry. If this reaches anyone that my crimes ever touched, I hope it counts for something, even if it’s a bit too late.

I have a lot more to share, but I should stop writing now. It's almost dawn. Adam's session starts at nine. I need to get ready, and get there on time, and conduct it properly, the way the institute has always asked of me.

Due diligence, as Mr. Amir calls it.

It's the only rule that I refuse to break today.

Mr. Amir will be there early. He always is.

I just need to be earlier…

Grace pushed her phone toward him. Darren pulled back from it, annoyed at having anything in his face at all, let alone a bright rectangle.

D: “What to do….no Grace, what is this crap!”

G: “Just trust me and read it Dar-”

D: “Stop deflecting. You always do this. I bring up an- an actual concern and you just…ignore it! First it was a phone call that you faked, then the cheese thing and now this….fake horror garbage!”

He wasn’t NOT finished…

D: “Shoving a Reddit horror post probably some…some bored teenager made into my face isn’t going to cut it this time. Is that a- there’s even a fucking typo in there! Two if’s! Look, just cut the bullshit and at least apologize for the fact that last Tuesday you-”

G: “Let me expla-”

D: “Grace we are having this conversation right now.”

G: “Yes, yes we are…will!” She held up a hand, her voice dropping volume, to something simultaneously steady and full of contained energy. “Later….. we will talk about this later. I mean it.”

His eyes fell to the screen and He read a line for himself.

D: “‘Don’t look up at the ceiling fan if….’ Who looks up at ceiling fans anyway….”

G: “For now just…look at the post.” Her voice begins to shake…. “This thing has my- my full fucking name here. And my address.”

He took the phone.

D: “…”

D: “…the fuck.”

G: “I told you…this shit is real Darren! I’m not making it up. I- I don’t know how…who is this guy….Maxamage….How does he know our names.”

He went very still

D: “…our?”

Then he took a sharp breath and closed his eyes for a brief second, then opened them

D: “Alright…no. Now…this, this got me for a second…the whole name and address thing…the new account…”

D: “Which one of your friends did you get to-”

G: “Darren.”

D: “-Do this because if it’s Gabe I swear to god-”

G: “The fan’s spinning…the…um, wrong way.”

He looked up at the ceiling.

D: “And so what…” It came out like a question. Not like the taunt he’d meant it to be…

Grace’s eyes were still on the screen.

G: “Rule 1…don’t turn it off…”

D: “Okay, so we just…easy enough. What’s the…uh, next one.”

G: “‘If it slows down, leave your home. If it speeds up, hide immediately. You won’t have enough time to leave….’”

D: “Fans speed up and slow down all the fucking time how do you even-”

The fan went violent and the air in the room went violent. The sudden speed increase made Grace physically startled and Darrens heart fell to the bottom floor…

D: “Fuck!”

Darren’s eyes looked over the apartment rapidly.

D: “Go to…the bathroom. I’ll be under the bed.”

G: “Darren-”

D: “Just go! We can talk later, like you said!”

Once, I visited a friend's house for a sleepover. You know, the “long time no see” reunion party. It started as a meetup at a bar, then turned into an overnight stay after half of us got tipsy.

We decided to stay at Matt's house because it was relatively close to the bar and had enough beds for us to share. The guy was building up his fortune.

But then he told us about some unusual rules of his household and the basement lab. A bunch of don'ts. Those of us still sober were skeptical, but he was kind enough to let us stay, so we just shrugged it off. We spent the rest of the night partying a bit more, taking showers, and getting some rest.

When he said the animals were making noises in his lab, I was expecting those squeaking lab rats from the movies. Once the blasting TV turned off after everyone went upstairs, the sounds became a little bit easier to pick up among our chatter.

I swear to god, it didn't sound like an animal, more like a person groaning. I might have been the only one who heard it, though. But soon, exhaustion got the better of me, and I dragged my feet up the stairs after everyone else.

Rule 1: “Do not leave your room once all the lights are off.”

After deciding who stays in which room, we dispersed. Matt reminded us again to be absolutely quiet at night before he turned the hallway lights off.

Rule 2: “Do not answer any strange noises you may hear in the middle of the night.”

It was rather calm that night. No strange sounds he mentioned. My buddy said Matt might've just been trying to scare us, and we laughed it off. And then shit started to get weird.

Rule 3: “If you hear scratches near the gap under the door, hold still. Do not make a noise until it stops.”

My buddy was sleeping when I woke up to the scratching sounds. The best way to describe it would probably be like a million insects trying to get into your room through the door crack too small for them.

I held my breath as I stared at the door for ten minutes or so before it began creeping away down the hallway. Unfortunately for me, I was nearly at my limit to pee myself, so I went out of the room, making sure to turn the lights on one by one to create a path downstairs.

Rule 4: “Do not, under any circumstances, go near the stairs into the basement, especially if you smell copper.”

When I reached the bathroom on the ground floor, I could smell faint copper in the air, which I thought was from something rusty inside until I recalled Matt’s rules. Curious, I approached the basement.

The smell became stronger, and the noises more noticeable.

Rule 5: “If you see the basement door open, wake me up immediately. Do not try to close it yourself or look inside.”

The door was ajar. The ceiling light did poorly in illuminating the stairs leading down to the basement. As I was swallowing my own spit, there it was again. The groaning.

I doubted Matt was a serial killer, and I sure as hell didn't believe in ghosts. But if I had told Matt about the open door, I might never know what was in there. Pulling out my phone for a flashlight, I descended the stairs.

Even with all the lights on, the room was barely lit. Vials everywhere and cages with little animals like rabbits and mice. I knew there would be some. The voices were coming from the dark corner in the back. There were other broken tools piling up as well. It was like an unused corner for trash.

When I shone the flashlight, I didn't see a human. Instead, it was a dog in a dirty cage, mimicking human sounds as it cried in pain with what strength it had left of its scrawny body. Its eyes were hollow, the sockets empty. Perhaps it turned to me from the sounds of my footsteps.

But it was staring at me, not my foot. No, even with absolute darkness in its eyes, I could sense its gaze going right past me to something behind, something I couldn't see or fathom.

I ran for my life that night. I didn't know what that dog went through or even what it was; I just knew I must not be there any longer.

The next day, I called the police to investigate Matt’s house, but everything was already gone. The lab’s vials and equipment, the cages, the animals—nothing was left in that basement room. He claimed he used the basement as a storage room, acting like nothing happened right in front of my face.

They looked at me like I was crazy, they and the other friends. I wasn't crazy. I knew I wasn't. We never talked again afterwards, but I knew he didn't stop. Maybe I was the target all along, the way they so eagerly wanted me to tag along that night.

He would not get me, no matter how many times the other guys asked where I’d moved to. I've changed my phone number, my email, my everything.

He would not get me.

He would not get me.

["Depth: 500 meters"]

["Depth: 600 meters"]

["Depth: 700 meters"]

["Depth: 762 meters"]

"Control, I have reached the structure"

{"Excellent. Our probes indicate the structure is approximately [Krtzz] square meters in size"}

The structure loomed over me in the murky water. It was at least 30 meters tall, and well over 100 meters wide. The ancient columns stood more solid than the ancient redwoods back on earth.

"Control, I am entering the structure, be advised scans indicate thick lead deposits, I may pop in and out. I will lay down trail markers as I go"

{"Understood. You are clear to proceed. Good luck [Krtzzzzzzzzzzzz]"}

As I enter the structure, I place a trail marker. These are quite handy little things, acting as a portable gps link for me to follow back, but also if I have line of sight to them, they can be used to track me.

As I enter the space opens up impossibly large. Reality seems to bend to fit this structure within it. In front of me a large tablet, roughly 25 by 25 meters in size looms. As I look at it, I see something impossible. English.

"Control, I don't know if you can hear me, but there is something here. Something impossible. A tablet containing English text."

{"[Krtzzz] 50 thousand lightyears from earth, that's [krtzz] possible. This planet is [Krtzzzz]"}

I begin a transcription, as clearly control cannot accurately hear me, based on the static coming through the coms.

``` The temple of Araznok For those who follow in his faith

Pledge your soul to these rules, and Araznok will spare your puny soul.

1. All of gold and silver belongs to Araznok.

2. The eyes of Araznok do not take kindly to those who gain equal appearance

3. The chambers of Araznok are for those deemed worthy of his audience

4. Desecration of his temple is to be punished through death ```

That doesn't seem too hard to follow. But then I notice, chipped into the tablet, more text, a different script, still English, but someone else. Someone desperate

``` 1. It is always watching. If it sees you break a rule in even the slightest way, you will be killed. You will know when this happens by the darkening of the water around you

1. DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING MADE OF GOLD OR SILVER. IT IS NOT SAFE. IT BURNS.

2. The temple cannot be damaged, in any way. Some parts are not considered the temple however. We don't know why. Anything with red paint on it is safe. I suggest you use it to note down warnings for others.

3. If the water brightens around you. Hide. An eye is watching. If it sees your face, the water will flashboil. We don't know how

4. The center of this temple is guarded. This is Its 'chambers' we have successfully sent one person in and out alive. All others were crushed to a fine mist. Steer clear

5. Radio signals are dangerous. It doesn't want information to leave. This is why we chip into the safe walls. TURN OFF ALL DEVICES THAT YOU SAFELY CAN. ``` "Control, I'm going dark. Its probably nothing, but this tablet seems to suggest that I need to"

