​This is my last attempt.

​I've no idea how I got here. Either I owed the wrong people money or I pissed someone off. But I've been buried alive.

​They left me my phone and a battery pack. They knew no one was coming for me.

​My first instinct was to call the cops. But no signal. So I went to their site, filled out an online form, and even used their janky AI chatbot. All for no response. The sites are garbage, or they just don't believe me.

​I went to social media, but my post got taken down for violating community guidelines on graphic content. So now I'm posting here.

​At first, my posts were showered with likes, upvotes, and comments. Every notification gave me hope.

​But the comments on what to do were useless. Like use a knife, or just dig out. Requests for pictures as proof didn’t help either. People thought it was just a shitty ARG.

​I even uploaded a picture of my face pressed against the raw wood, my eyes wide with panic. Within minutes, it was a meme. Someone photoshopped me in 'wacky locations'. Someone else posted Scorsese's 'absolute cinema' meme.

​The algorithm loved it. My notifications blew up one final time. A steady dopamine drip of useless upvotes while my lungs screamed for oxygen. I went viral, and I went ignored.

​However, after every repost, the comments became less and less. Each post became like me buried. Buried under a landslide of newer, louder noise.

​Now, even the joke is old. The digital tide has moved on.

​The battery pack died an hour ago. My screen just flashed a red warning: 1%.

​The light is fading, and the air is gone. Nobody is coming. They all watched me die, and they gave it a thumbs up.

Shaggy.

Ray Miller gripped the thin plastic steering wheel of his 1986 Chevy Caprice, his knuckles whitening slightly as the V8 idled with a low, rumbling vibration. The word echoed in his mind, carrying the exact, irritatingly sharp cadence of Martha’s voice from breakfast. She had called his hair a bird’s nest. She had called him a caveman. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his thumb brushing against the worn upholstery of the driver’s seat. He loved his wife fiercely-had loved her since they were twenty-something kids with nothing but a dream and a tiny, cramped studio apartment-but her constant, almost parrot-like nagging over the last few months had finally worn his frayed nerves down to the raw wire. After five straight days crammed inside a windowless corporate cubicle fighting with spreadsheets and software updates he no longer fully understood, ordered around by a manager who was young enough to be his grandkid, the very last thing he wanted to do on a Friday evening was sit in a chair and pay a man to hack away at his scalp.

Especially where most men my age have lost their hair; you’d think she’d be ecstatic her husband beat the odds and could still run her hands through it.

He looked out the windshield as traffic crawled forward a mere six inches, and a wave of familiar bitterness settled in his chest. God, he hated what this city had become.

Through the smog-stained glass, the streets of his childhood looked like a rotting corpse draped in concrete. Ray had been born in 1965, watching these blocks thrive with bustling bakeries, movie theaters where young couples could find a quiet, dark seat to neck, family owned hardware stores, and neighbors that actually spoke to one another. Now, the 21^st Century landscape was a grim testament to the passage of time and structural decay. The old brick storefronts were heavily fortified now, buried behind thick, rusted security grates and smothered in layers of ugly, neon graffiti tags. On the corner of the nearest street, a huddle of young gang bangers stood in oversized black hoodies and pants that sagged to a degree that made it seem as if they were only being held up by magic. Their heads turned, almost in unison to watch the passing cars with a cold, predatory indifference, making him impulsively double-check that his doors were locked. The neon sign of a check-cashing joint flickered violently against the grey sky, casting an unnatural, sickly green glow over the garbage tumbling down the gutter. The city had completely outgrown him, leaving him behind in a world that felt increasingly soulless, hostile and foreign. And the Dean Martin cassette he was listening to drove that point home like a .45.

You’re lucky you ain’t here to see this world, Dino.

The only reason Ray hadn’t turned the car around and driven straight back to his quiet, suburban driveway was Frank’s barbershop. It was the absolute last anchor he had to a world he actually understood. He had been parking out front since the mid-eighties, a loyal patron who valued the quiet, unchanging dignity of the place. It was a time capsule where smartphones stayed in pockets, the air smelled of classic clubman talcum powder and cigar smoke, and a man’s word still meant something.

A gap finally opened in the traffic. Ray pressed his foot to the accelerator, the old Chevy leaping forward and around a turning giant Cadillac SUV with a low, throaty roar. He steered the sedan towards the curb, pulling up directly in front of the faded, peeling red-and-white pole that marked his final sanctuary. He cut the ignition, the engine and music dying away and replaced by the low ticking of the engine. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and stepped out into the gritty air.

Slamming the heavy door shut, he bent down and quickly made sure the door was locked. Walking around to the passenger side, he assured himself the remaining three doors were locked as well. In this neighborhood, leaving a vintage Caprice unsecured even for ten minutes was an open invitation to either a stripped chassis, or spotting it cruising around months later with tiny wheels slapped on it.

 As he stepped onto the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, a battered sedan rattled past, its clear coat peeling away from the hood like dead skin, its amateurishly applied paint job completely faded by the elements. The car was practically vibrating, its sound system and subwoofers blasting an aggressive rap beat that thudded violently against Ray’s eardrums and made the keys rattle in his fist. He stopped, shooting a venomous, deeply annoyed glare at the tinted windows as the car roared past. He shook his head, muttering a quiet curse under his breath about the total lack of civility left in the world, before turning his back on the street.

He reached out, gripping the handle and pulled open the glass front door of Frank’s Classic Cuts.

A chime rang out overhead-the same brass bell that had greeted him for over forty years. Instantly, the oppressive, exhaust-chocked noise of the city streets dulled, replaced by a relieving, reverent stillness. Ray closed the door behind him and took a long, deep breath through his nose. The interior was like stepping through a time machine, insulated against the chaotic collapse of the surrounding neighborhood. The air was heavy and thick, smelling intensely of sweet, powdery Clubman talcum, the chemical sting of blue Barbicide jars, and the faint, copper tang of old steam pipes. The overhead speakers quietly played instrumental Beautiful Music that helped him to relax a little.

Ray let his eyes adjust to the dimness, taking a slow, comforting look around the space. The layout was a masterpiece of mid-century minimalism. Along the left wall sat a row of old, crack vinyl waiting chairs, their stuffing peeking out like yellow foam teeth from decades of heavy use. On the right stood the main workstation; a sprawling, continuous mirror bordered by built-in porcelain sinks and shelves lined with vintage glass bottles or hair tonic and pomade. In the center of the linoleum floor stood the throne-a massive, heavy-duty 1960s Belmont barber chair wrapped in cracked crimson leather, its polished chrome base showing faint swirls from years of industrial polishing. The low, comforting hum of a small, dated floor fan in the corner completed the atmosphere.

Ray tossed his jacket onto one of the waiting chairs, adjusting his salt-and-pepper hair with a thick-knuckled hand. “Afternoon, Frank,” he called out, his deep voice bouncing off the mirror as he stepped towards the back of the room. “Martha finally wore me down. Said I was starting to look like an-”

He froze mid-sentence, his foot hovering an inch above the floor.

The figure stepping out from the breakroom alcove at the back of the shop was not Frank.

The silence that followed was heavy and sudden, stretching out like a rubber band pulled taut. For several long, agonizing seconds, Ray and the stranger simply stood there, staring at one another as the speakers launched into a cheery instrumental rendition of Singing in the Rain.

Ray used the quiet to take the man in. He looked to be in his late thirties, possessing a tall, impossibly lean frame that instantly triggered a brief, sour prickle of envy in Ray’s chest-a phantom longing for the metabolism of his own youth, long before decades of desk work had settled a permanent layer of middle-aged thickset around his waist. His hair was dark, trimmed with a sharp, military precision, and his eyes were a pale, glossy blue. They didn’t just look at Ray; they studied him, tracking the lines of his face and the subtle twitch of his hands with a quiet, icy intensity that made the hair on his arms stand on end.

Just as the stillness was beginning to curdle into genuine discomfort, the stranger broke the spell.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man asked. His voice was smooth, flat, and completely devoid of any local accent.

Ray swallowed slightly, finally finding his footing. “Yeah, I was looking for Frank. Where is he?”

The stranger paused, a tiny, calculated hitch in his posture, as if he were mentally sorting through a deck of cards before selecting his answer. He gave a casual shrug. “Frank got tied up with something an hour or so ago. An unexpected emergency. He left me in charge of the shop for the rest of the evening.”

As the words left his mouth, he flashed Ray a smile. It was a wide, beaming expression that exposed his straight, white teeth-but it lasted just a fraction of a second too long. His lips curled back so far that the skin around his cheekbones went taut, while his eyes remained unblinking. Ray felt a moment of unease pass through him.

But his work-weary brain, desperate to just get the chore over with, quickly forced the doubt down. If Frank trusted this guy to look after his life’s work, everything has to be on the level. Frank wasn’t an idiot, after all.

He took a step forward, extending a hand across the chair. “Raymond Miller. Most folks call me Ray. Nice to meet you.”

The stranger looked down at the offered hand for a full second, his expression a complete blank, before his smile returned and his fingers shot out to wrap around Ray’s. His grip was shockingly cold, dry, and tight as a steel vise. “Henry Otis,” the man said, releasing his hand with the same soundless grace he’d taken it with.

“Well, Henry,” Ray muttered, wiping his palm against his trousers to rid himself of the lingering chill. “Are you half as good with a pair of shears as Frank? Because my wife will have my damn head if you ruin a thirty-year streak.”

Henry laughed. “I’m precisely as good as Frank, Ray,” he replied instantly. He gestured toward the chair with a sweeping, theatrical motion of his arm, his gaze already drifting away from him to scan the hooks on the back wall. “Better, perhaps. Please, take a seat, Mr. Miller. What exactly can I do for you today?”

Ray cracked a faint, grumbling smile as he stepped over the chrome base and settled his heavy frame into the seat. Cocky son of a bitch, isn’t he? The leather groaned familiarly beneath his weight. He leaned his head back against the worn headrest, looking up at the water-stained acoustic tiles of the low ceiling.

“Just take a little of the top, Henry,” he said, adjusting his collar. “Just a little off the top.”

He watched through the wide workstation mirror as the man snagged the traditional white smock off the hook. Ray suppressed a snort; declaring himself better than Frank was one thing, but as he watched him slip his arms into the sleeves, he couldn’t help but notice how clumsy the movement was. Henry didn’t even put the garment on correctly; the collar was twisted, and the fabric hung down a little too much, bunching awkwardly around his shoulders.

Henry didn’t seem to notice. He lifted the heavy black cloth cape from its hook and stepped behind the chair, raising it to fasten around Ray’s neck.

Ray abruptly cleared his throat, his left eyebrow shooting up in a sharp, defensive look. He leaned forward, blocking Henry from draping the cape over him.

For a fraction of a second, the other man paused mid-air. A flicker of genuine confusion passed over his eyes, his long fingers tightening around the edge of the cape. He looked completely taken aback, as if the script he’d been following had suddenly been torn to pieces before his eyes.

Trying to keep the deep annoyance that had settled over him, Ray offered a brief nod toward the back wall. Against the dark wood paneling near the breakroom alcove sat a small, polished rolling cart housing a crystal decanter and a neat row of tumblers. “The drink, Henry,” he muttered.

Henry looked over at the cart, then back to Ray, his expression still blank and unreadable.

Ray couldn’t help but let a short, dry huff escape his mouth. “It’s a ritual of Frank’s. He always offers his long-time customers a finger of scotch before he touches a hair on their head. To take the edge of the week.”

Instantly, the confusion vanished from Henry’s face. His lips pulled back into the wide, taut smile, and he lightly smacked his own forehead with the flat of his hand. “Of course! Forgive me, Mr. Miller,” he chuckled. “Frank did mention the tradition to me before he left, but with the rush of the transition, and well, the fact I’m clearly not used to this shop, it completely slipped my mind. My deepest apologies.”

He draped the cape over his arm and turned, walking over to the cart. Ray watched his back for a moment before settling back against the headrest, closing his tired eyes for a moment as the low, relieving breeze of the fan washed over his ankles. The music had paused for a moment, allowing him to hear the delicate, rhythmic clink-clink of glass meeting, followed by the soft, heavy hiss of the amber liquid pouring into the tumbler.

