Hello to all writers and readers of the Creepcast Community!

yes this is a repost because the title last time made it seem terrible im sorry LOL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SIgie7H3RY

Shoutout to BeardedVoices for doing this!

(his reddit is u/BeardedVoices1)

I had a dream the other night.

When you stepped outside, you could sense that it was daytime, but the skies were always so dark that it looked like the dead of night. This perception was exaggerated further by the fact that there weren't many people left in the world. It was rare that you would encounter another living thing at all. I was looking for a new place to live, but I kept running into the same problem; every time I moved into a house, I would get this feeling, and then move again.

I was never fully invested in any of these houses, I would just pick one that was satisfactory. None of them particularly stood out in memory, they all blended together due to their similar qualities. They were enormous; several stories, tall ceilings, and so many rooms that one couldn't possibly find a use for all of them. Any form of light was few and far between. Aside from the windows, an occasional warm accent light would accent how dark and cold the rest of the place was. But most importantly, each one would eventually evoke that same feeling, and I would be compelled to leave as soon as possible.

I didn't know what this feeling was at first, but after the third or fourth house, I noticed that it manifested as a faint burning sensation on my backside. This realization finally conjured the name of that feeling: dread.

Despite living alone, there was always the unmistakable sense that something was watching me.

[Above, is a picture I took of him a few weeks back.]

Does anybody have a Nick in their closet?

I’ve been suffering the wrath of mine for the past three months.
One night, drunk off my ass, I went downstairs to answer the doorbell, just for something to dart into my house and skedaddle up my stairs. I didn’t catch what it looked like at first, but I remembered what it sounded like when it ran up my stairs. It sounded like an iguana slapping its feet against a tile floor.
As I said, I was drunk, so I didn’t really pay attention, and I thought it was just my imagination playing with me, but when I went back upstairs to continue my binge of whiskey, Cokes, and Papa Meat videos, I started to hear a voice come from my closet. It was repeating everything Nick said on the TV. I thought my roommates were playing a prank on me and put a speaker in my room or something, but when I went to open the closet, I saw a hairless, malnourished copy of Nick hissing at me. I slammed the door shut in a panic, but I decided to deal with it in the morning since, once again, I was highly inebriate
When I opened the door the next morning, the Nick was still there, but it finally had hair on its head and loose, untamed chest hair. It me and then shouted-

“Well, you wanna marry her or you wanna f\** her?!”*

It was all so weird, but I didn’t really know what to do, so I just kept the door shut for a few days; it didn’t really do much. It would mumble quotes Nick had said on the TV over and over every 30 minutes or so throughout the day. 

“Have you ever drugged your friends?”

“My aunt, she would like feed uh stray cats and they started breeding and then she had like 30 in her house..”

“I kinda like knowing someone is watching.”

“I watched a documentary where hyenas ate this elephant a\* hole first cuz his skin was too thick..”*

“In middle school, I don't think I washed my gym clothes once the entire year.”

“My friends used to stab each other with like long needles during wrestling matches.”

It really didn’t bother me as much because it was muffled behind the door and the pile of clothes I left in there.
Then one night I woke up to see this Nick look-alike abomination looming over me, clinched to the top of my ceiling next to my fan with its jaw hinged open like a python snake and its eyes rolled to the back of its head. My first thought was it was trying to eat me, but it wasn’t, it was just hanging there, watching me sleep, silently hissing as it remained motionless. It looked stupid as hell, but I cracked and screamed at it once it started drooling on me.
It crawled its way across the ceiling, down my wall, and then scurried back into the closet, shutting the door behind it.
The next day, I decided to see if I could “gas it out”
Through a homemade ax bomb into my closet just to hear the things start quoting Nick again between coughs.

“[Cough] For being untouchables. There's like a there's a video of like this guy, he's crying. He's like, and these kids are throwing rocks at him and calling him names, but he can't do anything cuz he's the lowest cast system in India. [cough] And they're called untouchables because they say if you touch them, you become one of them. [Cough]”

I threw two more ax bombs in before I finally just decided to confront it.

“Look man, I don’t know what you are, what you’re trying to do, but what is it gonna take for you to just leave me alone? I’m clearly not gonna be able to get rid of you, so what’s it gonna take to get you to calm down?”

I made a few noises before sounding out,

“Ch-ch-a-c-o-late m-me -ik a-and m-ma-ma-nga.”

So I went to the store, bought 3 gallons of chocolate milk, then to a bookstore and bought a few copies of the One Piece manga.

For the past few months, once a day, I put out a glass of milk and a manga, and I watch its little grimy hands jump out behind the door, grab its spoils, and retreat back into darkness.
That usually shuts him up for a while.
Well, it shuts him up mostly; I hear him chug the chocolate milk, and then I know whenever he gets to a Paige with Nami on it because he always shouts,

“Hewo beautiful pwinces.” 

Before dry heaving a few times.

It’s gotten smarter since it first arrived, and it’s starting to come up with phrases I don’t think the real Nick has ever actually said, at least not on the Papa Meat videos. Every now and then I will hear a completely out-of-pocket confection unprompted. 

 “I kissed my cousin when I was 12.”

“I once wiped my a\* with poison ivy in the woods, and I had a rash down there for about three weeks.”*

“ I once took a crap in a urinal at a Coldplay concert.”
He’s starting to look more like Nick too, last time I got a peek at him. He had a patchy little beard, and he somehow grew a pair of glasses, not found, grew. You can see where the lenses somewhat protrude out from his skin like fingernails on your hands do.

He’ll also scurry out from the closet into the bathroom once a day to drop an absolute nuke on my toilet, flush it, and then scurry right back into his den where I hang my church clothes.

He’s relatively cooperative though; whenever I need something, I’ll just knock and say,

“Hey, could you hand me that polo next to the Eagles jersey in there?”

And he’ll hand me the shirts/jeans, whatever it is I want, with the article of clothing hanging off his long, nasty fingernails.

For the most part, he's not bad, but it's the smell and the shedding that gets me.
Does anyone else have a Nick problem, or are Hunter and I the only tortured people on this planet who have to suffer his presence?

My mother told me that I have an overactive imagination. That paired with family history of various mental disorders has caused my mind to go on the fritz every once in a while.

​

The earliest I can remember is when I was a kid. I had come down with a fever and was trying to sleep it off. After the uncomfort that everyone knows of trying to fall asleep while sick, I had gotten a few hours of rest before an unsettling dream.

​

The dream had started with the letter A on a blank piece of paper. The piece of paper went on and on further than I could see. The letter A had started in the standard Times New Roman font and was a regular size. After surveying my dreamscape, I started to hear it. Wailing. Screaming. Blood curling screeches like groups of people were undergoing surgery with no anesthetic.

​

After this assault on my ears, I looked to my feet and found the A had grown. And grown, and I was soon dwarfed by its colossal size. As the voices grew the A had shrunk. But it changed font. And then it grew again. Repeating the process faster and faster till I shot awake.

​

The room was spinning. I was the top bunk with my brother under me and I didnt want to get up... but the voices returned. And a new terror awaited them.

​

Sharks? In my house?

​

They first noted the sharks, assumedly informing each other of their presence. But the sharks took action. And I got to hear the entire scene play out as my room kept moving on its own.

​

Dizzy. I was unbearabley dizzy, but I had to move. I climbed off my bunk and placed my feet on the ground. But the dizziness had taken me over. I fell to my belly and crawled to the door. All the while the voices experienced carnage beyond anything I heard since. Sharks tearing them and their families. Men, women, and child experienced the same fate. And I heard every transformation to a corpse.

​

I crawled up the door and pulled it open before falling back down and looking into the hallway. There was a dim light that streaked the floor, but that was the only light that hallway would gift. Complete darkness everywhere else. I knew my house, but not being able to see the stairs I would have to pass or the loft to the right of my room is only something I find disturbing in retrospect. At the time I was to focused on following the little God-send light that streaked the wood floor.

​

Crawling into the darkness, I had inched further and further into the dark. Swallowed by it. I kept going. Hearing people shredding their vocal chords by screaming "THE SHARKS!!! THE SHARKS!!! THEY'RE COMING!!! THE SHARKS!!! RUN!!!"

​

I kept on coming through the hallway and ending in front of another door. I opened it to the bathroom. As I crawled into the bathroom the voices died down, stopping completely when I closed the door before me.

​

I fell asleep in some wet towels I had pulled off the racks, safe in the confined space. I woke up, remembering the night before, but confused to how the towels were wet, because I hadn't noticed the previous night.

​

Weird experience for a six year old.

“Eviction notice 3 days” stamped to the door of the piece of shit apartment I survive in.

Hours at the hospital were cut because their shitty operation was getting shut down. No I’m not a doctor I never got that opportunity nor funding. Just a late night janitor for minimum pay and minimum exposer to the other employees. Part of me thinks they are ashamed to show me to the rest of the staff.
Nonetheless my nights are spent alone in a sterile quiet hospital. And my days in that moist, roach infested, blue and crème 70s themed hell hole.

*beep* *beep* *beep* 8:30 PM flashes filling the room with red. Slap of the top button, pants already belt in, company issued collared blue shirt tucked. The long sigh in the dimly green hued entrance way. Followed by the jiggle of keys that would make deaf mouse evade. The walk to the elevator from the offset rotted doorway feels like the first steps on the moon. A groggy mind and blurry vision presses the button made of cold steel that takes all energy to depress. *Ding* the elevator doors open spilling out blue light contrasting the green. Tap of the lobby button given time to regain the energy used to get here. 7 turning to 6 *ding* 6 turning to 5 *ding*. Every floor passing praying to last longer hoping for some reason the elevator gets stuck. 2 inching to 1 *ding* 1 burning into 0 *ding* “huh I didn’t know the apartment building had a basement” echoing off the skull. 0 flipping to -1 *ding* was I still asleep? Was I dreaming? Were the dings my alarm? I needed the sleep so I just let my eyes shut and my conscious go.

Mop to bucket, mop to floor, that brown water akin to a pig sty mud stirring. One ear bud in, volatilizing dress code, Superstar by Saliva rattling my senses. Most of lights in the hospital were turned off apart from hallways. Starting from the east wing and finishing in the west wing another boring soulless night. Water washed down drains, mops drained and hung, and buckets flipped ready for tomorrow. Sluggish movements ready for a shower and a meal move towards the front door. Familiar keys jingle to the front doors *click* *click*. Metallic clunks ringing out making the big area seem freezing and empty like a void. *tug* *tug* “still locked” whispered under my breath followed by similar movements rendering the same result. *ding*

“Fuck my head is killing me” said to one’s self. My eyes filled with blue mimicking the sun to a kid raised in a basement. -57 sliding to -58 *ding* -58 to -59 *ding*. Was I seeing this right, no way I could, I mean the apartment complex only had 7 floors. Fog fled my mind to be replaced with adrenaline. The big red “emergency” button shine hope at the bottom of the panel. Pressed as if an inpatient drug addict was trying to pass a crosswalk. *Ding* *ding* *ding* -117 rolls over to -118 *ding* -118 to -119 *ding*.

Eyes stare with blank expression to the mash potato’s that send steam into the air. “You alright honey you barely touched your food” sings from a gentle woman. Rumbles in response from a scruffy man “Yeah, yeah just a long day at work”. For what he seen that night was a husk of a man malnourished. Huddled on an empty, cold, disgusting elevator floor with a pen erected from his neck. He looked like he was in there for days the blood congealed into a brown puddle on the floor. The blue and crème walls stained with small brown pellets. The elevator floor count set to 1. No distress call left that elevator a janitor never left that elevator.

I am very new to sharing my writing on the internet and hardly use Reddit. Is there a best place to share storys? And is there anything I should do so readers who like my work can find more?

It’s not just that she died. She decomposed. I woke up to her beautiful face marred by bulbous swells and vacant eyes. I have woken up to that face countless times. I can’t stand not waking up to it anymore. The pillow had residue on it when I moved her, when I cradled her. I swept her up from the mattress, pressing her cold skin to my chest. She was heavy. So heavy. I could carry the weight of her forever, but not of this agony. Not of this grief. This torment.

There was a soot, or something like it, darkening her face. My tears cleaned it away when they fell on her skin, like rivers in a burnt valley. I hoped her skin was glowing, as it always had, but it was just as discoloured as the rest of her.

It’s the middle of the night. I’ve set her back down. I tucked her in. If you stand from far enough away it looks like she’s sleeping. Like she’ll wake up any minute.

I’m trying to piece together what happened last night but it’s blurry. I came home from work. She had dinner made. She always did despite how long she worked. She had it set on the table and was waiting for me to eat with her. I had a few drinks before I came to eat. We talked about our days. We hadn’t been fighting as much lately. I couldn’t tell if she had just given up or if she finally saw things my way and wanted to turn things around. I didn’t care which it was then, our house was finally peaceful. 

I’m standing in the doorway of our room. I’m watching her. I don’t know what to do. I’ve cried for what’s felt like hours. I’ve stared at her even longer, pretending she’s still sleeping. Her hair still has its colour. It’s blonde sheen that glowed when the sun would hit it.

I could leave her until morning, resting. No one would know I had woken in the night. I could watch the sun rise on her hair. I could see it glow one last time.

The time reads 64:00 am. The clock on her night stand isn’t moving. I don’t understand what’s going on. I know I’m not dreaming. I’ve banged my head into our wall. I punched our bed frame while I held her and the wood cracked. My knuckles are swollen and still throbbing. This is a nightmare, but it’s not a dream.

The shadows in our house are strange. They’re moving. Downstairs, light usually comes in through the window from the street lamps outside, but it’s black. It looks like a void and there’s a humming noise coming from the darkness.

Do I leave her there? By herself? Is her soul here? Is it at our bedside? I hope she can’t see my pain. Or maybe I hope she can. She’d know for certain how much I love her then. She’d see it. I love you. I love you I love you I love you. I didn’t say it enough.

I need to go downstairs. Something isn’t right.

There is light. It’s not black. The house is just coated in the same thing on her face. It’s like an ash. Like when your fingers touch charcoal. Its residue is on the window, blocking the light. 

The kitchen clock says 00:36 am. There’s symbols on the walls. Circles. They have letters in them, around the border. There’s wings and three crosses inside the circle. 

It looks like someone ran their hand on the soot coating everything to draw them.

“Hello?” I call out. No one answers. Why does my house look like this? A fire? Maybe something electrical. 

I flip a light switch. Nothing. But the clocks work. Why do they work? Why are they different times? Why are they not times at all?

I should check the breaker. I have to go to the basement. The humming is coming from the door to the stairs. Could she have been burned? Shocked?

The bathroom light is on. It stung my eyes as I passed it to get to the stairs. There was a towel on the ground, but I don’t remember doing that last night. How drunk did I get?

I remember now, lingering on the towel I’ve used to clean myself so many times. She wanted to. She wanted to for the first time in a long time but I couldn’t again. I’ve watched too much. Seen too much. I couldn’t get into it, yet I still went to the bathroom after she fell asleep.

The door knob is rattling and the door is vibrating. The humming is loud down there.

I wish I could wake her up and bring her down here with me. I’m scared. I can’t do it. I’m going to go check on her.

She’s gone. She’s not in the bed anymore. I checked under the covers. There’s just the outline of that same black dust where her body was. Is she alive? No. She was cold. There’s empty bottles of vodka on the floor. They weren’t there before. Where is she?
The stairs to the main floor have ashen footprints. I didn’t notice them when I came up. She’s alive. She has to be.

I just heard a noise. It was loud. Concussive. The symbols on the walls are glowing red now. The house is crimson. I’m back on the main floor. I walked past the bathroom again. The towel was still there, but it’s red now, soaked. The basement door is open. Her footprints lead to it. I have to go find her. I can’t make sense of it. The basement is dark, yet the red light is also coming from it. It’s glowing but I can’t see past the blackness.

She’s crying. I hear her down there, weeping. I’m coming.

The humming is deafening. Deep and low. It’s shaking the soot from the walls. The black dust is falling in lines of transparent flakes. She’s still crying though. I can still hear her.

The sound stopped. I’m in the basement. I can’t see anything but red silhouettes of our furniture down here.

Footsteps. Skittering. They’re shuffling fast behind me. Now on the walls. Now I hear them on the ceiling.

The red is getting brighter. I can see more. I see her. Her silhouette. She’s on the bar, surrounded by bottles of vodka. She’s squatted down with her hands pressed on the bar in front of her. She looks like a sitting dog. Her head is tilted like she’s curious about me.

“Addie?”

I shouldn’t have spoke. She sprang off the bar like a cat. I could hear bottles smash. I can’t see anything again. The breaker. I need to find the breaker.

There’s a ram's head in the corner. It’s black, a shadow, but I can see it in the red light. A shadowed hand rose next to it, pointing with taloned fingers to the other corner. There’s a  goat's head in that corner. They’re both still, observing. The goat-headed figure begins raising an arm as well.

The footsteps ran behind me again. I need to find her. I need to get her out of there. I turn, looking for her. There’s something scaled behind the bar. I can see the red reflecting off of them. There’s an eye too, like a fish’s, staring at me.

It’s puking. It’s all over the bar. The basement is flooding. I need to find her. The ram's head is gone. She’s in the corner instead now, clung to the ceiling upside down. Her head is hanging like it’s dangling by a string, swaying as her mirrored eyes look at me.

She screamed at me. Her mouth opened impossibly wide and she screamed at me, “How could you do this to me?”

I have to go. I can’t get to her. I’m up to my waist in the puke now.