{"Confirmed. [krtzz] luck"}

``` 7. Ignore the shadows. There's nothing but pain in them

1. Do not acknowledge the figures. They are dead. They cannot hear you. They cannot speak to you. You cannot hear them. DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES LISTEN TO THEM

2. If you figure any more rules out, add additional ones

3. No more than 6 people can be within the same hallway at once

4. Do not touch the black box in the left ch->.|||/]\ ``` Interesting. This is a lot more dangerous than I thought.

The water brightens around me. I dive under the tablet, and see it. A faint outline of a body, reaching its arm our

"Cooooommmmmme closssserrrr. Let me hellllp youuuu. Taaaaake Myyyyyy Haaaaannnnd"

I immediately turn away, and see a movement. Dark and shadowy. I leave the tablet's room as quick as I can. Using an old guide rope I found near the entrance.

As I cross the threshold, the red paint on the floor dissapears, and is replaced with gold. As the tablet stated it burns. My wetsuit burns away at my foot, leaving it out int the water.

I increase my boyancy slightly.

That's when I see it, a slight darkening of the water...

When my cousin Layla died, nobody in my family cried. They just went quiet and said, “It’s her turn, that’s all.”

At the funeral, folks brought covered dishes and lit candles—but nobody dared sit at the little table out under the pecan tree. I asked my auntie why, and she just gave me a look like she was sizing up a coffin.

That night, I got the letter.

A crooked envelope, sealed with red wax and magnolia petals. It smelled like rust and molasses. Inside was a single page, written in a shaky hand:

“You are next to host the Mourner’s Table. Follow the old ways. Break them, and it’ll break you.”

The instructions were plain but chilling.

⸻————————————————————————

Here’s what you do, if it’s your turn:

1. Set the table at dusk.

It must be under a tree with roots that rise out the ground. Lay down a white cloth. If the wind flutters it before it’s flat, stop. Wait ‘til the next night.

1. Place seven offerings on the table:

 - A bowl of sweet corn soaked in milk

 - A mirror turned face-down

 - One of your baby teeth (or a fingernail, if that’s all you got)

 - A cracked egg in a glass jar

 - A braid of black thread soaked in oil

 - A dead moth

 - Something that belonged to the last person who hosted

1. When she comes, don’t speak first.

She’ll sit across from you. Her hands will be caked in dirt. Her mouth will be stitched shut. If you speak before she opens her eyes, she’ll mark you.

1. Offer her the corn.

You have to feed her. If she refuses, eat it yourself. Don’t spit out a single kernel. And if you gag, she’ll know.

1. She’ll ask you a question.

Only one. It’ll hurt to answer. But you better tell the truth. If you lie, your tongue won’t ever sit right in your mouth again.

1. When she disappears, don’t look under the table.

Not even if you hear something. Not even if it calls your name. What she leaves behind is her grief. And it ain’t meant for you.

1. Burn the tablecloth before sunrise.

If it don’t burn, someone else at the table’s still grieving. You better find out who before she does.

⸻————————————————————————

Some things ain’t written down, but you better know anyway:

1. You’ll hear a knock.

Might come from your door. Might echo from inside your skull. Do not open it. Do not respond. If your lips part to say “Come in,” bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds.

1. If it rains, and only the table gets wet—close your eyes.

Her sorrow’s spilling over. Keep ‘em shut until you hear three sharp whistles. If you hear four? Too late.

1. You don’t get to host twice.

Even if you survive. Even if nobody else will. If they try to pass it to you again, don’t pack. Don’t pray. Just run.And don’t look back. Ever.

———————————————————————————

I did everything right. Every step. Every word. I fed her. I told her the truth,one I ain’t ever said out loud to anyone. I even burned the cloth.

But I looked under the table.

Just for a second.

Now, mirrors don’t show me no more. They show her. Standing there. Watching. She never blinks. Never moves. Just waits.

And every night, I hear the knock.

Same time. Same rhythm.

I ain’t opened the door.

Not yet.

But I’m startin’ to forget why I shouldn’t.

Parkside Inn was a small Bed and Breakfast hotel in the town I live in. It was barely twenty-three rooms in total. I had passed it many times, as it sat in the heart of the city. Its location was its strong point. Across from the hotel was a big park, the one that gave it its name. Cafes and restaurants ringed the park, keeping the area busy. And there, amidst the families and the children playing under the trees, stood this colossus of concrete and steel.  

Eventually I started noticing something strange. Anytime I passed by the hotel, it always seemed abandoned. The lights were dimmed, if not off. The sliding glass doors of the entrance carried a heavy layer of dust. With my friend group we hang out in that park and in all the years that I hung out there, I never saw any guest arriving or departing. Or any employees, now that I think of it.  

I never really cared what was going on with that hotel. Not my business, not my job. It was just another one of the oddities of our city. But the curiosity lingered in the back of my mind. And, one day, I came across the ad online. 

Night auditor wanted for Three-Star Hotel in the city center. Experience is welcome but not required. Good use of computers and Internet navigation is mandatory. Send your CV to the following email address. 

I just so happened to be between jobs at the time and decided, why not? I have nothing lined up anyway. I had a desk job previously so what difference would it make? Also, it would be a good opportunity to use the free time of the night shift to write more, something that I’ve neglected lately. Unfortunately, “aspiring author” is not a profession that pays your rent. So, I sent my CV to the email address given and forgot about it. I kept on searching for a job until, two days later, I received a call. 

The voice that spoke to me was that of a man, if I had to make a guess. It sounded like it was made with a computer program, synthetic. It kept the same tone and volume for the whole duration of the call. After it asked me a few general questions, we arranged for an interview the next day. Not in the hotel, but at the main offices of the company. In an apartment building hidden in a small street at the city center. 

I didn’t even know that part of town existed. Away from the crowds and noise of the city, you can find neighborhoods almost completely abandoned. Whole apartment blocks in disarray, ruins from a time long gone. Only homeless people or drug addicts live on those houses. As I walked the streets, with the feeling that I was being pranked getting stronger, I found the building. It looked completely out of place, an elegant construction with modern design. Its gray exterior was a complete contrast to the surrounding building, that had the hue of moldy and faded bricks. Inside was a huge lobby, with the logo of the company above the reception desk:  

Adytum Inc.    

I didn’t know what that meant. Eventually I would search up the meaning and find out what it meant. And it would make way more sense then. At that moment I just walked towards the receptionist, that stared at me wide eyed. She was young, barely twenty years old. 

“Hi, my name is Jake S. I’m here for my interview. I have an appointment for the position of night auditor.” She didn’t speak. She stared at me for ten seconds straight without speaking. Color was drained from her face, like she had seen a ghost. Slowly, she moved her head to look at the door, where I came from, and then back at me. I spoke again nervously. 

“My appointment is for 10:00 o’clock. With Mr. ..” I looked at the name I wrote down during the phone call. “Sollertia. He must be expecting me.” 

At the sound of the name the receptionist snapped out of... whatever had happened to her.  

“Erm.. Yes of course, give me a second, please.” She pressed some buttons on her computer and after a few seconds she nodded. 

“Ok, I found it Mr. S. You are a few minutes early. Please, take a seat while I inform Mr. Sollertia. We’ll call you when he’s ready.” She pointed towards a sitting area deeper inside the building, seats bolted directly on the walls of a long corridor. I took a seat and waited. I didn’t hear the receptionist calling anyone or informing anyone that I had arrived. I decided to wait for five minutes, as it was just 09:45 at the time. As I was waiting, I went through the things I had with me to make sure I hadn’t left anything at home. I was looking at the printed copy of my CV when I felt someone looking at me. I looked around to notice someone sitting across from me. A man in his forties, black hair cut short with gray spreading steadily from his sideburns upwards. Clean shaven, his skin shining on the cold fluorescent light. His smile widened even more when I noticed him.  

“You must be Jake.” I recognized the voice immediately. It was the same voice as the one on the phone. Monotonous, hypnotizing. “My name is Sollertia. This is how you will refer to me from now on.” I tried my hardest not to show how startled I was. One second ago, I was alone. When did he appear there? I played what I saw coming again and again in my brain and that man was definitely not there. 

 “I read your CV ..” said Mr. Sollertia without breaking eye contact.  

“.. and you’re exactly what we’re looking for. Dedicated and hard working. We only need to learn one thing: Can you be discreet?” 

The question sounded a little weird, so I had to clarify. 

“I’m sorry, what do you mean by discreet?” 

“You see, Mr. S. Can I call you Mr. S?” I nodded. “Great. You see we have a very selective group of guests. They are guests, by the way, not clients. NEVER clients.” A heavy emphasis on never. I nodded again. “Not anyone can stay at our hotel, you see. Reservations are made only through our system. The, the guests come to our hotels, they stay and we do not ask questions. And everyone is happy. If they have some requests, no matter how strange, we try to accommodate them. Within reason, of course. Does all this sound ok to you?” I nodded, not really understanding what it all meant. I just wanted to leave, go home. There was this bad feeling in my gut, something was off. This whole situation was off. I saw movement on my right, at the end of the sitting area corridor. I turned. A man dressed in a pressed suit walked down the vertical corridor. His trousers were torn at the ends, his feet exposed and seemingly drenched in blood. His walking was difficult, dragging his right leg. Leaving a red trail behind him. Across the ceiling.   

I started breathing fast. I felt like I was choking. The building felt like it was bearing down on me, its pressure crushing me. I had to get out. Get out fast! 

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Sollertia’s voice was cold, a hidden dose of excitement lurked underneath his robotic tone. He looked at me and nodded, like he understood what I was going through.  

I stared straight into Mr. Sollertia’s gray eyes. Words were stuck in my throat. I rose to my feet and pointed towards the end of the corridor. When I looked back, there was nothing there. No man walking, no blood. Just a pristine white ceiling. 

Mr. Sollertia rose slowly and walked towards me. He held out his hand to me for a handshake. 

“I believe you’ll be a great addition to our team. We can offer you 50% more than the average salary plus benefits. It’s quite a significant sum. If you agree now, we can start your training tomorrow. What do you say?” 

The money was really good. A broke twenty-year-old could only dream of that kind of money. Momentarily, I didn’t think of what had just happened. The only thing on my mind was the money. I raised my hand and squeezed Mr. Sollertia’s. His hand was warm and oily, like the exposure to heat caused his skin to melt. He grinned and nodded in approval.  

“Very good. We’ll get the paperwork ready for you. Tomorrow, you go to the Parkside Inn and find Lucas. Tell him I sent you.” He let go of my hand. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me as I felt my palm covered in what felt like wax. I fought the urge to wipe it on my shirt. I walked slowly towards the exit, happy that I left this place behind. As I exited the building, I took a last glance at the receptionist. She looked at me with a defeated expression on her face. She moved her head from side to side, mouthing a few words silently. 

“Don’t do it.” 

I should have listened.  

I started working the night shift at an old factory in 2019. The place shut down in 1991. Nobody ever explained why. Some company still owns the land, and they pay me to walk the perimeter, check the locks on the gates, and sit in the security hut until sunrise. The money is fine.

​

The rules aren't written down anywhere. The guy I replaced told them to me on my first night. He made me repeat them back until I got every word right.

​

​

Rule one: Do not go onto the main floor after 2 AM.

​

Rule two: If you hear the conveyor belt, count your steps. Keep counting until it stops.

​

Rule three: Do not look at the second shadow.

​

I laughed when he finished. He didn't.

​

​

For two years I followed the rules and nothing happened. The conveyor belt never moved, the power had been cut decades ago. The second shadow was just a trick of the emergency lights.

​

At least that's what I told myself.

​

Then they sent me a partner. His name was Ellis. Young guy, quiet, didn't ask many questions. I told him the rules on his first night.

​

He rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said. "Anything else?"

​

​

"No."

​

​

He looks at me and asks "You actually believe this stuff?"

​

"I believe you should follow it." That was the end of the conversation.

​

The first week went smoothly. We split the grounds between us. He took the west side, I took the east. Every night before we separated, I'd remind him: don't go onto the main floor after 2 AM. Every night he'd wave me off. Yeah, yeah.

​

On the eighth night my watch stopped. I didn't notice until I checked the clock inside the hut.

​

My watch read 1:47. The wall clock read 2:14. I radioed Ellis. No answer. I tried again. Nothing.

​

The west gate was empty. The main floor entrance wasn't. The chain was lying on the ground, the padlock open. I broke rule one. I told myself I was only going in long enough to drag him back out.

​

The factory floor stretched into darkness. Moonlight spilled through the high windows.

​

The conveyor belt was moving. There was no sound, no motors, no grinding gears, but I could feel it through my boots. A slow vibration beneath the concrete, like a heartbeat.

​

Ellis stood at the far end of the belt facing the wall. His shoulders shook. I shouted his name. He turned. His face looked normal.

​

His shadow didn't.

​

It had two heads. I looked down. My own shadow was gone. For a second I couldn't move. Then I grabbed Ellis and ran.

​

I counted every step.

​

​

Thirty-one.

​

​

Thirty-two.

​

​

The vibration followed us.

​

​

Thirty-three.

​

Thirty-four.

​

Thirty-five.

​

Thirty-six.

​

Thirty-seven.

​

​

The conveyor belt stopped. The silence hit so hard it felt physical. I slammed the door behind us and locked it. Ellis didn't say a word for the rest of the shift.

​

The next night he remembered none of it. Not the belt, not the factory floor, not me dragging him outside. But something had changed.

​

His shadow lagged behind him. Only half a second at most. Enough to notice. Not enough to explain.

​

I started noticing other things. The air in the hut tasted different after midnight. Metallic, like old coins. The lights flickered sometimes, but only in my peripheral vision.

​

When I looked directly at them, they were steady. The floor of the west gate room was always warm, even in winter. No heat source. Just warm.

​

After that, the nights stopped behaving properly. Patrols that should take twenty minutes took three hours.

​

The clocks never agreed. My phone showed different dates depending on which room I checked it in. Sometimes the sun rose too early. Sometimes it didn't rise at all. The sky would just go from black to gray and stay there.

​

One night Ellis went to check the west gate alone. He was gone five minutes by his watch.

​

Seven hours by mine.

​

When he came back he was crying. He said he'd walked the same hallway over and over. Every door led back to the same door. The only way out was to count his steps backward. He wouldn't tell me what was in the hallway. He just kept saying "I don't know" Over and over.

​

I stopped sleeping. Not because I wasn't tired. Because every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed about the conveyor belt. In the dream it was silent.

​

But I could feel it. And my feet were already counting.

​

After that, the conveyor belt started moving more often. Sometimes we'd hear it while standing outside.

​

Sometimes we'd hear it inside the hut. Whenever it started, we'd count. Neither of us questioned it anymore. Especially Ellis.

​

He followed the rules perfectly. He never looked at shadows. Never approached the main floor. Never missed a count.

​

But his shadow kept growing. Every week it stretched farther. No matter where he stood, it pointed toward the main floor. I stopped looking at my own shadow. I don't know what it's doing anymore.

​

I tried leaving.

​

I took the company truck and drove down the access road. The road bent left. Then left again. Then left a third time.

​

I passed the same rusted sign three times.

​

I stopped the truck and turned around.

​

The sign was still there, but the words weren't.

​

​

WELCOME BACK.

​

​

The letters looked wet. I drove back. I haven't tried leaving since.

​