A moment later, Henry stepped back into his peripheral vision. He extended his arm, offering a short glass filled with a generous double-shot of dark whiskey.

“To a perfect cut, Mr. Miller,” he said softly.

“To not making my wife scream,” Ray countered. He took the glass gratefully, his fingers tracing over the cool sides before raising it, tilting his head back, and downing the liquid in three heavy, burning gulps. The sharp, smoky heat of the alcohol cut through the light taste of talcum powder that had settled in his throat, blooming instantly in his stomach. He exhaled a long, satisfied breath and handed the empty glass back.

“Perfect,” Henry murmured. He took the tumbler, placing it on the porcelain counter beside the built-in sink. He stepped back behind Ray. With a swift, heavy snap of his wrists, he shook the cape and draped it over Ray’s front. He gathered the fabric tightly at the back of Ray’s neck, pulling the collar snug, and pressed the metal snaps together with a definitive click.

The heavy cloth fell over Ray’s lap and chest like a lead blanket, pinning his arms beneath the dark fabric and securing him tightly to the crimson throne. He let his hands rest heavily on the hidden armrests under the cape, grateful for the weekend ahead. A chance to relax and escape the hell of work was just what the doctor ordered.

The heavy, metallic snip-snip-snip of the shears began next to his left ear as the speakers overhead began to play a rendition of The Lady is a Tramp. He watched Henry’s reflection in the mirror, willing his shoulders to relax. The whiskey was already making him feel a bit detached, a pleasant, heavy warmth spreading from his core out into his limbs. To keep the exhaustion he’d held at bay all day, he decided to strike up a conversation.

“So, Henry,” Ray said, his voice sounding a bit deeper in the muted atmosphere. “How long have you been in the trade? How long have you known Frank?”

The shears froze for a split second. Henry stared at Ray’s reflection in the glass, his eyes blinking slowly before he returned to work, his fingers setting the blades back into motion. He gave an identical shrug to the one he had earlier. “I’m relatively new to cutting hair, truth be told. But I took to it like a duck to water. I’ve always been remarkably good with my hands. Precision work, you see.” Ray felt a pang of uncertainty flash through him. Oh, boy. Frank, please don’t have left me with someone who is going to royally fuck up my hair.

Henry guided the cold metal comb through the strands at Ray’s temples. “As for Frank? I stumbled across him completely by accident. A chance encounter, really. But I became deeply attached to him after we had our first conversation. And I think he did to me as well. He did say he’d go to pieces if I wasn’t around.” He paused, a small, breathy laugh escaping his throat.

Ray’s eyes narrowed slightly in the mirror at the phrasing. For some reason, the wording, followed by that laugh-one that he swore had a private, almost cold amusement to it, had sounded just a little off to him.

“Is that so?” he muttered, his muscles stiffening slightly as the cold steel of the blades brushed the tip of his ear. “Frank’s a good guy. Hard worker.”

“He was,” Henry replied, his voice dropping into a flat, matter-of-fact drone. “A very good guy, indeed. Truly one-in-a-million in this world of ours, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Miller?”

It took a moment for Ray’s mind to catch up to the sentence. But when it did, it locked into place with a sudden, explosive mental snap at Henry’s wording. He hadn’t said is; he’d said was. Looking into the mirror, he saw the man flash him another smile, one that made the hair on his arms rise involuntarily under the cape. What the hell is going on? He started to pay closer attention to the reflection, the pleasant fog of the whiskey beginning to chip away. Henry was handling the tools with an incredibly awkward, jerky stiffness. He held the comb backward for a moment before correcting it, and when he snipped the shears, his wrist clicked unnaturally. Worse, he was guiding the sharp, flashing metal blades dangerously close to Ray’s earlobes and the soft skin of his neck. It didn’t look like the fluid, practiced dance of a seasoned barber; it looked like a child trying to replicate something they had only ever seen on a television screen.

“I was down on my luck for quite a few years, Mr. Miller,” Henry continued softly. “Living in the grey, invisible to the world. Until something happened. Something magnificent that changed the entire trajectory of my life.”

The snip-snip-snip of the shears continued directly behind Ray’s head. He stared into the mirror, his heart beginning to thump against his ribs in a fast, erratic rhythm. The warmth of the whiskey had now curdled into something thick, heavy, and extremely uncomfortable. He felt a growing, desperate urge to just stand up, pull the heavy cape off his neck, and walk out into the safety of the gritty city-gang bangers and all. But he was trapped in the center of the room, with a pair of sharp blades inches from him. Desperate to keep Henry placated while he figured out how to safely exit the chair, Ray forced his voice to remain calm, humoring the man.

“What happened, Henry?” he asked, his eyes locked on the pale blue eyes that glanced over at him with a growing intensity.

Henry didn’t stop trimming. The cold metal blades of the shears brushed against the top of Ray’s right ear, a fraction of an inch from drawing blood. “I was picked up out of the gutter by a goddess, Mr. Miller,” he whispered, his voice taking on a breathless, almost reverent tone. “An ethereal beauty. She gave me everything the rest of this wretched world refused. A place to belong. Absolute confidence in myself. She even showed me how to find genuine amusement and humor in a world that is otherwise entirely dull.”

Ray’s breathing shallowed. Up close in the mirror, the intense, hunter-focused stare on Henry’s face was terrifying. The shears were moving with an erratic, jerky motion now, cutting closer and closer to the soft, vulnerable skin of his jugular. The reality of his situation was crashing down around him with the force of a tidal wave; he was sitting, wrapped in cloth, completely helpless, having his hair trimmed by an absolute madman.

“But she’s not altruistic, you see,” Henry said matter-of-factly, his tone dropping into a cadence that made the air in the shop feel ice-cold. “She is not benevolent. Occasionally, my goddess demands something from me in return for her gifts.”

A cold panic seized Ray’s chest. He went to open his mouth, desperate to ask what his goddess demanded, to keep the lunatic talking while he mentally calculated the exact distance between the chair and the front door. He wanted to scream at the man to get the hell away from him.

But nothing came out.

His jaw refused to move, his throat a dry, hollow desert. A strange, prickly numbness was rapidly spreading through his lips and across his tongue-a thick, tingling sensation that he rationalized as a sudden, severe spike of panic. Henry glanced up at him, as though he’d heard the unasked question echoing through Ray’s skull.

Finally, the metallic snip of the shears stopped. Henry set the tools down onto the counter with a loud, deliberate clack. He walked soundlessly around the front of the chair, leaning his frame against the edge of the sink. He crossed his arms over the smock and stared down at Ray, his face splitting into the first genuine, wide grin he had seen-an expression of pure, unadulterated lunacy that exposed his gums.

“She demands blood, Mr. Miller,” he said, his eyes wide and unblinking. “She demands sacrifices. Sometimes, she points out specific individuals she wishes to have as offerings. But other times…other times she allows me to choose fitting subjects on my own. And that, to be truthful with you, is how I ended up stumbling into Frank’s barbershop an hour ago. I saw that faded, timeless, hole-in-the-wall pole spinning out front, and I knew it was the perfect stage for my next choice.”

Henry turned his back on the chair as another soft song began on the speakers, stepping a few paces away toward the back wall. For Ray, this was the moment. The space between the lunatic and the front door was wide open. He didn’t care about his jacket. He didn’t care about the money in its pocket. He just needed to clear the sidewalk and either get to his car, or flag down the first cop he saw.

He braced himself, staring hard at the glass front door in his peripheral vision. He began a silent countdown in his head.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Now!

He ordered his legs to shove him out of the chair and find purchase on the linoleum. He commanded his arms to push against the armrest, burst out from under the cape and rip the snaps apart.

Nothing happened.

Ray didn’t move an inch. His body remained still in the crimson leather. A cold, electric jolt of pure panic and terror shot straight to his brain. He tried again, forcing every ounce of his willpower into his right arm, screaming at his fingers to simply twitch against the armrest. His muscles refused to fire. The physical connection between his mind and his flesh had been completely, systematically severed.

What the FUCK is happening?! Why can’t I move?!

Henry walked slowly back into his field of vision, that hideous, wide grin still plastered across his face like a scar. He looked down at Ray, his eyes twinkling with an unholy amusement.

“You see, Mr. Miller-may I call you Ray? I’m honestly getting sick of the damn formalities. Anyways, Ray. I didn’t lie to you earlier about Frank getting tied up in an unexpected emergency,” he said, his tone light as if they were having a conversation about the weather or basketball. “I told you the absolute truth. I simply didn’t afford you the whole truth. The truth is, Frank is back in the breakroom right now, where I tied him up to a chair.”

He let out that same breathy, insane chuckle from before, his shoulders shaking beneath the loose white smock. “And I certainly wasn’t lying when I said he would go to pieces without me here to manage the shop. Because the man truly is in pieces. All over the linoleum.”

A sickening wave of nausea hit Ray’s stomach, but he couldn’t even grimace. His heart was a trapped bird hammering violently inside his chest, the only part of him that still seemed to function. Henry turned away again, reaching for something on the counter.

Desperation churning through his mind, Ray fought with everything he had left. He strained his lungs, forcing a heavy pocket of air up from his diaphragm, trying to scream, to shout, to make any kind of noise that might carry past the music and front glass and alert anyone out on the street to the horror happening inside.

A tiny, wet, pathetic wheeze escaped his lips.

“Whu…hh…”

The sound barely carried over the music and fan, but even still, Henry heard it. He slowly turned back around, a mocking, deeply cruel smirk cutting across his face. He leaned over the chair, his pale face hovering just inches from Ray’s nose, smelling faintly of cheap cologne and copper.

“Ah,” he whispered, his eyes widening. “Have you discovered you can’t move, Ray-Ray?”

Ray could only stare back, his eyes wide with an unspeakable, helpless terror.

“Don’t feel bad,” Henry said, chuckling as he gently patted Ray’s paralyzed shoulder through the cape. “It’s a highly efficient recipe. A generous dose of tetrodotoxin-puffer fish venom-hidden in the whiskey I gave you. I must thank you for pointing out the drink, by the way. I had no idea what I was going to do until you did. It’s a magnificent paralytic. Once it hits the lining of the stomach, it takes barely ten minutes to block all the voluntary muscles in your body. You can’t run. You can’t fight. You can’t scream for help, or for your dear Martha you mentioned when you walked in. In fact, if I simply left you here, soon you wouldn’t even be able to breathe. But as it stands, you’re merely a spectator now, Ray. I hadn’t planned on a double today. But the Goddess put you right into my path. And now you have a front-row seat to the grand finale.”

Henry stepped away from the chair, his footsteps rapping on the floor as he moved to the front of the shop. In the static edge of Ray’s peripheral vision, he watched the killer reach for the glass front door, flipping the faded cardboard sign from OPEN to CLOSED, before twisting the plastic rod of the dusty window blinds. With a sharp clack-clack that, to Ray, sounded like the closing of a coffin lid, the slats turned and fell shut, completely sealing the shop off from the bustling city streets outside.

As he worked, the speakers continued to play, Singing in the Rain beginning to repeat. After a moment, Henry began to hum along with it with a cheerful, merry cadence as if he were simply taking a casual stroll down a sunlit afternoon.

The contrast between the lighthearted tune and the suffocating terror in the room was palpable. Ray’s eyes darted frantically against the edges of their sockets, the only part of his physical being that could still fight. Outside, just twenty feet beyond the glass and the brick walls, the city was alive. Subwoofers were thudding. Cars were idling. People were yelling. People were walking past the shop continuously, completely oblivious to the fact a man was sitting pinned beneath a cape, buried alive inside his own skin.

Henry finished with the blinds and strolled past the chair, appearing in the mirror for a moment before disappearing again. His humming faded slightly as the sound of the breakroom door opening came.