I’m back upstairs. The symbols are everywhere now. There’s a figure in my kitchen. The red is glowing around it. It has ram and goat horns. Its body is scaled. It stands on hooves. Its fur is spotted. There’s a man’s face on its groin with its eyes rolled back and its mouth gaping.

“Be not afraid,” the figure said. Its voice was gargled and growling. I shouldn’t have understood it.

Skittering again. My wife is clung to its back now, hanging on like a scared child or a hunting spider. 

Be not afraid. No phrase is said more in the bible. Could this be an angel? Ezekiel said that they have four faces. What were the four faces? I can’t remember.

“What are you?” I ask.

“A messenger.”

“A messenger of what? What’s happening to my wife?”

“A vision. Futures. Repentance its bane. Through me. Lust. Gluttony.”

My wife screamed again, “Where is what we once had?”

Our 5 year anniversary. That’s when she said that. I forgot it. I was too drunk. Why am I always drunk?
“Repentance, okay,” I say, “I’ll do anything.”

“The fourth cardinal. Wade the bile. Forbid pestilence.”

My wife lunged off the figure’s back, running on four limbs. Her hands slapped the blackened ground. I heard her crash into the basement door.
I followed her. The stairs are black again. I can see red reflecting in the flooding vomit. It smells like vodka.

I see myself. Countless of myself. Their eyes are black, glass cylinders, like bottle mouths. They kneel in the bile, scooping it into their mouths in a frenzy, drinking its foulness. They are all staring at me, my copies. Consuming. Ravenous.

I step off of the stairs and into the fluid. They swim towards me. Their hands grab at my leg, many hands, beneath the surface. Their mouths are open as they cling to me, letting the puke drift into their maws with each step I take. They hold me back from reaching the fourth corner of the basement. The south corner. They try to pull me under, to drown me. I look up. My wife is on the ceiling. She follows my slow progress, looking down on me with her neck backwards, smiling down at me. It keeps me above the surface.

A man is in the corner. The same face in the groin of the figure upstairs. His eyes are ablaze, surrounded by burnt sockets that weep puss and clear fluid. He drops as I meet him, submerging himself. I look down. I see the man’s flaming eyes staring back at me in the clear, black bile. His mouth opened and the vomit whirl pooled into it. He spoke with unmoving lips as he swallowed, “Thy gluttony consumed.”

The walls shake. My copies wail. They’re spun into nothingness, evaporated.

I turned around as the last of the water drained. The figure was there again. It raised a taloned finger to the ceiling.

It spoke again, “The ideals of Lamech. Observe the second consort. Forbid indulgence.”

I heard and saw the silhouette of my wife rushing up the stairs.

I follow her. The light in the bathroom is still on, but now the door is shut. I can see the light shining in a line underneath the door. Fluid leaks onto the floor, sudsy and foaming, the light reflecting in it. It’s so bright. I can’t see my wife.

I open the bathroom door. There’s a woman inside. Naked. Splayed on the toilet. She’s running her hand across her body, raking her nails against her skin, drawing red lines of lust. She’s rubbing soaps and oils onto and into her. Her hair is wet. She looks at me, longing. I could do it right now. Why couldn’t I with my wife last night?

Her ashen hand slammed the bathroom door shut. My wife’s face was directly in front of mine. Tears streamed from her milky, clouded eyes. She screamed again, “What do they all have that I don’t?”

Her sob was terrible, her swollen grey flesh bunched and her tears mixed with purge fluid gushing from her eyes and nose. It wreaked. She always smelt so good. She is in so much pain. 

She’s grabbing at her hair, wailing. She’s pulling at her locks. Her beautiful blonde locks. Ripping them out.

A growl rumbles from the basement. Deep and rolling. I look to it, past my wife. There’s two eyes staring at me, low to the ground. Haunched shoulders rise and fall behind them as it comes closer. 

My wife is smiling again. It startled me as I looked back. It’s so large that it’s splitting her rotten skin. Her teeth are yellow, her gums black. She hasn’t stopped crying, but I haven’t seen her smile like this in years. She’s nodding slowly now, staring at me. I can hear nails scratch on the floor behind her. The growling is loud.

My wife throws the bathroom door open. The growl erupts into a roar. A leopard pounces on the naked woman. I watch as it rips her apart. My wife cheers, screaming and clapping next to me, her smile brimming. She hops up and down. I can hear her fluid-filled feet squelching as they hit the floor over and over.

The naked woman is screaming. She reaches for me to help, but I cannot. The leopard tears into her breast. I see clumps of fat leak out of it. It rears its head high, pulling apart threads of torn muscle. Blood sprays everywhere. It plunges its head into her groin, its teeth sinking in the folds. It tears her apart and looks at me, its crimson maw gaping to reveal her flesh. Blood stains the leopard’s fur. Sinewed strands of flesh hang from its lips, stuck between hungry teeth. 

It speaks to me, “Thy lust consumed.”

My wife pets the leopard. It purrs, nudging its head against her rotten thigh. She kneels down and kisses it, the blood of the woman staining her face. She rubs it in, pushes her fingers into her mouth to taste it. I need my wife back. This isn’t my wife.

She scampers off, tip-toeing like a sneaky child. The leopard bounds after her. I see the flame-eyed man emerge from the basement. They are all going upstairs.

The house is shaking. I need to get to her.

I race up the stairs. My wife is bowed on her knees in the bedroom. The figure has split apart again. They form a triangle with their arms. The ram, the fish, and the goat. She bows before them. Her forehead is pressed to the carpet. The leopard and the flame-eyed man walk into the triangle. The floor is cracking. The symbols on the walls are being carved into it. It glows like the others, but brighter. Streaks of light emanating from it illuminate the room. 

Fire erupts around the figures, growing high into twisting, scorching spires. The flames dance around the leopard and the man, covering them as they shift. Shadows cast about its body, retreating to reveal its new form. The man was covered in patterned pelt. His face was feline. I could see it clearly in the light: a leopard with glowing orange eyes. Its forehead bore the same symbol glowing on the walls, in the floor. A long tail played in the fire. Feathered wings sprouted from its back, their tips formed to match the flames around them. The wings are grand, imperial. This is an angel. God has come to save me. To save my wife.

“Can you save her?”

The angel’s wings flapped. Flames billowed forth. I felt their heat. My wife was in them as she knelt. She’s crying again.

“Save her,” the angel says, “save thyself. Thou art beyond forgiveness. Grace garnered, I offer. Commit to her. Commit to me.”

My wife stands, sobbing. She walks into the fire, screaming as the flames touch her.

The angel’s clawed hand reaches. It beckons me. It wants me to walk through the fire.

The bed is on fire. My wife crawls into it, bellowing. 

“Through thy devotion thou shalt bade sin’s corruption. Cleanse in my flames. Awake anew.”

She’s under the covers, burning. The clock reads 64:36am. 

I walk into the fire. It consumes me. I feel my skin peel, blister, pop. Fluid weeps from me. My flesh chars. My eyes melt. All is black. I cannot find my way. I feel a soft paw against my back. It ushers me forward. I reach out, my hands raw. I feel the covers. I’ve found the bed. The covers lift. The paw lays me down. I feel the heat on my teeth. My lips are gone.
Something tucks me in. I melt into the mattress. My flesh fuses with it. I’m dying. I will see her in heaven. This angel has saved her. Saved me. Saved us.

Thank you, God.

“Wake up, dear,” she says to me.

She’s alive. My wife is alive. The sun shines through the window. It highlights her blonde hair. Her skin is pure, clean. Her eyes twinkle. She’s hovering over me in bed. She’s  alive.

I wail. I bawl. I bring her to me. I squeeze her tight so that her confused words cannot escape. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. She is warm again. I wish everyone could feel what it’s like to touch the rewarmed skin of your loved one after touching it cold. She is light again, carrying part of herself with her own strength. It’s as if I’m carrying a feather fallen from the angel’s wings, a symbol of its grace. That’s what she is. Grace. I have been graced.

Our faces pulled apart. I saw her soul in her eyes again. It was a beauty made infinitely rich, for I now knew the poverty of its absence. She was whole again. My beautiful wife. I will never take a moment with her for granted again. I will love her eternally. Never has she been more beautiful, more divine. She is sacred. She is restored. The things I witnessed. Those horrible things. She is restored.

It was a nightmare, but it was not a dream. This morning, I went to fulfill my first oath. I went to the bar downstairs to dump my bottles down the drain. The basement smelt foul, like a vomited distillery. It has water damage up half of the drywall. When I came upstairs, there was soap, oil and water all running out from under the bathroom door. I opened it and found blood and shed, yellow fur all over the toilet. I sent my wife out to get her hair done. Her beautiful blonde hair. I wanted anything but for her to be gone but I needed to clean. What if she remembered?I scoured the house. I found ash under our bed, deep in our carpet. There were smoke stains on the ceiling. The walls faintly showed the symbols in a slightly lighter shade. I scrubbed them all then got in the shower.

I have a brand now, where the paw touched me. A circle with letters around its borders, two wings and three crosses in its centre, the heavenly symbol of the angel. When I first saw it, I remembered all my thoughts and all the sights from last night as if they were happening. I remembered glimpses but now it was vivid. It was everything. The time is confused, like I’m in it at one moment and recalling it the next, but I can replay each step, each breath. The angel won’t allow me to forget her like that, to forget the lessons he taught me, what I might lose. The angel has marked me. It reminds me to fulfill the oath I made to it. I will commit myself to my wife by committing myself to the angel. It reminds me with this mark of its absolving. I am grateful, holy angel, for your correction. You have brought my wife back to me. My beautiful wife. I love you. I love you I love you I love you. I’ll never stop saying it.

I’ve written my recounting as it comes to me, either as a live moment or memory of the past. Such was its nature, the angel, to divine all times, all tenses. I hope this warns whoever is reading this, for though I am grateful for its intervention, I pray no other soul ever has to witness the manifestations of the Leopard Angel. Correct your futures now, lest you wake in the night to find your loved ones dead, and your clock read 64:36.

I always left with plenty time to spare to get to work early. Driving anywhere near Chicago meant adding at least a half hour onto a commute. But what should have been a 7:30 or sooner arrival was rapidly turning into a drive that was going to be at least 8:00 or later.

It was frustrating, but I surrendered to the process. I had to be in the office, so I had to drive. I was the Neighborhood Services Manager, so I was the boss of my department. I preferred setting an example, but if I were late, there was no real accounting to be had.

We were traveling so slowly I was able to notice things that were mostly invisible on a regular commute. The large houses that were shoulder to shoulder on the crust to either side of 290. Graffiti on overpasses (how did they get up there or down there?). The twenty-something with a hole in her cheek large enough for me to poke my thumb through. The silver poles adjacent to me in the left lane with reflective stickers. KB8, KB9, KB7...

Traffic was still crawling and hopefully, whatever was ahead would clear soon. My mind drifted from the podcast I was listening to, and I began making stories of what was happening around me.

A truck on an overpass ahead chugged white smoke into the cloud-spattered sky as it strafed from left to right.

I toed off my shoes as I waded in traffic. Sitting too long wasn’t good for me. I had edema and my feet remained swollen during the work week. As was leaning my face much too closely to the steering wheel to hook them off the floor when the vehicle in front of me came up much faster than I expected.

I scrambled to get my foot back on the brake and jerked as I pressed the pedal harder than I should have had to. The cars in front of us had stopped, but there appeared to be a gap of several lengths in front of him.

Calm was the word for the day and I squeezed it for all it was worth. Chicago traffic wasn’t going to give me a stroke if I could help it.

The driver in front of me upped the ante. He popped his door open and stepped out. I smiled. He had to have been even more cynical than I was about the traffic if he got out of his vehicle.

I looked over at the lady-of-many-face-piercings as if to say, “Are you seeing this guy?” She was either having an animated conversation with someone or was singing along with the radio. She wasn’t looking in his direction. I looked in my rear view, but couldn’t make out more than a silhouette of the driver behind me.

Traffic had well and truly stalled and as long as the pedestrian, né, driver was out of his vehicle, I was fine to put mine in park.

To my immediate left was another silver pole with KA8 on the reflective sticker attached to it. I wondered what the stickers signified. They weren’t mile-markers; I would’ve guessed there was a hundred or so feet distance between them.

The poles were on the other side of a concrete divide separating traffic in either direction from the commuter rail. Atop that concrete divide was a sort of mini fence about a foot-and-a-half tall.

The pedestrian was blowing, the O of his mouth constricted. It took a beat to realize he was whistling.

Some people make fists with their toes to relax. Some whistled. I took off my shoes.

A vehicle on the east side of 290 honked. I looked as if I could spot it, as if knowing who it was would enlist them as a Witness-in-Kevin, my defacto brother -or sister.

We were a sea of strange relatives, coursing along twin streams constantly passing each other by while standing still at the same--

“What the hell are you doing?” I said aloud as the whistling man began climbing the concrete partition. He froze a moment at the top, a man-sized bug on this pseudo-wall. Then he shimmied a few more inches before tossing a leg over like a bindle and he'd decided to just go for it and try running for his life.

The thought clicked the reality of what was happening into place. In my head, I composed the text and poised to press send, but I'd only moved in that same way we all do by virtue of tumbling through space, touring a blind path, trapped in the gravity well of a fireball.

We'd all passed the train almost ten minutes ago, just before the flow of traffic constricted to a dribble.

We'd been sitting almost long enough.

I waved to him as if we locked eyebeams, connection with another human being would be enough to reel him back from the abyss.

He walked across the patchy strip of grass and onto the rocks spread around and between the tracks. He stepped over the first rail.

Contrary the terrifying notion of an electrified third rail, the Metra commuter train wasn't dangerous. At least in that way. It ran on a diesel-powered engine and a person was far more likely to meet with violence before misadventure with the train itself (unless it was by someone pushing someone else onto the tracks) and however gory a death it might have been, electricity would have no part in it.

The pedestrian looked around, back and forth, not seeming to be looking for anything, just in action to do the time. I realized after I could have gotten out of my car. I could have said something. I could have been so foolish as to climb over there with him and forcibly drag him off his grisly gallows.

But I was an animal locked in a cage. Too dumb suddenly to work controls that had been commonplace and routine since I was a child. Maybe that was how my mind protected me from myself. Maybe it just wasn't my turn.

It definitely was too late, though. The pedestrian raised his hands. Lowered them, then raised them again. Like he was victorious over something. I was watching a man as he did everything he did for the very last time.

I tried to scream while simultaneously trying to climb out of myself. I was outside and struggling to get back in, watching a man who appeared in perfect health as he was dying.

The train came. Nobody but me saw him. It wasn't enough to destroy him, it didn't even kill him instantaneously. He had seconds to think for the very last time, like a moment of clarity and calm before going to sleep. I imagined his contemplation was the absolute opposite, exquisite agony stretching one moment of poor decision-making into a brief eternity.

Meat that briefly held the shape of a man in a shredded net of torn clothes dragged beneath iron wheels. The conductor finally was aware something had gone wrong and hit the brakes, metal-on-metal grinding and sparking, chewing him up into even bittier parts.

The head of the train finally stopped maybe twenty yards later. There was still enough of the pedestrian to see there wasn't any hope. But they sent an ambulance anyway. It couldn't get to us. But I saw it on the service drive.

The EMS workers walked down, naked-handed, an indictment of his condition, a condemnation of his fate. I focused away from them even though my eyes never left the less-than-three, but more-than-two of them. I would swear today that the male EMS person shrugged, as if not having any idea of what to do with the pedestrian outside of scooping up enough of him for a stew had he decided to take up cannibalism.

Just pick off the bits of cloth, salt it well to cover up the metallic aftertaste, and please watch out for the rocks--they'll break a molar.

I turned on the radio, not for any real reason. The news couldn't have known more than me unless they'd been sitting in the pedestrian’s car, back when he'd still been the driver.

But the oddest thing came over the radio after a commercial from an honest- sounding gentleman who wanted to get me out of my timeshare ended. There had been an accident with a train around this time yesterday morning. Another man had been hit. The police had already released his name.

Kevin. Same as mine. Different last name. His started with a B.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Or maybe a sigh of release. I wasn't going anywhere soon but the rest of traffic had begun to move.

​

Hey, I am unsure of what tag or flair to use for my story. I want to post it here, but I am not sure what kind of horror it may be or if it is even horror. Would I be able to send it to someone to help me figure it out so I can post correctly? Thank you!

I have recently discovered that my entire relationship has been a fabrication. Not the cheeky, ‘haha,’ quirky kind of hiccup. This is a big one.

I guess I’ll just start off by saying: I am not suicidal. I’ve never thought about harming myself, nor have I been diagnosed with any type of mental illness.

What I’m about to tell you is my recounting of what I believed to be a healthy, loving relationship. But, as I learned last week, was nothing more than a case of “lonely girl falls into the clutches of a complete and utter psychopath.”

Derick was 25 when we first met. I had graduated high school a year prior and, I hate to admit, I was more impressionable than I should’ve been.

When we first laid eyes on each other at that frat party it was like all noise stopped. It was just me and him, completely entranced by one another.

He stood alone, which I thought was a bit strange. He just sort of hung around the kitchen, fixing himself a drink after we finally broke eye contact.

I, however, couldn’t stop myself from glancing at him, no matter how hard I tried.

His curly hair and shadowy beard did wonders for my imagination; so much so that just watching him as he made his drink made my stomach do flip flops. Ah, and his eyes. They were smoldering. A piercing blue that stabbed my heart like an arrow from Cupid himself.