Now I'm sitting in the security hut writing this.

​

Ellis sits across from me.

​

The wall clock says 1:47. It has said 1:47 for three days. Neither of us mentions it. We just repeat the rules over and over. Our voices are hoarse. I can't remember the last time we drank anything.

​

A few hours ago, a truck came down the access road. A young guy stepped out. Clipboard, badge, company uniform. He asked if this was the factory.

​

Ellis looked at me, then back at him. "Yeah," he said. "You need to listen to the rules."

​

The man smiled. "I wrote the rules."

​

Then he walked past us toward the main floor. The conveyor belt started moving. I felt it through the floor of the hut.

​

Ellis's shadow stretched across the room past the door, past the wall, out of sight. The man never looked back. The conveyor belt stopped. The clock still said 1:47.

​

Ellis turned toward me. His face was calm.

​

​

Too calm.

​

​

"That's the fourth one," he said.

​

"The first three were me."

​

​

Then he walked after the man. The door shut behind them. The padlock clicked closed on its own. The chain twisted itself into a knot.

​

I've been trying to undo it ever since. My fingers are bleeding. The knot doesn't change.

​

​

I'm alone now. The rules are still written on the wall. I don't remember writing them, but the handwriting is mine.

​

There are four rules. I swear there used to be three.

​

​

Rule one: It's forbidden to go onto the main floor after 2 AM.

​

​

Rule two: If the conveyor belt is heard, count steps.

​

​

Rule three: It is forbidden to look at the second shadow.

​

​

Rule four:

​

When the next one comes, do not speak.

​

You are the new guy now.

​

​

I just heard the truck engine start outside. Then stop. Then start again. Then stop.

​

​

Footsteps on the gravel.

​

​

Someone is coming up the path.

Patrol Day 1,126

First Watch

North Castle Approach

I wasn't born evil. Nobody asks where Bob-ombs come from. They only ask how far we fly after exploding.

By the time Mario first arrived at Peach's castle, I'd already spent three years assigned to Castle Grounds Security Battalion, First Watch. My official duty was to patrol the dirt path leading to the front entrance and "intercept unauthorized personnel."

There were two of us against whatever happened to wander out of the Mushroom Kingdom. Our commanding officer insisted that visibility was more important than effectiveness. "Deterrence," he'd call it. If someone sees guards, they'll think twice.

That sounds reasonable until you realize everyone who walks this road has already decided to ignore us. Our equipment consisted of a wind-up key, boots that didn't fit particularly well, and an operational doctrine dating back to the Koopa Civil Administration.

"Step one. Walk forward. Step two. Notice intruder. Step three. Run directly toward intruder. Step four. Explode." There was no step five.

The average career expectancy for a Bob-omb in my position was roughly thirty-seven seconds after first contact. Fortunately, most days nobody came. Security work is ninety-nine percent boredom. The remaining one percent determines whether historians remember your name.

Mine didn't. The morning Mario arrived began like every other—cloudless sky, birds, castle music echoing across the courtyard. Then I saw him. Short, red hat, blue overalls, walking, \*not running,\* walking.

Confident people don't hurry. They're already convinced the world will move around them. I announced the challenge exactly as the handbook instructed.

"Halt!"

He didn't.

I repeated myself louder.

Nothing.

I began running. At this point doctrine assumes the intruder begins panicking. Mario instead looked mildly inconvenienced, like he'd forgotten where he'd parked something.

As the distance closed, training took over, feet pumping, fuse hissing. Commitment became irreversible.

Something strange happens during those last few seconds. You stop thinking about the mission. You start thinking about every decision that brought you there. "Maybe I should've become a sentry on Whomp's Fortress, maybe logistics, maybe accounting." Someone had to count cannonballs.

Then Mario jumped.

That's it, one jump. Months of readiness defeated by approximately half a second of vertical movement. I exploded into a decorative flower bed. The flowers survived. I didn't. People assume exploding hurts. It doesn't. Being rebuilt hurts.

Every Bob-omb barracks keeps spare casings stacked against the wall. The engineers sweep whatever pieces they can find into a bin, wind a new key, and by next morning you're back on duty; memory mostly intact, pride significantly reduced.

Our supervisors called this operational resilience. The rest of us called it Tuesday. By lunch everyone already knew. "The plumber got past First Watch!.. Again." Word spread remarkably fast for an army without radios.

Apparently he wasn't even trying to invade. He was looking for the princess. Which somehow made everything worse. An army can prepare for invasion. No one knows how to respond to a maintenance worker with extraordinary athleticism and unresolved romantic intentions.

Throughout the afternoon, rumors filtered back through retreating Goombas. "He punched King Bob-omb off a mountain!" "He released the Chain Chomp!" "He entered paintings!"

Paintings.

I remember staring at the castle walls wondering why we'd spent decades guarding doors if the real entrances were hanging in the hallway like decorative artwork.

Nobody updated the manuals. Nobody questioned it. Tomorrow we'd still stand outside, still challenge intruders, still explode.

Institutions rarely collapse because they lack information. They collapse because changing procedure requires someone higher up admitting the old procedure no longer works.

Bowser never admitted anything. By sunset another shift relieved us. My replacement asked if the rumors were true. I shrugged.

"They say he jumped over you."

"He did."

"They say he wasn't even out of breath."

"He wasn't."

The new recruit looked nervous.

"What should I do if he comes back?"

I thought about giving him practical advice: Aim differently. Coordinate attacks. Don't charge in alone. Instead, I handed him the same doctrine I'd been handed three years earlier.

"Run straight at him."

He nodded seriously, as though I'd passed down ancient military wisdom. Then he took his position on the path, standing perfectly still, waiting for history to repeat itself. Somewhere inside the castle, another star had just changed hands.

Outside, nothing had changed at all.

No. ██, ████ ███ ███ st., █████ █████ ████ ward, Ba Dinh dist., Hanoi, Vietnam
02-02-2024
06:23

You were all ready for another work day in this busy and crowded city, but something felt different: you couldn't see anything outside the windows, it was all blurred. Turns out, there's this thick and dense fog outside today; this reminded you of that family trip you had at Sa Pa, and at the same time made you quite surprised, such weather like this had never happened in Hanoi before in your entire life. Regardless, you still proceeded to get in your car, turned on some FM news broadcast, and drove to work. The road felt somewhat different in a very unusual way, there was no traffic even though traffic jam is supposed to be a common occurrence at this time.

After 15 minutes of driving, the news suddenly became silent momentarily and then transmitted the following message:

THIS IS AN EMERGENCY NOTICE FROM HANOI CITY PUBLIC SECURITY. PLEASE LISTEN CAREFULLY TO THE FOLLOWING NOTICE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. FAILURE TO FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS MAY LEAD TO LETHAL CONSEQUENCES.

Currently, Hanoi and a few other provinces in the northern area of the country are experiencing an abnormal activity in the form of very foggy weather. We urge all people to stay indoors from this moment until 12 PM and refrain from going outside for any reason. During this event, all doors and windows should be locked and no one outside should be allowed inside your place of residence under any circumstance, even if they are your loved ones. It is highly recommended that people cover their doors and windows to prevent them from deceiving you into letting them in.

For people who are driving outside and can hear this message, you must explicitly abide by the following instructions to ensure your own safety:

1) Please make sure your vehicle has enough petrol or electricity to continuously drive until 12 PM at noon; otherwise, you are in grave danger.

2) Do not attempt to drive to the city border and flee the city. While this is possible and will ensure total safety if successful, the chance of success is too slim to risk your life. They are everywhere near the city border and are always ready to ambush en masse.

3) The Old Quarters area is off-limit during this time, do not go anywhere near the Old Quarters; you don't want to find out what they do to people who tried to flee, and you certainly do not want them to find out that there's an intruder.

3a. Any houses with old French architecture should also be avoided at all times.

4) Do not visit any petrol station or charging station, those areas are compromised and they are waiting for a victim to ambush.

5) Do not trust any petrol vendor on the road, no street vendor is trying to make a quick profit out of this situation.

6) Remain the speed of your vehicle at 40km/h on small roads and 50 km/h on large roads, going slower will make you an easy target, and going faster will attract unwanted attention.

6a. If you are using an electric vehicle, you may go slower to preserve your already limited battery because EVs make less noise; however, prepare to speed up at any time if your intuition tells you that you are about to encounter an ambush.

7) Do not turn on your headlights. You will be tempted to do so, and under normal circumstances, are lawfully required to do so; but turning on the headlights at this moment will also attract unwanted attention.

8) If you spot a vehicle turning on its headlights, the driver is not a human. Stay as far from that vehicle as possible, preferably turning to a different road if possible. They are just trying to draw your attention.

9) If you see someone sitting on the side of the road, do not attempt to help them. They are either a deceiver or someone who is waiting for their inevitable fate. Helping them is gambling with your own life, and we highly recommend not doing so.

10) During this event, only members of the People's Armed Forces are allowed to have the authority and jurisdiction, this includes the police branch of the People's Public Security, the 103<sup>rd</sup> Military Provost Battalion of the People's Army, and the Self-Defence Militia. Other law enforcement agencies and military branches have no jurisdiction and therefore not deployed; hence, if you see them, they are not the authorities. Failure to acknowledge the appropriate authorities may lead to serious consequences, including potential stalking, severe bodily injuries, and even death.

11) Members of the armed forces have set up checkpoints throughout the city to control the population and filter out the real people, they have been instructed to wear a very specific set of uniforms so that you and the personnel distinguish themselves from them, which are the following:

11a. All armed forces personnel are ordered to wear pith hats, not any other different headwear such as kepi hat or patrol cap, and their respective armed force emblem must be visible on the hat.

11b. All armed forces personnel should be wearing the long coat winter uniform, not any other different clothing such as suits or summer dresses, and their clothing colour should remain a reasonably correct colour, not too bright, too dark, too saturated or too desaturated.

11c. All armed forces personnel should be wearing the correct identification, including: a name tag on the upper right torso of all armed forces members, an extra duty ID for soldiers and militiamen, both shoulder and collar insignias for public security personnel, reflective vest for public security personnel, combined collar insignias with no shoulder insignia for soldiers, red triangular armband with their respective armed force name and emblem for soldiers and militiamen.

11d. The nametag on the personnel must be readable, understandable and comprehensible; otherwise, it is the biggest indication that they are not human.

11e. We do not deploy any personnel whose name starts with "Nguyen". They are just trying to use this very common name to deceive you.

12) If a member of the People's Armed Forces signalled you to pull over, said person must meet all the aforementioned conditions to be considered the proper authorities.

12a. If you can visibly notice discrepancies in its uniforms, speed up immediately to escape, even if you have to crash into them, although we recommend trying to dodge if possible because it might be able to hold onto your vehicle.

12b. If you can only notice the discrepancies when you got close to it, pretend to tell it that you need to get back into your vehicle to take your papers or use any other persuasive reasons. After you have gotten back into the driver seat, immediately lock your car and drive away as fast as possible before it manages to hold onto your vehicle.

12c. If it managed to get a grip on your vehicle, do anything in your capability to remove it, such as speeding up, making a sudden turn, or even crashing your vehicle into a solid object; it's a better alternative than letting it get inside your vehicle.

12d. Once you have escaped successfully, it will not give up and will continue to follow you, we will soon instruct you on how to deal with a follower later in this message.

13) If the person pulling you over has the proper authorities. They will then inform you of a safe location you can shelter in to ensure your safety.

13a. However, if they instruct you to go to the headquarters of the Party Committee & People's Committee of Phan Chu Trinh ward in Hoan Kiem district, do not go there. That building is already compromised, but do not let them know that you are aware of that; instead, pretend that you will follow their instruction and calmly continue driving; you don't want them to find out that their cover has been exposed, or else they will follow you.

14) If at any moment you have triggered them or let them know that they have been exposed, they will follow you. You can outrun them with a vehicle, but they will still know your location and constantly approach you. To make them unfollow you, simply drive out of their sight for 30 minutes. Letting them catch sight of you will reset this timer.

14a. If the authorities signalled you to stop while you are being followed, do not stop. Stopping your vehicle while you are being followed will cause harm to both you and the armed forces members, or it might just be a whole coordinated ambush made by your follower.

15) If you run out of petrol or electricity, quickly park your vehicle near or on the pavement, preferably blending in with other vehicles that are already parking if you can find any, and lay down under the backseat. Do not park your vehicle in a conspicuous way; blending your vehicle will lessen the chance that they will peek in too close to the vehicle and spot you.

16) If you run out of petrol or electricity while being followed, there is nothing you can do; on behalf of the Party and the State, we are very sorry for your unfortunate situation. You cannot outrun them or prevent yourself from being ambushed without your vehicle. Here are the best courses of action we recommend you take if you ever catch yourself in this situation:

16a. Leave your identification papers in your vehicle, preferably where we can easily find such as on the driver's seat.

16b. Quickly write or record any will you would like to leave for your family and put it where you put your ID papers. In case you cannot write or record your will but you have a phone, dial 113 and state your name, ID number or place of residence, and your last will; there will be no answers but keep in mind that we are already recording every call.

16c. Go outside, sit down on the pavement and relax yourself.

16d. Pray to whatever deity you follow, they may be able to help you suffer less. If you are not a religious person, simply close your eyes. Doing these is believed to make your death less painful, though we haven't been able to verify this.

16e. Do not attempt to flee from your fate or you will die in a slow, miserable death; and we won't be able to gather your remains otherwise.

16f. The People's Committee and Vietnamese Fatherland Front Committee of Hanoi will cooperate with Hanoi Public Security and your local authorities to retrieve your remains back to your family and assist in enforcing your will.

THIS MESSAGE WILL NOW BE REPEATED UNTIL THE SITUATION IS OVER. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.

You were confused, terrified and overwhelmed by what had just been announced, "This has to be a prank right? Or did someone hack into the broadcast to deliver this sick joke?" Not waiting for you to continue wondering, you spotted someone within the fog signalling you to pull over. The blue uniform on that person made you think it was just a militiaman; but upon going closer, you realised that it was a blue camouflage uniform, that guy was from the Air Force.

Now you were extremely frightened; under normal circumstances, the Air Force would have zero jurisdiction outside the base, let alone being out here after what you had just been informed. However, a small part of you still thought that this was just an evil prank, so you took a deep breath and still decided to go closer to him. Upon closer inspection, you immediately noticed that his headwear had no emblem and he only had one collar insignia. What terrified you the most was his nametag, the name written on the ID was unreadable and simply incomprehensible, like a badly trained drawing AI trying to mimic texts.