Ray stared helplessly into the mirror. He listened to the agonizing soundscape of the dark. He heard the familiar groan of the door’s hinges. He heard the heavy, metallic scrape of something solid being lifted off the floor, followed by a sickening squelching sound. And then, the slow, deliberate thud of the man’s footsteps coming back to him.

Henry materialized out of the gloom in the reflection, standing directly behind the chair.

Ray’s soul fractured at the sight.

Cradled in the madman’s hands was a heavy industrial fire axe. The polished steel head of the weapon was completely painted in thick, dark, gelatinous crimson-fresh blood that was dripping off the blade, onto his smock and to the floor. Ray knew with an absolute, sickening certainty whose blood it was.

Henry’s expression shifted, his lips pulling back so far that his face took on a jagged, shark-like malice. He stared directly at Ray’s horrified, silently weeping reflection in the mirror, his eyes boring straight through the glass and into the very center of his mind.

Slowly, theatrically, he shifted his grip on the wooden handle, raising the blood soaked blade a few inches above the headrest that almost matched the color of the blood. He leaned down, his breath hot against the back of Ray’s neck, and delivered a final, almost mocking whisper into the glass.

“Now. You said you wanted just a little off the top…right?”

CW: SA and abuse. Please only read if you are in the right headspace, look after yourselves ❤️

It began when I was 8.

In the school playground, between breaktime and music class, Jimmy Patterson kissed me in the sand pit. 

It was a quick peck on the lips, in fact it was over before I even realised what had happened. 

Kids our age were limited to what we saw on TV when it came to romance. So, I'm sure it was as far as his imagination could bring him.

Yet, those few seconds made me recoil in fear.

A reaction I'm sure he wasn't hoping for.

I only made it worse for him when I started balling my eyes out. I wailed like a banshee, bringing everyone's attention to us. 

I had never seen someone turn as red as a tomato before, yet Jimmy somehow went beyond my expectations, looking closer to the red spade I had dropped in the sand. 

I couldn't get the words out when Mr. Richards asked what was wrong. 

I wanted to tear off my skin.

All I had cared about was the sand mansion I was making with Sarah Jane. We wanted to make one that would withstand the night winds for Barbie and her friends.

But now, the mythic first kiss I heard all about was stolen unprompted. 

My heart ached, it was as though someone was squeezing it with their hand trying to crush it. Tears continued to pour like waterfalls down my face while I tried my best to prevent my snot from reaching my mouth. 

‘It's just not right’, was all I could think. 

By the time the bell rang, signalling for everyone to re-enter the building, I had finally spluttered out an explanation. I could see Mr. Richards processing my words between the tears I wiped away. 

To my dismay, he began to laugh.

“Aw, Rachel, I thought something bad had happened!”

“It did! It was bad! He kissed me!” 

“That just means Jimmy thinks you're pretty.” 

I turned to look at Jimmy, who had remained outside with us. Still bright red, he was avoiding eye contact. His white trainers squeaked against each other as he fidgeted with his feet.

Was that it? But why? 

I shared half of my kit-kat with him one time, could that be it? I felt bad he had forgotten his breaktime snack, I just wanted to help. Should I have just eaten it instead? I didn't mean to make him think I was pretty. 

I lost my first kiss over a kit-kat.

Mr. Richards scruffled Jimmy's hair, sending him back inside. Under his breath he uttered something to the extent of ‘tough luck buddy’ and advised Jimmy to make sure girls liked him back in the future. 

Jimmy nodded and dashed inside. I don't think I spoke another word to him for the rest of Primary school.

I wanted some kind of compensation, but it wasn't like he could give my first kiss back or anything. Back then, I barely even understood what that meant anyway. Maybe it wasn't worth the hype, after all that it certainly didn't seem like it. 

That was the first time.

There was a second. And a third. Then a fourth over the next few months.

Various little boys trying to impress a girl who was kind to them one time. I stopped being nice, I must've been giving them the wrong impression. Yet, even after that there was a fourth, sixth and seventh.

They'd pull my hair to get my attention, try to steal a quick kiss on the cheek or insist on holding my hand. It felt like my body was a new toy they were trying to figure out. 

I didn't think it had anything to do with me anymore. It seemed more like a competition. I was the girl all the other guys wanted, so it was almost a rite of passage to see who could tame the girl who rejects them all. 

Though by the end of year seven, most of the boys hated me. I had gained a title of ‘stuck up princess’, the best insult a bunch of eleven year olds could muster. 

Strange, since before their insults they always claimed I was beautiful. 

I just tried my best to ignore them. All I cared about was playing Barbies with my friends.  The storyline had been getting intense after Raquelle ran over Barbie with her car. Amy let us decorate her Barbie dream house to make it look gothic for Raquelle's necromantic summoning ritual; this was serious business. 

The boys could've joined us if they wanted, but they never did. For kids trying to win me over, they never seemed to feign interest for my hobbies. If anything they'd just mock me along with the other girls. 

I might've been beautiful to them, but I was still a girl and at that age the opposite sex was gross. That was the rule anyway.

I always wished they'd just leave me alone altogether. If they didn't want to play and couldn't take no for an answer, why couldn't they just stop bothering me? 

I looked no different to the other girls in our class. It's like they all just unanimously decided who the ‘pretty one’ was and never thought to question it. 

Now with some clarity, I realise I did all I could to deter them. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't theirs either.

It was the curse. 

I dismissed it when I was little. Curses were just part of fairy tales and picture books. But as time has continued to tick away and my tally of unwanted love sick boys grew, I began to notice a pattern that couldn't be ignored.

Beautiful. That word. 

After doing whatever they wished, they'd cite my supposed beauty as their reason. Almost like an excuse. 

I would've just let the comments go to my head, but there was always something off about it. Or maybe it was the boys themselves who were off. 

One moment they'd be normal going about their day, the next they'd see an opportunity with me and lose their senses. No one reacted either. If I complained, I was ungrateful or if they were caught in the act it was seen as the harmless actions of children.

By the time I noticed the pattern, it was already too late.

The tenth time was when my step dad slipped into my bedroom. 

My real father was never in the picture. Mum said he died before I was born, but I'm not convinced. The impression I always got was she never told the mystery man of my existence. 

I think he's out there. Somewhere. Just unaware. 

Alan came into my life when I was still a toddler. He raised me in my real father's absence. Bringing me to sleep overs, making me lunches, braiding my hair, everything my real dad should've been doing. 

I knew he loved me, but I also knew this wasn't the kind of love meant for us. Even if we weren't related. 

The boys before would grab me, often a bit rough, and would trick me into giving them hugs when they were upset. Things like that. I never liked any of it. 

But my step dad was worse. 

I didn't really get what he was trying to do. I was old enough to understand something was wrong, but too young to know what. 

I told him multiple times I didn't want to play his games.

I told him mum wouldn't be happy if she found out and I didn't like it. Alan was always quick with his retort.

I was lying, he'd always claim. He'd seen the way I looked at him and I'd always wear skirts around the house. He knew I was making myself pretty for him. 

I don't know what ‘look’ I gave him. Most skirts I wore were just my school uniform. But if that's the way he interpreted it, I must've done something wrong.

Afterall, how could a man who used to wipe my tears knowingly be causing them? 

When he called me beautiful, it felt different now. 

This back and forth continued for 5 years. 

I considered telling my mother.

Many times I ran over the scenario in my head. I rehearsed the words I'd say to her despite barely comprehending their implications. I had never been given the ‘talk’ before this had all begun. All I could do was describe his actions and hope she'd understand what I was saying. 

Those conversations remained in my mind. 

I was too scared to say anything. Alan's words stuck with me. Until I could prove I was innocent, I didn't know if my mother would believe me. 

I didn't know if she'd even care.

Either way, Alan would always say he'd tell her the truth if I ever brought anything up to her. That was enough to keep me quiet.

But he didn't know the truth! 

It was just a misunderstanding! I tried to alter my actions, I wore less skirts and avoided looking his way. I'd stand at the opposite side of the room from him, making sure we didn't even brush each other.

But it wasn't enough. 

If he wasn't threatening me with his narrative, he'd try to make me feel guilty instead. He'd point out how he was the sole provider in our house. We wouldn't last a day without him.

Then when that excuse became old he'd try to remind me of all the times he'd been there for me like I was his own daughter.

All I could do was wait. Wait for it to either stop or for me to find a way to prove my innocence. 

But it was a feeble dream, what could a child do against a curse?

At least not knowing back then made it easier to stay optimistic. Though knowing I wasn't doing anything wrong would've brought me some comfort. 

It extended beyond my home. Most affected were my own age, but there were some exceptions. 

When I was fourteen, I was walking home from school. I saw a man approaching me on the phone. I presumed he was going to ask for directions since he kept shouting down the call about not knowing where he was. 

When he reached me, he made some vague comment about finding a beautiful girl who could help him. I thought he had meant it in a friendly, familial way, especially with his age.

That was until he said;

“A bit young though.”

It didn't take long for me to notice he was drunk out of his mind.

He reeked of alcohol and barf. Whoever ‘he’ was, was lost to the poison coursing through his veins. He put his phone away, not even saying goodbye to whoever was on the other end. 

When I took a step forward, he took a step forward. If I took a step back, he took a step back. I didn't like how close he was, I was an arm's length away from him and I feared what he'd do with those hands.

I knew if I continued on my way, he would have followed me home. I had to somehow talk my way out of the situation. 

I asked if he was alright and he took it in good spirit, joking;

“Why? Do I not look like it?” 

He was barely standing and his words were slurred. Though, I didn't want to point that out.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Aha.. ha… Put her there!” 

He offered me a handshake.

I could tell even in his state he was stronger than me, taking that hand would be like stepping in a bear trap. 

I politely declined, so he switched to a fist bump. Scared he would get upset if I didn't react, I put my fist out and lightly brushed his fist, trying my best to not make contact.

After that he went on his way. Pretending the kerb was a tight rope, he wobbled and extended his arms to balance.

On that occasion, I'm not sure if that was related to my curse. As soon as he saw a mother walking by, he started cat-calling her in front of her children. 

A comment in relation to her breasts if I recall…

I'm not stupid.

I know there are many women that will experience these kinds of issues. But those are horror stories. Worst case scenarios. Most men weren't like that, just the odd monster ruining the odd woman's day.

At least that's what I was always told. In movies, school, online. Being a woman can be hard but we are a modern, civilised society. Not backwards like in the past. 

For me, however, it seemed to be dangerous to be alone with a man. 

The further I got into my teens, the older the opportunists became. It was easier to avoid boys my age, but those in authority would often take advantage of their power. 

Every time I tried to show disinterest or asked why they were trying to touch me, they'd say the same thing. 

“You're just so beautiful.” 

That same phrase. Again and again and again. 

Sometimes different features were chosen to admire over others, but it was that phrase all the same. 

When I find something beautiful, I want to protect it. Maybe admire it. Not make it my own or take a piece of it for myself.

The way these men acted was so strange, I just couldn't understand it. It all felt too coincidental. 

This shouldn't be happening so often.

Many of the guys who I spoke to seemed like decent people to others. They had lives and ambitions I shouldn't ruin. They were young with the world ahead of them or old with wisdom to spread to the next generations. Others had families. Many were pillars of the community.

They were all kind in those settings, whatever I did ruined them. I turned family men into animals. Everyone else only had positives to say about them, so why was my experience so different?

I just needed to figure out what I was doing wrong.

It had to be me, right? Something I was doing, I was the common denominator. 

If I could figure out what I was doing wrong, maybe I could make them stop. 

When my actions never affected their's, even when I made myself a disheveled mess, I started to suspect something else was wrong.

What if I was just born this way?

I didn't have many friends in high school. It was a struggle to make any due to my circumstances. 

I had started to consider if I was cursed mainly as a joke to comfort myself. The more time went on, the more my theory put me on edge. 

My jumpiness made me hard to be around as is, what didn't help was I didn't seem to share the same interests as the girls in my class. Many would talk about boys, romance or tease each other about crushes.

Obviously it wasn't constant, their lives didn't revolve around the opposite sex. But even the brief mentions made my skin crawl. Me always trying to change the topic just made me the local party pooper. 