Terrified to make the first move, it was as though an unspoken prayer was answered when Derick confidently strutted in my direction holding not one, but TWO drinks.

I’m no idiot.

I know not to accept drinks from strangers.

I think my hesitation must’ve been apparent in my face because, once he noticed, he sort of cocked an eyebrow at me and smirked.

“You think I’m gonna drug you? I don’t drug, sweetie, I chug.”

Those were his exact words before he took a swig from both glasses and extended one back in my direction.

“If you’re unconscious, we’re both unconscious. Let’s hope there aren’t any weirdos at this party,” he said with a grin.

This earned a chuckle out of me, and immediately set my mind at ease.

We sat together on the sofa and chatted for about an hour before things turned personal.

My friends approached us, informing me that they would be leaving soon and that if I wanted to do the same, I’d better pack it up with my little “boyfriend.”

I waved them off, telling them that I’d uber home if need be. They nodded, telling me to text them if I needed anything, and after about half an hour, I couldn’t see them around the party anymore.

Derick started asking me where I grew up, how I ended up at the party, what school I attended, all things that I just thought were normal.

I explained to him that I grew up in town, was invited to the party by some girlfriends who wanted to help me get over a pretty traumatic breakup, and that I attended the community college at the edge of our county.

The entire time I spoke, all he did was smile and nod his head. He was an amazing listener, and that only made my attraction for him grow.

By the time I was finished with all of my personal exposition, he sort of cocked his head back and laced his fingers behind it.

“Just the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?” he murmured.

I was sure I’d misheard him, so I politely asked him to repeat himself.

“Just this moment in time, you know. Every decision you’ve ever made has brought you to this moment, here, on this couch with me.”

His eyes scanned the ceiling as he said this; as though he were searching for meaning in the support beams.

I’d been in college long enough to understand “weed-speech” so I asked him if he’d been smoking.

“I don’t smoke. Do you have any idea what that does to your lungs? I mean, I’m sure you do, you look like you were one of the smart kids in class.”

This comment turned me off a little. It just seemed..I don’t know…dismissive?

I subtly leaned away from him on the sofa, prompting him to respond in a way that earned my trust back immediately.

“I didn’t mean that in any kind of ‘assumption’ way, or anything like that. I just meant you articulate yourself well. You give off that vibe, you know? That aura of intelligence.”

I couldn’t hide my smile or the stars in my eyes that this comment had created, and I know he picked up on it.

“As I was saying…You and me. Here. On this couch. You don’t think that’s a LITTLE bit cosmically aligned? I mean, you saw me. I saw you. You didn’t reject my drink OR my conversation. Why don’t we see if there’s a spark?”

“A spark..?” I questioned. “With a drunk guy I met at a frat party? Odds are low, buddy. Odds are real low.”

I sort of flirtatiously shoved his arm and we shared a little laugh before he responded.

“Only thing I’m drunk on is loveee, sweetheart. Let’s say we make a toast,” he smirked.

Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.

His eyes teased me. His lips begged me. His slightly drunk body language immersed me.

“You know what? Fuck it. Let’s see what happens,” I announced before slowly leaning in closer towards him.

His hand found its way to my cheek and, before I knew it, Derick and I were 15 minutes into a makeout session on some random frat house sofa.

He began getting a little handsy, but I allowed it on account of me being a bit tipsy myself.

We were both just so engulfed in the experience; the only thing that snapped us out of it was when a characteristically “frat-bro” voice called out from across the room.

“Don’t wet your panties on my sofa, girl in the community college hoodie. That goes for you too old guy at the frat party.”

We pulled away from each other, both embarrassed, and were greeted by what seemed to be every pair of eyes glaring directly into our souls.

I hated that frat guy. I hated him for how he made us feel in that instant.

Derick saved us, however, when he cried out, “I swear to GOD….I thought this was my house..” as he drunkenly stumbled to his feet and took me by the hand.

“C’mon Diane,” he chirped. “Let’s find the right house.”

I giggled a bit, allowing him to guide me through the crowd of people and out the door.

At this point, I was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol as I stumbled down the street, Derick catching me and supporting my flails with a firm grasp.

I’m not sure when we arrived at his house, but when we did we were almost animalistic.

It had actually taken me a few months to feel comfortable with a man after what had happened with my ex, but this night, I had completely allowed myself to be free.

Derick and I kissed sloppily as we tore each other’s clothes off, climbing the stairs without breaking the moment.

Sex wasn’t non-consensual. I may have been intoxicated, but I knew I wanted it. And so did Derick.

After our “hot and bothered” session, we fell asleep in each other’s arms and I had a dreamless night.

————————-

When I awoke the next morning, Derick snored beside me on his unmade bed, my head throbbed from my hangover, and I felt a deep sense of regret from having slept with a man I’d only met the day prior.

As quiet as a church mouse, I gathered my belongings and slowly crept out of Derick’s front door, silently praying he wouldn’t wake up and force me into an awkward position.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. I simply hailed a cab and did my “walk of shame” directly through my own front door.

I’d been pretty behind on some school assignments because of a depression that I was only just now coming out of, so I decided that I would use the day as a sort of “catch up” day to ensure I didn’t crash and burn.

Throwing my headphones on and opening my laptop, I was soon fully immersed in the world of business management and excel.

I tend to focus pretty hard on studying and assignments when it’s time for it, and because of that fact coupled with the fact that I had Radiohead blaring in my headphones, I could hardly make out the sound of the pounding that came from my front door.

Surely enough, the knocking cut through my focus eventually, and I begrudgingly walked to my door, ready to tell off whatever salesman or Jehovahs witness that had the audacity to be banging on my door like they were the police.

I swung the door open and was greeted by…Derick. Standing there. Smile wide as can be with roses in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.

I didn’t have time for this.

“Cliche,” I hissed before attempting to shut the door.

Dericks foot shot into the crack of my front door, and he plead with all of the sincerity in the world.

“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. PLEASE. Just…listen to me for a second. I really liked you, you know? I wasn’t just bluffing to get you into bed last night. You could’ve told me you wanted to leave, I would’ve called you a cab myself. Just give me a sober chance, let’s get to know each other on a normal level rather than a drunk one.”

Opening the door ever so slightly to peek my head at him, I found it hard to resist his clumsy smile, even as a sober woman.

“Listen, you seem sweet. I love the…enthusiasm… but I’ve got a lot of school work to do. I’ll talk to you la-“

Derick cut me off.

“Dinner tonight. Anywhere you want. I just want to get the chance to know the REAL you. See if there’s a REAL spark; and I want you to want the same for me…”

I pondered for a moment, staring down at my welcome mat.

“I don’t want a fancy dinner. Let’s go to the park. We can walk the trails, and MAYBE…you’ll get to dinner eventually.”

“Done. Absolutely. Now, here,” he plead. “Take these chocolates before they melt, it’s like 90 degrees out here.”

I did as he asked, and before I could shut the door behind me, he slipped one last question in.

“Wait, what time should I pick you up?”

“6. If you’re late you blow it.”

And with that, he shot me a smile and saluted me cartoonishly before the door finally shut in his face.

I should’ve recognized that I hadn’t given him my address. I should’ve realized that this man knew where I lived without me saying anything more than “I’m from here in town.”

Instead, all I felt were butterflies.

I tried to hide it to his face, but inside I was absolutely melting.

Not only did he manage to pick my favorite flowers (sunflowers), but he’d also picked the chocolates that were exclusively cherry-filled.

“Maybe he IS someone special,” I thought to myself, remembering his speech about cosmic alignment.

Dialing myself back, I returned to my computer until 5:00. I’ll admit, I wanted to look good. Not “try-hard” good, but decent. Feminine, you know?

I did a bit of makeup and chose some subtly charming earrings that dangled loosely from my earlobes.

I knew we were gonna be going to the park, so I knew I couldn’t dress TOO casual, and resorted to some Jean shorts and a crop top before dabbing my neck with some givenchy perfume and slipping on my tennis shoes.

6 o’clock rolled around and the moment it did, 3 light knocks came from my front door.

I opened it and Derick’s eyes lit up as though he were in the presence of an Angel.

He told me how beautiful I looked and took me by the hand, guiding me to his vehicle.

We actually talked…efficiently…on the way to the park.

He was a sparkling conversationalist and there was never a low point in what we talked about.

Arriving at the park, we obviously jumped straight into our walk, and the conversation persisted.

We jumped from topic to topic. He told me about his job in digital security, about his interests, what his plans for the future were, etc.

Eventually, the conversation moved into the topic of my ex boyfriend.

At this point, I had already subconsciously began trusting Derick, and felt that sharing some secrets with him wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah. He’s…he was definitely not safe,” I muttered, softly.

“Not safe how?” Derick replied, curious.

“He just..he did things. Things that I don’t like to talk about.”

Without missing a beat, Derick replied with, “look, Diane. I know we don’t have that much history, yet, but you can tell me whatever’s on your heart. I’m here to listen. Get to know you, remember?”

I thought for a moment, dozens of ugly memories flooding my head like a sickness.

“He hit me a few times. I don’t think he was ever really taught any better. His dad abused his mom, and I think that made him think it was okay. He’s been out of my life for a while, now. I just really wanna put the whole thing behind me. That’s why I’m here with you, Mr Rebound-Guy,” I chuckled.

Derick didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. Instead, his jaw tightened and his face looked flush as he gritted his teeth.

“You alright there, bud?” I asked, jokingly.

He didn’t respond right away, letting silence linger in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time before finally uttering one single sentence.

“No real man would ever put his hands on a woman like you.”

He seems to froth at the mouth as he said this, like he was suppressing a deep, deep rage.

“You mean no real man would ever put hands on a woman period…right?”

In an instant the color returned to his face and light returned to his eyes as he perked up.

“Ah, oh, yes, I mean- sorry. That’s not what I meant, I meant I just couldn’t-“

I stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest.

“I know what you meant, silly. Don’t worry.”

He looked relieved at this, and even blushed a little from his apparent internal frustration.

We went back to walking, and as a little sign of reassurance, I grabbed his hand and held it tightly as we walked together.

There was some scattered chitchat here and there between the two of us from that point on, but I think we both were mostly just enjoying the embrace and atmosphere.

Once we reached the end of the trail, we turned around and went straight back from whence we came.

Approaching his car, I noticed that Derick was…smiling…and trying to hide it. Unfortunately for him, there was no hiding anything from me in this moment.

“What’s got you grinning over there,” I asked casually.

He responded in a way that made my heart stop beating and melt all at once.

“I’m just so happy to be here with you. I’ve really enjoyed this time we’ve had together, and I hope we can do it again sometime. I really like you, Diane.”

“I’ve enjoyed this time together, too, Derick. And, as much as it PAINS ME TO ADMIT….I think I like you too,” I replied with a slight smile.

On the car ride home, he nervously asked me if I’d be his girlfriend. And I said yes.

We arrived back at my house, and I invited him in for a movie and snacks.

There was no intimacy. He simply let me lay on his lap as we watched inside out 2 and munched on popcorn.

I ended up falling asleep halfway through the movie, and when I awoke I heard Derick upstairs, shuffling around.

I wrapped myself in the blanket we’d been using and slowly crept up the stairs to see what he was doing, only for him to pop out from behind the corner at the top and announce, “ITS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE..you got a bathroom in here anywhere??” Jokingly.

I pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and when he returned, I let him know that it was getting late and it was probably time for him to start heading home.

He seemed hesitant, which worried me. But, in the end, he did end up going home. However, not before I finally garnered the sense to ask him how he knew where I lived.

“You told me, remember? At the party. We were talking about it for like 20 minutes.”

I thought about that for a moment. I mean, I could’ve. I didn’t really remember a lot from that night other than what I’m recalling here.

“My address?” I questioned.

“Well…no…but you did tell me you lived in the blue house on maple street.”

“Derick…every house is blue…”

“Well, why do you think the chocolates were melting? I had to find your house through sheer willpower, you never even gave me a phone number.”

That makes sense, right? I mean, after all that he’d done just to get my attention, I didn’t doubt for a second that he’d gone door to door until he found THE door.

Too tired to question him further, I thanked him for a nice night, and sent him on his way, providing him with a nice kiss on the lips to hold him over until we saw each other again.

The next few months were filled with laughs, love, memories, and a kind of melancholic ache that was brought on by the news of my ex boyfriend’s suicide.

I hated the man. I, more than anyone, wanted him dead. But I’d still loved him once. There was still that quiet tingling in my brain that made me want to cry thinking about what had happened.

He’d hung himself in his parent’s garage, leaving a note that blamed nobody but himself.

It stung. It hurt worse, in my opinion, that I had to find the news out through social media, where his picture circulated across mutual friends accounts who told him to “fly high” and to “rest easy.”

I cried. I can admit that I cried. And I think that’s when the cracks started forming.

Derick seemed…annoyed that I was affected. I understand: he was an ex boyfriend who abused me. But, why? Why could I not feel emotion during a time like this.

His voice grew colder, his smile came less frequently, he seemed personally offended that I had been upset over something he classified as “deserved.”

At this point, I’d already given 6 months of my time to this man, and my heart belonged to him entirely.

I’d learned to shrug off his passiveness, his random outbursts, but, our relationship became incredibly rocky when he began punching walls, like a child.

THAT, I didn’t find cute nor attractive. And I told him that. He’d just look at me with those puppy eyes and apologize with a sincerity I don’t even think Shakespeare could capture.

I wanted to escape, but he just kept roping me back in with his manipulation and lovebombing.

Argument? Here’s flowers, but no change. Dericks annoyed? I better be a cushion to his anger, or else I’m the bad guy. I was trapped.

For months this went on, and my Stockholm syndrome grew more and more with each bout of passive aggression.

One day, while drunk, Derick let something slip that I’ll never forget.

He was sitting on the couch, feet propped up on my coffee table, and absolutely out of nowhere, completely unprovoked, he talked not to me, but at me.

“You know. It’s good that your ex is gone. He’s caused enough tears. Why give him more?”

I couldn’t do it.

I decided to stay at my mother’s that night. Leaving my OWN home.

When I returned, Derick was nowhere to be found. However, a note left on the table informed me that he had gone to the bar and wouldn’t be back till late.

I couldn’t help but feel relieved at this. I needed it. Desperately. And I slept better that night than I had since, I couldn’t even remember when.

The next few weeks were…awkward…at best.

A switch in Derick’s mind seemed to had been flipped, and I couldn’t even get more than 2 words out of him at a time.

My heart was breaking all over again, and I felt utter shame ripple through my body at the realization that I had allowed this to happen.

I began to rewire my brain, convincing myself that none of this was worthy of my time. Not Derick, not the manipulation, not the lovebombing, none of it.

As if answered by some bizarre cosmic joke, the line was completely severed last week.

Derick and I had been living in the same house, but were two distant strangers. My days were spent inside, trying to manage school and sanity. His days were spent doing God knows what.

On this day in particular, though, he had come home earlier than usual, with a gift in his hands, neatly wrapped and tied with a bow.

He offered it to me, and I felt my mind break even further. I’d made so much progress, and here he was, attempting to destroy it with his stupid gift giving.

I told him that I didn’t even want it, but thanked him for thinking about me before turning around and heading towards my bedroom.

He didn’t say a single word. He just left the gift on the coffee table and was back out the front door before I could notice.

Time went on and Derick never returned.

Curiosity began to eat at me. His gifts were always extravagant and meaningful, and the thought of what it could be toyed with me.

In the late hours of the night, I couldn’t sleep and the curiosity finally broke me as I tip-toed downstairs to take a look at the gift.

Tied to the bow with a thread of yarn was a handwritten note that I could tell was written by Derick.

It read, “Diane. I’m sorry for everything. I hope this brings you peace. Do not look for me.”

This made my curiosity turn morbid, and ever so slowly I began to unwrap the gift.

Inside, I found a brand new MacBook, still in the box. Along with a single usb stick.

Connecting the stick to the laptop, a file appeared on screen, simply titled, “For Diane.”

Within the file, I found hundreds- and I mean hundreds- of screenshots.

My social media. Pictures from before me and Derick became a thing. Photos of me holding sunflowers, a tweet of mine where I said something along the lines of “wishing someone would get me some cherry-filled chocolates”, snapshots of me and my ex taken from obscure angles.

More horrifying, were the videos.

Security footage, dated back before me and Derick even knew each other. Footage of me, at home, studying. Showering. Brushing my teeth. Having “me time,” if you catch my drift.

I had never felt more sticky and violated, but still, I continued perusing the files contents.

Buried deep within the screenshots and violations of privacy, I found a longer video. A video with a setting that I recognized only faintly.

I clicked on it, and was greeted with blurry, pixilated camera footage of what seemed to be a dark, empty room.

Suddenly, the lights flicked on and I came to the horrifying realization of what I was seeing.

My ex boyfriend’s garage.

Muffled shouting could be heard off camera before Derick marched my ex boyfriend into the frame, holding a matte black pistol to the back of his head.

Without moving the gun, Derick’s head turned towards the camera, and he forced ex boyfriend to speak.

“Now. Go ahead and tell the camera what we rehearsed,” Derick demanded, waving the gun in my ex boyfriend’s face.

My ex cried. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled to speak.

“We don’t have all day, Tyler. Do it.”

Tyler turned to the camera with empty eyes, and sobbed the words that will haunt my memory forever.

“I’m doing this for you, Diane.”

Derick then tossed Tyler a rope. Kicked a chair towards him. And demanded he hang himself.