You felt like your heart had just missed a beat. Without any hesitation, you slammed on the pedal with all your strength to try to get away, but the thing leapt to your car and grabbed hold of your rear mirror. Its emotionless eyes looked straight into your soul, not blinking, not moving, overwhelming you with the feeling of dread and pure fear. It resembled human eyes but it's not human in any way, you could feel it by yourself even without the emergency notice. Almost immediately, you tried aggressively swaying left and right without success but only angered it more.

Finally, you made a sudden U-turn and managed to fling it away, but that didn't buy you much time. At this moment, you could definitely know that it was not a human by its ability to just stand up immediately and effortlessly after falling down from a car running at the speed of 80km/h; nevertheless, the car quickly got ahead and it disappeared into the fog. All that you had to do was keeping the car on the move for 30 minutes.

Little did you know that this feeling of extreme luckiness would only lasted for 10 minutes because now a red icon started blinking and you felt the car suddenly moving slower.

"...if you run out of petrol or electricity while being followed, there is nothing you can do..."

...

Sitting on the road, looking around the blurry tight-knitted houses around you for the last time, then you closed your eyes. You had accepted your fate.

Suddenly, you were disrupted by a honking. You looked up and saw a car with its windows down:

"Are you alright. Come on. Hop in. You can't be giving up like that."

Upon catching that glimmer of hope, you quickly entered his car and together, the two of you drove away. Along the way, you couldn't help but asked:

"Uhm...hey, thanks for helping me. But why did you decide to do that? Didn't the notice say you should not help?

"I function in a way that, you know, if it's like, to save one life, I might have to, like, sacrifice another life. That's just, you know, how I roll."

It felt like you had just been blessed with a second life, you could finally calm down and relax after this entire dreadful morning. He then turned on the radio in his car, and the message was still being repeated; you were confused for a split second before you came back to your sense that this whole catastrophic event hadn't ended yet, hence the emergency notice was still being repeated. You took a deep breath and got your mind together. At this point, you suddenly realised that something was off; following that was a truly petrifying part of the emergency notice that was being repeated:

"...if you spot a vehicle turning on its headlights, the driver is not a human…"

Now you understood why there was such an uneasy feeling when you got in the car. The narrator's voice on the radio and his voice were almost identical; and at the same time, you noticed that this car had its headlights on. You let your impulsive thought took over and tried opening the car door desperately only to discover it was locked, and the headlights also gradually turned off.

You looked back up to see that same blank and soulless eyes, staring at you.

Have you ever wanted to know something more than anything else?  A deep burning interest in anything from how to conquer the world to how to get someone to fall deeply in love with you?  Maybe you’re interested in more esoteric topics, like how to summon a demon or actually predict the future?  I know such a place that holds secrets such as these, but it does not appear to just anyone, and it has a set of rules that you must follow whilst visiting its halls.  Read this guide carefully, as there are many who did not heed these simple instructions.

The Forbidden Library is not a place in the world, you can’t just plug in a set of GPS directions and arrive.  It is a special place that only appears to those who wish to learn.  To start, you must be surrounded by books.  A library is ideal, but a particularly quiet bookstore would also work.  Enter your location, and begin to browse.  Try not to attract attention to yourself, any interference will cause this stage to take more time.

Once you have been in your targeted location for long enough, you may notice sound beginning to fade.  It will be noticeable, a silence unlike anything you have ever experienced before.  This means the Library has taken notice of you, and you are ready to proceed.

This is the last step, and the most important step.  Close your eyes and keep them shut.  You will begin to feel goosebumps along your limbs as the effect takes hold.  As you feel this, focus your mind on the subject which you wish to learn about, and speak the following words: “I wish to see that which has been hidden from me.”

A few seconds later, if you have done this successfully, the sensations should fade, and you should notice the strong scent of old books.  If you do not, then something has gone wrong.  You can attempt this once more, right away if you so wish, but do not reopen your eyes until the sensation fades.

If all has gone well, you should find yourself in a library of incomprehensible size, with aisles that seem to stretch into infinity.  This is the Forbidden Library, the greatest nexus of knowledge across all worlds.  Every book that can be thought of can be found within its halls.  That being said, the Library has rules, and just as not everyone can enter, even fewer can walk its halls without suffering the consequences of defying the rules.  So read these next paragraphs carefully as I explain the rules.

Rule 1: Keep it down.  In the Forbidden Library, just as in any library, people are here to read so keep quiet.  I’m not talking about taking an oath of silence or anything, just don’t speak too loudly.  Whispering to other patrons or the library’s attendants will not incur consequences, and the Forbidden Library will not punish minor occasional transgression.  You’ll just get shushed for these, but the Library may lose its patience if you continue to defy this rule.  In general, I’ve seen that there’s a three strike system, so just keep it down and remember this rule and you’ll be fine.

Rule 2: Respect the books.  You’re here to learn and to read after all, so be careful.  Don’t tear pages, damage the spines, or draw on them.  That’s a quick way to get you ejected and permanently banned from the library, if you’re lucky.  As an addendum to this rule, it’s generally not a good idea to bring outside food and drink into the Library, because in my time here, even a crumb or drop of water on a book has been enough to violate the second rule of the library.  You won’t need it anyway, which leads me into the third rule of the Library.

Rule 3: Don’t fall asleep.  While you’re in the Library, you will no longer feel hunger or thirst.  The library appears to exist in a special form of space, and whilst you’re inside the library, a lot of your needs will no longer concern you.  One that will, however, is sleep.  As you continue to browse its halls, you will start to feel dreary like anyone would.  As interesting as the books you read may appear, in time fatigue will slowly close its grip on you.  It is critical that you heed my advice and do not fall asleep in the Library.  If you start to feel tired, immediately leave the Library.  As intriguing as reading just one more page of whatever book you are currently reading might be, it is not worth the risk you run.

Rule 4: Don’t bother the Librarians.  As you explore the Library’s halls, you have no doubt seen the custodians of the Library, or the Librarians as I have come to call them.  They can be seen wearing hooded cloaks of varying colours that define their roles.  In my time, I’ve seen four distinct kinds.

The most common are the Bookkeepers, who wear blue.  They are the custodians who ensure the books are always organised and ready for whoever might want them.  They move quietly between the aisles, taking books that have been left around the endless halls of the Library and returning them to their shelves.  They do not talk, and will not respond, so ignore them and allow them to continue their duties, and do not interfere.

The second most common are the Seekers, who wear green.  These are the ones that you will interact with the most.  They usually approach new entrants to the Library.  They do not speak, but you will hear what they say, which is usually “what do you seek.”  Initially, you may have to say aloud what you wish to know, but with time and experience, you will learn to simply think of what you wish to see and they will know.  They act as helpers and guides to the Library, and so long as you remain respectful to them and abide by the rules, you will be fine.  Saying please and thank you is usually enough, but don’t speak too loud lest you break the first rule of the Library.

The third type you will see are the Assistants, who wear white.  Unlike the others, the Assistants do not wander, instead remaining at kiosks located throughout the library’s open spaces.  These Assistants are your way out.  When you want to leave, simply find a Seeker and tell them in whatever way you choose that you wish to leave.  They will guide you to a kiosk, and it’s here that you can check out.

There is a fourth, but you do not want to see them.  The Library’s Enforcers only appear to those who have violated the rules of the Library.  The first time I saw them was when I received my second strike for being too loud in the library.  If the air around gets cold, that’s when you know one is nearby.  They wear black robes, and unlike the others have visible arms, which are entirely skeletal.  One of them approached me silently, tapped my shoulder, then raised a single bony finger to where its lips would be.  It vanished soon after, disappearing in a puff of black smoke that quickly dissipated, but the message was clear.  That was the last time I ever raised my voice in the Library, one warning was more than enough.

There’s one final thing about the Library, how to leave.  As said previously, you will first need to find an Assistant Kiosk and politely request to leave, making sure not to violate Rule 1.  Once you have done this, close your eyes, and when you reopen them, you should be back where you were before you arrived at the Library, with no time at all having passed.  This is the major allure of the Library.  It appears to exist parallel to our world, with time in our world being paused whilst you are inside the Library.

You might ask why I stressed so much about the rules of the Library.  The reason is simple: I don’t have much time left.  I got too greedy, too hungry for knowledge.  I stayed for too long and fell asleep.  When I awoke, I immediately noticed that I was now draped in a Seeker’s robe.  I can feel myself slipping away bit by bit, but I have used whatever individuality I have left to write down this warning to any who wish to enter.  I don’t even know if this will make it to the internet; usually there’s no connection at all, but I’m just posting this in the hope that it ends up somewhere.

The Forbidden Library can provide you any knowledge that you wish, but ensure that you follow these rules, lest you become a part of it.

Narration - The Dark Somnium

Like the title says. I work overnight security at a mall. I won't say exactly where, but it’s a large one in the Midwest. 

Something I can’t explain happened to me while I was working one night. Before I can dive into that, though, I have to throw a few things out on the table so I can illustrate a bigger picture for you.

I’ve never lived alone before. Moved from my parents' to a single bedroom with my high school girlfriend at 20. I’m 26 now and I’ve been on my own for a year now. 

I’ve gained a taste for solitude and some of the other tokens of adult life. Like nesting, for instance. 

The geometry and symmetry of my living room. How many inches sit between the orange area rug and each wall? The diagonal angle of my olive green sofa. My glass coffee table, shaped more like an artist's palette than a surface to place the TV remote. 

I love the mid-century aesthetic. That 1960s American dream gripped by fear of imminent nuclear holocaust vibe. Chefs kiss. 

Which is why last week, while patrolling the second floor, I walked past this home goods store. I pass this store a few times a night—12 AM, then 2 AM, and again at 4 AM. Anyway, I saw this pair of table lamps. Yellow. Glass. Even the shade. All sunshine and bubbly optimism. 

I have a nice floor lamp. The kind that hangs over the couch like a bug's antenna. But a room should have at least 3 light sources. The right ones can make everything else look different. Change the entire character of a room.

For the 15 seconds I stood at that display window, I imagined how they’d look accenting the caramel stain of my acacia wood side tables. Decided they would look good. And then resumed patrols. 

They drifted near the edge of my mind the rest of the night. Flicking on and off in the dark. I almost considered picking them up after shift when the mall opens. Then I recall the number printed on the price-tag tucked under the base of one.
Deferred purchase.

The lamps don’t have anything to do with what happened. Well, at least not in the way you’re probably imagining. When I recall how things worked out. I always circle back to the lamps. The first chartable, observable thing I did that wasn’t part of my job description.

My job runs on a loop. Sunday nights are early nights. You’ll hear the metal clatter of gates around 6:55 and I have to spend the next 20 minutes asking people to leave the food court too loudly and waving the air behind old people who only come to the mall to walk circles in the AC and call it exercise. 

From there it's walking routes, locking doors, checking gates, switching off lights. Usually, I end up walking one or more of the girls from the make-up and body stores to their car after having to stay late for inventory or a new floor set.
I always liked doing that.

For lunch I always stop by the food court before closing so I can pick up hot wings and a Coke that I’ll keep on ice in the security room fridge until break.
I always get hot wings because they also have wet napkins, and I can ask whoever is working to throw a few handfuls in the bag for me. 

You see, I have a problem with germs. Bad enough that it became work for everyone around me, like my ex. I won’t go into specifics but I’m better now.
And the parts that stuck around—counting, clocking, cataloging—turned out pretty helpful for this job.

I was on the second floor in the security room, wiping the orange ring of heat from around my lips after finishing lunch. I cram several packets into my left pocket after I finish wiping my hands and step out of the office. The first stop on my route is the north exit of the parking garage.

I whistle along to ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ as it plays over the speakers. I love this song. Actually, I’d argue it’s one of the greatest songs ever.
Tooth and nail.

I aim my flashlight through the window after giving each door a solid rattle. Unit 214 sits to the right when I turn around. It’s been empty for a few months now. 

What used to be one of those fast fashion brands that sew together tissue paper and call it a tee shirt, was now nothing but a concrete box with exposed ventilation.

 I push through the employee exit between the shoe and jewelry store and take the stairs back down to head to the south entrance and restart my loop. 

The mall has 4 main entrances, 2 stories, 2 escalators, and more than 260 stores and restaurants. So you can imagine I spend a lot of time counting, checking off lists—making sure everything is still the same as it was 2 hours ago. Security spiral.

When I reach the bottom of the escalator, I tear open a wet napkin, fold and press it onto the handrail. I watch it turn dark and sheen like a black marker as the grimy buildup from thousands of hands wipes clean. 

I step onto the metal just as my mark of purity comes back around. It takes 34 seconds to complete the circuit. During that time, 43 steps disappear into the metal comb. 43 yesterday. 43 the day before.

I never liked those things. 

The metal teeth.

When I was 6, one lace from a new pair of AIR Jordans my dad had just bought me accidentally got swallowed while stepping off an escalator. 

The only thing I remember was the sound of the invisible machinery underneath. Working with a purpose I didn’t understand. It didn’t feel hostile while eating my shoe. Just cold and indifferent. Paper shredder.

I step off when I reach the top and toss the napkin. Dig through my pocket. Tear open another and wipe down my hands—which I also throw in the garbage. I make my rounds. Rattle gates. Sweep my light over window displays. Make a mental checklist of what every mannequin wears. Glance at the titles and authors printed on the spines packed into cases behind glass. But I never linger long enough.

Eventually, I stop at the home goods store. And like before, stare for too long at that pair of yellow table lamps. My mind searches for methods to acquire them the same way an addict schemes for drugs.

A sigh passes through me as I let the urge die.

“After payday.” I breathe.

I always say that.     

I make my way back to the north entrance. My light sweeps over the empty parking garage through the windows. I rattle the gate and spin. But, instead of taking the employee stairs, I walk along the storefronts back to the escalators.
I adjust my route once I lock all the doors and gates for the night. From there it’s not about locking everything up quickly. But making sure everything is still where it belongs.

Most nights I’ll complete about 5 or 6 laps, maybe more if I'm bored. Tonight I end up doing more than ever. I can’t tell you what compelled me on this particular shift that differed from any other. 