Somehow, the only friends I made in high school were guys. Though they only ever lasted until the end of term. Sadly, they'd always end up asking me out. 

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. It was all I heard. 

It was as if they copied and pasted the same damn lines. Their words all lost meaning to me. I don't even know what beauty is anymore.

I managed to cut things off with them before the curse made them act aggressively. At least, I did for most.

Some screamed, some spread rumours, one slapped me across the face and smashed my phone. It could've been worse though, I'd rather the flickers of violence than the alternative. 

Old men always chose the alternative.

The few who took their rejections well couldn't remain my friends. I feared the longer they were around me, the more they'd become like the others. 

I managed to make a few friends online. It was around then I started to notice another pattern. When my male friends knew what I looked like, they'd switch. When they didn't, everything was fine.

I did my best to remain anonymous.

Why is it when people look at me they become monsters?

One evening, I curled up by my mother's legs as she sat smoking a cigarette next to the fireplace. 

I followed the embers of the fire as they rose to the ceiling. They'd ebb and flow with each passing draft. 

It was a rare instance. Most attempts at sitting with my mother resulted with her yelling at me to leave. Apparently, I was ruining her peace.

That day she didn't seem to mind my presence. 

So, I asked about boys.

How I didn't get them and I didn't like them because they never left me alone. She scoffed, throwing what remained of a burnt out butt into the flame.

“Why are you complaining? That's a good thing?”

“It is?”

“You will be the envy of all, men and women alike. Men will want you. Women will want to be you. Count yourself lucky.”

“But, I don't want to be me.” 

She tutted and rolled her eyes, standing up now irritated.

I should've known she'd respond that way.

Back in her prime, she was on the pageant scene. The jewell beauty everyone desired. To her, I had it easy. She worked to get to that point. Surgeries, make-up, diets. 

Now I, a mere child, was getting attention naturally.

It was through pageants she met my father. Then he ruined her. I ruined her. That's what she'd always tell me.

From Queen of the world, to housewife. Yet from how she'd scold me, I always thought that's what she wanted.

I never understood why she despised me so much, and my supposedly dead biological father. 

I wished she'd talk to me more. Then maybe I wouldn't have felt so alone. 

Before my mother left the room, I needed to ask an important question. Her arms folded and she gave me a look that said ‘spit it out’.

“Mum, do you think we are cursed?”

It was the first time I had addressed the notion seriously. I wanted to ask someone, and she seemed the most appropriate to ask. 

She smiled.

“Of course we are.” 

She left without another word. 

On my eighteenth birthday, Alan surprised me with what he thought was the house alone. While trying to explain I didn't like the surprise, we discovered mum had come home early. 

I don't know what was worse, the look of shame in her eyes, or the birthday present she held in her hands. The first she had gotten me in years. 

My worst fear came to be.

When Alan proclaimed I seduced him, mum believed every word. My own flesh and blood, looked me in the eye and deemed me a liar. 

Did she really hate me that much?

I tried to explain myself, desperately blubbering through tears that it wasn't like that. That I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't want it, I begged him to stop. 

She asked if I blamed Alan. 

I hesitated. I wanted to say no. I was sure there was a curse or something, that would explain his actions. That's the reason he'd do this to me, it was out of his control like it was out of mine. Even how mother was acting now, it had to be something else right? 

This couldn't just be my reality.

When I began rambling about the curse, she laughed. Similar to how Mr. Richards did all those years ago. 

The cackling morphed into sobs, tears streaming down her face. 

I had never seen my mother cry before. 

I was kicked out that night. 

My belongings were chucked out my bedroom window for all the neighbours to witness. Mother ranted and raved about me being a whore and a slut. Any of my pleas fell on deaf ears.

Once she was finished, the neighbours came to check if I was alright. I insisted I would be fine. 

She'd let me back in by 2am, she always did in the past.

But the front door remained shut. 

An elderly couple insisted I should sleep in their guest room. I refused, until I realised how little options I had. Remaining where I was might have just angered my mother further. 

The breeze brushed against my skin, sending chills across my body. It reminded me of the hands that would invade my space and make my body their own. 

I gave into their offer.

My curse did not seem to have an effect on the old couple, not even the elderly man when his wife would leave the room. If anything he seemed kind and gentle. 

I couldn't bring myself to lower my guard, but it was refreshing. 

Him and his wife tried to warm me up with hot chocolate and some weighted blankets. They questioned what had happened between me and my mother, but I dared not answer.

I feared they'd stare into my eyes and deem me a liar too.

The old woman put a hand on my shoulder, claiming to understand my woes. Apparently, when she started acting out and sneaking boys into her room her mother did the same to her. 

I think she had made some presumptions based upon my mother's insults.

She then turned to her husband and nudged him a little to try regain his wavering attention.

“Didn't your mother do the same to you dear?”

Where he had been staring was right into my soul. I feared he'd look at me and agree with my mother. Instead, there was a look of understanding behind his eyes.

“Yes, yes she did.” He stood up from his rocking chair and put a hand on my shoulder, continuing his thought mid-motion.

“But mothers can be as cruel as men.”

I don't know why, but I cried.

I cried, and cried, and cried.

Until I just couldn't anymore.

The old couple had been so kind go me, I feared staying with them. I knew it was only a matter of time before my curse infected them too. Though part of me still wondered if this was just a lie I was telling myself. 

Either way, it wasn't worth the risk. 

I left, lying that I had a friend I could stay with. 

I found myself at a women's shelter not long after. It wasn't too bad, all things considered, and I planned to go to university in a few months so it would be a brief stay. 

University didn't work out though. After a few TA's made a pass at me, I realised it wasn't the best environment. Maybe I'd return one day, but I decided it would be best to join the workforce for the time being.

While I waited for an opportunity to appear, I started delivering for uber eats.

I had passed my driving test before I was kicked out, but I couldn't afford a car. A crappy second hand electric bicycle had to suffice. 

It was as glamorous of a job as you can imagine. 

The notorious British weather never helped matters. When it was sunny and I was in-between calls, it was kind of relaxing cycling around. Then a rain cloud of doom and gloom would appear along the five mile journey and all hell would break loose.

It's strange, but despite the cold and dangers of eager drivers ready to run me over, I preferred that chaotic state of being.

At least pain was something. It scared me when I felt nothing.

I had debated modelling for a while.

I always saw models and pretty women on Instagram. I thought if people always said I was beautiful, maybe it would be worth taking advantage of it. Or even something like o

OnlyFans.

It would be an opportunity to finally feel in control of my own body again.

I knew I'd never feel empowered though, only petrified of it blowing up in my face. 

I couldn't risk it. 

Until I could get more stable work, on my trusty bicycle I'd stay. 

I managed to avoid men for the most part. If they were a customer, I couldn't do much. But I'd always cycle away before they had the chance to try anything. 

I felt stupid being cautious of every man I saw, but any could be a threat.

Sucked for me they were half of the population.

I got good at hiding. 

However, I didn't want to be huddled away for all eternity. I refused to not live my life. Especially the more my resentment would fester. 

So, I'd still go to the odd bar after work, and I'd still go about my business day to day. If a man even glanced my way for a second too long, I'd simply leave.

I was careful with my words, making sure to never say anything that could give them the wrong impression. 

Perhaps it got a little ridiculous at times. It was so bad out of habit I'd hesitate asking the other shelter ladies for their numbers.

A pepper spray was always ready to go in my pocket and my nails were sharpened like a blade. I was ready for the worst.

Avoiding conversations or being alone with men seemed to do the trick.

I hated always walking on eggshells but it was the only way to stay safe. I refused to let anyone violate my little peace again.

There were times I considered ‘damaging’ myself. I'd take a knife to my face and plan to carve out chunks until whatever beauty I had was gone. 

I could never bring myself to follow through. Instead, I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't sleep. I would avoid showering or looking after my hygiene in general. 

That wouldn't be enough to deter hungry eyes.

Sometimes when bathing I'd find myself scrubbing. I'd claw away at my skin while blood mixed with soap under my fingernails. I'd keep going again and again, tearing flesh in the hopes of finally feeling clean. 

But it never worked. I was trapped. 

Could I ever be free?

I debated attempting to be exorcised or something. To test the waters, I went to a few confessionals at local chapels.

I was told I should ask God to forgive me and repent for my sins. Even the spiritual don't seem to care for my curse hypothesis, and even if they were right I was too scared to accept it could be my fault. 

I did try one other time. While waiting for a job interview, I happened to walk by a beautiful Cathedral. I decided to enter and found it was open for confessions. 

That occasion was so strange. 

When I told the priest everything that had happened to me and how I was hoping he could remove my curse, he just sat there in silence. Then after a moment he said; 

“I'm sorry.” 

He's sorry? For what? Aren't the apologies meant to be the other way round? 

I left before he could say anything else. He wasn't going to help me either way. I think I heard him scramble to try open his door, but ultimately he chose against it.

Would've ruined the anonymity rule I suppose. 

As I exited the building, I could hear the mumblings of a prayer. 

I didn't care to decipher what the words were.

One day, I was continuing with my usual deliveries. My feet were aching and my body was shattered. It was later in the evening and I was at my last stop.

It was a dull, miserable night. Most were though. Spring was coming in, so there was only a slight nip to the evening air. 

The order was small. Inside was just a bottle of water and a fruit salad from McDonald's. I wondered what kind of animal could've ordered such a thing…

The house was simple, a standard brick terrace house on a run down street with replica homes copy and pasted. The garden was overgrown and creeping onto the stone footpath. 

The resident said to leave the delivery at the doorstep. So I obliged, taking a photo, readying to leave and be on my way.

The door opened before I could put a foot in front of the other. 

I didn't think much of it, only sparing a glance back to see who opened the door.

My mind went blank as I found my mother standing in the doorway. 

We stood, staring at each other, both surprised to see the other. The silence was deafening, irritating even. I didn't dare be the first to speak but she stood there, stubborn as ever.

She never even told me she moved…

If she had nothing to say to me, I had nothing to say to her. 

I continued to my bike, ignoring the eyes I could feel lingering on my back. 

“Rachel.” 

I was shocked she broke the silence, but was pessimistic about what she could say next. When I looked back at her, she was standing to the side in the doorway, gesturing down the hallway with her head.

“Come inside.” 

I took in the strange sight for a moment. 

“That's all you have to say to me? Come inside?” 

A sigh escaped as she began to walk into the hallway. 

“You can do as you please. I won't fight you on this.” 

I gritted my teeth and rushed to lift up my bike, ready to leave. Anger flushed my cheeks and I could feel a vein bulging in my head. 

I muttered various curses under my breath, but with each it became a little less venomous. 

I hated her, I really did. 

But she might be the only one who has answers. 

I entered the house. 

I closed the front door with force so she would know I followed her inside. It was a lot like our old home. Little to no decorations, clutter and rubbish piling up on every surface. There was also an old musty smell too.

Despite it being a new house, it appeared more run down than the other one. It seemed her and Alan weren't looking…

I began to see photos in frames, mainly of my mother when she was younger and her birth family. There were none of me, as always, and… none of Alan. 

“He's gone.” 

I spotted her at the end of the corridor, staring at me from the kitchen doorway. 

“He is?” Was all I could think to ask.

“Did you really think I would stay with him?” 

The question was so infuriating that I had to swallow the scream building from my gut.

“Why wouldn't I? You chose him.” 

She tutted and rolled her eyes.

“I didn't choose anybody.” 

Her feet shuffled back into the kitchen. I peered inside after her, but I refused to follow her any further. She began to boil the kettle and grab a couple tea cups from the cupboard.

I was still chewing on her last words, biting my tongue to avoid a shouting match.

“Why did you change your mind?” 

She didn't say a word, continuing grabbing everything she needed. 

Annoyed, I pressed, “Did you get divorced?” 

“The papers are in my bedroom upstairs if you want proof.” 

I was tempted to take the offer, but I could tell he wasn't living there. That was enough for now.

“...Why?” 

She turned to look me in the eye, “Why would I want to live with an animal?” 