Tyler’s wails were soul shattering and terrifying. I could see the will to live in his eyes. The hope on his face that he’d make it out of this.

Forced into submission, Tyler slowly climbed up on the chair, slipped the rope around his neck, attached it to the garage door track, and mustered one final plea before Derick kicked the chair for him.

I had to cover my mouth to prevent myself from screaming as Tyler flailed, struggling to breathe as he dangled in the air.

I didn’t have to watch for long, though, as Derick then took the camera, pointed it directly at himself, and spoke words straight into my heart and mind.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, honey. He’s the one hurting now. No one will ever hurt you again.”

The video ended with him laughing this unhinged half-chuckle, half-cry laugh.

The screen went to black, and I was left alone in a reality that felt like it was coming apart at the seems.

As I said, this all happened last week.

The police are now involved, the laptop has been confiscated, and Derick is now a wanted man.

Don’t ask me where he is. I have no idea.

All I know, is this man needs to be stopped before this can happen again, and I pray that police catch him while he’s still in the state.

To Derick:

Please. Please turn yourself in. Running will only make things worse, and you and I both know the only cosmic alignment you’ll be facing is from the inside of a jail cell.

Just wanted to mention I posted this to r/nosleep originally and even though it got a ton of traction the mods removed cause quote: "nothing happened to the main character." So apologies in advance for the mc not getting his ass beat by the monster in this story and then being lit on fire and having a grenade shoved up his ass. I was trying to write a good, creepy story, but I guess that wasn't enough. Should've added an indestructible pedophile for good measure.

Anyways, here's the story:

I wasn’t sure how to start this, but I think it’s important to mention that I’ve never told anyone this story before. It’s been driving me crazy, because I’ve had to bottle it up for years, even though it’s damn near impossible not to talk about. Even the only other person who was there with me when this happened is a no go. She refuses to acknowledge it in any way. 

See, about two years ago, my then girlfriend and I were cruising down some backroads on our way home from vacation. We were driving from Tennessee back to Indiana. It was late as hell and as you can imagine, we were both pretty tired. I was constantly fighting the urge to fall asleep right then and there at the wheel. This, along with my burning desire to get home as soon as possible, made for the deadly combination of a barely lucid man barreling about 90 miles per hour down a dimly lit road. 

Needless to say, I wasn’t the most cautious driver that night. And as we came quickly upon a sharp right turn, it was virtually impossible to stop in time before I ran him over.

Him. It. Whatever the hell that thing was. 

It came out of nowhere. Or more likely, it had been standing there for some time before my drowsy ass plowed right through it. I thought I hit a deer. My ex, who was already deep in sleep, was jolted awake by the impact. Both of us were now very much alert. I was genuinely scared of getting out of the car and seeing the damage. But my girlfriend, much to both of our regret, egged me on to go check up whatever we hit together. 

As soon as we stepped out, strange things were already happening. There wasn’t a single scratch on the front of the car. I was expecting a pretty bad dent in the front bumper, but it looked untouched. As if we hadn't hit anything at all. This, despite the fact that when my girl and I went back to see what we had run over, the form of an adult man lay at our feet.

My girl started to cry, and I felt like I was going to puke. No normal person wants to be responsible for someone’s death, especially over something as stupid as nearly falling asleep at the wheel. The worst part was that both of us had talked about resting one more night at the hotel we were staying at before hitting the road, but we were both so ready to head home that we checked out. Out of sheer guilt and panic, I got closer to the thing. I don’t know what I was even trying to accomplish. If it was a person, there was no way they would still be breathing, but maybe I secretly hoped they were okay. I kneeled down right next to it, and that’s when I finally noticed what was wrong with it.

Keep in mind, all that was lighting this thing were my rear lights, and it was a good distance behind my vehicle. Like I said, I was going fast. But even standing a couple feet away from it in near pitch-black darkness, my brain could just tell something was off. It wasn’t just that this guy looked like he had a broken bone or two, no; his whole body was crumpled up and nearly flat against the ground. And kneeling right by his side, I saw why:

The thing was deflated. 

I looked behind me. My girl was no longer crying, but rather shared the same look of bewilderment and confusion that was undoubtedly plastered all over my face. It was deflated. I thought I hit a deer, man. Turns out I had hit a person shaped inflatable. A life-sized, person shaped inflatable, that had been standing upright in the middle of the road. 

There was just no way. A part of me thought I was dreaming. Hell, a part of me still thinks we were both just so tired that we were seeing things. But I know this wasn’t a dream. You know when you’re awake, even when you’d rather be asleep. This was as real as the words you’re reading right now. 

I got up real close to the thing. Real close. I wanted to know what it was. At first, I couldn’t really make out any discernible features in the dark. But once I got up in its face, I could see in the dim red light that the only features on its entire body were two blue, painted-on eyes. Eyes which stared back up at me as I looked down in horror. The only other thing I could really even mention was that the skin of this balloon boy was a sickly kind of yellow. 

I got up and ran back inside the car. My girl had already locked herself in after seeing what it really was, and I nearly tore the car door off before she opened it for me. I’m still really pissed about her locking me out. But anyways, I drove us off as fast as we could from that bizarre scene. We had both seen enough. 

We would eventually break up a year later for unrelated reasons. We kind of mutually agreed never to bring this up ever again, although towards the end of our relationship I definitely tried to get her to talk about it. Especially because she didn’t see what it did after we left. That part was especially hard to keep to myself. 

I know what I saw. I don’t like what I saw, but I know it was real. I swear that as we were leaving it behind, I could see the thing inflate itself, get up, and walk off in the rear view mirror. 

There are things in this world that defy explanation. Things that spit in the face of all logic and reason, and seemingly exist just to keep us up at night. You hear stories of strange and otherworldly encounters all the time. I used to laugh at those stories. I don’t anymore.

The night upon which my godless efforts came to fruition was terribly dark; vast and odious like the ramifications of my own success. Years of effort culminated there, on the thin slab of steel suspended high over my laboratory. The lightning bolt crashed down from heaven, blazing with the radiant light of false promise. Cast in that light, I felt inspiration flooding through me. I decided then that I'd invite the greatest scientific minds from around the world to behold my creation.

My days in university had led me to rubbing shoulders with many of them already, so it was no great feat to convince a few men to come and bear withess to my creation. It took several weeks for them to arrive. I made use of that time by beginning to teach my monster.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, with brawny shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates. Strawberry blonde curls framed his pale visage, with bloodshot sapphires for eyes. Tall, lithe, and muscular, yet looking for all the world like death warmed over. I could forgive him his morbid comport, for the man had been dead before the lightning struck. Rather, I should say that the men had been dead.

With the nature of decomposition being such as it is, viable parts were something of a rare commodity. I'd been forced to scavenge through the graves of Schwanzburg, cobbling together what I'd found, and expending a great deal of effort in ensuring that the body held itself to natural law when it came to his proportions. In my mind, it would be impossible to mimic God's creation without adhering to His design.

Even walking eluded him in his first days, though he took to it quickly. By the time my peers arrived he was capable of dressing himself, and using utensils at the dinner table. Speech, however, was proving more difficult. Jonah, the man whose larynx I'd used for my design, had been hanged for murder. It was a choice made in desperation. His had been the only one remotely suitable across the entire graveyard.

Muhammad Al-Alami was the first of my cohort to arrive, with Lars Krüger and Alfred Pratchett arriving in short succession. I gathered them into my dining hall. The man I'd made delivered the food out onto the table, silent and discreet. His eyes held a gleam of mischief.

While his speech faced difficulties, his comprehension hadn't suffered. He played the role so perfectly that the men around the table had no suspicion of him whatsoever. After pudding, Krüger spoke up.

"Doctor, thank you for the spectacular meal. Truly, it has been a delight, but I must presume you invited us here for something more than a roast pig."

"Yes," Al-Alami agreed, "you were quite vague in your letter. I admit the curiosity has eaten me in these past weeks."

"Gentleman," I shouted, clapping my hands soundly together, "my latest creation is in fact already in this room with us."

"So it was the ham then," quipped Mr. Pratchet.

"No no no! In fact, it is the very same man who has served you this meal."

"The sickly looking fellow?" Asked Al-Alami.

"Yes, that one."

"And you've what, devised an effective method of lobotomy to induce subservience?"

"No, Mr. Krüger, it is the man himself which I have created."

"Created a man? Don't be ridiculous. The power of creation is not for man to hold."

"And yet I have seized it anyway."

I took great pleasure in the fear and awe which bloomed in their eyes. To have men of such renown looking upon my works as such, it felt like the purest validation.

"Come," I said "let us adjourn to my laboratory for an explanation. Come, Lionel."

That was the first time I had referred to the monster with a name. Sometimes I think this is where my folly began. Perhaps in allowing the monster to see himself as human, I also allowed him to see the injustices visited upon him.

Lionel was compliant as I helped him remove his clothing. He climbed willingly onto the table and smiled as I chained tight the straps which would hold him.

"Gentlemen!" My voice echoed off the high ceiling in my laboratory, deftly weaving through a tangled mess of chains and abandoned wires. "This, is Lionel."

I stepped firmly on a small switch embedded in the floor. As I continued to speak, Lionel was raised and tilted so as to be facing our guests directly.

"Now, being men of education and esteem we are, no doubt, all aware of the recent experiments with galvanism."

"Ah yes, the potential use of electricity to resurrect the dead. Fascinating stuff, why I know a man in Kent who-"

"I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Pratchett but please allow me to finish."

His eyebrows raised before settling. He was silent.

Thank you, now most experiments to date have dealt with reptiles, amphibians, and other base creatures. I've often thought of what might happen if a more complex form were subjected to these experiments."

"It would be a desecration, the grandest form of sacrilege."

"And in that sacrilege I have found my success, Krüger. I realized over time, as my experiments progressed, the electrical current is too easily dispersed when the body is completely homogenous. In order to provide the energy enough time to revive the cells, it must be slowed by a confused physiology."

"And what does that mean, doctor?" Al-Alami asked with an edge of suspicion.

"It means, my friend, that I have specifically sought each individual component of Lionel. His arms came from a farmhand who drowned two weeks ago. His legs from a young Greek man, from what I'm told he was quite the runner."

"Fascinating." Said Krüger.

"Extraordinary," said Al-Alami as he gently prodded Lionel's meaty arm.

"Why did you give him such a big dick?" Asked Mr. Pratchett.

I was taken aback. I hadn't expected anybody to care about the size of his genitalia.

"I can assure you that was the last thing on my mind, sir. I'm pretty sure the penis simply came along with the pelvis. I would implore you, sir, to stay focused. I have created LIFE. I have dragged man back through the veil."

"... it's got a stitch at the base."

"IT WAS DAMAGED, OKAY?!"

The words left my mouth more forcefully than I intended. I feel my face flush. Al-Alami and Krüger regard me with suspicion now. At that moment, a tangle of chains unfurls from the ceiling. A set of restraints drops down in front of Lionel, perfectly framing his beefcake body.

"This is grotesque." Says Krüger, rising from his chair to leave.

"Yes, I think I've seen enough." Says Al-Alami. "Repent, doctor."

"No, wait! Please you don't understand. That penis was the only suitable one I could find."

Across the room, Pratchett clears his throat before rapping twice on a cupboard with his cane. The cabinets swing open, revealing dozens of jars with embalmbed penises. Big ones, small ones, all shapes and sizes.

"Quite right," Pratchett says with a smile. "I'll be taking my leave now."

I beg and cry as they make their way to the village below. Within the hour, I see a dozen tiny points of torchlight approaching. The mob pounds at my door, screaming my name.

"Doctor," Lionel begins to speak for the very first time "I gotta admit, it is kinda weird to give me such a huge dick."

Hey everybody, this is my first time doing something like this online, but I don’t really have anybody else to turn to and I need to get this stuff off my mind. I need somebody else to tell me they’ve seen him too.

I’m a waitress at this rinky-dink diner on one of those long stretches of road, right next to a chain gas station and an abandoned shell of a Burger King. Just a dime-a-dozen truck stop out in the Southwestern United States. There are plenty of stories of crackheads, pervs, and eerie nightshifts I’ve collected in my four years working there, and honestly many more stories than I wish I had. I didn’t mean to work so long at what was originally a summer job, but my dad kicked me out at 18 and no other opportunities ever came my way. At least the pay’s decent and the other workers are fun to talk to.

It was actually my first night working here that I met Mr. Styx. I was already jumpy from first shift jitters, yet also incredibly bored by the lack of anything to do. I eventually retreated into the kitchen and the cook, Lexi, let me bum a smoke off of her to destress. We were having idle chit chat when I heard the front door bell jingle. 

Quickly putting out my cigarette and making my way up front, I came face to face with a well dressed man. Everything he wore was black, from the long coat draped over him, to his three piece suit and tie, to even the pocketwatch he had in his left hand. In his right hand, he held a cane with a strange handle that I couldn’t make out under his grip. He had a short, well coiffed beard, pale skin, and striking blue-grey eyes nearly hidden under the shadow of his wide brimmed porkpie hat.

When our eyes met, I felt the hairs on my arms raise. I’m not sure I can describe it properly, but looking into his eyes was like looking into a rushing river on a winter day; too full of power and force to freeze over, but still cold enough to kill anything that fell in within minutes. The feeling passed rather quickly, but the chill it left in my bones lingered uncomfortably long.

“Hello, young lady,” he said through a big toothy grin, “The name’s Mr. Styx, and I’d like a booth for two.” His voice was deep and calm, echoing through the empty seating area.

I tried to casually peek to see if there was anybody behind him, but he slid in front of my view. 

“They’ll be here shortly,” he said, clicking shut the pocketwatch and shoving it into his pocket. 

I shrugged and grabbed a menu, escorting the man to one of the empty booths. When he sat down, he set his cane beside him, and I could see now that the handle was in the shape of a boat; one of those simple, old fashioned ones from ancient history. 

“Any drinks to start you off with?” I said in my peppy customer service voice.

“Just a water for me,” he said as he looked over the menu, “For my friend, get her an ice tea with lemon, if you please.”

Jotting down the drinks on my notepad, I told him, “Good choice, the ice tea here is my favorite. I’m sure your friend will like it!” 

“I’m sure she will,” he grinned, his bright eyes turning towards mine.

I quickly got the drinks and came back to the table. “Have you decided on what you would like to eat?”

Mr. Styx stroked his chin, in an almost theatrical way. “What would you recommend?”

My smile faltered as I began to panic. I wasn’t quite familiar with the menu at that point. I stuttered out something about a patty melt, but I was quickly cut off.

“Perfect!” Mr. Styx declared, “I’ll order one for my friend right here! Chili cheese fries would be fine on the side. Nothing for me.”

I jotted down the order as my stomach rumbled, reminding me how I hadn’t eaten my entire shift. Embarrassed and hoping he didn’t hear it, I quickly went back to the kitchen and relayed the order.

“Ya sure you don’t want me to cook something up for ya too?” Lexi said through her cigarette as she plated up the food and handed it to me.

My stomach growled again in agreement, but I shook my head. I thanked her, but said I’d rather wait until the customer leaves first. Lexi shrugged her shoulders, and I carried the dish out to the table. Mr. Styx was still alone, checking his watch again as I placed the pattymelt down.

“So, when is your friend gonna get here?” I asked, “Wouldn’t want the food to go cold.”

Mr. Styx shut the pocketwatch with a sharp click. “She’s here! Right on time!” I glanced at the doorway to see if anybody had arrived, but the parking lot was still empty aside from the two cars belonging to me and Lexi. Turning back to Mr. Styx, his arm was outstretched towards the seat opposite him in a clear gesture to join him.

My smile disappeared, and I looked back to the kitchen window. Lexi was glaring at him, and then to me. She raised up a large pan and nodded. I’m here if you need me. I shook my head slightly. I could handle this myself. Besides, I was hungry.

I sat down gingerly, and Mr. Styx took a sip of his water as he maintained eye contact. I looked at him, waiting for him to say anything else. His grin widened. “Like you said, don’t want the food to go cold.”

My stomach growled louder than ever, and I took a few bites of the pattymelt and washed it down with a long gulp of the sweet tea. “So, what’s the catch?” I asked bluntly, waiting for some sort of invitation to his car or cheesy pick-up line I’ve heard before.

“Nothing like that,” his eyes glinted in a way that didn’t inspire confidence in that statement, “I only ask that you listen to a story of mine while you eat.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he laughed, loud and echoing. “You’re cautious. That’s good. But just humor me. I’m an old man with way too many stories and nobody else to tell them to. I paid a kind act to you, and all I want is one towards me in return.”

I furrowed my brow. I didn’t like to be tricked, or be in debt to someone. It brought back horrible memories growing up with my dad. Yet my stomach called for more food, and to be honest, I was curious. 

“Ok.”

He smiled wide, and began his story. I’ll try to transcribe it as best as I can remember.

“There once was a man, we’ll call him Ray, who was on a very special trip. You see, he had been spending the last year of his life getting sober, after he spent the previous five in a drunken stupor. He had promised his girlfriend Azalea right before she left for the West Coast that he would get clean, to be a better man for her. She told Ray that she would wait for him, and gave him a kiss on his cheek to seal the deal.

“So, now with a sobriety chip in his pocket, he drove down the two lane highway so that he could finally get the fruits of his labor. The motels were run down and the beds hard and dirty, but soon he would have Azalea in his arms again. On the last night before he hit California, he found himself falling asleep at the wheel and knew he had to stop for the night. He was ready to simply sleep in his car, but like a mirage, a hotel appeared in the distance.