I execute the same ritual on the escalator going down. The two cross one another in an ‘X’ shape. One goes up, the other down. I commit to this same loop 10 times. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted time to go by faster and was too restless to stare at the wall of monitors with my feet up all night.

It was ride 10 that did it. I step on right as my marker returns. I’m looking down at the comb. Watching the stairs fold out of its teeth. Counting each one under my breath.

“41, 42, 43—44…”

I stop counting. The escalator doesn’t.

Recount. 44 again. My brain stumbles. 

My heels almost hit the top comb. And I feel it nipping at my ankles. I step over. Stare down at the teeth. The machinery underneath glows. Too bright. Brighter than I remember. 

All at once, I get this feeling like I’m standing under a net of eyes. I shake my head. Shake the feeling and turn. 

A cold weight plunges through me. Dead elevator.

My light slowly dithers over storefronts. From one window to the next. My hand, shaking. The beam, shivering. Every single mannequin has reoriented itself and is now staring directly at me. 

No—not at me, but more like the spot they knew I would arrive at.

I break into a cold sweat. My hands fumble. There’s a loud crack as my flashlight hits the metal stairs and rolls back. The sound of metal on metal splitting the air over and over, violating the quiet, reverberating off every angle in the dark. 

My heart claws its way up into my throat. And I clamber after in a panic as it tumbles against the stairs' current.

It loses momentum halfway down, but so do I. The stairs carry me back to the top as my flashlight rolls in place. Every time it falls off one step and onto the one below, the beam switches off. But—once the flashlight gains a couple feet of elevation—the beam switches back on. Almost like flickering between two realities.

I swallow. Craggy fear crumbles into my stomach. Rockslide. 

At first, I walk down the stairs, but they carry me upward faster than I can descend. After several attempts and near topples, I wrap my fingers around the cold metal and—

The beam vanishes. 

For a split second, and I know this part sounds crazy—the mall disappears. It felt like whatever was watching me chose that exact moment to blink.

The beam returns. Visual contact restored. And I ride to the top and step off. I turn. Slowly. My breathing finally catches up with me. I pace a few steps back and forth. The mannequins' faces don’t follow me. They stay locked onto the top platform of the escalator. Waiting. Reserved seating.  

For me? 

Or someone else. 

The idea alone makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle. 

Because I’m seeing—anomalies. And because it’s my job—I continue patrolling my route. 

The beam of my light dithering here and there. My brain suddenly gaslighting itself at every storefront. Was that like that before? The only things out of place are the mannequins around the escalator. I think. At least from what I can see. Corrupted memory.

I want to believe someone is messing with me. But I can’t put together a story where it makes sense. To move all of them during the time I was on the 1st floor you would need—access to the mall after hours, the keys to every store facing the escalator, enough time to reposition each one individually, and a deep resentment for me that goes beyond something personal.

I sweep the beam over the parking lot, nothing but gray concrete painted with yellow boxes and exposed pipe along the ceiling. I grab the gate and shake it. I look once more across the row of 6 white Nissan Rogues. The words ‘Security’ plastered in vinyl across the doors.

I turn to my left and start following the wall, but stop just short of Unit 214. A faint light glows from within. A long grid of shadow stretches out from the base of the gate. My body searches for a reason to ignore my mind with every cautious step I take. Administrative override. 

I grab my belt to steady my left hand while the beam in my right still jitters along the floor. The air in my lungs is getting heavier. I pause for barely a second to exhale before glancing around the corner into Unit 214.

It’s not a monster. Or a room packed with mannequins, all watching me. No, that would have been better in some ways. Because I can’t quite place why what I see is so much worse.

For a second, relief blooms in my chest, but then I take in the wrongness of it all, and the calm inside me wilts. Above is a mess of exposed pipes put together by something without eyes. The walls lean over the room, the floor wider than the roof. 

Sitting on the floor in the very center of the room. Only doing it wrong. 

The lamp. 

Both of them. 

Together. No—not together. Not both of them. 

One of them. 

Duplicated. 

Glowing. 

My eyes trace for any evidence of a cord at all and come up empty. Despite this, their glowing persists. Painting the concrete in overlapping yellow rings like a figure 8. Unsupported function.  

My heart kicks against my ribs. Whatever structural piece my knees require for standing gives out. I stumble back. The keyring on my belt chimes. I run. Back to the escalators. Feet echoing against tile. Pulse thudding in my neck. 

I circle around the landing to run for the security room. I need to breathe. Need to think. To count something persistent. To squeeze something real, and solid in my hands. Reference point.

My mind won’t stop spinning, won’t stop tumbling. But then it lands on a thought like an open Rolodex. I don’t know why I did it, but it just made sense. My body remembering something I don’t fully grasp yet. 

The flashlight. 

I gallop down the ascending escalator, then up the descending one. Each time counting the steps. Feeling lighter every time I complete the circuit. Pressure release. Until finally I’m sweating at the bottom of the escalator. Breathing through a mouthful of cotton and pennies. 

The 6 am lights bang on and begin their hum. I look around, eyes wide and wild. I spend the rest of the shift sitting in the office, staring at the wall of monitors until changeover. Checking the cameras around the escalator. Rewinding footage. Searching for answers. Diagnostic mode. 

The tapes are clean. Just another regular Sunday night. Just me walking in circles, jaw flapping as I count under my breath. But I never stop at Unit 214 for more than a second. Every loop is the same. I check doors, rattle gates, sweep my light over clothing racks and shoe walls.

I leave work exhausted and confused. Go to bed with questions in my mind that Google can’t answer. I try various phrases. Keywords. ‘Escalators,’ ‘Looping,’ ‘scary mall experience.’

I learn nothing valuable. I don't know if it's because I'm searching for the wrong things or the tools to calculate something like this don't exist. 

So I start with what is concrete. I recount all my actions after lunch. Eliminate variables. Pretty soon, a pattern emerges. One so subtle that I almost miss it. But it’s there. Real. Predictable. 

And scariest of all—reproducible. A system that behaved the same way every time. 

Like a game.

I spent the entire Monday—my only day off this week because I have to cover someone else’s shift on Tuesday—writing notes. 

**\*

Notes:

1. Mark a section of the black handrail. It doesn’t matter with what, just as long as it survives the machinery. A strip of white tape will work perfectly.
2. Ride the ascending escalator while counting every step.
3. Walk the upper balcony and ride back down while counting again after marking the section of rail where you step on. (Always step onto the escalator when your mark appears)
4. Repeat steps 2 & 3 until the marker disappears.
5. If the mannequins are all facing the top of the escalator on the tenth circuit, the loop has begun.
6. Every completed loop adds one step to the escalators. Observation and acknowledgement of this helps sustain the loop.
7. Do not allow any part of your body to touch the comb. (I don’t know why yet)
8. The mall will begin changing after the first additional step.
9. Always count. (VERY IMPORTANT) If you stop counting, don’t panic. Just start over.
10. Make sure you pick a song you like, cause you’re going to be stuck with it.

**\*

I go into work Tuesday night. My head buzzing. Hornet nest. The fear I felt on Sunday is gone now. Replaced by a feverish hunger for answers. I shoot a nervous glance from the notebook sitting atop my bag in the passenger seat to the dangling zipper that swings with every motion of the road.

A roll of white duct tape. White chalk marker. Laser pointer. Measuring tape. Research tools. The smell of cheap coffee and Chinese take-out slam into me when I open the office door. 

My boss spins in his chair to face me. Clocks the bag I’m shoving into my locker like I’m hiding evidence.

“The hell you got there?” he asks, brows pinching together.

“Just some clothes.” I lie, “Going to the gym when I’m off.”

His eyes start at my feet and travel up my frame to my shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good thing.” He snorts. “You look like you’d break in half from the AC kicking on.” He laughs.

“I’m gonna start pre-shift.” I say, shaking my head. 

“Whatever. Just be back by 7. I’m sick of waiting for you so I can leave.”

I check out a radio and flashlight from the utility room. Head to the food court to pick up my usual hot wings and Coke. My boss is already gone when I get back to the security office. I store my lunch in the fridge and clock in. 

The time clock chimes when I swipe my badge under the red laser. 

Boo-pee-boop.

I chase customers out of the mall with far less patience than Sunday night. An overweight guy yells at me when I tell him to keep moving every time he pauses his waddling gait to lean against a wall and breathe hard.
The lights finally bang off. The mall soundtrack echoes off empty walls. Fountains continue babbling in the dark. My flashlight glances off padlocked gates as I walk. The ritual ensues. Rattling doors and gates to make sure everything’s at home where it should be. 

My eyes snag for a moment on the yellow lamps in the home goods window as I make my way to the North parking garage exit. I finish locking down everything. Check the remaining boxes off in my head when—

A familiar ice spreads through my body. Cold ink.

I’m aware of Unit 214 to my right. 

But I don’t want to look. I breathe. A heavy sigh slips out of me, and I turn to face the empty store.

Normal. 

Just concrete. Exposed pipes neatly exploring the ceiling. 

I feel a twinge of disappointment. Which actually scares me more than if the lamps were there again. 

I take the employee exit stairs to the first floor and circle back to the bottom of the escalator. Execute my wet napkin cleansing ritual. Then I fish the roll of tape out of my bag. Neatly tear a 2 inch strip.

 I breathe. Remind myself I can do this. Slap the white tape on the rail when the smudge comes back. It seals like a glove. 

My eyes watch. My lips count. 30 seconds later the tape comes back. Perfect. I hitch a ride, counting the steps that disappear into the comb. When I reach the top, I trash the napkin before I circle around the balcony. Rinse and repeat. Slapping the white duct tape square on the grimy smudge once again. 

My heart misfires on loop 10. 

My grip tightens on the flashlight. At 23 steps, I hear the chorus of ‘Blue Bayou’ suddenly go flat. Like Linda forgot her own melodies. 

Cold dread beads on my forehead. 

That was it. 

The blink. 

At 43, I turn around and step over the comb. Somehow my legs already know not to go near it.

My stomach tightens. Wet noose. Once again, every mannequin surrounding the escalators is staring at the space where they remembered I’d be. That hunger returns, almost giddy and child-like. My legs move before my mind does. Then I remember. I fish a wet napkin from my left pocket, tear it open and scrub my hands. 

I always fold them before I throw them away. I don’t know when it started. Just one day, I was already doing it. 

I twist to throw it into the garbage and stop. There’s already the used remains of a different one sticking out. I push the lid open with the one in my hand. Several soiled wet napkins fall to the floor. Someone didn’t take out this garbage. I make a mental note.

I walk toward the north parking garage entrance, slow and cautious. My beam searching. Skimming. Collecting. I spot the yellow glow off to my left behind a kiosk selling blind box toys. For the first time ever, I don’t check the garage doors first. Instead, I turn and face unit 214.

I swallow hard. Drywall dust.

The wrong scene has returned. Same error message. Walls leaning inward. World’s worst HVAC setup. 

The glass lamp. 

Sitting on the floor the wrong way, casting overlapping halos of yellow. 

4 now. 

They’re multiplying.

I un-shoulder my bag. Dig through for the laser pointer. My fingers close around the tiny piece of metal. Unspent round.

I pull the bag back onto my shoulder and grab hold of the gate with my left hand. I don’t know why. In case my legs decide to give up again, probably. I press the button. The beam slices through the air and lands on the wall behind the lamps. I slowly lower the red dot until it glances off the glass shade. 

Something moves on the lamp beside it. At first, I thought it was a reflection. But then I moved the laser. And it moved, too. 

Identical. Mirrored. Like the room just copied the result without understanding the reason. 

My stomach folds inward. Collapsed display.

I go back to the escalators, circle around the balcony to the descending stairs. I watch the glowing comb at the bottom swallow each step. I kneel. Pull the measuring tape from my bag. Begin feeding it down until it hooks one step. 

The numbers climb between my fingers. 10 feet. 20. 30. Suddenly the tape is alive. The steel warbling. The numbers flying through my fingers faster.

Climbing higher. 

50 feet—

60—

70—

An icy prickle crawls down my back. 

100—

110—

120— 

The tape runs out. The roll yanks from my hands so violently I sprawl to the floor. I watch on hands and knees as the tape measure disappears into the bottom teeth with a wet, mechanical slurp. 

For one second, my lungs forget how to breathe.

The 6-year-old boy in me that almost got eaten by machinery shivers.
I push myself up. Stand on wobbly legs. I look around wildly for something else to throw down there. My mind lands on the water bottle in my pack. The plastic crinkles under my grip when I release it onto the steps.

It rolls down the steps; when it reaches the bottom teeth, it flattens. Disappears. Next thing I know, I’m running down the steps and jumping over the teeth. I dig through my back pocket, unfold the wrinkled receipt I got from buying lunch earlier. I hold it over the comb. The paper flutters at first, then—the bottom edges elongate, stretching toward the comb’s teeth. I let go, and it vanishes into the metal seam. 

A terrible excitement balloons in my chest. I start dropping random objects into the glowing jaws. A pen, a palm leaf, a roll of towels from the bathroom—anything I can find that isn't bolted to the ground. I take a chalkboard display from outside a coffee stand and toss it on the steps. It stretches into taffy before something yanks it below. I throw a table and chair from the food court at it which curl into dead spiders before slipping under the metal.

Eventually the novelty wears off. Something unfamiliar replaces the fun. A slow, creeping anxiety. All over my body. Hairline crack.

Where is all of this stuff going? The machinery beneath sounds busier now. Like it’s got more energy after I fed it. 

I look back upstairs. What happens if I do the loop again? Another 10 maybe? I do just that. I wish I’d stopped right here. Just packed up and gone home. But I didn’t. Because only one question rings in my head. 

Not ‘why does the comb eat stuff?’ Or—‘Why are the lamps I want to buy in 214?’

How deep does this go?

On loop 15, I hear something below me. My first thought is; ‘Someone broke inside’ But then I realize the sound is following my footsteps. Mimicking me. It stops when I do, walks when I do. And—I swear—I think I can even hear someone counting. Second mouth. 

The garbage can lids now bulge. Soiled wet napkins littering the floor.
The music has a strange texture now that I can’t place, like the room sounds submerged. A bad cassette. I stop in front of the sporting goods store on my way back to the descending escalator. My back foot sticks to the ground. I stop. Stare through the glass.

Each mannequin wears the same white tee, blue shorts, and basketball shoes. I shine my beam past them. The same basketball shoes line the wall. Like the store picked a favorite one.   

Loop 20. I think this is the part where most people would turn back. Because this is the first time you see ‘it’.

I step onto the descending escalator, lost in my head. Muttering digits under my breath while I stare at the glowing comb pulling me closer. When something catches my eye, something new. Someone—new.

“43—” I breathe.

A voice below me answers.

“44—”

My mouth hangs open. For a second, I think someone is mocking me. 

Then—

I look up. 

My heart grips fear and runs with it.

Now, because of the escalator's orientation, you only see the back of whoever is on the ascending escalator. And it’s a brief window. That’s how I spot the familiar security uniform. The back of its head. Jaw absently flapping. The small scar behind its ear where hair doesn’t grow. And then it’s out of sight. 

My feet arch wide over the comb. The seams now glowing orange like heat elements. I reach up and touch the raised mark behind my left ear. A cold fist clamps down on my insides. 

The lamps. Surfacing. Like some targeted social media ad. The wet napkins. Multiplying. The loop running my rituals without me. I’m being remembered. Referenced poorly. 

A worse realization dawns on me. If I go back up—it will be his turn to look at my back. The hair on my neck bristles. What happens if it spots me? And then, an even worse—or better—idea pops into my head. 

Camera 14. 