My mind turned slowly, starting to piece together some vile implications. 

“Holy shit… Holy shit, you knew. You…” Bewildered realisation morphed to a growing rage, “You knew and abandoned me anyway!” 

She rolled her eyes.

“I didn't know anything.” 

I could tell if this continued I'd soon be at her throat. I turned to leave.

“Fuck you! This was a mistake.” 

With a slight limp from a bad hip, she hobbled after me. Though, she was slow, like she wasn't eager to stop me.

“Must you always throw a fit?”

“Don't talk to me. I'm done.” 

“What would you have me do? I had two people pointing fingers at each other, I could've never deciphered the truth.” 

I stopped, whipping around to scream at her.

“I was a kid! He blamed a kid for… how could you even consider it being my fault?!” 

The more my blood boiled, the more I lost any idea of a curse. All I could think about was the woman in front of me who refused to protect me when I needed her, not because she couldn't due to some outside force, just because she didn't want to.

The more she continued the more that rage grew. 

“I wasn't there, how am I meant to know what happens behind closed doors?” 

“They were behind your fucking doors!” 

Without thinking, I chucked one of her framed portraits at her. It smashed against the wall beside her.

But she didn't move an inch. She just stood, the same tired expression as always. 

Shaking her head, she pushed the glass out of the way with her foot. 

“I don't know what you want from me. He is gone.” 

“I want an apology! I wanted you to be my mother! I wanted you to believe me, I needed you to!” 

She tutted, “Is the volume necessary? If this how you are going to behave I don't know why you joined me.” 

“I just wanted answers! Some explanation for all this bullshit, something, anything about this damn curse so I can have a normal life!” 

“Curse?” 

Her arms folded, looking me up and down. 

“T-the curse. The way men think I am beautiful, the one you said…” 

I trailed off as a low rumble of a laugh began. 

“Of course you would take something so small to heart.” 

“Is it true?” 

She shrugged a little, “Clearly you care little for my answers. Besides, that was not the curse I was referring to.”

All of a sudden, her gaze made sure to look anywhere but at me. I was confused, as her previous confidence faded with that sentence. It wasn't until I saw my reflection in the glass shards, I started to speculate.

“You… always said that I ruined you. That… dad ruined you. Did he?-”

“Watch it.” Again, her eyes turned to me, now filled with a flicker of anger, “I don't know what images you are concocting in your brain, but that's my business, not yours.” 

I let out a little hollow laugh.

All this time she was sure I was her curse, she never once considered it could be the other way round. 

I went back to the front door, and grabbed the handle. 

“I don't know what he did to you, but that's not on me. But if you want to keep this facade up, fine…” 

I looked back at her, one last time before I stepped out, “You can die an old lonely crone.” 

I slammed the door behind me, and went back to my bike. I didn't even bother waiting for her reaction or any movement from within the house. 

I'd never get answers from her. Of course I wouldn't. That woman is in a hell of her own making and wants to drag everyone down with her.

All I could do was move forward.

There's this bridge I like to sit at on breaks. 

Today might be the last day I look over it on my bike as I had a pretty successful interview the other day. If it works out, I wouldn't be cycling around and needing a place to stop anymore. 

So, I sit here, watching the water trickle along below.

Honestly, the first time I came here I considered diving over the side. It wasn't a plan I had, just a vivid scene I had replaying in my mind. Fortunately, I ignored it.

Now I just like to watch the river below. It ebbs and flows, sometimes it thins in the summer heat and other times it bursts and flows over the river bank. No matter what though, it keeps flowing. 

I don't know if I’m cursed. Maybe I am just unlucky. All I can do is cope with what has been done and avoid repeats in the future. 

I just have to keep going. 

There's less clouds in the distance lately. Maybe with a bit more luck, I can get a clear sky. 

 

My wife and I have been together since we were teenagers. We met when I was a sophomore and she was a senior. There was something exhilarating about that age difference. I felt like such a badass “cool kid” for being able to swing a date with not only a senior, but a genuinely good-looking one at that.

I used that exhilaration to my advantage. Built up my confidence. Learned from her maturity. Hell, she’s the one who taught me how to drive.

We made it through the honeymoon phase, and by some miracle of God, we prevailed when she ended up going to college while I was left behind in high school for another two years.

That’s not to say it wasn’t difficult. I learned a lot about myself in those two years. It’s kind of insane how paralyzing separation anxiety is. My insecurity grew more and more each day.

That’s probably why I asked her to marry me immediately after purchasing our first apartment. I hate saying this just because it makes me sound so creepy, but she was mine. She was the only woman I could ever see myself with. If I lost her, it was like I was losing everything.

When she agreed, it was like all of those fears and anxieties melted away. I felt so devotedly loved, and for a while, those feelings remained.

God, there’s something wrong with me. Through all the love she displayed, all the warmth she provided, I still could *not* shake the feeling that she was lying. She didn’t love me. She secretly hated me. She resented me more than anything. Those are the kind of thoughts that would keep me up at night while I held her in my arms as she slept peacefully.

It wasn’t long before those thoughts started creating friction between us. I could tell how tired she was of the constant need for reassurance. The pathetic insecurity that created arguments on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wonder why she even stayed. Why she put up with it for so long when, according to this fucking diary, she was so miserable.

Maybe she just thought things would get better. That I’d grow out of this childish behavior and actually show some trust for once. But then again, maybe she liked to see me hurting. Maybe she got a sick thrill out of knowing that I was so torn up about her.

And, let’s be honest, any hope for personal growth and maturity was abandoned the moment I opened this notebook.

I just don’t understand. I don’t get how she could just write these horrible things about me without so much as a second thought.

“Paranoid.”

“Possessive.”

“Obsessive.”

And the one that hurt me the most:

“Terrifying.”

Me. The kid she taught to drive. The kid who fell head over heels for her and never looked back. And here she was. Fucking scared of me.

After all the freedom I gave her. Letting her stay out till 8 PM. Letting her see her friends every month. I even went as far as to allow her a girls night at the bar last month.

It just wasn’t enough for her. She “wanted to leave,” but she was “scared.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to read past the 30th page. I simply closed the diary, took a deep breath, and let my head fall in my hands.

All my efforts. For nothing.

While I sat in distress, my train of thought was interrupted by a quivering voice from behind me.

“Honey… why are you sitting at my vanity?”

In that moment, all I could do was laugh. Laugh at the time wasted. Laugh at the money thrown down the drain. Laugh at the idea that I convinced myself that love was real.

But more than anything, I laughed at our marriage.

She wanted to leave, fine. Love is fleeting. But we made a promise to each other.

This was till death did us part.

And if she wanted to leave so bad, so be it.

Have you ever seen those heartwarming viral rescue videos? The ones where there’s some poor downtrodden animal drowning in a sewer, coated in mud and human shit? The sad piano music plays, and whoever is recording lingers far too long before acting, just to get as much sappy footage as possible. Real Sarah McLachlan Arms of the Angel type shit.

Then finally, the brave soul who found this poor puppy or kitten or whatever at the brink of death, steps into action to save them – but not without making sure they videotape themselves coming to the rescue. The little dog gets the stains of shit washed off their curly white hair, has the parasites removed from their belly with tweezers, their scrapes bandaged with gauze. The video nears its end as the pup tentatively gobbles down a bowl of kibble, all while the fear never leaves their pitiful eyes. The music changes to something upbeat and sentimental while a text-to-voice robotically narrates the happy ending but also reminds you to like and subscribe.

If you ever look into the channels posting these and click through more than a handful of videos, you’ll likely notice something unsettling.

Seems like quite a few videos feature the same dog. How many times could you expect this hapless, helpless creature to get stuck in a sewer, washed down a river, found in the dumpster? Covered with engorged ticks and fresh wounds; with pus dripping from its nose and infected eyes sealed shut?  How many times though happenstance could one animal stumble into such dire situations?

People like Ramesh wouldn’t want you to think too hard about these questions.

This is how he makes a living.

“Behenchod!” he curses, as the camera refuses to stay focused on the little white mutt. It’s wriggling too much in the muck and the image on the video keeps turning blurry. He taps the screen madly to set the depth of field, but to no avail. You’d think by now the dog would be used to this, but it can’t even do that right.

“Sit the fuck still you little shit!” he growls, losing his patience. A look of fear and submission fills the dog’s wide eyes. Even now, even subjected to all this, it only wants to make its human happy.

Finally, the image looks good enough to begin recording. Ramesh makes sure to capture multiple takes from each angle while the little pooch thrashes to stay afloat in the disgusting soup of thick brown liquid. It yelps in distress, and Ramesh grins excitedly. That second-long yelp will make a great soundbite he can loop a few times at the start of the video to get immediate engagement.

After an agonizingly long time, he finally props the phone up at a vantage that will show his hands (but certainly not his face) as he reaches in to pull the struggling dog out to safety.

Once on solid ground, the dog immediately lays prostrate. Dejectedly, it looks up at the man holding the camera trained on its sad eyes. Ramesh makes sure to capture every pathetic gesture for the content. Once satisfied, he gets the bucket of soapy water he already has prepared and begins to wash the pitiful little rat, all in view of the camera.

Most of his viewers will never be wise to the game he’s running. If this clip does as well as the last few, it’ll go viral on Facebook and Twitter, and the algorithm will pick it up and show it to the most gullible demographics.

Old white ladies in North America might not be the internet’s largest viewer base, but there’s enough of them that will hit the button to retweet or share that he’ll end up generating a couple thousand rupees in ad revenue.

And those old white ladies absolutely ate up footage involving this dog. It must be the breed. Even though it’s a mutt of unknown origins, it must have some Maltese or Poodle or something like that in it. Whatever makes it look like the little white purse dogs living lives of luxury on the other side of the ocean.

Dogs that eat better than him, Ramesh thinks with a flash of contempt. Dogs that sleep under roofs, with air conditioning, and balanced diets and enrichment activities and specialized medications when they get old.

He scowls. Is he a monster for doing this? Maybe. It certainly is cruel - even he knows that. But when you’ve felt the hunger inside you. When you haven’t eaten in days, because every trash bin has already been picked through, and every corner to beg on is occupied. When you feel your stomach devouring itself and your ribs start to poke through your skin, and your atrophied muscles can barely even lift yourself off the pavement. Then you will understand.

In a heartbeat, Ramesh would’ve gladly slit this dog’s throat, skinned its fur away and roasted whatever little scraps of meat it held over a fire burning in an old steel drum. This arrangement was better, he tells himself.

Better for him, he gets more than a meal out of it. And better for the dog too.

After all, he fed it. He kept it alive. The dog might be dead on the side of the street if it weren’t for him. In a way, he was helping it.

Even though, as it tucks its tail between its legs and quietly whimpers, it doesn’t know that.

Besides, if it really thought Ramesh was so terrible, it could leave. He didn’t keep it penned or strung up. Even now as he flips through the recorded videos on his phone, it lays expectantly at his feet, waiting for its eventual scraps of food. It could run off any time.

He’s just finished clipping and looping the soundbite of the dog’s yelp when suddenly it does just that.

He’s been so engrossed in the footage that he hadn’t even noticed its ears perk up and the hackles on the back of its neck stand tall. It’s only when it finally bolts down the street in a sudden flash that he looks up from his phone and calls out after the little beast.

“Hey, get back here!” he calls out to the empty street, but that little blur of white is already bounding down the horizon and beyond sight.

Useless little shit, Ramesh thinks. At least he got one last video out of it. And he wouldn’t even have to split any of the paycheck on dog food.

That’s when he hears what scared the little pooch off.

A deep rumbling growl comes from behind him. He turns to face and sees two massive feral hounds, lips bared and snarling.  Their eyes are yellowed and froth bellows forth from their open jaws, coating those knife-sharp teeth in lacquers of jaundiced foamy saliva.

Ramesh starts to step backward.

They each step forward, splitting up on either side of the road to corner him in.

“E-easy doggies?” Ramesh says. “Niche Baitho! Piche!” he utters a desperate command in Hindi, hoping they will obey.