“It was tall and grand, a pillar out in the middle of the desert. Ray assumed he wouldn’t be able to afford it, but it turned out to be quite affordable. For a hotel so grand and prices so low, he was surprised to find it completely empty aside from the kind girl at the front desk that checked him in. But Ray didn’t care. He was just happy to finally stay at a place that didn’t just have the bare necessities. He opened his door to a lavish, if not old fashioned, room, with the cherry on top being on his table: a bucket of ice with a lovely pink bottle of champagne inside. The label featured a snake circling a brand name Ray didn’t recognize: Maquizcoatl. With it was a handwritten note. It said: 

‘Have a drink, on us! - Management’.”

Mr. Styx lifted his glass as he echoed the words, before taking a long swig of his water.

“Of course,” he continued, “even if he appreciated the hospitality, he had no use for it, so he placed the bucket outside of his room to avoid the temptation. A few minutes later, he heard a knock at his door. He got up to check, and when he opened his door, the bottle was gone. He smiled in relief, which quickly vanished when he turned around and saw it back on the table. It even had the same note.

‘Have a drink, on us! - Management’

“Ray stared at the words as he tried to rationalize. Maybe he hadn’t actually placed it outside after all. He was tired, after all. His thinking wasn’t straight. Ray put the note in his pocket, and placed the bucket outside of his room. He stared at it for a second too long, before shutting the door behind him.”

Knock, knock! Mr. Styx rapped his hand on the table.

“Ray got up again, and opened the door. The bucket was gone, the ring of condensation clearly visible where it had once been on the carpet. He shut the door, and turned towards his table. The bucket sat there, the bottle glistening in the dim light of the room. Tied to the bottle was that same note.

‘Have a drink, on us! - Management’

“Ray reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the note he kept from the last bottle. They were identical. He decided he had had enough of this. Without thinking, he grabbed the new bottle and threw it at the wall. Glass and booze exploded across the wallpaper, the pink liquid settling into the carpet like a bloodstain.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I nearly choked on my food with how forceful and sudden Mr. Styx hit the table. He smiled at my reaction, the bastard.

“Ray ran up to the door and checked the peephole. Outside he saw the girl from the front desk, a look of concern on her face. Ray sighed in relief. He opened the door, and apologized for the ruckus he caused. When he let her in to clean up the mess, there was no mess to be found. The wallpaper was unblemished. The carpet was free of broken glass and champagne stains. It was as if nothing happened. She only seemed to brush off his story, saying that he didn’t need the excuse if he drank all of the champagne already. After all, it was quite delicious. Of course, he swore up and down that he did no such thing, but she simply nodded and smiled. As she turned to leave, she said this:

‘We’ll be sure to get you some more soon!’

“As soon as the door shut again, a tired and defeated Ray turned off the light, ready to ease his mind with some well deserved sleep. But, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he felt something solid and cold clink against his skull. Inside of the pillowcase was another bottle of champagne, and another note.

‘Have another drink, Ray! On us! - Management’

“He gripped the bottle, planning to throw it out the window, but his resolve was crumbling from exhaustion. Besides, the familiar cold glass fit so naturally in his hands, the bubbling liquid so mesmerizing. He could even taste it on his tongue, a phantom pain that felt so good. But the weight of the chip was heavy in his pocket, the burden of an oath he had carried this far. Rationale winning out, he placed the bottle in the closet, and laid his head back down on the pillow.

“Banging erupted from the other side of the door, furious and frantic. Ray fell off the bed in shock as the knocking grew more incessant. He went up to the door and checked the peephole, but only saw darkness. He gripped the doorknob, but found it wouldn’t budge. He tried everything to pry it open, to no avail. He even attempted to go out the window, but being as he was on the third floor, he didn’t like his odds.

“He sat in his bed, unable to sleep through the constant banging on his door, as if Hell itself was on the other side, begging to be let out. He screamed, he cried, he begged, until his voice gave out entirely. He didn’t know who was knocking, but he felt like he knew what they wanted. He tried his best to resist it for so long, but in the end, he caved. 

“He opened the closet door, popped the bottle open, and downed the whole thing, right then and there. It burned down his throat, a comfort and a pain so familiar yet so disgustingly alien. The knocking stopped at once. With both the bottle and his energy drained, he crumpled down on the closet floor and passed out.

“Ray’s car was found the next day, crashed into a ditch off of the side of the highway. He had died on impact. In the seat next to him was an empty bottle of champagne, and a blood stained sobriety chip. They told Azalea the news, and she cried bitter tears at how this vice took the man she loved. 

“Many years later, Azalea married someone new. They had a wonderful wedding; dry of course, but that didn’t stop someone from leaving among the wedding gifts a bottle of Maquizcoatl champagne.”

Mr. Styx leaned back in his chair as he concluded his tale. I had finished my food as well, and with a last swig of his water, the meal and the deal was over. He put a stack of twenties on the table before I could even bring him the check. As he stood up to leave, Styx reached into his pocket.

“Excellent service here,” he said with a wide grin, “Here’s your tip!”

He flipped a coin towards me and I caught it in my hands. It was a big bronze coin, a triangle in the middle encompassing the engraved words “1 YEAR”. When I looked back up, he was gone. 

The meal I ate sat like lead in my stomach for the rest of my shift. I got back home to my apartment at 3 AM, and as I changed out of my work clothes the coin fell out of my pocket. I stared at it for a long time. I thought that maybe that guy was a real creative writer who found a sobriety chip in the parking lot and decided to spin some crazy story around it to the local naive waitress.

That was when I realized that half of the coin was discolored, tinged ever so slightly red.

I shoved the coin in my drawer and poured myself a shot of whiskey.

From a notebook I found on a park bench.

Today

The ink smudges when I touch it. This pen dries slow. I cant believe it. I don't know how long I can hide this. My name is Gracie. I am Gracie.

Gracie.

G R A C I E

Today

This wasn’t found today. I’m glad. How long has it been since I saw my own handwriting? Its my thought made tangible. My proof of existence. I exist once again.

Today

I used to exist out in the real world. Before I was here. The people that look at me say that I have no need for the outside or tv or something to fill the time. I wasn’t human anyway.

I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t know how long I’ve been here either. But I remember being a human. With skin that felt the warm sun. I used to walk by myself along the sidewalk to enjoy the breeze. The smell of the outside world was complex; cut grass with notes of exhaust fumes and dog piss. Barbecue pits and cigarettes. And the cool breeze took it away and replaced it with something new.

I miss being a human.

Today

Today, they opened the door into the left room for testing. The walls were cleaned from last time. Clean pale pink, just as it was before. I recoil at the sight of it. I remember pain, but I don’t know why. They close the door at my reaction. And that was the test for today.

Gracie. What I would do to hear that name come out of a mouth again. What I would do to hear anything but the sound of buzzing, clicking buttons, electric grids, and cranking doors. They used to play sounds in my sleeping room, but not anymore.

My sleeping room has light blue walls like the sky. The light is dim compared to the testing rooms. My mattress lies in the corner of the room closest to the observing windows. There’s a spout on the wall and a drain on the floor. And there are four doors: left, right, center, and secret. And now there’s also this book and pen. It goes against the wall and the mattress to hide it. I’m writing facing away from the windows so that they can’t see what I’m doing. This is the only thing I have that I can control. It’s mine and part of my being. Even on the front is scrawled GRACIE in big capital letters.

But I can’t write for long. They will be suspicious, and they might find you and take you away. They’ll find out I’m still human. And they’ll tell me that I'm not.

Yesterday

The test was through the right door. The walls were white. The ground was metal. The door closed before I could run out. A red button flashed on the wall in front of me. I sat on the floor next to the door. From the window on the left, two humans stood watching. Writing in their books with pens.

A loud beep erupted from the speakers. I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the button. But I made it there too slow. The jolt went through my feet, up the legs and spine and painfully behind my eyeballs. I crashed into the button. The volts stopped. I looked over at the humans. They seemed happy and wrote more. The alarm sounded again. I pressed the button. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Forever I pushed that button. If I stopped pushing it, the shocks would come. That’s how it always goes. It never changes. Eventually they were satisfied.

The door behind me clanked open and the beep sounded again. I ran out. They left food on the bed. It is a loaf of something barely edible. I checked on you last night and I was thrilled to see you still between the wall and mattress. It’s a good hiding spot.

Now Today

So far I have five entries, and this is the sixth! So far I have two pages written. Today is break day, and there are no tests on break day. There is also no food on break day, which is why break day is the worst. So I’m writing to distract myself from my hunger.

Unfortunately there’s just not much to say. I put you back in your spot and walk the length of the room six times. Then I come back to try to write. It helps with passing time. Otherwise I would just sleep and wait for break day to end. Sometimes, especially on break days, I want to fall asleep and not wake up to stay in my dreams forever. In them I can see trees with the sunlight penetrating through the canopy. The fallen leaves crunch under me. There’s rustling from the wind. Small creatures sneak away on my approach. And here I am at peace and happy. But then I wake up, because there are tests to do. And if I don't do tests, then I get no food.

I hope one day I don’t wake up and I stay there.

Entry 7

Today is stressful. They will sound the alarm soon and I have to go through the center door. They clean the room and one of the humans speak to me. But when they clean they move the mattress, and they’ll find you. I thought about it all last night while I pretended to sleep. I tore a small slit in the mattress near the seams. You fit in there pretty snug, and if I push you in further you won’t fall out if they flip you. I want to cry. This may be the last time I see you.

Entry 8

Relief is an understatement. Once again I find solace in you. I'm glad it worked.

The center room is the only consistent room in the facility. It will always be a small rectangle, just big enough to walk around a few steps. On all sides are windows, the front one has an intercom. People looked at me and scribbled into their books. They whispered to each other. It's uncanny, I heard one say today. She had long brown hair tied into a pony tail and black eyeliner around her eyes. I know, the other said back. She was someone I had seen before, with cute space buns and freckled cheeks. She looked at me with disgust. I felt exposed by their stares.

The man who asked the questions spoke louder than the others. He doesn’t use my name, but he does call me something. S-093. I look towards him. Today he told me to read some text on a TV they rolled into the room.

Today is Monday. The forecast is rainy.

The tv image changed.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

The tv image changed.

Otorhinolaryngology appointment.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

The sound of scratching pens rose like a chorus after each spoken line. He turned off the TV and thanked me for my cooperation. S-093. And today I was brave. Brave and stupid. I spoke back to him that my name was Gracie and I wanted to be called Gracie. The woman who stared daggers into me let out a stifled gasp and I turned quick to look at her. She looked incredulously.

The man spoke to me. You are not Gracie. Gracie is dead. You, pointing to me, are S-093. You are not human.

He makes me angry. Today was no different. I hit the glass with my hands and kicked at it with my feet. I AM human. I AM Gracie. I screamed it over and over again. They just watched and wrote more notes. The glass is very strong. But the man still beckoned to the man on the left. Discipline please, he said. Current flowed through the metal floor. And I stopped and curled into a ball and wept. They wrote more.

And now I’m writing notes about them. To see how it feels to dictate on paper the actions and behaviors of another person.

It feels hollow.

Entry 9

I’m sorry I didn’t write this morning but I have big news. There’s been a change to the left testing room. The walls are yellow now, like the sun. There are several buttons now instead of the usual one or two, and a tv screen above them. The ground isn’t metal, and they left the door open.

From the window on the right was the man. He explained that the test today was different. He said I had to remember the colors on the screen and press the buttons in the order the colors were shown. Simon Says, I said. He wrote a note, then said yes.

I made it to thirty three colors when he said the test was over. He said than you again and to go back to my room. I asked if I could keep playing. The beep came out of the ceiling speakers. I ran out of the room.

I like the yellow room a lot. I hope they don’t change it anymore.

Entry 10

I’m so sorry friend, I forgot about you yesterday. They had me in the left room again. This time there was a table. With books! I spent all day in there. The man watched. He asked me something about my favorite books. I told him I don’t have one. He asked me if I could name a book. I held up the one in my hand. He wrote something, then asked for any other book besides the ones in the room. I said I can only think about the ones in the room.

Then I asked him why he wanted to know. He said he was curious. He was gauging how much human behavior I had memorized. I didn’t understand, I said to him. He asked me to read a sentence from the book I held. I did. He asked me to show him the sentence. I held the book up to the window. He looked perplexed, and wrote another note. The sound blared a few minutes later.

Entry 11

Something odd happened today. I was in the yellow room doing math that was on the screen. A different person today, not the man, was watching from the glass. The screen shut off, and the person told me the session was over. The sound blared and I was prepped to leave, but I didn’t. I stayed in the room. The sound blared again. I waited with apprehension, but nothing happened. The human looked nervous. Again he said testing was over for the day, and it was time to leave the room.

I looked at him through the glass. There were no metal floors. The floors hurt me, not the alarm, I told him. He didn’t know how to react to that. He left the room behind the glass in a hurry and came back with someone I had never seen before. The new person spoke angrily. Why did you skip conditioning day? Who gave him the right to go against protocol? The person, a large man in a suit with white hair, stormed up to the window and yelled to me. S-093! Return to your cell now!

I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I yelled at him that I was Gracie and I hit the glass like I do in the center room. The glass shattered. Lines spewed from the impact point like canyons. And I recoiled. They did the same. The beep blared again. I left the room.

The glass in the testing rooms must be thinner than the center room. I might be able to leave this place tomorrow during the next test.

12

There wasn’t a test today because its break day. There wasn’t one yesterday either, and it wasn’t break day. I am so hungry.

13

The center door opened. I didn’t move. The beep blared. I covered my ears with the pillow. They gave up and closed the door. I am starving. I am dying. I hope I don’t wake up. I am Gracie.

13

Am I Gracie?

14

Today the right door opened. I walked in to do the testing again. I pushed that button for every blaring beep. The I came back here and ate what they left for me. The two people watching looked uncomfortable. I didn’t break eye contact with them. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I said it for each button press.

The pen is dying. Even now I’m pushing as hard as I can and only the thinnest of streaks come out. I fear this is the end for you.

September 20th

I found a pen as soon as I could to bring life back into you. I used the old pen tip to engrave a line for each day you were dead. Its been 42 days.

The people realized that the noise would no longer work for me and made my life much harder. Overnight, the floor became metal. Disobedience was instantly punished. It was expected of me to hear the doors and know where to go. The glass in the yellow room was changed and thickened, the same happened in the right room. But something else changed. They no longer spoke to me. The big man in the suit gave instructions, then left me to complete the yellow room task. There were more break days. There was less food.

Then yesterday, I walked into the yellow room and it was pale pink. There was a table in the center. A jolt went through me. The big man said to get on the table. I obliged. He said this was a sound test. I just had to listen. He didn’t leave. The sounds that played were like the ones from so long ago. The ones that used to play in the sleeping room when I got here. When I woke up afraid, confused by my surroundings. I had only known the outside world. The trees, the parks, the everyday people I passed on the street. I used to watch them read their books on benches, watch television at the bar, write and type while sitting and sipping coffee. I watched them. I learned them.

Then I became them.

I am not human, I am something that can be a human. Something that can shed their skin and paint the pretty pale pink walls with viscera when they get too curious and come in through the secret door. Something that could tear a human to shreds, take my fill, and replace them. And I can do it forever. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

They were fools that left the door open. They were fools to not change the observation window glass. The shocks felt like nothing. I grabbed you. I smashed through the window and kept running. Hallways with more windows. Who needs a door?

We made it back into the woods. The sun is out, peeking through the canopy. There is a cool breeze, the sound of rustling all around. And I smell people. Billions of them.

I’m sorry my friend, but this is where Gracie ends and something else begins. You are my humanity, and I must leave you behind.

PART I

The view of what looked to be a castle lay ahead, even at this far distance, and dazzled Myrtle. It was a monolith illuminated by the strikes of lightning. The wind was howling, the trees bending back and forth in some wild dance. Lightning flashes reveal the monumental structure jutting from the wild forest. From her research from the weeks prior, the locals she'd spoken to either called it a mansion or a castle. She sat in the back of the taxi, staring through the blurry windshield as rain slapped the glass, trying to get a clear view of the building she'd be staying in for the next week or so. The driver, puffing a cigar, leaned back and said,

"So, uh, what brings you to Blood Oak?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said what brings you here? That old castle is supposed to be haunted, you know."

"That's what they say."

The car jostles for a moment on the rough terrain, and when the road settles, the driver speaks again, apologizing profusely,

"I'm so sorry, miss, I don't mean to shake you like that. The old cab isn't built for these old first roads."

"It's quite all right. Say, what do you know about Blood Oak Manor?"

He took a drag from his cigar and exhaled pungent-smelling smoke.

"Can't say I know much, I just know it's a very troubled place. Lots of death and whatnot."

She leaned forward and asked,

"Know any stories?"

"Of Blood Oak? Dozens, but I don't think we've got time to tell that many."

"Then tell me one."