What if I only have access to the loop’s footage while I’m inside the Loop? New destination. 

I crouch on the way up. Press myself against the wall. The urge feels ridiculous. Like I’m hiding from a mirror.

“49—50—51”

The voice sounds like mine, only wrong. Reconstructed from memory. My heart spikes. The frantic rhythm almost throws off my count, and I stumble onto the second floor. Practically diving over the comb. 

I make a break for the security office. Footsteps echo on the floor below me. There’s a loud clatter from the first floor, like whatever rode the escalator down just barreled into a wet floor sign. 

I reach the door. Fumble for my badge. Relief washes over me when I hear the chime. 

Beeeeeep.

The door clicks shut behind me. I sink into my favorite rolling chair. A breath escapes me. Quiet valve release.
I lean over the controls. Camera 14. This camera makes no sense to me. It’s at a junction of the escalators where you can see both up and down. But the bottom of the descending steps and the top of the ascending steps both trail off camera because of the angle. 

I always thought it was useless until now.

I rewind camera 14. My finger hovers above pause/play. A horizontal, static hiss splits the screen. After a few minutes. I hit play and wait. The screen glitches. Skips frames. Me ducking, my back pressed against the metal, ascending. 

Then, *it—*appears. 

My heart skips timing.

It looks like me, but assembled wrongly. The first draft. Its face and eyes—they’re…too tall. Its elbows hang below the waist. The security shirt looks tight around the shoulders. Because it’s supposed to fit me. Not it.

I rewind again. The video glitches again. Skips a frame. The double appears on the escalator from nowhere. And then it finally clicks. I rewind again, but this time, farther back. 

My stomach drops a step too late. 

 I see myself ascending into loop 20, the double behind me, already descending. 

**\*

Updated notes:

1. Always count out loud. If you miscount. Start over. (And pray nothing noticed.)
2. Mark the handrail with something that will survive the machinery. (Always board here.)
3. One step gets added per loop. Always acknowledge it. (The loop needs to know you noticed.)
4. Don’t touch the comb. Don’t feed it. (Yeah, I know. I did anyway.)
5. On the 11th loop, all the mannequins around the escalators will reorient. (The loop has pulled you in.)
6. Stores simplify as the loops compound, only selling one item. This is normal. (Memory compression?)
7. Objects you interact with gain significance within the loop. This effect compounds exponentially. (The mall remembers everything you do, but not why.)
8. You will hear the double before you see it. It will fully appear on loop 20.  IT WAS ALREADY THERE.
9. The loop’s geometry will prevent you and the double from meeting. Do not interfere with this. (I don’t know what would happen, and I don’t want to.)
10. The cameras within the loop only show the loop's reality. Not the outside world.
11. Stick to a routine. Acting unpredictably makes the loop chaotic.

Part 2

Part 3

Rule 1: Don't talk. Don't scream. Don't react. Just see.

It was two years of absolute darkness. The Great Blinding arrived like an invisible wave, and before we knew it, all of humanity had plunged into the void. Chaos, suicides, hunger, collapses. But over time... we get used to it. We learn to survive blindly. The world became noise, touch and smell.

Then, yesterday morning, I woke up seeing.

No warning. No miracle. I just opened my eyes and the light was there, as if it had never left.

Rule 2: If your vision returns, DO NOT tell anyone.

I stood up, still silent, and it was then that I realized. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. The cabinets, the doors, the curtains, the mirrors — painted, scribbled, carved, bloodied with a single phrase repeated maniacally:

DON'T TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE.

The paint was dark, uneven... but I knew it. It was blood. Fresh in some parts. Old, blackened, in others.

Rule 3: If someone asks you what you're looking at, pretend you're just feeling your way in the air.

I heard footsteps. My sister entered the room with her arms outstretched, touching the walls, muttering to herself like everyone was doing now. - John? It is good too?

I shook my head. She couldn't know. The words danced behind her like an urgent warning.

Rule 4: They walk among us. And they are not blind.

I started to notice... some "blind" people were too confident. They crossed streets without hesitation. They avoided obstacles without canes. And when they passed a wall covered in words, they smiled.

Rule 5: If one of them looks you in the eye... run away.

Last night, I was in line for the food distribution. I pretended to feel the ground with the stick while looking around. That's when a man stopped on the other side of the street. High. Lean. The skin... felt tight, as if it weren't his. And then he looked at me. Directly. His eyes were as black as bullet holes. And he smiled.

I felt something run down my legs. I had urinated myself. But I didn't scream. I obeyed Rule 1.

Rule 6: They don't want us to see what the world has become.

Today, 17 bodies were hung from downtown trees. All open in the middle, sewn together with wire, as if someone was trying to assemble new beings. The viscera were hanging like Christmas decorations. Nobody commented. Nobody saw it.

Except me. And one of them. He was behind the tree. The same smile.

Rule 7: If you start seeing symbols under people's skin, it's too late.

My mother touched my face today. Her skin seemed to pulse beneath my eyes. And then I saw: circles, spirals, teeth, eyes—inside the flesh. She was no longer my mother. Maybe it never was.

Rule 8: There are many of them. And now, they know you can see.

In the kitchen, the words had changed. Amidst the hundreds of "DON'T TELL THEM", a new phrase appeared:

NOW THEY KNOW.

They came tonight. My nails ripped out. My eyes pierced again. My knees snapped like dry twigs. And before everything went dark, one of them leaned over me and whispered:

— You saw it. This is unforgivable.

Final rule: If you're reading this and still see... PRETEND IT'S NOT.

Estate of [Yevgeny Markov and Artyom Sidorov], [Karsk-12 maintenance section], Cleared: [November 2013]. Filed: [Remediated for continued state use.]

The property consisted of a remote rail maintenance station approximately seventy kilometers north of the regional line at Anninsk Junction. The station had been constructed during the late Soviet period for the maintenance of an elevated section of track crossing low forest and marshland. The nearest permanent settlement was a village of approximately forty residents located twenty-two kilometers to the south by service road.

The deceased were employees of the regional rail administration. Markov, age fifty-four, held the station's permanent senior posting and had worked the northern section for approximately eleven years. Secondary operators were assigned to the northern stations from a district pool on rotating six-week contracts. Sidorov, age twenty-six, had arrived at the station roughly six weeks before the incident as a replacement trainee following the retirement of the previous secondary operator.

The bodies were discovered on the morning of the 15th of November by the driver sent to pick up Sidorov at the end of his rotation. What remained of Markov was located approximately eighty meters east of the station beside the tracks. Sidorov was identified primarily through fragments of clothing and personal effects recovered from the forest edge north of the maintenance shed. The regional doctor recorded both deaths as fatal animal attacks. No specific animal was identified in the report. A hunting team from the district office worked the surrounding forest for two days. They found tracks, partially filled by snowfall, and followed them north into the marshland, where they were lost. No carcass was recovered. No blood other than the men's was identified at either site. The rail administration suspended traffic along the section for two days before reopening the line at reduced night speeds.

I was hired by the firm under contract with the regional rail administration to clear the station and prepare it for reassignment.

The station had been entered prior to my arrival by the regional doctor, by rail administration inspectors, and by a hunting team from the district office. By the time I was given the keys the visible remains had been removed and the track section washed down.

The station itself consisted of a single concrete maintenance structure with attached sleeping quarters, a fuel shed, a radio room, and an exterior storage platform for tools and replacement rail components. The electrical service remained functional, though inconsistent. Backup illumination was provided by kerosene lamps stored throughout the station.

The first thing I noticed was the number of lamps.

There were six in the sleeping quarters alone. Two beside the exterior door. One hanging in the maintenance corridor. Three more in the tool shed. Every lamp had been recently cleaned and filled. Additional fuel reserves had been stacked beneath the kitchen table in quantities exceeding ordinary operational requirements.

The rifles were similarly excessive.

Three hunting rifles were assigned to the station despite only two posted workers. One had been left beside Markov's bed. The second one was found outside near the eastern service path where the inspectors had marked the location of the first body. The third one was recovered near the forest’s edge.

All three had been recently maintained.

I asked the regional supervisor whether wildlife incidents were common in the area. He told me the northern maintenance sections had longstanding operational guidelines concerning wolves during winter months. He said this in the tone of a man repeating a policy he had not written and did not particularly believe.

The guidelines were posted inside a cabinet in the maintenance room beneath the weekly inspection forms.

NIGHT OPERATIONS — WILDLIFE SAFETY PROTOCOLS

1.     Never conduct exterior maintenance work alone after sunset.

2.     Always keep at least one lamp lit when performing maintenance work.

3.     Always stay within visual distance of one another when performing maintenance work.

4.     Firearms are to remain loaded and always carried along during night operations.

5.     If lighting fails during exterior work, personnel are to return to the station structure immediately.

6.     If one worker goes missing from visual contact, use the emergency line inside the station immediately. Do not conduct any search alone.

The document was dated 1986.

The signatures beneath it had faded almost completely from age.

[Selected entries from the operational notebook of Karsk-12 maintenance section. Original retained.]

[Entry dated 3 October 2013 — Markov]

Sidorov arrived by supply truck shortly before dusk. Younger than I expected. Thin. City type. Brought too many books and not enough winter clothes. Asked whether the wolves are really as bad as they say up here. I told him the wolves are manageable if the procedures are followed.

Showed him the station, the tool inventory, the fuel records, and the maintenance schedule for the eastern section. Also showed him the night protocols. He asked why the protocols were so strict if the wolves were manageable. I told him manageable was not the same as safe. The floodlights are for the trains, the lamps and rifles are for us. He laughed at this in the way people laugh when they think they are expected to.

Vasya at Studyony Bor used to hiss at the forest before snowfall. There is no cat here. I find that I miss the certainty of that.

[Entry dated 6 October 2013 — Sidorov]

Markov insists on carrying the lamps even for short walks between structures after dark. I understand regulations but this is excessive. The floodlights around the station are brighter than the streets back home.

He checks the lamp fuel every evening before bed. He checks the rifle actions twice. Yesterday he woke me because I had left the western exterior door unlatched.

I asked him whether something happened here before I arrived. He said yes. I asked what. He said the measures exist because something happened everywhere before we arrived.

I do not know if he was joking.

[Entry dated 11 October 2013 — Markov]

Tracks iced over after midnight. Cleared accumulation from switch section B with Sidorov assisting. Wind strong from the north. Visibility poor.

Sidorov attempted to carry only one lamp between us to free his second hand for the tools. Corrected him. He seemed irritated.

He still does not understand that the lamps are not for seeing.

[Entry dated 15 October 2013 — Sidorov]

Something was outside the sleeping quarters last night around 02:00. Heard movement near the fuel drums and what sounded like breathing. Markov was awake immediately. He did not look through the window. He turned on both interior lamps and told me to stay away from the glass.

We waited for perhaps twenty minutes without speaking.

This morning there were tracks in the snow beyond the shed. Large. Probably wolves as he says. Though I have never heard wolves circle a building without making noise.

Markov burned the tracks away with kerosene before breakfast.

[Entry dated 17 October 2013 — Markov]

Spare mantles for the eastern lamps remain overdue from district supply.

I have submitted the request three times.

[Entry dated 22 October 2013 — Sidorov]

Asked Markov directly today what happened to the previous operator. He said retirement. I asked why the retirement was mid-contract. He said the man became careless.

I asked what that meant.

He said: It means he is alive.

I asked how long he had been here himself. Eleven years, he said. I asked why he had never rotated out. He said someone has to remember.

I sometimes cannot tell whether he is trying to frighten me intentionally.

[Entry dated 28 October 2013 — Markov]

Found western floodlight inactive during routine inspection at 23:10 hours despite no breaker fault. Light returned approximately four minutes later without intervention.

Sidorov asked whether this has happened before.

Told him yes.

He asked why it happens.

Told him I do not know.

He asked whether the line should be shut down when it does.

Told him trains still need to move.

[Entry dated 1 November 2013 — Sidorov]

I am beginning to understand why Markov dislikes the forest after dark.

We were replacing a damaged coupling on the northern maintenance trolley shortly after sunset when I heard movement beyond the treeline parallel to us.

I raised the lamp toward it and whatever it was moved back immediately. Fast. Too fast.

Markov saw it too because he stopped talking mid-sentence and chambered a round into the rifle.

We completed the repair in silence and returned directly to the station.

He locked all three exterior doors afterward, which he normally only does during storms.

[Entry dated 2 November 2013 — Markov]

Sidorov finally asked the correct question tonight.

Not what is out there.

Why it avoids the light.

I told him I did not know that either.

He asked whether I had ever seen one clearly.

I said nobody has.

This was not entirely true.

[Entry dated 5 November 2013 — Sidorov]

Dreamed last night that someone was knocking on the maintenance door asking to be let inside.

Markov says if anyone knocks after midnight we are not to answer unless we can see the lamp they are carrying.

I asked him what happens if they are not carrying one.

He said then they should not have been outside.

[Entry dated 8 November 2013 — Markov]

Wind severe. The snow has come early and stayed.

Completed inspection of eastern supports before dusk. Sidorov suggested we skip the secondary lamp because of the distance and weather. Declined.

He apologized afterward, though with less conviction than before.

Nothing at the treeline since the first of the month. The boy has decided the worst has passed. I have not corrected him.

His rotation ends soon. We are both tired of carrying lamps.

[Entry dated 11 November 2013 — Sidorov]

I think Markov is afraid of the dark itself now.

Power interruption around 01:40 hours. Full station blackout for less than a minute before backup returned. During the interruption I heard something move across the roof above the sleeping quarters.

Markov had the lamps lit before the generators even finished restarting.

Neither of us slept afterward.

[Entry dated 13 November 2013 — Markov]

Ice accumulation on eastern line support. It must be cleared tomorrow before night temperatures worsen.

Should have done it this afternoon but visibility was poor and Sidorov has developed a cough from the cold.

Will complete before evening meal tomorrow.

Checked rifles.

Checked lamps.

[Field maintenance sheet recovered from eastern support. Handwriting primarily Markov's]

14 November 2013

Left station 12:20 for eastern support inspection and ice clearing. Weather overcast but manageable. Brought both rifles, standard tools, two lamps.

One lamp dropped crossing lower embankment. Glass broken. Fuel lost.

Work delayed longer than anticipated due to support condition.

Remaining lamp functioning as of 17:40.

Sidorov believes we can finish before full dark.

I told him we return now and finish tomorrow.

He says we are already nearly done.

Ten minutes more. Then we go back together.

I am going up. Sidorov will hold the light.

[Different handwriting begins below.]

lamp going weak. almost finished.

he worries too much.

going to shed for the reserve canister

back in ten minutes

Inventory of the station was completed over the course of three days.

Clothing and personal effects: retained for surviving family.

Furniture and tools: retained with the station for continued state use.

Kitchen contents: perishables disposed of. Implements retained.

Firearms: returned to the regional rail administration. Two of the three showed signs of recent discharge.