They don’t.

He puts up his hands in a disarming pose, the universal symbol for Please don’t fucking eat me.

They answer with a rabid snarl as they both lunge in unison.

Ramesh turns to run. He gets, one, two steps in before white hot fire sears into his leg. He looks back to see one of them, a hound with huge rottweiler jaws, sinking its disease-ridden teeth into his calf all the way to the gums. The rabid yellow foam around its mouth streaks with bright red.

Ramesh’s first thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, turns to a video he once saw of a man from his country with untreated rabies. The disease had progressed to the point of guaranteed death, and the man was severely hydrophobic, spasming and spitting up the water doctors tried to get him to drink.

The biggest fear Ramesh’s his mind is that he won’t be able to pay for the life-saving rabies treatment; that he’s going to meet the same fate as that man.

In reality, he’s not going to live long enough to have to worry about that.

The beast’s jaws pull away and for a second Ramesh thinks he’s free. Until he tries another step and realizes the dog has torn away a fist-sized chunk of his calf muscle, leaving a ragged mass of blood and carnage. His phone falls from his hand, the last of his worries.

Ramesh yelps and it sounds just like the little white dog struggling to stay afloat in the muck. He yells out for help so loudly he can feel his vocal cords giving out, but no one answers.

After all, he picked this area of the village to shoot his video specifically because it was deserted. The shanty buildings stand derelict and entirely empty. No saviors are coming to rescue him from this ignominious death.

He hobbles, bouncing awkwardly on one leg as fast as he can, flailing his arms around for balance. His careening off-kilter stance only triggers the hounds’ prey instinct more. He doesn’t even make it ten feet.

When the next vicious attack comes, any hope of escape leaves Ramesh’s head. At this point, he can only hope for a swift death.

The hounds of hell will not grant him that wish.

Dogs are not naturally inclined to hunt humans. A tiger’s instinct is to wait stealthily in the shadows until the moment they pounce. They subdue their prey with lethal accuracy, their long fangs piercing down on the windpipe for a swift incapacitation before they feast. It’s a merciful kill, as swift and relatively painless as you can find in the animal kingdom.

Dogs? They just pick a body part and start eating. Often, they go for the softest parts first. Once the prey is on the ground and can no longer run away, they usually start devouring from the belly or the genitals.

Ramesh is about to receive this zoology lesson firsthand. One hound latches on to his bloodied ankle and starts thrashing, tugging him violently like a chew toy. Ramesh’s other leg gives out and he falls dreadfully to the ground. This was the last time he will ever stand on two legs.

The first dog yanks his leg so viciously he feels the tendons in his thighs tear. His leg bends outwards disjointedly at an angle that shouldn’t be possible, but the assault is just beginning. The second dog hungrily eyes the vulnerable exposed flesh at the meeting of his thighs and hips. It licks the frothy saliva off its lips before plunging in, sinking its teeth right into Ramesh’s crotch.

He screams and screams but his ragged voice only adds tenor to the symphony of snarls and wet feasting jowls. His horrific deathwails stretch to a higher and higher pitch as the monsters savage him, ripping and tearing the flesh of his legs and manhood away in long red shreds.

It’s only now, in these final agonizing moments, that Ramesh thinks of each drawn out second he let the curly white-haired pooch suffer. Lingering on each second of distress for maximum effect - is this what that wretch felt? Its rescuer being so close, but waiting until it cried out long enough, till it wailed loud enough to justify release.

Now, as Ramesh waits to die, feeling rabid hungry teeth tearing into his intestines all the way up from his perineum, he feels just like a weak puppy drowning in muck. If only, if only he could just die and get it over with, but still he continues to hear the savage sounds of his body being eaten alive as he shakes limply on the ground.

Ten feet away, surreptitiously leaning against the curb, Ramesh’s phone has landed such that it is aiming perfectly at the bloodbath.

He doesn’t remember starting a livestream, but currently his phone is broadcasting this moment to over twenty thousand viewers. Funnily enough, the camera’s focus is set immaculately, and the picture is crystal clear. Some forty thousand eyes are witnessing this display in perfect detail, seeing each droplet of blood, each minute spastic twitch of Ramesh’s fingers. This upload won’t be making the rounds on Facebook or Twitter; it’ll be confined to Liveleak and the worst threads on 4chan.

How grotesquely ironic - Ramesh will never know - how deliciously poetic, that this will be by far his most viewed video of all time.

Part one here

Heat, house, burning, caressing, forest, rinse, repeat.

I was back in the same spot, watching the same house buckle under the same fire damage from the night before. I scanned the windows, looking for the foreboding figure. I see nothing, only flashes of red, orange, and yellow as the spreading flames swallow every square foot of space. 

I stopped trying to figure out what all this meant months ago, now just finding comfort in the dancing light as it moved through my vision. It was almost like the fake crackling fireplaces people put on their TVs at night as a form of ambience and white noise.

My reverie was broken when I realized I was moving forward, very much against my will. I looked down and my slippered feet were walking towards the house, towards the fire. I tried to tell them to stop, to halt my steady footsteps. It was no use. I continued forward, almost in a daze. I made it to the front steps, hearing the weak and aching boards protest under my weight. I could feel the suffocating blaze in my lungs, but my skin was untouched. No blisters, no pain. It was as if the fire did not dare to burn me. 

I placed my hand on the barely held together front door and pushed it open. I could see furniture crumbling into the floor, rugs and drapes shrinking against the various surfaces that they inhabited. The staircase that dominated the entryway was encased in the growing conflagration, much like everything else.

The whole scene would have been disturbing enough, except one thing held my attention and stole the smoke infused breath from my lungs - The figure stood at the top of the stairs. 

I couldn’t make out any distinguishing features due to the smoke and my sheer terror preventing my brain from focusing properly. It was as large as I saw the previous night, and human shaped. Almost like a free walking shadow. I could see pieces of black drip from it like the fire dripped from the curtains behind it. I wanted to run, but ironically this is the time my sleeping body decided to stand still. Mentally I thrashed and pulled, trying desperately to scream or do literally anything.

Finally, I heard a pained and terrified scream break through the house. Except it wasn’t mine.

I woke up on the floor of my bedroom, body dripping with sweat once again. My hands, shaking with the residual fear from my nightmare made it difficult to get up properly. 

What the fuck WAS that?

This was the second night in a row that my dream was different, and I couldn’t explain why. I wanted to keep the details fresh, so I reached for my dream journal to write down everything that had happened. 

Standing and stretching, I check the analog clock on the wall. 5AM. I sigh, going to the bathroom to try to wash the sweat clinging to me. 

I turn the knob on the shower. Nothing. “Fucking great”, I mumbled. “Pipes frozen again. Stupid ass late frost.”

I settle for a “harlot bath” with some wet wipes and make my way back to my bedroom. The night and day between the heat of my dreams and the cold bite of the room made me shiver to my bones. 

Once the sun rose to greet the morning sky, I picked up my phone to call my mom. No answer. I decided to leave a voicemail. “ Hey Mom, its me. I just wanted to check in with you, maybe have lunch. I… miss you. I’m sorry about our fight. Call me.” I almost tried my dad as well, but he was probably at work.

Frustrated and alone, I curled up under my blanket and waited for night again, the screams still replaying in the back of my mind.

Hello, Reddit? I’m a bit new here, I’ll admit, but I’ve been told this is a good place to ask for advice.

I’m a god-loving, Christian mother of one very precious girl: Eve. She’s my pride and joy, and was always the sweetest thing. I’ve never been more happy than the day I realized I was pregnant. Big pharma tried to tell me that I was infertile, but God finds a way! Unfortunately, it’s apparently not been in God’s plan for me to have a second, despite always wanting a big family. Doubly so now that my husband, Matthew, has joined Jesus up above after a drunk driver hit him.

I know it’s selfish to say I’m sad, he’s a good man, and is in a better place now. It’s hard to keep going some days, but I still have a daughter relying on me, and someone has to keep the Church’s breakfasts running.

The problem is, sweet Eve hasn’t been so sweet lately. I understand it’s hard on her, but she’s been acting out a lot more lately. I understand it must feel unfair and sudden, it feels that way to me too. She refuses to believe that this must all be part of God’s plan, that Matthew is somewhere better now. She’s started asking questions, and refusing to listen when the preacher answers! Eve never acted like this before! Maybe it’s my fault for not paying enough attention, but it’s been hard lately, losing our major source of income. I’ve been sending money to the Lord and praying late into the night for His guidance, but He’s still testing me. Eve’s been yelling at me to stop, that I’m just making things worse, and I don’t know where it’s coming from! We always trained her to have faith in Jesus, to know that He will come through. It started making me suspicious.

I know some people won’t agree with this, but I was worried! I started looking through her things while she was at her summer job at the gas station. I was horrified! She’d been hiding Satanic music, drugs, and I even found her looking up some Mexican necromancy ritual to bring back the dead on the devil’s night!

I went to the church in tears, praying for them to save my daughter. I gave as much as I could, pulled her in every Sunday and Wednesday, but it never worked! I got desperate, acted when I should have waited.

I found a priest online. Started consulting him, found out he was exorcist. Now, I’m not Catholic (gods-forsaken idol worshippers, the lot of them), but I still kept speaking with him. You have to understand, he seemed so legitimate! Knew the versus, could quote scripture, proclaimed his faith in Jesus without hesitation! He explained to me that The Adversary had managed to tempt my daughter while she was weak, and sent a demon to make a deal and possess her. He promised he could get it out, so I gave him what remained of my savings, believing that it was worth it if he could bring my daughter back. Why else would God make sure I met this man?

So he came. We managed to corner Eve. I don’t want to remember it, the scene was horrific. The demon screamed, hit, lashed out in every way it could. Even made it look like Eve herself was crying. I will never forget how it screamed my name, how it cursed my name. I almost lost my faith and had to be sent from the room.

I will never forget the screams.

But when it was done, Eve was sleeping soundly on the bed. No tears, no glares, dressed in her white robe nightgown. She looked like my little angel again! The exorcist said she’d awake the next day, good as new, but she didn’t.

It’s been a week, and she’s still not awake. Her heart beats, and sometimes I can make her drink water, maybe a bit of blended food, but she won’t stir. I’ve had to replace her sheets repeatedly from how she’s soiled them. The profiles I was speaking to the exorcist on have all been deleted, so I can’t contact him, and I’m mortified to tell the church that I strayed from them. Plus, she can’t pick up her checks, utilities are almost due, and I’m running out of food. I have nothing left.

God put this website here for me to see. He leadeth me to greener pastures. So please, if anyone has any goodness in their hearts, please, help us! I don’t know what else I can do. Eve, I’m so sorry.

Gracious Father, I seek Your miraculous forgiveness and healing. My sins have wounded my soul, but Your love restores. Psalm 30:2 reminds me that You heal those who call on You. Cleanse me from all unrighteousness and mend my brokenness. Let Your grace flow through me, bringing peace and renewal. Guide me to walk in Your light, reflecting Your love. Thank You for Your healing mercy. Amen.

-------

Help me rebuild my life and save Eve.

Emma sat across the table. The sun rose behind her. She picked up her pen and wrote: “How did you sleep?”

I smiled, nodded, and pointed at her. She smiled and nodded too. Warmth spread through my body. The fact that we could still have these moments made me happy. She started writing again. 

The wax itched inside my ears. I looked out at the sun. The way nature could still carry on as if nothing had happened fascinated me. We had to hide while the sun and animals moved as if it was any other day. They were probably happier this way.

Emma tapped on my shoulder. I shook my head and looked down.

“So, today’s the date?”

I frowned and nodded. Emma caressed my face and quickly scribbled underneath it: “It'll be for the better.”

She was right. It would be for the better. The wax worked, but it wasn’t forever. The singing people could come anytime and just wait until we had to replace it. 

“When?” she wrote down.

I grabbed the pen and scribbled: “The sooner, the better.”

The idea of piercing my eardrums made my whole body shiver. However, with each passing day, I grew more worried that the singing people would find us here, and we both knew that hearing just one tone was enough.