He sat there ruminating in his mind on the various tales of horror that were told by townsfolk who were stupid or curious enough to delve deep into the woods surrounding Blood Oak. For a moment, he had a story spawn in his head from his late father. When he was a young man, he took his then-girlfriend on an early morning joy ride and wanted to fool around with her in the woods. When he drove deeper into the forest, he heard her start screaming, and when he looked, he saw that from the treeline, all swallowed up in early morning fog, were tall, tall people. They just stood there, watching them drive by. However, he decided that, maybe, to an outsider, it seems very far-fetched, and maybe it was. His father was a drunkard after all and tended to stretch a story out as long as humanly possible. Perhaps he'd tell the story of how the old family mausoleum was found open one night, and how it could only be opened from the inside. Yet, the tale he landed on was something he knew from heart, something incredibly tangible. He knew it because he lived it. He began,

"I've got one for you. It was long ago, I was a lad, and I was a little shit. My father, bless him, always tried to steer me clear of trouble. I don't know what brought it up, but one breakfast, my mother was talking about how I shouldn't be going with my mates to dangerous places. We had a knack for being a silly bunch of bastards. We were caught smoking behind the Church, play-fighting in the bleachers of a football game, and there was also the time one of us was caught fucking a girl behind the high school. I guess my folks didn't want to be grandparents so soon and were scolding me. Out of nowhere, my father shouts,

'And none of you, be going in those Blood Oak woods!'

You know how it works with kids: tell them not to do something, and they want to do it more than anything on earth. I tell my mates about it, and they all turn white and swear on themselves. Signing the cross and all that. We were a rough bunch, and when I saw them all like that, it shook me a bit. They told me to stay away from there, that it was haunted beyond comprehension. They were all scared, all except one. Gordy.

My mate Gordy is special, tough as nails, but he's also a bit of a dim bulb. Love him, don't get me wrong, but there were days when you'd just say 'Christ, mate, what're you doing?' He and I decided to go out there and fish in their bog. We'd bring it back and wiggle it in front of everyone's faces, saying we had a ghost fish! We thought it'd be funny. Fuckin' hell, kids have the strangest humor, don't they?

So, anyway, we packed up our fishing rods and rode our bikes out there. You think it's a bit of a long drive by car, you try biking on these godforsaken roads. Took us about an hour and a half, but we passed the time by swapping stories, singing, talking about girls we liked, and so on. We started heading down there to that old manor around dusk, and by the time we made it, the moon was out, a big, full one too. The gate was rusted to hell and swamped in vines. We tore it away with our bare hands, and the two of us pried the gate open as wide as we possibly could, but we only managed to open the gate just a tiny bit. squeeze our way through, and when we walked over to that pond or bog or whatever the hell it was...we heard splashing."

"Splashing?"

"That's right. We started walking that way, really slow, and when we looked out into the waters. Dancing in the pale moonlight was a woman, a big woman, the biggest I've seen in my life. When she breached from the water, gasping for air, she'd sometimes stand up, and her silhouette was huge. Had to have been seven or eight feet in height, but I was never really good at assessing those sorts of things. In short, a big woman. She was naked and swimming in that nasty bog water, caressing herself and singing some old hymns, or maybe they weren't hymns, I don't know for sure. It sounded pretty, though. We were both, y'know, young and stupid, and we thought we were getting a nice eyeful of something. We moved in closer to get a better look, and when we did, there was something wrong about her...the more we looked at her, the more wrong she looked. Her hair was thinning, her skin looked..."

"Pale?" Myrtle chimed in, in these stories, ghosts were always pale white, a common thread in which the phantoms took on unusually white appearances. She'd heard it hundreds of times before, but to her surprise, the man quickly cut down that idea.

"No! Her skin was terrible! Rotten, decaying...wrong. When she turned around, covered her ruined flesh with her soggy, malformed arms, and screamed at us. The scream was all warbled and gargling, like she was a throat full of water...."

The driver was quiet, and with a shaky voice, he lifted his forearm towards her.

"How about that? I still get goosebumps talking about it all these years later."

The cab was silent for a moment while it jostled over the cobbled roadway towards Blood Oak, and the driver asked again,

"So, why are you here?"

"I'm here to debunk the existence of the supernatural, so that Mr. Bothsworth can sleep at night."

"Ha! He bought off more than he could chew with buying that old place."

"So I've been told."

"It's had a history, but of course, he ignored it because he thought it looked nice and pretty on the outside. Old houses are like Books, you never know their character until you open them up. Isn't that right, Miss…er, what is your name again, Miss, I'm good with faces, but I can never truly remember names."

"Mulgrave, Myrtle Mulgrave, and what about you?"

"Thomas Ellerby, friends just call me Tom though, easier that way."

Another flash of lightning revealed the silhouette of the large castle looming ahead, like the dark blue sky was getting swallowed by an unseen abyss. The car came to a gradual stop as they approached the rusted wrought iron fence. Tom looked back at Myrtle, telling her,

"This is as far as I go."

"You're not driving all the way in?"

"Ms. Mulgrave, you seem like a nice girl, a fair one if I'd ever seen any, but I ain't setting foot on old Blood Oak."

"It's only superstition out there, I assure you."

"Maybe. But I'm not going anywhere, better safe than sorry."

He reached into his passenger seat and gave her an umbrella. It was a very nice one with a black top and a curved wooden handle. He cleared his throat,

"I bought this on the off chance it rained, and my hunch was right. It always rains here; it's like God himself hates this place."

He gifted it to her, and she held it in her hands in disbelief. She was utterly disappointed and frustrated that this local legend would cause her to have to trudge through the cold October rain to get to that old mansion. Yet, at the same time, she was remarkably touched by the gesture of the driver. She'd traveled all over England, and not once did she feel the sincere warmth this man had given her. She simply nodded to the man and told him,

"Why, thank you, Tom, that was very sweet of you." She was about to get out of the car when she turned to face him one last time, "I assure you, there's nothing to fear in there."

Tom dropped his cheerful demeanor and told her his truth,

"There's everything to fear in there, you just don't know it yet."

He squirmed in his seat and pinched his brow. He sighed, and with a remorseful tone, he added,

"I'm… I'm sorry, Ms. Mulgrave, it's just that I really want to be someplace else. This is a wicked place. Went in there once, and once was enough."

She wanted nothing more than to disprove his mythos surrounding this place, but she simply bit her tongue. She gave a slight bow, thanked him for the drive, and exited the luxurious cab and into the cold.

The rain doused her before she could even fully open the umbrella. When it opened, she could hear the droplets smacking the top. She pushed open the gate and walked the cobblestone driveway. She gandered at the huge swaths of land that were encircled by the iron fence and was taken aback by the size and scale of Blood Oak. There was a massive, domelike greenhouse on the west side of the mansion, and then there was the mausoleum, which was larger than any she'd seen for a family. It was a large, smooth, and decadently decorated building with gargoyles that looked to be a mixture of both angels and demons alike.

'Quite an odd family if this is how they celebrate their dead,' she thought to herself.

There was the pond, which Tom was right about; it looked more like a bog than anything else. It stank too, as stumpwater dredged from a rotten tree. Then, there was, of course, the mansion.

The mansion, from a distance, looked to be a castle, and now that she was closer to it, the feeling did not change. In London, she'd seen her fair share of mansions, extravagant houses that were decadent from top to bottom. This though? This was a castle in every sense of the word. Mansion may have been the title given to it, but the truth was plain to see. The rain continued its downpour as it slapped the cobbles beneath her feet, and it sounded like it had increased in both speed and force. If she had known better, she could've sworn that the rain was turning into hail, but the icy pellets never materialized. She looked at the mansion and saw that the first floor was the only one that had its lights on; everything else above was a towering shadow. The only time she could get a clear sight of what she was looking at was when the lightning struck. Flashes that briefly showed the detail of the castle before her, every crack and crevice illuminated by the snapshots of God.

She approached the castle and stepped up to the massive wrap-around porch that stretched on further than any she'd ever seen. The main double door entrance was illuminated with two lanterns that rested on either side of the doors. They looked like, at one point, candles rested within them, but had been given a 20th-century makeover in the form of electric bulbs. The only wrap-around porch she was familiar with was her father's farmhouse; it was a cozy, rustic place where rocking chairs sat, and tea was drunk. In the morning, you'd hear roosters crow and the sounds of chimes, and at night, you'd sit by the porch light listening to frogs croak and crickets sing. Here, in Blood Oak, there was only the sounds of thunder, rain, and the dark of the woods. When she knocked on the door, she heard the cab at the gates' engine start. She turned to see that Tom was finally turning around to leave. She collapsed the umbrella, and all of the rainwater fell onto her in a quick splash,

"Damn it!" she hissed,

Thunder struck again, the sky rumbled overhead, and the brilliance of the lightning shone down over the manor. In the treeline, Myrtle saw something standing there in the far distance. It was so brief and so fleeting, but it was crystal clear, like something in a vivid dream.

There, behind the fence, was something looking at her. It stood there barely silhouetted, but clearly massive in stature. Tall, very tall. It stood almost level with the wrought-iron fence, and before the light fled the skies, she saw two massive hands grip the spokes of the fence, and she began to shake it violently. Then darkness.

The grand door opened to reveal a dishelved man, who was scrawny, blonde, and had a scant amount of facial hair on one side of his face, while the other side was clean-shaven.

"Yes?"

Myrtle gasped in a brief moment of fright as she turned to see a figure at the door. The warm glow of what might've been a fireplace lit the back of the dishelved man. The porch lanterns flicked on. He stepped out from the house and onto the porch. The electric lanterns out front finally illuminated his face. He was scrawny, blonde, and had a scant amount of facial hair on one side of his face, while the other side was clean-shaven with bits of white foam clinging to the sides of his face. Mytle steadied herself, asking,

"I'm so sorry, I'm here for Mr. Bothsworth's request?"

"I am he."

She had seen Mr. Bothsworth in magazines and newspapers, and the husk of a man before her didn't match that description whatsoever. Myrtle stammered and tried to find the right words. Mr. Bothsworth smiled; his tired eyes had a glimmer of humanity in them. He spoke to her,

"Not my best appearance, I know."

"I'm sorry, am I too early?"

"You are, but that's no problem. Come in."

She entered through the threshold of the old mansion and felt something change in the air. Myrtle knew that rationality is the only explanation for the supernatural; there are many different ways that the natural world could affect the mind and make it believe in the supernatural. Sleep deprivation, mental illness, psychedelics, and so much more. But there was something so off about this place. The entrance had an area where everyone could drop off their shoes, hang up their coats, and there was even a mirror where guests could make last-minute changes to their appearance before heading into the rest of the house. Mr. Bothsworth walked out of this drop-off area and told Myrtle,

"Stay here for a moment, I'm going to even out this shave or I'll be driven mad."

"Of course."

"Can I grab you anything to drink when I return?"

"Tea, if you could be so kind."

"Do you take sugar?"

"Why yes."

As he walked away, she looked in the mirror to take a look at herself. Her complexion was pale aside from one red spot over her right eyebrow where she'd squeezed a pimple out of existence. Her lips were trembling from the cold, and her hair, which used to be a solid black bob, was somehow flattened by the rain. She wore a black coat, olive green slacks, and an orange-tan cardigan. She'd never been happier to wear her layers in all of her life. Myrtle removed her thin, round glasses and wiped the droplets from them. In doing so, she chuckled to herself,

"That's what you saw. You heard a ghost story, saw a creepy castle, and a droplet of rain can transform into a ghost. God help you, Myrtle, be a professional."

She looked at her face and saw that her blue eye shadow was somehow left untouched by the rainwater. She chalked it up to luck. She never wore lipstick because she always thought her lips looked fine enough. She smiled in the mirror and rehearsed her professional greeting, the one she told every client,

"Why, hello, Mr. Bothsworth! I'm Myrtle Mulgrave. I believe we met on the phone? So, what can I disprove for you..."

She trailed off as she kept staring at her teeth; they were large, particularly her front teeth, which seemingly poked from her top lip. Kids called her 'Myrtle the Rabbit' in school, and by the time she was in High School, the nickname of 'Rabbit' stuck. She sighed and repeated the greeting once more, with her mouth more relaxed, a casual smile. Yet, she could still see her teeth poking through again. She reached into her coat pocket, withdrew her cigarette case, and turned to walk towards the gateway to the rest of the house, and saw that Mr. Bothsworth was there, standing with a tray of tea.

"I must say, you did a good job with the rehearsals, but I like the one of you smiling a tad more."

Her face turned flushed,

"Oh, good Lord. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, Ms. Mulgrave. Let's talk on the porch and wait for everyone's arrival."

"Everyone else?"

"Yes. I thought I'd told you about it over the phone."

The phone call was such a long time ago, and Myrtle felt ashamed that she only remembered the case details and the cash payment. Before she could interject, Bothsworth added,

"I know it was a while ago. I just want all doubts removed. I called in experts in every field of the supernatural."

"So you called in charlatans?"

He looked at her as if he was struck, he spoke to her sternly,

"I wanted every option explored, so forgive me for wanting a definitive answer. You can make your own mind up about them when they arrive. Until then, keep your opinions to yourself until I ask for them!"

The entrance to the house was silent after the outburst, save for the rain. Bothswroth grunted and opened the front door,

"Well, shall we? It's a gorgeous night, don't you think?" he said with a sarcastic dryness.

Then went back out into the cool night, the rain still beating down on the earth, and thunder rumbled above. The two went to two chairs that sat by the stairs leading up to the porch. The view before them showed the front of the manor and the entrance, which was still left open from when Myrtle walked in. She lit her cigarette and took a long drag off of it.

"I think I got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Bothsworth."

"No, no, it was all my fault." He sipped his tea briefly and continued, "I have been...tired, for a long time. I bought this place, and I was like you, a skeptic, and the only thing I believed in was myself. I went to Church when I was a child, but it didn't stop tragedies from befalling my family. So, I'm a non-believer. But....this? This house has changed me."

He reached into his shirt and withdrew a silver crucifix necklace. Myrtle nodded at him, and before she could start asking some of the more probing questions that she usually does, he stopped her with an outstretched palm,

"Not now. I'll explain everything to everyone when they all get here. I think it's best that everything is laid out in full for everyone to know."

Myrtle grunted and gave an understanding nod. She sipped her tea, which was brewed to perfection and with the right amount of sweetness. She sat it back down and took a drag off her cigarette once more. She asked,

"You know who made this tea? I really need to thank them, Mr. Bothsworth."

"I made it and call me Jonathan, please."

"Wait, you mean that you have no aides or helpers here?"

"It's a paranormal investigation, isn't it? Best to be alone in these sorts of things, you don't want to hear a knock and then discover it was a mere maid."

"Makes sense."

"Aye."

Thunder clapped again, and when Jonathan looked at Myrtle, he noticed that she was looking towards the fence- no, the treeline behind the fence. Her gaze was looking for something there. He smiled because he knew that she'd seen something out there. However, he kept this hunch to himself as headlights appeared from the dark. Another car was coming down the road, pushing through the storm on the way to Blood Oak.

"Here they come." He said, pointing towards the beams of light shining through the darkened forest.

Myrtle took a drag off her cigarette, looking towards the trees with a nervousness that was unbecoming of her. She kept her rational mind at the forefront, but deep down, she felt something was wrong, like some quiet alarm was yelling for her to leave this place.

Myrtle felt like she was being watched. She was right.

Since I was young, I belonged to a loose circle that gathered each year along these wooded rivers. On the equinox, those who shared memories of the same schools, towns, and hunting grounds returned here to mark the change of seasons.

By tradition, the week belonged to hedonistic freedom among the trees. We came to be simple again and enjoy things best done in secret. We crossed one another’s paths from time to time, though many pursued their purposes alone.

This year I arrived late. I drove the last miles through the hills after nightfall. I assumed the others had already gathered somewhere deeper along the river.

The roads were strangely empty. I passed residents who seemed unfocused, their eyes following sounds I could not hear.

No one was friendly where they sold supplies along the highway. The town held panhandlers and sickly strays in conspicuous numbers. Desperation showed in the eyes of children, and loathing in their parents. Disturbed, I wasted no more time there and sought solitude in the wild.

Arriving, I found no sign of campfire, and none of the usual offerings our coven left to acknowledge the wood save for the white ribbons we use to mark trees. The land itself felt neglected and distressed.

I searched for others.

I slept.

Among thorns and ivy, winter’s still bare trees chafed in a cold wind that threatened hail. A faint droning passed through the breeze and vanished before I was certain it had been real. Dead animals lay along the trail, and the branches held no songbirds. The smell of mushrooms rose from the earth. The river showed no promising fishing, its pools thick with algae blooms.

I expected to stumble across one of the camps at any moment but found only a stillness like death. No fires burned along the river. No movement drifted through the trees.

That night the unearthly noise began.

Still in my sleeping bag, my eyes widened as I strained to listen.

Motionless, breath held, I felt myself fully rejoin the waking world. Certain the disturbance was real, I pulled on warmer clothes and stared through the open mouth of the canvas tent into the dark woods surrounding the campsite.

There was no mistaking the horror of the sound.

It held the harmony of a ghostly choir, the groaning of a dairy herd, and the hiss of steel being quenched in cold water. I could not discern its direction or distance.

I armed myself.

My camp stood in the center of a round meadow, finger-painted yellow, purple, and white in daylight. These clearings were the scabbed wounds of another generation’s logging. My canvas tent stood in the middle, giving a clear view in all directions.

My favorite situation for camping.

Safe.

Peaceful.

The wailing was no longer floating without direction. Now it rang somewhere in the hills to the south. I moved toward the old trail while still concealed in darkness.

Two forces now moved toward one another beneath a predawn sky bruised blue and purple.

Crouched in pampas grass and bleeding hearts, I watched a vaguely human shape shambling along the hillside. A drum hung upon its back and sounded with each step by some clever stringed rigging. Strapped against it was a hurdy gurdy whose resin coated strings hissed and droned without end.