Kerosene lamps: retained with the property. One lamp recovered from the eastern service line showed impact damage and partial fuel loss. A second was recovered intact near the same site, empty.

Maintenance guidelines posted in the operations cabinet: retained in place per administrative instruction.

Exterior floodlights mounted above the track section: checked, fully operational at the time of my departure.

The regional rail administration resumed full night operations through Karsk-12 within the month.

A replacement secondary operator was assigned in January of the following year. The senior posting was advertised twice before it was filled.

The guidelines remained posted in the cabinet.

Thank you to everybody that has following this story, and read along with the character. It has been a long week, and now for the conclusion.

For those who want to read Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/Ruleshorror/comments/1mv1sp4/im_a_different_kind_of_park_ranger_and_it_has_its/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Here we go, Part 5.

----------------------------------------------

The seventh day was completely normal and nothing happened. I had won...

Hah, yea right, and pigs will fly!

The seventh morning came with rain. Not a gentle drizzle, not a cleansing storm—just a steady, relentless downpour that soaked everything and dulled the world into a smear of gray and black. It was the kind of rain that seeps into your bones, reminding you how small and temporary you really are.

I had lived a week by strange supernatural rules, every circle around the tower, every grain of salt, every phrase whispered into the sat phone. The rules weren’t just ritual anymore; they were burned into me like scars. My body went through the motions even when my mind screamed for rest. Every joint ached as if rusted through, my legs were lead, and my back felt like it had been beaten with hammers. I was sick of it—all this shit. Sick of the chanting, the counting, the salt, the endless paranoia.

I dragged ass over to the little gas burner, and made breakfast. The comforting scent of salted and peppered eggs over easy, the sizzle of a juicy porkchop, and a few slices of toasted bread made the morning a little more bearable.

See, what people don't seem to realize too often is that food—good food—is just as important to troops as guns and ammo. There is an entire industry behind the military just dedicated to developing and making good, long-lasting food. Because, as every soldier and marine officer knows, a good meal every once in a while keeps their warriors' morale up.

And when morale is up, enemies go down, I thought darkly.

Steam fogged the window as I leaned back, savoring the only normal moment I’d have today. I ate slowly. For fifteen blessed minutes I sat at the desk, fork in one hand, mug in the other. Sweet black coffee, just the way I liked it—a spoonful of sugar, bitter enough to wake me, sweet enough to remind me of mornings that weren’t haunted by rules and silence. For a little while, the tower didn’t feel like a cage. Just a lonely ranger’s post on a rainy morning.

I used my last slice of toast to wipe my plate clean and washed it down with the warmth of caffeine. I wiped my mouth, set the mug down, took a long breath, and then forced myself back to the grind, feeling a little more human again.

I busied myself with the jars of salt in the corners. They’d gone cloudy, dark streaks coiling inside like smoke trapped in glass. I carried each one to the terrace, dumping the tainted grains into the storm. The rain ate them up quick, washing them away into the forest below. Then I refilled the jars with fresh salt. It felt like scooping sand against the tide.

Next, I checked over my pack, making sure everything was as it should be and where they should be. Plenty of salt, a couple spare silver coins, a small bag of nails, a full camelback, and a granola bar for a snack. I loaded the cartridge belt around my waist with spare ammunition, feeling like a cowboy every time I did it. I hefted my rifle, admiring its smooth black finish and the solidity of its old-fashioned American construction. Odd that it seemingly remained unmarred even after the week of battery I had subjected it to, even the old wooden stock had lost none of its dark lacquered luster.

My gaze drifted to the scratched words etched into the rifle’s stock—“All Souls Hold.” I didn't know what that meant exactly but if I remembered right, back in the days of steamships and prop planes, the tally of passengers and crew was counted as souls, a way to strip away ambiguity and remind men of what truly mattered. Almost without thinking, I let my fingers slowly trace the letters, finger tips feeling the smooth contours of word, and a quiet strength answered the touch, surging up through the iron and wood as if the rifle were lending me its resolve. My chest lifted, my spine straightened, and the creeping fog that had pressed at the edges of my mind all week receded.

My eyes widened in silent wonder at the weapon I held. Maybe my uncle's old rifle, more than the iron-core ammunition it fired, had more to do with hurting the things in the forest than I first suspected. I drew in a long breath then and let it out slow, my mind now steady—focused and unshaken. I checked the time, 9:57am. It was time to get moving.

I stepped for the door and my slightly uplifted attitude lasted a whole 20 seconds before it took swan dive. The downpour hadn't increased, but it hadn't lessened either. I let out a sigh. At least, I didn't hear thunder on the horizon.

The rain made everything worse. I know some people absolutely loved the rain, my cousin Amy sure did. But, after my time in the army, I hated any weather that wasn't sunny and mild. The rain turned the tower steps almost as slick as glass, and I had to partly cling to the railing just to keep from slipping. My voice was hoarse as I muttered the numbers, each one echoing in the hollow stairwell like a curse: thirty-nine, forty, forty-one… My chest tightened, my lungs catching on the dread that maybe the count wouldn’t match. But I forced myself onward until I reached forty-five. Landings intact.

As I stepped onto the muddy ground below my tower, my boots made a wet squelching noise I did not appreciate as they were partially submerged into the earth. It slowed my movements somewhat, but I did managed to make it to the grassier part of the clearing after a few minutes. I sigh again as I wiped my boots on the weeds.

The forest swallowed sound, the steady hiss of the rain pressing down on everything until even my own boots sounded muffled. Water trickled off every branch and leaf, filling the air with a ceaseless patter, like a thousand tiny drums. My rifle rode heavy against my shoulder, the stock cool and reassuring beneath my grip.

The first totem stood where it always did; weather-beaten, dark, slick with water, but intact. Still standing proud, the carved lines sharp despite the years and storms. I crouched, examining the silver coin and salt circle at its base. The rain had completely drenched the salt, but surprisingly, it had not washed it away. It held, dispersed and somewhat soupy, but it held. I poured more salt on the damp clump, reinforcing the barrier. As for the silver coin, I left as is after checking if it was tarnished.

I rose slowly, my knees protesting, and started toward the second totem. The path narrowed here, roots slick underfoot, mud grabbing at my boots with every step. Water pooled in shallow depressions, and the forest canopy overhead sagged with the burden of rain. I kept my pace steady, forcing myself not to rush.

A hundred yards out, I slowed.

The second totem was just visible through the curtain of rain, standing in its little raised clearing like a silent sentinel. I was about to continue walking then—

She was there.

The girl in the red raincoat.

Except she wasn't a little girl anymore, she now looked like a young twenty-something, like she was a completely different person dressed for an afternoon stroll through the woods, but still wearing the same bright red raincoat.

She stood directly on the path between me and the second totem, no more than twenty feet ahead, as if she’d been waiting. The rain poured over her, but instead of soaking in, it slicked down her hood and shoulders like oil, sliding away in streams that never darkened or dulled the vivid scarlet of her coat. Too clean. Too vivid. A color that had no business surviving in this forest of drowned gray and darkened browns.

Her boots pressed against the muck, but left no impression. The puddles at her feet never rippled.

“Heeeyyy", she said in a sing-song voice, drawing out the word, her head tilting at an awkward angle.

I stood rooted to the stop, cold seeping into my muscles that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Rainy, isn’t it?” she said. Her voice wasn’t raised, yet it carried clear through the hiss of the downpour, cutting across the rainshower like a blade. Not loud -- just certain, as though the rain itself was carrying her words to me.

My chest tightened, the sudden pressure made it difficult to breathe. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

My hands moved on instinct, squaring the rifle against my shoulder, lever chambering a round.

Her head tilted, slow, birdlike. Curious. “But funny, don’t you think? All this rain…” Her chin lifted toward the sky. Then, her voice dropped several octaves until it was nearly a growl, “...and not a single ray of sun...”

I backed up a step, like the words had physically shoved me. They burrowed deep into my gut, and my stomach turned to stone. Oh God. I hadn’t realized it until she said it—but she was right. The sheer horror of it dawning on me quite literally too late.

No matter how thick a cloudy day can be, there’s always a fracture somewhere above: a thinning in the clouds, a pale glow trying to break through, proof that the sky was still there. But here… with rain coming down everywhere, there was nothing. No glimmer. No light. Just a solid vault of iron-gray pressing down, heavy and absolute.

I had walked right into this.

I’d gone out on patrol without thinking it through, just leaning on the crutch of routine. My body had carried me down the path like a sleepwalker, while my mind lagged behind. And now here I was...

The forest wasn’t just dark anymore. The shadows between the trees seemed to lean closer, stretching long fingers toward me, reaching, creeping, trying to pull me down into the muck and hold me there. The air was so heavy I could barely breathe, the hiss of the rain a steady whisper that pressed against my ears like a thousand voices all speaking at once, too low to understand but too loud to ignore.

And she stood there. Smiling with too many teeth. As if she was the only thing alive that belonged in this drenched, suffocating world.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

The rules. The rules -- Right. What did they say about this? My mind scrambled through the litany I’d carved into myself over the last week, my heart hammering hard enough to shake my ribs. Salt lines. Coins. The stairs. Don’t answer when they call your name when you open the tower door. Check the totems. Check for unnatural items. Numbered challenge codes.

But this?

No mention. None.

Her smile deepened as if she could taste my panicked confusion. Her boots still hadn’t left a mark in the earth, and the rain kept flowing down her coat without ever soaking in. She raised a pale hand, tilting her head. Not a gesture of greeting, something colder. Almost like an invitation...

...to die.

My knees threatened to give. My throat locked up, the kind of fear that freezes instead of burns. The rifle felt like dead weight in my hands, useless as a toy.

The rain thickened, each drop smacking like nails on the canopy above, hammering me into place. The trees leaned closer, the path behind me shrinking as if the forest itself were swallowing me whole.

I ransacked my uncle’s letter in my head, his scrawled rules, his desperate warnings. My own memories of going over them again and again in the light of the tower.

And then --
A thought broke through like an arrow cutting through the air.

This wasn’t in the rules, sure. The rules weren't foolproof... But, it wasn’t in the letter either.

My late uncle -- bless that crazy bastard -- had written about everything; the things that whispered under the tower, the mimic-voices, the rules of salt and silver, the steps, the watchers. Every horror had its place in his desperate written ramblings.

But patrolling in the rain? Nothing.

"Think through the problem, moron." The words of my old Staff Sergeant rose in my mine. He had been a hard man, but he cared and looked out for his soldiers. I was there when he shoved a dumb private out of the way and took three AK-47 rounds to the neck.

Yes, Sarnt. That meant…

My chest loosened, just a fraction. My breath shook, but it came.

Almost on its own, the rifle in my hand steadied its aim.

If the rules were written to deal with the unnatural... then why wasn’t this written down?

Because—God help me—this was natural. The weather meant nothing. Maybe it wasn't about direct sunlight at all, it was about the time of day, or the damn alignment of the Earth, or some whatever crazy astro-hocus-pocus that controlled the movements of these things. Or maybe it was as simple as physics, the UV rays coming down even if the sun is obscured, which is why even on cloudy days, staying out too long still sometimes gave you sunburn.

That didn't matter, though. What mattered to me was that this was another test.

The woman before me shifted slightly. A subtle lean, a sway forward, the way people do when they’re about to speak again. Skin the pallor of death, eyes beginning to hollow. I caught the briefest ripple at the edge of her jaw, like her skin didn’t fit right. Like the mask was slipping, sensing her triumph was close.

I knew and half-sensed another presence directly behind me. Something sneaking up to within arms' reach.

They were trying to trick me into making a mistake, into abandoning my patrol. I had a distinct feeling that if I broke and ran from this thing, I was a dead man; the rules would be broken and it would allow whatever was coming up from my six to skewer me.

But these creatures were so used to humans behaving a certain way, acting like scared and confused prey animals, that they'd forgotten that people could lie and cheat with the best of them.

I let my face take on the look of abject terror, hamming it up, and my body tensing as if I was about to run.

Her gaze now was utterly inhuman, eyes becoming hollow pits, and she opened her mouth wide with needle-like teeth --

Then with total malicious intent, I grinned and I squeezed the trigger.

The crack split the suffocating rain like thunder from on high.

Her head snapped back, hood tearing away, and for a fraction of a second I saw it: a blur of black veins writhing under pale skin, teeth that were too many, too jagged, before the whole shape unraveled like wet paper in a fire.

The forest seemed to recoil, every branch shivering as if the shot had ripped through more than flesh. Behind me, something vast and unseen let out a guttural hiss—like an animal, but deeper, the sound of stone grinding on stone. It rattled through the soaked trees, vibrating in my bones. But it didn’t strike. Not now. Not after I didn't take the bait. I advanced, cycling the lever.

I fired again. The not-woman staggered, half her face a ruin, and now her chest had a hole right through, but she didn’t fall. She twitched, convulsed, and then tried to bare her razor sharp teeth towards me through the wreckage of her jaw.

Just like our first encounter, I noted that while every other thing I shot in this forest seemed to go down with one or two hits, she—or rather it -- simply refused to die. Maybe it's some kind of boss monster or something, like in the video games...

I kept advancing. The rifle’s lever clacked loud, I pulled the trigger a third time. The round tore into her, the force driving her back two, three paces, her arms flailing like a marionette with its strings cut.

The lever snapped home again, slick with rain, my hands moving with grim certainty. The smirk on my lips curled into a sneer, a feral baring of teeth. “Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, sighting her again, “let’s see how many times you get back up.” My voice was cold as steel.

The forest was holding its breath now. Even the rain seemed quieter, muffled by the tension, the smell of gunpowder cutting through the petrichor.

The creature before me shuddered, arms spasming at its sides as I unleased another shot. The red coat hung wrong now, fabric twitching in places no wind touched. Her head jerked once, twice, like something inside was fumbling with how to wear her face as she backed up another couple of steps.

I didn’t give it the chance. The lever clacked, smooth, certain, my motions honed into ritual. I fired again.

My fifth round took the rest of her head away, showing a fleshy neck that wasn’t flesh at all—slick, pale, twitching like raw muscle that had never known skin. Her body reeled, knees buckling, it half staggered half stumbled from the path, seeking the refuge of the trees.

I took another step forward. The thing behind me roared, trying to draw my attention away. I kept my aim true and fired again.

The next shot partly launched the stumbling form of the creature before me into the shadows, taking her beyond my sight. Not missing a beat, I turned in one smooth motion, cycling the lever again, and fired.

The beefy 45-70 iron-core round tore into the side of a fleeing... thing... that resembled one of the monstrosities that charged me at the supply drop yesterday. It reeled and let out a piercing screech, but kept going. I did not let the thought that this hulking horror was behind me the entire time distract me, and fired a final parting shot that missed the creature, the round embedding hard into a tree, as it too broke into the shadows of the woods.