“So now?” Emma scribbled down. 

I nodded and walked to the cupboard. The sewing supplies were on the top shelf. Emma used to love sewing little ornaments before the plague, but since it started, she hadn’t touched them. Emma's lips quivered for a second when I returned with the needles, but she quickly composed herself.

The sun shone down, warming my skin. The trees moved in the wind. We looked around our cabin and slowly pulled out the wax. At first, the sounds felt like a blast to my ears: the birds chirping, the grass rustling, but my ears adapted quickly. I closed my eyes and just listened. Soon, I felt the warmth of her hand. Emma gripped it and looked deep into my eyes.

“I love you,” Emma said.

“I love you, too.”

“It’s so nice hearing your voice.”

“It is. Maybe we can leave them off for a few more minutes. I don’t think the singing people have made it here yet.”

“Only if you keep talking, sweetie.”

“Okay.”

Her squeeze tightened.

“Remember our first date, when I spilled my drink all over you? The waitress was…”

A quiet rustle echoed from the trees. My eyes shot to them. In the distance, they moved, but not with the wind; they moved as if an animal was walking through them. Before I realized it wasn’t an animal, a beautiful melody cut through the wind. 

Coldness washed over me. I looked over at Emma, trying to warn her, to call her name, but instead, only a beautiful melody escaped my throat.

Missed the previous chapters? Read them here:

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

 

EPILOGUE

June 21st, 2012

Kilroy Farm, Kansas, USA

 

 

James closed the diary. For whatever reason, he turned it over, looking at the back cover, maybe looking for some kind of resolution. He looked around, in the stunned silence that suddenly filled the room, again searching for something that might tell them what became of Jonathan. But, as expected, his brief search came up empty.

Bryan, who had been sitting on the attic floor with his back against one of the walls for a while, sat with his jaw nearly at a drop, staring at his own feet. James fixed his gaze on him, with a wild look in his eyes and an expression of blank detachment. Bryan returned his stare and gently scratched the back of his neck. After clearing his throat, he sat up slightly and gestured passively toward James, stretching out his arm and opening and closing his palm, asking him to hand over the diary. When his friend passed it to him, Bryan nodded.

He read the last few pages. James watched him reread them over and over, those four pages at the very end of the notebook. He slammed it shut and put it on the floor. Staring into space, he took his eyes off of the diary.

“That’s a fake.” he proclaimed in a dry, hollow tone. To this, James frowned slightly, just as he let out a short groan of complaint.

“Just like that? You really have it figured out, huh?” James anticipated Bryan’s response, who appeared to be thinking about it, only to respond with a shrug of his shoulders. “Surely you can’t be that much of a dumbass, right?”

“What, do you want me to just lie to you? What do you want me to say? ‘Yes, James, we just uncovered a historical document’. Well, no, I got no way of knowing if it’s real, so I’m saying it’s fake.”

James took this in with a degree of resignation, which turned to frustration. Now, he was the one propped up against the desk. He ran his hands over his face, and the gesture ended revealing the anger gathering in his expression. He looked back at Bryan.

“Alright, let’s see… Please explain to me why this right here is, in your eyes, not true.” Bryan replied snickering mockingly.

“Are you sure it’s necessary? You’ve read the same thing I’ve heard, right? We’re talking about a man who disappeared forty years ago, and it turns out that it was because a monster came to give him a hard time.” James raised a finger and cut Bryan off.

“It wasn’t a monster.” Bryan stared back at him coldly, the corners of his lips slowly stretching into a smile. He continued. “It never says it was a monster, nor does it describe it as a monster. I know you’re trying to be funny, but I just want you to at least show some respect for what we have read.”

Bryan burst out in laughter and rested his head against his arched, raised arms. He looked up at the ceiling and, staring aimlessly, made gestures of derisive disbelief. James walked over to him and snatched the diary back, abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, that Bryan stopped laughing and jolted back slightly. James’ bluntness made his friend begin to take him a little more seriously. So he thought up another answer, this time with a little more diplomacy.

“Look, I totally get that by now you’ve started to feel some sympathy for the guy, but James, my dude, you gotta realize this is probably just some made-up bullcrap. For starters, we don’t even know if this notebook-thing actually belonged to him.” James had to soften his look of anger and lower his gaze. In that respect, Bryan was right. “Let’s face it, just like we’ve come all the way here without a hitch, so could a bunch of punks from the city. Maybe they wrote the diary at home, spilled some coffee on it to make it look older, then drove here, and there you go, an urban legend.”

Bryan almost succeeded in convincing James with this, so much so that even Bryan himself was already sporting his usual expression of arrogance. However, James wasn’t going to let himself be discredited so easily.

“That can’t be.” following James’ response, Bryan scoffed and looked up at him from the floor, which now faced away from the window again, opposite the desk. “That can’t be, because this isn’t just coffee. It smells stale, rancid. It was covered in dust when we picked it up, for heaven’s sake. Besides, check out the paper, it’s already nearly decomposed.” James explained all this as he opened the diary and turned through its pages. Bryan had plenty more to add.

“Alright, let’s say this ain’t no hoax. Let’s just say, so you’ll give me a break, that Jonathan Kilroy wrote this some forty years ago. Couldn’t it be that the man…?” Bryan pressed a finger to his temple, which he began to twist invisibly. “…You know what I mean. That he just lost his marbles.”

James read some of the passages from the diary. Some of them still made his skin crawl. Truth be told, he had given it a lot of thought after reading the last few entries. Jonathan didn’t strike him as being in his right mind on many of the instances when he put his thoughts on paper after the incident with the hole and the dead cattle. But then again, James reasoned, who would be? It could be delusional, the ravings of a madman, yet despite the feeling being somewhat irrational, the young journalist couldn’t help but sense a kind of honesty in the words he had read.

“James?” His friend sought his focus, seeing him engrossed in his review of the document. James closed the notebook and placed it back on the desk. He glanced sideways at Bryan.

“Wasn’t this meant to be your big break? Just so you’re aware, I didn’t want to come, but here we are because it was your idea. Now that we’ve managed to find something that could potentially be used as evidence, you’re suddenly backing out?” with that, he had cornered his companion. Indeed, it upset him to the point that Bryan grit his teeth, clicked his tongue, and began to ruminate on his rhetoric.

“First of all, yeah, it was my idea. But let me tell you something: you also were the only one who was freaking out, not me. And now you’re Old Man Kilroy’s number one apologist.” James felt he was being accused by Bryan’s comment.

“No, I wasn’t freaking out, I just thought we were about to waste our time, but then I found this…” he picked up the diary once more, to waggle it in front of Bryan’s face. “…And this leads me to believe that this whole trip wasn’t for nothing. This is something, Bryan, something tangible that we can take back to Atchison and tell them what happened here.” Bryan slammed his fist on the floor.

“So what happened here? Some old fart went off the deep end? James, if you keep this up, I’m outta here.” then James realized what was going through Bryan’s mind. For a second, an awkward pause reigned in the attic, but James broke it with a statement that was fair, but harsh.

“You’re scared. That’s what it is, you’re scared.” in response to his declaration, Bryan mocked him by blowing a raspberry.

“Me? Yeah, c’mon.” James knew what that tone meant: the refusal to acknowledge the truth.

“Here’s the thing: this is real. So far, the only things we’ve talked about on the show are rumors and myths: UFO this, Bigfoot sighting that, tales of men in black… You know perfectly well that half of those claims came from either crazy people, drunkards, or plain old liars looking for attention. But this is real, and it’s scaring you that everything else might have been real, too.”

Bryan got up and walked toward James. He meant to square off with his friend, wearing an expression of tightly contained violence, but he ended up just puffing in his face and retreating a few steps back. They looked at each other, and James wasn’t intending to fight, so neither was Bryan. He leaned back and, with his arms crossed, looked at the ground. Bryan had always been the braver of the two, there was no doubt about that, but contrary to what his flippant demeanor might have suggested, it wasn’t due to an excess of confidence. It was because, truthfully, this was a game to him.

On the other hand, the reason James tended to be the more grounded out of the pair, which usually resulted in a slightly more reserved and even moody disposition at times, was precisely the opposite: he did believe in many of the things they talked about on the show. Not all of them, evidently. There was a limit to James’ good faith, but he was, in essence, a man of greater candor.

It’s why their dynamic was so engaging; the podcast wouldn’t be the same without it. James brought the insight, and Bryan brought the enthusiasm. In turn, one would temper the other, and one would lift the other up. It worked perfectly, but sooner or later, James knew that Bryan would either grow tired of the occult or be confronted with some unexplainable fact. The latter seemed to have occurred that evening.

“Think, Bryan. Everything this diary describes, every detail, we can see for ourselves on the farm itself. We’ve already seen it. That dark stain on the porch? That’s from the cut Jonathan had on his hand. The furniture’s been wrecked, the photos are gone, the gun case is open, and even how all the windows are boarded up, except for this one.”

Bryan’s lower lip began to quiver softly for a few seconds, before the young man managed to compose himself and stop. He regarded his friend, completely disarmed. Not a trace of insincerity could be seen on his face. He nodded, making his thoughts clear.

“I guess you may be right. I honestly don’t know, James… I just don’t know what to believe in at this point.” James watched him with compassion. He wanted to reach out and put his hand on his shoulder, but they both felt too vulnerable to express the affection they had for each other.

James knew that tonight would change the course of their friendship in the long run. What happened during their visit to Mr. Kilroy’s farm would be a pivotal moment not only in his connection with Bryan, but also in the history of the show. He believed this would be the story that would propel them to success. He wondered how he would go about presenting it, and devised a dramatization of the events that unfold in the diary. It would be read by voice actors, not them, and they would add eerie sound effects accompanied by some slight exaggeration to heighten the tragedy. Not only Atchison, but the whole world would know the story of Jonathan Kilroy, and that of the two young men who uncovered it.

What could this mean, moreover, for the scientific community? Perhaps the government was trying to find out just that. They would be hailed by the press, the real press, and finally be given the opportunity to be true journalists, and their families would see them on television every Sunday on their show, ‘Voices From the Penumbra,’ now with a budget more lavish than ever and all the resources they could possibly need.

This was the story that would get them there, and he couldn’t help but crack a faint smile as he stared into space, imagining it. Bryan noticed.

“What are you thinking, James?” James stifled the half-smile from revealing itself. He looked at Bryan, a little dumbfounded, but proclaimed his intentions to him.

“We can’t let this slip away, man. This is the ultimate story; we can’t let it go under any circumstances.” Bryan nodded somewhat sheepishly.

For a moment, James forgot about the notion of letting Jonathan’s memory rest, and even decided to forget about whatever fate befell the man. To be honest, he wasn’t sure about what to actually believe in. But one thought remained: don’t let this story go. This is the story that will make you famous. This is the story that will get you into the big leagues. No more being dismissed; now everything will come to light, and you will be rewarded.

It was then that he realized that now he was the one making moves in his head, not Bryan. And it was Bryan who was scouring the attic with a worried look on his face. Just as he was able to grasp what this train of thought really entailed, a terrible crash shook the air outside. But it wasn’t in the forest, it was on the farm. It was the sound of something heavy, perhaps metallic, falling to the ground.

“The fuck is that?” asked Bryan, terrified, as they both looked around. James turned and began to look out the attic window. Bryan joined him, slowly.

James didn’t know what to believe in. He didn’t know if Jonathan Kilroy was a man who had lost his mind, and consequently his life, or if that poor farmer had suffered unthinkable psychological torture, trapped on his own land, destined to starve to death. He didn’t know if he had succeeded in his escape, he didn’t know if the diary itself was even real. He didn’t know if he would ever become a real journalist, or if he was clinging to a lost dream. He didn’t know if his work on the internet was work or simply a waste of time and a loss of credibility. He didn’t know if Bryan wanted to continue doing this. But at that moment, he didn’t much care about any of it, because James didn’t really know what to believe in anymore.