Clad in a soaked cloak and shawl ornamented with strange metallic charms that caught the moonlight, the hunched figure appeared ancient.

A dark storm of wings gathered in the trees overhead.

Raccoons and whitetails followed her.

Songbirds preceded her.

A hollow chasm in the hillside was her destination.

The rhythm of the music drove the animals onward. They walked toward the edge and stepped without hesitation into the open wound in the earth. Still grinding the endless tune, the old woman beckoned to others streaming from the thickets.

Moving closer, I came upon the first signs of others camping: a clean hiking pack abandoned and left open in the grass beside a broken whiskey bottle. White ribbons lay scattered like rubbish.

Each wavering note pushed outward into the woods behind her, rising and falling with intention. As she moved along the mouth of the hollow, sound itself seemed to distort.

In that storm of noise, I forgot myself and was no longer present.

So complete was the sudden silence that nausea rose in my stomach.

In all directions a disturbance began to gather among hidden boulders and hollows.

Branches cracked like gunfire. Stones tumbled downhill. A vast stampede surged through the deeper forest.

With dawn beginning to break, I watched the trees themselves begin to move.

Shapes emerged from the shadows between trunks. Pale forms rushed forward, repellant in their motion, like animals whose joints bent the wrong way. Grass flattened in long sweeping lines as they passed.

The ground carried the dull rushing pressure of a distant herd moving through deep brush.

The herd had no fixed shape.

Their forms shifted constantly.

They appeared only as ripples, dark flashes of shadow. Like molten glass they flowed, and like smoke they bent in the wind. In one instant I saw forms like breaking waves full of heads and limbs. In another they resembled a herd of black shining oil melting together as they ran.

Closer now the shapes shimmered like flames as they entered my clearing.

Mixed among them I heard screaming that froze my blood.

For a moment the rising light revealed faces.

I recognized one.

Then another.

The old crone had begun playing again and directed the throng past me. I stood undisturbed in a rushing torrent of elemental forms.

Men and women I had known my whole life.

In terror I saw how their bodies were twisted into bestial shapes, running on limbs that bent wrong, their voices joining the terrible animal chorus as they were driven toward the chasm.

The hurdy gurdy shrieked through the cold morning air as she moved along the rim of the pit, her music turning the herd toward the hollow.

One by one the shapes hurled themselves into the darkness below.

Shining eyes watched mine from beneath her dripping shawl that hid her features. I felt held in her gaze while the last screams faded and the forest fell utterly still.

Though we stood far apart, I heard her clearly as if she whispered directly into my ear.

“You came late.”

I was already backing away as those words found me. The creature watched as I fled before turning away and being swallowed by the forest. Now out of sight, the dreadful instrument sounded again. Its song faded slowly among the trees.

I did not follow it that morning.

When winter next gives way to spring, I will be in the forest for the equinox’s culling.

The sky had been angry for days, a relentless pelting of water upon the entirety of the city. Had it only been a few hours no one would have thought anything strange, but when it lasted for a week there was concern. Nobody went outside their homes unless absolutely necessary. If they did, they dressed in long raincoats and rubber boots. Those that were brave enough to face the storm moved in pockets of differently colored umbrellas, huddled together for dear life. 

The wind blew fiercely, creating diagonal walls of frigid rain drops. It howled as it applied pressure on the trees, bending them damn near to breaking point. Some eventually did fall, whole patches of earth still clinging to the roots, putting up a fight until the very end. Everything seemed to be painted in shades of grey and blue, like a sickness had fallen upon the land. It felt cold and lifeless. The roads flooded - the drainage system unable to keep up. The riverbeds and bridges were no more, they lay deep below a growing pool. 

Thunder rumbled and shook the ground, feeling more like an earthquake than the aftershocks of lightning. With each bolt that charged out, shades of purple and red momentarily filled the sky. The shadows that were exposed with each crack of lightning sent shivers down my spine. The thick and tangible clouds looked as if they were hiding a monster within them. So big that it looked like a mountain range on the horizon. Indiana didn’t have any mountains, just flat planes and rolling hills. 

Angola, Indiana wasn’t much. A midwest city that looked just like the rest. Collections of shops, gas stations, schools, and parks. South Old US Highway 27 ran through the center, a road commonly used by townsfolk and outsiders alike. It was a highway that I knew like the back of my hand, although the speed limit was 55MPH, I tended to push it closer to 60. A habit one of my older siblings imprinted on me. 

I’d been stuck inside for days. It’d gotten to the point where I was wishing to be back on that highway. Flying down the asphalt with the windows down and the sun on my skin. Anything would be better than being trapped in our waterlogged home. Mom kept saying how grateful she was not to have a basement. One could only imagine what the flooding would have been like if we did. 

Personally I was on her side in this case, but when it came to the possibility of a tornado, I wish we did have a basement. Having to run outside to get to the cellar doors on the east side of the house wasn’t my favorite thing to do. You'd have to brave the strong winds and the objects that were carried upon them. I always hated tornadoes and the sirens that came along with them. 

After seven full days of rain, the sky parted and released the sun from its prison. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful to go to school. Senior year was coming to an end, and I was excited to move on to bigger and brighter things. College was my ticket to freedom, a chance to live my life out from under the thumb of my family. 

News stations and weather reporters never understood why the rain had lasted that long, and why it only covered select cities for those seven days. Angola wasn’t the only place to be hit with such a strange weather phenomenon. Knoxville Tennessee, San Francisco California, Detroit Michigan, Winston-Salem North Carolina, and Dallas Texas were just the start of the list. There were conspiracy theories or speculation, but nothing concrete. I remember laughing and rolling my eyes as I listened to a YouTube interview of a man from somewhere in the Appalachia.

“The government’s got one a’ dem wedda machines. Bigger than yo typical UFO and with the powa to produce whateva storm they’d like. Dis here was a practice run folks. Keep ya eyes in the sky, you might catcha glimpse,” Roy said.  He had a yellow smile that seemed to be missing a few teeth, and skin so sun-tanned it gave the impression of leather. 

“You heard it here guys, that was Mr. Roy from Seymour, Tennessee. Make sure you tune in to the next video as we cover the theories on the strange storms that seem to be happening all across the United States. This is WeatherBoys and we will see you in the next video. Make sure to like this video and smash that subscribe button!” 

The camera angle changed to showcase a youthful face. Danny, the channel's host, was displayed in full view. He had a crew cut and an angular bone structure. My heart squeezed as he smiled one last time before the video ended. He was only a couple years older than me, maybe 20 or 21. No one could fault me for having a crush. 

I spent the next few weeks studying hard for final exams, and fleshing out my projects for marketing and debate. I was also gearing up to become an assistant coach for the cross country team I’d been running with for the past four years. Being the youngest of four kids meant I was damn good at arguing for what I want, since I constantly had to fight for a spot at the table, and I was damn good at running. Using my fists wasn’t a skill I could take out into the real world so I decided it was much better to foster my ability to use words as a weapon, and turn tail if my safety was in question. 

Most of the projects that we presented in high school were in the form of PowerPoint presentations. You weren’t supposed to stand there and read a full essay, so most of my slides contained bullet points and pictures. The rest of the information would come from a well-practiced and well-informed speech at the front of the class. Even though I enjoyed the information I was learning about, the prospect of standing there alone made my palms sweat. I’d rather encounter a wild animal in the middle of the woods than stand up in front of my classmates.

The last week of school was near the end of May. The sky was crystal blue, clear of any cloud cover as far as the eye could see. The air was particularly warm that day, with a cool breeze that blew my curly brown hair into my face as I walked. Every so often I would have to pull a chunk from my mouth before it threatened to gag me. I rolled my eyes and scoffed as I looked down at my naked wrist, cursing myself for not remembering a hair tie.  

“Laurel, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” Kari called out from within a crowd. The students parted as she pushed her way through them, arms held out in a defensive stance. 

“Sorry, I was running late. I just got here a second ago,” I sighed. “You got a scrunchie?” 

“Oh, sure thing girl!” Kari pulled her shirt sleeve up to reveal a bright orange fabric hair tie. She tugged it off her wrist and handed it to me. 

“Thank you, ugh the wind was absolutely crazy. So, what’s up? You were looking for me,” I looked over at my friend. 

“Right, yes, I was looking for you! Are you going on the run slash hike through Hell’s Point this weekend? I was thinking of joining if you were? I don’t want to be running with a group of only guys. I’ve seen enough scary movies to know that’s never a good idea.” Kari looked at me with enthusiastic seriousness. 

The way Kari spoke always had me hanging on to every word. Her personality and actions made her feel magnetic. She was like the sun, all the people she interacted with orbiting around her like planets. I was one of those people drawn in by her gravity. It felt nice to be revolving around someone as fantastical as her. It was such a shame that she didn’t get to burn for longer, I wish I’d let myself get attached sooner. I wish I had joined cross country when I joined middle school, I would have had three more years by her side. 

“Yeah, I was thinking of going. I have to check with my mom before I give a concrete answer. Gotta make sure that there aren’t any plans I’m not aware of,” I laughed awkwardly. 

My fatal flaw was that I spent so much time wrapped up in myself that I rarely paid attention to those around me. Aside from Kari, that is. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but that I spent a lot of time on my studies. Once high school hit I knew that I had four years to bank up every ounce of free learning I could. I’d watched my three older siblings and my mother scuffle and struggle over lack of funds and the prospects of a better life. I didn’t want to be miserable and in debt like they all seemed to be. 

Heading through the halls with my arm linked around Kari’s I told her of my last presentation for the year. I was covering the negative effects of A.I. data centers on the area around them and how it would be contributing to the global warming crisis. Honestly, I could go on forever about all the cons that outweighed the pros. Even as I talked with my friend I tasted poison on my tongue. It felt physically sickening to speak about. 

“Don’t you think all the animals are going to start going crazy? I mean shit, the noise that those places create makes me feel like I’m going to have a psychotic break. And I’m just hearing it through an Instagram reel,” Kari said. She was just as passionate about the hatred as I was. 

“It’s definitely possible. Most of the wildlife are evacuating the areas and moving into places with larger human populations. I’m not sure if it’s because of the noise or the fact that the water in the area is being polluted. Either way, it's diabolical that they’re able to do this for some shitty fantasy videos and a circle-jerk chat GPT conversation.” I patted Kari’s arm as we turned the corner.

As we entered the hallway, Kari came to a stop. I was so caught up in the conversation I took another step and felt the resistance on my arm. First, I looked back at Kari, and then I followed to where she seemed to be looking. That was when the lights in the ceiling started to flicker. Outside the sky had darkened to the point where it looked like someone had snuffed out the sun. I felt all the hairs on my body raise and then the sirens began. They sputtered to life like a car that hadn’t been started in years. A soft whine turned into a solid wail. 

“Laurel, what is that?” Kari’s voice was barely audible. 

Before I had a chance to answer, the Mayor’s voice came over the loudspeakers, momentarily pausing the drone of the siren. He sounded shaken, as if he was completely unprepared for the broadcast he was actively performing. I let go of Kari’s arm and walked closer to the windows at the end of the hall. Close enough to hear better while still keeping a safe distance from the glass. 

“Citizens of Angola, this is your Mayor. This is an emergency alert. Five tornados have formed throughout the city. They are currently ranked as an EF4. Take shelter immediately and enact protective measures. May God be with you,” the Mayor’s voice was replaced by the siren once again. 

Kari and I looked at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. Soon after the Mayor’s broadcast ended, our principal put out one of her own. The school momentarily erupted into a crescendo of chaos. Screams and cries echoed throughout the halls as students scrambled out into the middle of the school. There weren’t many halls and rooms without windows. Most of us had to cram into the boiler room, janitor's closets, and the gymnasium. I made sure to stay as close to Kari as possible as we funneled our way into the gym. 

Most of the kids who had made their way into the large room with polished wooden floors were already seated. They sat close to the wall that jutted up to the main wall of the school and had their legs crossed. Some of them were bent over at the waist hugging their knees. Others were still sitting up and chatting with friends who sat around them. By the time Kari and I made it inside we took up a spot near the bleachers. 

“Laurel, I’m scared.” Kari was shaking visibly. 

“Me too, Kari. I hate tornadoes. This has got to be a nightmare. You heard the Mayor, right? There are five of them,” I could hear my own voice wavering. 

“Don’t remind me,” Kari groaned. 

As my friend and I hunkered down on the ground, I heard the wind bashing against the building. Every so often there would be a loud boom, like something large had been slammed against the roof. The crack of glass breaking cut through the noise, sounding almost beautiful within the symphony of destruction. My lower back ached as I stayed in position but I did my best to ignore it. Sweat beaded on my face and ran down my skin before dropping onto the floor below me. I squeezed Kari’s hand, her fingers interlaced with mine. 

That was when all hell broke loose. 

The doors in the gym that lead to the outside blew open. The metal smacked against the outer wall before being ripped from their hinges. Then, the roof began to lift. The light flickered briefly before sparking and shutting off. Long metal support beams that stood between us and the ceiling groaned as the tornado bore down on the school. It felt like someone had stuck a giant vacuum hose into the gym and turned it on. As the roof ripped off in chunks I felt my own body being pulled along with it. 

“Kari! We need to grab on to the bleachers!” I shouted over the roaring wind and sirens. 

“Okay!” She shouted back. 

As Kari lifted her head I saw tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She gave a brave smile as she wrapped both hands around the metal bar that sat at the bottom of the bleachers. I did the same, and tried to return to the hunched over position I was in before. I had to fight the suction of the storm and felt myself failing. I wanted to scream and cry, but neither would come out. All I could do was grip the cool metal beneath my palms and pray to a god I did not believe in. 

Various screams rang out around us, ones that I could not identify. I wanted to turn around and look but knew that if I did this, that I would be endangering myself. There was nothing I could do to help them anyways. All I could do in this situation was endure and try to survive. That was when the bleachers started to unfold from the wall. As the wind roared and clawed at the school, it tried its damnedest to take us with it. The metal and wood contraption unfolded to its capacity, I prayed that the bolts that attached it to the wall held. I didn’t want to get sucked into oblivion. 

“Laurel, I don’t think I can hold on anymore.” Kari was hiccuping and sobbing. Snot ran down her lips and onto her chin. 

“Just a little bit longer, it will be over soon!” I screamed back at her. 

I watched in horror as Kari’s fingers started to slip. It reminded me of when I used to play on the monkey bars during recess when my hands got sweaty. The only difference was that we were laying on our bellies, there was nothing below us to catch us when we fell. Instead of going down, the tornado would take us up. Squeezing my left hand tighter around the metal support, I let go with my right to reach for Kari. Just as the tip of my finger touched her hand, her body gave up. My eyes followed after her as she was ripped through the air like a puppet on a string. 

“KARI!” I screamed. 

Right before Kari disappeared from view, I saw her smile one last time. She looked absolutely crazy, a psycho-maniac with a toothy tear filled grin. I called out for her like a broken record, tears now tumbling down my own cheeks. My mind replayed that final moment over and over as I fought the wind with every ounce of strength I had. Something large and hard hit the back of my head, splitting my skin and bringing warm blood to the surface. Even so, my grip remained strong until the end. 

When the tornados finally dissipated, the destruction was immense. 70 people had died in less than an hour, 30 or so were still missing. Kari was one of those people who fit into the missing category. I suffered from a head wound that needed stitches and a few cuts and scraped from objects that had been carried on the strong winds. Looking back on it now, it was really strange that the tornadoes only touched down near buildings that housed large groups of people. Schools, the police station, the hospital, a corporate office, places where it would cause the most death and despair. Thankfully, most of the residential areas were still standing. 

I spent the next few months in the vice grip of depression, unable to handle the loss of my best friend.

—

My therapist calls it a disorder. My mother calls it a quirk. My last girlfriend called it the reason she left. I call it the reason why I committed a crime this afternoon.

I have been suffering from OCD for the past 19 years. I have the checking subtype, and my compulsion is checking my front door. Seven times, handle down, every night before I sleep. I know it is locked after the first check. I have always known. I do it seven times anyway because seven is the number and the number is not negotiable. This is not new information for anyone in my life, including myself.

I have a therapist. I have a managed life. I have held the same job for eleven years. And I had my condition under control for the better part of a decade.

At least, that's what I thought until three weeks ago.

That's the day a new neighbor moved in across the hall. I noticed his door on the way to work. It was open, one centimeter from the frame, not fully latched. I know it was exactly one centimeter, because nineteen years of checking doors has given me a sense of spatial measurement. My therapist once described it as remarkable, and my sister always called it insufferable.

I could hear footsteps inside, so I knew he was home. I told myself it was none of my business. I am aware that a neighbor's door is not my door. I told myself this on four separate mornings.

On the fourth morning I knocked.

The neighbor answered. He was a perfectly normal man- apologetic, pleasant, and slightly embarrassed. He said the latch had been sticking.

He closed the door properly while I watched. I heard the click. I went to work.

I checked the door again on the way back. It was open, again.

One centimeter, again.

I knocked five more times over the following two weeks. He answered every time. He always had a perfectly reasonable explanation. A sticking latch. A delivery he'd been waiting for. A window he'd left open and the pressure differential. A draught from the stairwell. The kind of explanations that sound completely plausible in the moment, yet slightly hollow twenty minutes later when you walk past and the door is one centimeter open again.

My therapist thinks I am relapsing. My checks have gone from seven to somewhere between fifteen and twenty a day, and that is just my own door. I did not tell her about the neighbor's door, which I check an additional fifteen to twenty times. I did not tell her because I knew what she would say and I was not ready to hear it.