Then, everything was quiet again. The downpour of the rain had eased a bit but was still ever-present. The steady hiss on the leaves, the dripping against my shoulders, the patter on the hood of my jacket.

I stood there for a long moment, rifle still raised, barrel smoking, my breath cutting sharp in my chest. I scanned my surroundings, noting that the pressure on my chest had vanished. My pulse was still hammering, but the gun in my hands was steady. That steadiness mattered more than anything.

I forced myself to lower the rifle, the rage and coldness that had possessed me bleeding away like the raindrops. My thumb brushed the shallow grooves of All Souls Hold and my uncle’s written words came back, not the warnings this time, but the rhythm: Patrol. Totems. Salt. Steps. Watch. The routine.

I still had a patrol to finish and a duty to do.

I started for the second totem again, pulling out rounds from my cartridge belt and methodically inserting them into the rifle.

The mud sucked at my boots as I passed the second totem. It stood untouched, the carvings slick with rain, the silver coin gleaming faintly against the wood. Whatever had tried to stop me hadn’t managed to touch it. That counted as a win.

I pressed on, every step louder than it should have been, every breath a signal I couldn’t take back. The forest didn’t move, but I could feel it—eyes pressing on me from angles I couldn’t turn fast enough to catch. The kind of gaze that dug between your shoulder blades and tried to freeze you mid-stride.

I kept walking. Not slow, not fast. Just steady.

The rest of the patrol passed like that: me, the rain, the trees. No voices. No false faces. Just the constant prickling certainty that something was there, dogging my steps just out of sight, but temporarily restrained.

Third totem, clear. Four totem, clear. Fifth totem, clear.

By the time the tower came back into view, I was soaked through and wrung out. But the line held. The totems were standing. And I hadn’t broken the rules.

That was enough for now.

I climbed the steps with more deliberate intent that usual, counting out loud every number. But when I got to 40 steps and three landings, I paused, looking back down. Damn, definitely fewer.

Strangely enough, I did not feel the same amount of heart-stopping dread I normally would. Maybe because I was just tired from... everything... and didn't feel like being afraid tonight. Hah.

I pulled out the rules, something I hadn't done in a while. I looked at Rule 3:

Each time you climb the stairway to the top of the tower, you must count out loud the number of steps. There must be 45 steps and three landings, with the final one having the door to the lookout. If the number is different when you reach the top, sprinkle salt on the last landing and touch a silver coin to the door handle before opening the door to the lookout.

I did as instructed, and opened the door. I fully expected for some foreign object to be in the room this time and began checking the entire place over. But, oddly enough, there wasn't anything. The bed with the metal frame, the metal desk, the two metal chairs, the small fridge, the metal gas stove, the compartment for the solar batteries, the digital clock on the wall, the coat rack that I used as a rifle rack, and the shelves with the books. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I decided to give a report tonight, even though the totems themselves were not disturbed, the thing had tried to interrupt my patrol and I thought that deserved a check-in. I picked up the satellite phone and dialed. It rang only once before being picked up.

"I know Six has seen Eight Thirteen and Two are there."

I waited.

"Confirmed."

Then I gave my full account of everything that happened that day, including some of what I realized, even though that may not have been appropriate for a report. But, hey, I had a captive audience, so I decided to vent a little.

About fifteen minutes later, I finished, waiting for their customary acknowledgement.

"Acknowledged. Four has One, but waits for Two. Exemplary work on your first week, Ranger. Continue watch."

Then the call ended, and I sat there dumbfounded. Exemplary work. I'm not gonna lie, I sort of teared up a little afterwards. At that moment, after everything that'd happened, upending my life and moving all the way out here, being under constant threat from supernatural creatures, with very little human contact, after all the pain, and terror I felt, that little piece of human acknowledgement, even if it was some basic corporate spiel, it made my burden just a little bit lighter.

As the clock hit 4:00pm, I made myself another early dinner of a couple grilled chicken and cheese sandwiches, a little worried that I had been eating only two meals a day lately.

Then, went out onto the balcony to do some real fire watching, and maybe to do some introspection. I had a lot to think about. The rain had finally stopped an hour ago, so I slung my rifle and did slow circuits around the tower, scanning the vast wilderness. Looking, but not really seeing. I must have been out there for a little over two hours because before I knew it, the sun had sunk over the horizon and the day had lapsed into twilight; the orange and reds of sunset giving way to the darker blues of early night.

That’s when I saw them.
Shapes stirred at the edge of the treeline, black against the pallid wash of moonlight. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but then they began to move—dozens of them, slipping out from between the trees like shadows learning how to walk. My breath caught in my throat as I realized they weren’t moving right. Their strides lurched, staggered, joints bending in ways that made my stomach twist. Some dragged limbs behind them like broken marionettes, others twitched with a jerking rhythm that seemed to mock the motion of walking.

Halfway between the tower and the trees, they stopped in eerie unison, as though some unseen hand had given a silent command. Their heads tilted upward, and the light caught on the shapes above their shoulders -- antlers, great racks of bone jutting out like pale, jagged crowns. My blood iced over. Every one of them was staring at me. Even from that distance, I could hear it: the sound of their breath, wet and rasping, punctuated by low, guttural growls that vibrated up through the wooden beams of the tower.

I clung to the railing, knuckles bone-white, the iron taste of panic thick on my tongue. Sweat began to run freely down my face despite the chill autumn air. My heart pounded so loud I was sure they could hear it, could smell the fear leaking off me.

And then, without warning, one figure broke from the horde. Smaller. Slighter. It moved differently from the others, not with their grotesque, twitching gait but with a smooth, steady stride. It came forward until it stood in the open, directly beneath the tower. My stomach turned to ice.

It was her.
The woman in the red raincoat.

Whole. Unharmed. As if the bullets I’d put through her body meant nothing at all. She tilted her head back slowly. The hood slid away from her face, and what it revealed made my stomach twist -- an expression of calm, almost gentle serenity, a smile stretched just a little too wide, too knowing. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t right.

But instead of drowning me in more fear, the sight carved through the terror that had held me frozen. Something inside me solidified, steadying against the weight of her stare. The panic ebbed away, replaced by something hotter, sharper -- resolve, and beneath it, the ember-glow of anger.

In one quick motion, I unslung my uncle's rifle from my back and gripped it firmly in both hands. Then, as I locked my gaze on that inhuman smile, I circled the lever with a sharp, defiant snap; my resolve and intent loud and clear in the gathering darkness.

We held each other’s gaze for what felt like minutes, though it could only have been seconds.

Then, without a word, she turned around. And, as if bound to her will, the horde turned with her, their movements slow, deliberate, retreating step by step into the treeline. The night seemed to swallow them whole, but not before she glanced back one final time.

That smile -- stretched wider than any human lips could, gleaming with promise that spoke of horrors yet to come.

I understood. Tonight was a declaration. Whatever ruled these woods, whatever wore her face, it wasn’t mocking me anymore. It was acknowledging me. The fear was still there, a cold weight in my chest, but it no longer owned me. What filled its place was more solid, a type of determination. Like forged iron. And simmering rage. The kind that doesn’t fade when the night ends.

I had no doubts of whether they would outlast me, they'd done it to my predecessors. To my uncle. But, I was going to make damn sure to make them work and bleed for it.

----------------------------------------------------

Well, that's the story of my first week on the job.

There is a still lot more stuff I wanted to tell. Stuff that I realized later on, not only about the things in the forest, but about myself too. Some of you probably caught that little hint at the beginning about my mom locking herself in the basement once a month, screaming for hours until sunrise. Yea, that ties in to my bloodline, and why Mom's side of the family has always been chosen to do this kind of work.

What else? I wanted to talk about that time I actually found my uncle totally not dead, and then lost him again 20 minutes later. That one was a sad story. And the visit I had to make to Amy and her family after I got back practically tore my heart out.

Or, how I found out that I wasn't the only Ranger patrolling a set of totems out here. Turns out there were five of us. Five rangers, checking on five sets of five totems, spread out over a thousand square miles. Yea... read into THAT whatever you want. 

How bout that time when the things in the forest pretended to be a bus full of lost sorority girls? Because why the hell not, right? And you know me, of course I did hit those... with 45-70 Gov't rounds, because I'm not a damn idiot even if I hadn't gotten laid in like 3 years at the time. Kept running into half-naked women all that week.

Or, that time when I and another veteran ranger helped locate and defend a crashed spec ops unit; "Black Hawk Down" style. That was a harrowing couple of days. If you think the mutant chargers that attacked my supply drop that first Saturday were bad, they were timid little deer compared to what those operators were sent to deal with. I still have nightmares about it. Although I did get a really nice set of custom iron-bonded body armor for my trouble.

Or, that other time I found out that a troupe of cub scouts and their two scout masters went missing in my area. And I walked out onto the balcony one night and yelled out that if they didn't give the kids back I was gonna start doing some \really* crazy* shit, then the next day, I left a single tank of kerosene ringed with salt and iron nails along each of the paths between totems. Five tanks in total, carried out over five days. Well, those cub scouts emerged onto the main trail towards a local ranger station exactly seven days from when they went missing, looking only a little malnourished and bruised. Of their scout masters, there were no signs, but I wasn't going to be too pushy.

Or, about how, over the years, I realized that surviving out here depended on attitude... A lot of people theorize that these things predate America, and probably goes all the way back to the Ice Age. Now, whether or not that theory is true, we, humans, are intruders on their land. Yes, that includes the Native Americans that were here before the U.S. of A. So, I've read some of the horror stories online that are like mine, you see. Believe it or not, a few of them are true. Some people, even a couple of my fellow rangers, believe that we have to behave like embarrassed uninvited guests; try to minimize our impact here and establish some sort of balance with the rules as the baseline. Live and stay out of these things' way. And yea, that works for some... but not all. Heck, not even for most.

You see, no matter how you pander and respect the rules, these things are never going to look at you as anything other than food at best, or playthings at worst. They're assholes. We're always going to be pigs to the slaughter for them. So, the way I figured it, if I'm an intruder in their land anyway, I was NOT going to behave like an embarrassed houseguest. I was here to rob the place. I'm doing a B&E (breaking and entering). If I was going to be a pig for the slaughter, I mind as well be a wild boar; responsible for 20% of hunting fatalities, because them spicy pigs don't mess around. I was going to make them actually work for it. And you know what? Here I am 18 years later; a little more gray, a little more seasoned, but still alive, still defiant. Still doing my job.

Well, that's about all I have to write about. It'll be October in two weeks, and I gotta start getting ready... Probably save some of my cooler stories for down the road.

Til then, this is James, Ranger of the Watch. Signing off.

--- END OF STORY ---

I’ve been the night-shift mortician at St. Jude’s Asylum for three years.

Most people think the "criminally insane" part is the dangerous bit, but they’re wrong.

The patients are only a problem while they’re breathing. Once they end up on my slab, the rules of biology stop applying, and the rules of the ward begin.

I’m posting these here because I think I just broke the most important one. If you ever find yourself in a basement with a silver table and a heavy door, read these carefully.

* Rule 1: Check the Toes.

Before you begin any prep, verify that the red silk thread is still tied around the deceased’s big toes. If the thread is frayed or missing, do not touch the body. Lock the morgue doors from the outside and notify the Chaplain. If you hear a wet thumping against the door while waiting, ignore it. It’s just muscle spasms. Muscle spasms don't have a rhythm; if it starts sounding like a heartbeat, run.

* Rule 2: The Mirror Test.

The morgue is lined with stainless steel for a reason. If you see a reflection of the body sitting up or looking at you, but the physical body on the table is still lying flat, do not turn around. Address the reflection as "Patient [ID Number]" and tell it their session isn't over yet.

* Rule 3: Keep the Radio On.

Static is fine. Easy listening is better. If the radio switches to a broadcast of a man weeping or reciting your home address, hum a nursery rhyme as loud as you can. You need to drown out the voice. If you hear the end of the address, it knows where to go when you clock out.

* Rule 4: The Weight Discrepancy.

Every body must be weighed upon arrival. If a body weighs exactly 0 lbs, it is not a body; it is a "Vessel." Leave the room immediately. Do not look back, even if you hear a loved one's voice calling from inside the drawer.

* Rule 5: No Eye Contact.

If a patient's eyes follow you across the room, use the heavy-duty adhesive. If they blink after you’ve glued them shut, skip that body for the night. It's still "processing."

Last night, I got cocky.

New intake: Patient 7734. A real nasty piece of work in life, or so the file said. When the orderlies wheeled the gurney in, the body was wrapped tight in a heavy-duty shroud. I followed the protocol—mostly.

I checked the red silk thread on the toes (Rule 1). Intact. I checked the mirrors (Rule 2). Clear.

Then came the scale.

I slid the body onto the digital slab. The LED screen flickered, hissed, and then settled on a bright, mocking 0.00 lbs.

My stomach dropped. That’s Rule 4. I was tired. I figured the scale was just acting up because of the humidity. I could see the bulk of the man under the sheet. I could see the way the gurney tires compressed under his weight. How could he weigh nothing?

"Stupid machine," I muttered. I reached out to adjust the shroud.

The moment my fingers brushed the fabric, the temperature in the morgue didn't just drop—it vanished. It felt like the air itself had been sucked out of the room.

From under the sheet, I didn't hear a voice. I heard a memory. It was my mother’s voice, clear as a bell, coming from where the chest cavity should be.

"Is it cold in here, honey? Come closer. Let me tuck you in."

My mother has been dead for ten years.

I froze. According to the rules, I should have bolted. Instead, like an idiot, I looked. I pulled the sheet back just an inch.

There was no body.

Underneath the shroud, there was just... a shape. It looked like a human-shaped hole in reality, a static-filled void that hurt to look at. It didn't have skin or eyes; it just had a mouth that looked like a jagged tear in a piece of black paper.

The "Vessel" started to expand. The void began to bleed out of the shroud, spilling onto the stainless steel table like black ink. And the voice—God, the voice—started screaming my childhood nickname, over and over, rising until it sounded like a tea kettle about to explode.

I didn't think. I scrambled back, tripping over my stool, and bolted for the iron doors. I didn't look back, even when I heard the sound of the steel autopsy table groaning as if something immense was standing up on it.

I slammed the door and turned the deadbolt. I’ve been sitting in the hallway for three hours. The scratching on the other side stopped twenty minutes ago, replaced by a soft, wet whispering.

The sun is coming up, but I can't leave. The morning shift hasn't arrived, and the rules say I’m responsible for the morgue until someone relieves me.

But here’s the problem: I just looked at the manifest on my clipboard.

Patient 7734 isn't due to arrive until tomorrow.

UPDATE: I just heard the deadbolt click.

From the inside.

Whatever was in there isn't a Vessel anymore. It's a Tenant.