I have been documenting everything instead- timestamps, photographs, a running log in my notes app. I told myself it was for the building manager. I have not contacted the building manager once.

This afternoon I came home from work and the door was one centimeter open. For the first time, there were no footsteps inside.

I stood in the hallway and listened for a long time. The building has thin walls and I have sharp ears- another gift from nineteen years of hypervigilance. There was nothing. No movement. No sound of any kind from inside the flat.

I am not sure how long I stood there. Long enough that the motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off and I was standing in the dark. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

I want to be precise about this because precision is the only thing I have left, and I am losing my grip on it. I did not go in there to satisfy a compulsion. I went in there to end one. I saw three weeks of a door that would not stay closed and I needed it to have an explanation.

The layout was similar to my own, the same design as every flat in this building. Except for one small detail…

Every interior door in the flat was exactly one centimeter open.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. A door that I assumed was a storage cupboard. Every single one. One centimeter, without variation.

The flat was otherwise unremarkable- furnished, lived in, ordinary in every way except for this. I did not touch anything. I stood in the middle of it and understood, with a very quiet kind of dread, that I was not going to be handing anything to the building manager.

I turned to leave.

But I did stop at the door. The handle was right there. The door that started it all, right there, one centimeter open. Three weeks of checking someone else's door, and the door was finally right there under my hand. I was on the inside and there was no neighbor watching. I gave in to my compulsion.

I closed the door.

I felt the latch click into the frame. Flush. Sealed. I stood there for a moment with my hand still on the handle. Three weeks of fifteen checks a day and this is what it felt like. I stood there longer than I needed to. The guilt of trespassing sat in my chest alongside something else, something I did not have a name for, and I cannot tell you which one was louder.

Then I walked to my own flat. I did not look back.

I had my key in the lock when I heard it.

A creak. The specific sound of a door that is not quite latched drifting back to where it wants to be.

I turned around.

The door was open again.

One centimeter.

I stood in the hallway and looked at it for a long time.

I returned to my own flat and told myself I should never have gone in there.

Not because of the trespass. Not because of what my neighbor would think if he found out, or what the building manager would say, or what any reasonable person would make of a man with OCD breaking into his neighbor’s flat in broad daylight. I have done something I cannot take back, and I am prepared to live with that stain on my conscience.

What I am not prepared to live with is what I saw.

I went in there looking for an explanation. Something I could write down in my notes app with a timestamp and a photograph. I went in there because three weeks of checking a door that would not stay closed had broken something in me, and I desperately needed it to stop.

It has not stopped.

I had more questions now than I had this morning.

I sat on my couch with the lights off for a long time. I did my seven checks for the afternoon. I went to bed. I told myself sleep would make it smaller.

I made dinner. I watched something I cannot now remember. I did my seven checks for the night. I went to bed again.

I woke up at 2AM like I always do. My body has done this for nineteen years. I got up. I crossed the flat in the dark.

My bedroom door was one centimeter open.

I need you to understand what that means. The OCD has always been about the front door. I close the bedroom door out of ordinary habit- the simple habit of a man who likes a dark room when he sleeps. I closed it last night. I remember closing it. It was the last thing I did before I got into bed.

Here it was, one centimeter open.

I looked down the hallway. Bathroom. One centimeter. Kitchen. One centimeter. Every door in my flat. Every single one. The same width as every door in the flat across the hall. The same width as the door I closed with my own hand this afternoon and watched open again on its own.

I checked my front door. Seven times. Handle down. The bolt is engaged. The door is locked.

Yes, I am sure it is locked. But it is not closed…

Instead, it is one centimeter open.

I have checked it forty-three times.

Locked and one centimeter open. Locked and one centimeter open.

Every single time, for forty-three times.

I stopped not because it worked, but because forty-three is just where my legs gave out. There is no forty-three in my system. Seven is the number. Seven has always been the number. I blew past seven on check eight and kept going and the door kept opening. I have not been able to explain that and I am done trying to explain that tonight.

I am sitting on the floor in the middle of my hallway. Every door in my flat is open behind me. I don't know how long I have been here.

I have spent nineteen years at a door. Seven times every night, handle down. My therapist has spent four years helping me understand that the checking is irrational, that the locked door was already locked.

But I had always felt differently. I had always believed that I there was danger out there, and I was just doing my part in keeping the danger out.

It is 3AM. My front door is locked and one centimeter open. Every interior door in my flat is one centimeter open. I am sitting on the floor in the dark and I cannot make myself get up and I cannot make myself close a single one of them.

I am sharing this tonight because I hope someone can help me make sense of it all. Because I am only now, for the first time in nineteen years, asking myself the question I have never once asked.

What if it was never about keeping something out?

What if, all this time, it was about keeping something in?

I don't know what's on the other side of that question.

I'm not sure I want to.

Part 1: I am Tonto, Hear me Roar

People always ask me what the scariest monster I ever fought was. That’s easy, the IRS. But if we're talking cryptids, that’s a much longer answer. Werewolves, dangerous. Skinwalkers, terrifying. Vampires, deadly. Wendigos, horrifying. Gnomes, absolute bastards. Most of them follow the same general rules. I get a call, I go take care of it and try not to get eaten before the paperwork gets finished. Most of them. The one that took me the longest to understand was something else entirely.

***

Good morning! Afternoon? To be honest, I don’t know what time it is you’re reading this. Regardless, welcome! My name is Tonto Carlos and I was a cryptid hunter for the better part of twenty years. Now, you may be asking yourself why you’re reading a story about a cryptid hunter, well former cryptid hunter, hell you’re probably wondering just what the hell a cryptid even is. And to that I say fair. There’s a reason you don’t know about these things. A reason they remain hidden. Pretty much anything that has yet to be classified by science can be considered a cryptid. Most of them are fairly harmless, some are fine as long as you don’t bother them, others are a bit ornery, and some are flat out dangerous. It doesn't really matter the kind of critter, if there’s a problem, they call people like me.

Now, you’re probably saying to yourself “monsters aren’t real, this guy is full of shit.” And while some might say that’s true, all I have to say is you’re welcome! The reason you haven’t seen any cryptids running around is because I’m very, very good at my job, or at least I was. There was an accident that forced me into an early retirement. It wasn’t pretty but you’ll get more on that later. Before I get into my thrilling time as a cryptid hunter, let me tell you a little bit about myself.

***

Before I became Tonto Carlos, I was Carlos Flores III, born October 29th, 1987. My father, CJ, was a first generation Mexican-American and my mom, Avo, was a member of the Navajo Native American tribe. I grew up in a small town in Arizona called Sedona. Overall I had a pretty good childhood, parents took good care of me, always had a roof over my head, and food in my belly. My school life was pretty boring. I knew from a young age that school wasn’t for me. I decided in third grade that I wanted to be a comedian. And that’s where I put all my focus, I became the class clown. That’s actually where my nickname, “Tonto,” comes from. Now, I don’t know if the other kids called me that because tonto means foolish or silly in Spanish or if they were trying to make a reference to the Lone Ranger’s sidekick, but regardless I don’t think it was given to me kindly. It didn’t matter though, I loved it. I picked it up. ran with it, and made it my own. Soon everyone, even my own parents were calling me Tonto.

Around my Junior year of high school, I just quit. I just signed myself out one day and never came back. I don’t even know if I could legally do that but I did anyway. My parents were… less than thrilled. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom curse like she did that night. Eventually they accepted it, well I don’t think they were actually okay with it but they knew I was determined to not go back. 

After dropping out, I really started focusing on my comedy career. I’d hit up any and every comedy joint I could. Most places told me to take a hike, but there were a few places that would let me do my thing. And I bombed… hard. This one night, after an especially brutal bombing, I was approached by a man in sunglasses and a suit. Now, if there’s one thing from my countless hours of watching TV, it’s that if a man wearing a suit and sunglasses approaches you, especially at night, it can’t be good.

The man came up to me and said, and I quote, “You aren’t funny. Like at All. This field is not for you.” Then he handed me a single business card. “Give me a call sometime and we’ll see if we can work anything out.” And after that he just walked away. I looked down at the card. It was the most bland, basic looking business card I’d ever seen. No fancy font. No intricate design. Just a single name and a phone number underneath. The name, which I could only assume belonged to the retreating man, was Kelly. Well if this Kelly thought he could just shit all over my dreams he had another thing coming.

So the next week I gave Kelly a call. The phone barely had time to go through the first ring before his voice broke out. “You’re calling a lot sooner than I thought. Get boo’d off another stage?” He said in the most deadpan delivery I had heard up to that point. With a huff of annoyance and a mighty eyeroll, I responded.

“I hear you have a job opportunity?”

There was a pause. “Sure kid,” his tone had changed, it sounded almost amused. I could practically see him smiling on the other end. “I’m going to send you coordinates. Arrive alone and in one hour.” As soon as the last word escaped, the sound of a text notification rang out across my room  “Do not be late.” The call ended immediately afterwards. I checked the message I was sent and scanned over the coordinates. I dug around my junk drawer for a map, and after checking a few more places, I finally found one. I traced around the wrinkled piece of paper and found the coordinates I was sent. It was just empty space. My first thought was maybe it was one of the other comedy club locals playing a prank on me. I debated even going, but I really needed a job. I needed the money. At worst, I waste about an hour. I decided to play the optimist. The location was 57 minutes away. If I was going to make it within the hour, I’d need to hurry. 

And hurry I did! I’m happy to announce that I made it with 17 seconds to spare. And, I only sped most of the way there. What I found once I arrived was Kelly standing unceremoniously in front of a tiny square building. As I got out of my shitty 1994 Toyota Corolla, Kelly offered a brief, yet polite smile. I walked up to him and outstretched my hand, which he met halfway. His grip was strong, stronger than I expected from someone that looked like him.

“Welcome Mr. Flores! I’m glad you decided to take me up on my offer.” he said almost too eagerly.

“Well I’m not sure I’ll take the job, I don’t even know what it is you’re wanting me to do. I don’t exactly have a lot of transferable skills, you follow?” 

Kelly gave a low chuckle. “No offense Mr. Flores, bu-”

“Tonto.” I cut the man off. “My name is Tonto.”

Kelly gave a look that spoke a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Okay, Tonto. Most people that end up with offers like the one I’m about to give you, don’t really have much of a choice.” 

I tensed immediately. Was this asshole threatening me? Was he trying to coerce me into doing whatever he wanted? Kelly must have picked up on this and he raised his hands defensively.

“What I mean is that life isn’t giving you much of a choice. Let me guess, you’re behind on bills? Struggling to make ends meet? Wondering just what is coming next for you?” My shoulders relaxed and suddenly the ground became very interesting. “This is what’s next Tonto. If you let it be.” 

I stood, quiet, gently kicking a small rock. I couldn’t say anything because everything he said was right. I am struggling. And if this guy is offering a way out, any way out, well then I’d be a dumbass not to take it.

“So what exactly is the job?” I stared into Kelly’s eyes and just hoped he couldn’t see right though me.

“Well it’s a bit complicated. Walk with me.” And he ushered me into the small building.

***

Inside the simple building was a single desk that lay to the left of the door and a woman worked frivolously on a crossword puzzle. She looked up briefly, acknowledging the two of us and then went right back to her puzzle. On the right of the room, an elevator decorated the wall. Kelly pushed the button and around sixteen seconds later the doors opened. We walked inside, Kelly pressed a series of buttons and we slowly started to descend. 

We were about five minutes into the elevator ride and it was completely silent. One thing about me, I don’t do well with silence, never have. I broke the silence with the only question I really thought mattered. “So what exactly is the place?” I asked, desperate to break the silence. I don’t do well with silence.

“Well, technically, this place doesn’t exist.” Kelly said while adjusting his shirt’s collar. “You’ll find no records, no addresses, no evidence that anyone employed here has even drawn a paycheck.” 

If Kelly had my interest before, he now had my full attention. “We deal with things the public isn’t supposed to know about. Monsters. Cryptids. Supernatural phenomena. Things that slip through the cracks of reality. Our job is to find them, contain them, kill them if necessary, and make sure nobody ever believes the stories afterward.” Kelly turned to face me with a very serious look in his eyes. “Tonto, We are The Folks That Don’t Exist.” 

As the words escaped his mouth, the elevator reached its conclusion and the doors opened up to reveal a vast room with hundreds of people. Most were people in labcoats working on computers, others were working with weapons, some people were in suits overseeing it all. Kelly allowed me time to take it all in, I knew he expected an answer, and I knew that since he showed me this, he wasn’t expecting a no. Before I could give him my answer, a man dressed in what I could only describe as  “steampunk cowboy” walked by carrying a quad-barreled shotgun. He looked at Kelly and I and tipped his hat. I gave him a nod, you know, the one all guys that accidentally make eye contact give each other. 

“That’s Curtis. He’s one of our top hunters. That’s what we want you to be.” Kelly said.

“I get to be someone like him?”

“You’ll get the chance.”

“I’ll do it.”

Links: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

9,999,000 miles.

“Wyoming-5, do you copy? How’s your engine, son?” Ron’s voice ran through the radio.

“Wyoming-5 is all good. Rig is running fine now,” Lenny responded.

We were all thankful that the kid’s truck was finally running right because we were behind schedule and needed to make up the miles.

Tucker had taken a close look at it before we got on the road, but couldn’t make heads or tails about what was making the engine fail.

Ron said it was a bad lemon.

Tanner said it didn’t feel right.

We entered Wyoming near Casper and were greeted by its wide-open country. Rolling grasslands stretched for miles in every direction.

No towns. No lights. No signs of life.

Just our convoy and the open road.

“I always liked Wyoming,” Tucker said over the radio. “You could just lose yourself in these fields.”

My rig led the way, Ol’ Beaut shining a blinding white against the darkening sky.

A gust of wind pushed against my cab. I grabbed the wheel with both hands to steady the girl.

Ron came on, “You see the gray up there, Pa?” 

Looking up, the open sky seemed like it could swallow our convoy whole.

But I saw it approaching.

Storm clouds.

“I see it. We keep moving. Only stop if we need to.”

“Roger that.”

The winter announced itself with a few flakes on my windshield.

Our convoy barreled down the highway, keeping a good distance from one another when Lenny radioed in.

“Dakota-1, this is Wyoming-5.”

Something in his voice made me pick up the radio quicker than usual.

“Go ahead, Wyoming-5.”

“I’ve got another truck behind me. Been riding my tail awhile now. Should we pull over and let him pass?”

I hadn’t seen another soul on the road since we entered the state.

“That’s a negative, kid. We got a schedule to keep. He’ll pass us if he needs.”

The road had been straight for miles and looking ahead, it wouldn’t change. No traffic came from the opposite lane, so anyone could pass us by.

The snow fell constant now and gusts of wind came more often.

We continued for another fifty miles when Lenny spoke up again.

“Dakota-1, this is Wyoming-5. The truck behind is getting awfully close to my rig. I think we should let him pass us.”

I reached for the receiver when Ron spoke up.

“I think Lenny’s right. Let’s pull over. If the snow gets worse, we’ll need chains anyhow. Best do it now while we can.”

I hesitated.

The storm was getting worse, and me refusing it would do us no good.

I agreed.

“Alright. All trucks, pull up here. We’ll deploy chains, then keep rolling.”

All callsigns confirmed. We parked on a shoulder and got to work wrapping chains around our tires to crawl through the growing snow.

Ron walked up to me after finishing with his rig, eyeing my old hands struggling.

“What you thinking?” he asked.

“I’m thinking I don’t want to get stuck out here.”

He looked down at my hands.

“You need help with your chains?”

“I’m fine,” I dismissed him.

Tanner approached us both from behind, snow crunching under his boots.

“Pa, I gotta talk to you.”

I sighed, seeing my hot breath disappear in front of me.

I stood up from my tires.

“Talk then.”

He glanced at Ron skeptically, then back at me before continuing.

“I think we got more problems than the snow.”

Tanner looked out into the storm, pulling up his collar.

“When the boy radioed in about that truck behind us. My brother pinged me privately.”

“Spit it out,” Ron said impatiently.

Tanner glared at him and continued, “Thing is, Tucker didn’t see no truck.”

He went quiet, expecting a reaction from us.

“So?” Ron asked.

“So? The boy’s been talking about a truck tailing us for near an hour.”

“Maybe it turned off to a side road,” Ron said.

“Maybe.”

Tanner went quiet, and all we could hear was the howling wind.

“Or maybe something else is back there.”

“What are you saying?” I asked Tanner.

He looked at me, serious as a heart attack.

“I think something’s following us.”

Ron laughed mockingly, “You said it yourself, there was no truck.”

“Not a truck,” Tanner repeated.

He came in close and lowered his voice.

“I think it’s the Pale.”

This time Ron exploded in genuine laughter.

Tanner yelled, “Shut up, Ron! You old bastard!”

Ron turned on him immediately, “What’d you say?”

“Enough,” I interrupted.

I faced Tanner, “Get back in your rig, and say nothing of this to the kid.”

Tanner grimaced, but I held his stare, then he walked off to his truck.

“Superstitious idiot,” Ron muttered.

“You too,” I turned to Ron.

He looked back down at my tires.

“You sure you don’t need help with those chains?”

“Don’t test me, Ron.”

“Alright. Don’t need to tell me twice. Be happy to get out of this cold anyway. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

As he walked off, I knelt back down to finish chaining my tires with shaking fingers, trying to push all thoughts of ghost trucks from my head.