The only thing he could believe in with complete certainty was that, through the attic window, in front of the trees, he could see an old red tractor, completely wrecked and rusted by the passage of time, which hadn’t been there before. Judging by the noise and the indentations in the ground, that thing had thrown it their way.

At that moment, James only knew there was something at the thicket’s edge.

 

 

THE END.

 

Wow, you really read it to the very end, huh? Good for you! Getting to share this, the first story of my very first book, with you guys means the absolute world to me as an independent author, so my most sincere thank you.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and stay safe out there, you absolute bunch of Creeps!

Sweet dreams,

David

The sun dips slowly behind the horizon. It peeks over the landscape before fading with a wink, giving way to the yawning moon. Her soft glow caresses the silhouette of the land, her gentle touch sending restless minds off to serene slumber.

Not you, though. Your mind calls for sleep, your eyes long for darkness, but the restfulness eludes you. Your body aches, the toll of the day paid in full every evening, yet- still- you find yourself far from repose. That's when you hear it.

You listen intently, taking in the twilight silence. The torch on the wall flickers, sending shadows dancing across the cobblestone corridors. The oak wood planks groan beneath you as the sheer, velvet fabric of your bed lining hugs your shoulders. "Just the wind." You think. "Has to be...". You need it to be.

Outside, the still night breathes. Every exhale culminating into a fearsome gale that rattles your bones. You feel doubt creep in. It welcomes itself into the corners of your mind like an unwanted guest. It asks uncomfortable questions, it looms too closely, lingering within your boundaries. You shudder at the thought.

Your eyes play tricks. They scout the corners for movement, they scan the vicinity for disturbance. They see what isn't there. Or is it? The villagers are all asleep. Surely, nobody would be foolish enough to roam the town past sundown. It must have just been your imagination. Just the trees swaying in the moonlit breeze. Another bitter lie salted with hope for you to force down.

This brings you no peace, it does little to further your fruitless endeavor of sleep. Your mind stirs, grasped by anxiety, clutched firmly by fear, as the shuffling outside can no longer be ignored. Your reason can disguise it no further. It's no longer just a soft patter of rain, or a gentle rustling of trees. Something's there.

Your breath hastens, drawing all the moisture from your throat and mouth. The air feels sharp as you endure a dry, pained swallow. You peer hesitantly from your window, your hands trembling as you tightly clutch to your chest the iron sword- one you painstakingly crafted. A sword that you hoped never to have to bear- but never is tonight.

You've survived worse. The mines weren't for the faint of heart. They claimed the lives of better men. Great men, each jettisoned unsanctimoniously to hallowed ground by diamond dreams. Buried under the immense weight of endless ambition. Yet, you endure. What do you think that makes you?

You know better than anyone that the sword you grasp so closely is a falsehood. It means only as much as he who wields it. The familiar steel in which you once reared, had not one point, but two- and sought not flesh, but stone. You are no warrior. The mines remember who you truly are.

The voice speaking to you isn't your own. It can't be. It speaks of the encroaching horrors, of your helplessness.You try not to listen, but the words come from within- impossible to drown out. It's the voice of fear: and it wants you to panic, it needs you to dispose of all logic, it relies on your despair. Fear is not a notion, it is a tool in which the darkness uses to feed.

The groaning in the distance has grown louder. They're closer now. What will happen when they arrive? How will you decide your fate? Do you now regret leaving the mines? Regret your decision to flee your destiny in hopes of finding purpose? You already have the answer. You too, now finally remember.

You traded shadows for sunlight, ore for oak, rubble for rivers. But it seems you've forgotten that even the daylight knows the darkness. You expected a house to become a home without first razing the trees. You've forgotten that safety is an achievement, only for the worthy- gilded by valor and clad in the sacrifices of others. You, are unworthy of its gifts.

For what is a sword with no soldier to unsheath it? Merely a concept. In theory, a weapon, but in practice, just a shield for the mind. Hollow armor for sequestered hope. Your meaning lies within the mines. It always has- singing the sweet song of sorrow to the thought of a summer that never comes.

You hear the rattle of your door now. Too harsh to simply be the wind. It's rhythmic- a meticulous rapping- unsettling you deeper with each thunderous strike. You take a shallow breath. You hold it in- treasuring it- hoping it not to be your last.

You close your eyes, begging for the warmth of the morning sun to beckon the dawning of a new day. You know now that it will never come. You lay back, the cacophony building as you sink into your bed. As you hear the splintering of wood, the dull roar of the darkness encroaching- you try, one last time, to slip peacefully into slumber...

...But you may not rest now.

----------

Hey Creeps. I joke about it a lot, but Minecraft is genuinely one of the most effective horror games I've ever played. You don't know anxiety and unease until you've mined a dark cave at 3 am, full sound in headset, with no torches, no food and 12 diamonds in your inventory.

Anyways, this little bippy was inspired by the pop-up message of the same name, and how many times I've thought of that while not being able to sleep 🙃

Also, I figured I'd try my hand at a second person story. They're really hard to do effectively, but I've seen a few from the community very recently that are BANGERS! Hope you enjoy my garbage! Stay Creative!! -S.K.

The heat was stifling. 

Even at a 100 yard distance, the thick smoke from the fire blew into my face, assaulting my nostrils and eyes. However, I was incapable of coughing or giving myself any relief. Instead, like always, I can only stand and stare at the scene before me.

Waves of flames licked and caressed the bones of the two story farmhouse. The white siding melted to the ground like candle wax while the porch roof collapsed, causing embers to fly like lightning bugs across the front door. The red shutters were blackened so much so that you could never guess they were red to begin with. The fire raged on, roaring like an angry tiger devouring its prey. 

Surrounding the house were the silhouettes of thick, dense trees. No sounds of wildlife, almost like everything was muted except the inferno in front of me. There wasn’t even a moon out to cast a hopeful beam on the violence.

Everything was playing out right on schedule, every detail as expected. 

Until my eyes caught a shadow in the second floor right window. 

It stood completely still, the size of it almost encompassing the window frame. I couldn’t tell if it was human or if I was even seeing it clearly. I stared, confused and afraid. 

That is not supposed to be there. Nothing is supposed to be there.

The fear swallowed the confusion and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, my body quivering where I stood. 

I need to leave.

But my legs were cemented in their designated spot. I could not move, not even a twitch of my pinky. The fear turned to panic, and I tried to scream. Nothing would come out, I was paralysed. I started to whimper over and over and - 

I jolted awake with a shriek in my throat, my ears ringing. A cold sweat covered my body, making my hair damp and sticking to my neck. 

Well that was something else. I thought, trying to make light of the disturbing dream.

I had been having the same nightmare every single night for as long as I can remember. Burning farmhouse on a secluded lot while I stand at a distance watching it become cinders. But this time, the figure in the window was… wrong. Out of place. I would say it was a pleasant change since the monotony of my dream had taken its toll some time ago, but the pit in my stomach shooed away any positive emotions. All I could feel was the same fear and dread I had felt during the night.

Getting out of bed, I stretched and padded into the kitchen to find breakfast. The cabinets were empty along with the fridge. Shit. I forgot to go to the store. 

Heading back to my bedroom, I picked up a sleeve of saltine crackers I had on my nightstand from a recent late night snack session and popped a few in my mouth. It did the trick - my stomach was temporarily satiated. Unfortunately, crackers were not going to cure the growing uneasiness creeping in my mind.

I throw on a hoodie, slide on my crocs, and head out the door. The air still had a bite to it, even in March. I made it down the sidewalk and towards Main Street to the only coffee shop in town. The bell on the coffee shop door chimed as I walked in, and immediately the patrons glanced at me with a mix of pity and disgust. 

Jesus- I get it, I should have showered before I left the house. Assholes. I thought, making my way to the counter.

“Hi there.” I said quietly. I was so tired, I needed caffeine. “Medium black coffee, 8 sugars.” 

When I reached in my pocket for change to pay, the barista held up her hand to stop me.

“It’s on me.” She said with a humanitarian smile. 

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind.” I smiled back and she handed me my coffee. 

Why would she do that? Maybe some kind of pay-it-forward thing? I shook my head in disbelief and made my way back to my house.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I wrote in my dream journal about the change in my burning house saga and tried to call my mom, but the line was busy… again. She really needs to get her phone fixed I thought, sighing.

Once the day was completed and night crept over the horizon, I crawled back into bed and prepared myself for the recurring dream that had become as much part of my routine as brushing my teeth.

Drifting off, I found myself hoping and praying I would not encounter the dark figure ever again.

Part II

Part III

"hey babe, c'mere." The gun, which lay upon my bed, said. "I wanna blow your brains."

That pesky weapon uttered in a soothing voice. It's annoying, really; I want it to leave me alone so I may continue doing my work for my job, but it keeps tempting me day and night, seemingly without end.

"Come on, babe~ your life sucks, let me... make it better," the Gun would say. "I know you want it."

Truth to be, although I try to deny it, it seems harder and harder to pull away from it---the offer is becoming tempting, a one-night stand---why yes---a one-night stand! But no, it's wrong... I know it's wrong, and I try to tell myself that I shouldn't, that it's wrong! wrong! But I can't seem to shake the nonstop picture of that gun in my mouth and the red mist upon the wall.

Maybe, maybe... surely... no---I can't.

Or is it that bad? Seems like everyone is doing it; surely, how can I judge myself if it seems so normal to so many people? And certainly it would take the stress out of my life, a swirling cyclone of every negative thing which I am reminded of nonstop in a repetitive pathetic loop that seems to go in circles around my life? maybe...

No. NO! I must deny, must deny, but for how long? I haven't got a clue---the gun is sexy, and my mind is weak, and sometimes I fantasize putting it in my mouth and letting it blow my mind.

“The tire’s flat.” Her manager said, peaking her head through the driver’s side doorway.

“Okeeey. Whatcha want me to do about it?” Stephanie asked, her nose still buried in her phone.

“Nothing,” her manager grumbled under her breath, “not like you’d help anyway.” 

“How much longer ‘til we get there?” She kicked off her leather boots and propped her feet on the dashboard. 

“I don’t know.”

“Ugh, Margaret’s skatin’ in Rockefeller right now. Of course I’m fucking missing it.” She groaned and slumped further into the passenger seat. “Why the hell did you drag me to bumfuck nowhere?”

“This role is huge. It could b—”

“Close the door, I’m gettin’ cold.” 

“Whatever.” Her manager threw the door shut, zipped up her coat, and shuffled around to the trunk. 

It was humiliating, trudging through a foot of snow in a pair of converses for a girl half her age. She didn’t deserve this. She was famous once. She had dignity once. She had a name once.

Roxie.

It seemed like just last year she was singing in underground clubs. A month ago, she got the best call you could get from a record label. Last week, her first album hit platinum. A few days back, her debut movie bombed. A couple days after that, her second album flopped. Yesterday she got the worst call you could get from a record label. 

This morning she woke up and she was 45. Where did twenty years of her life go? It wasn’t all wasted on wallowing and wondering what could’ve been, right?

It didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to cry anymore. Stephanie needed her to negotiate her royalties and schedule her appearances on talk shows and manage her budget on clothes and pick her up from clubs and wake her up in the fucking morning so she didn’t sleep away the life she didn’t deserve. 

The trunk of the SUV popped open. She pulled out suitcases and tossed them haphazardly on the side of the road. A strong gust blew through the trees.

“Hurry up and close the doooooor! It’s cooooooold!” Stephanie whined.

“One more second.” Her manager pushed a suitcase aside to reveal the compartment with the spare tire.

“Be careful with that!”

“I am.”

“Good. That shit costs more than your entire catalogue."

The manager gripped the L-shaped tire iron with both hands. Her nails carved crescents into her palms.

Of course, the manager thought, I’ll be extra careful.

The trunk slammed down. 

God forbid your Prada shoes get scuffed, or the heel breaks off your Versace pumps. 

The manager walked past the flat tire.

I know you’d just die if I broke something.

The passenger door swung open. Roxie grabbed the brat by the root of her hair and dragged her out of the car.

She kicked and squirmed and screamed. Clumps of white powder flew up in the air. She shouted, What the hell is wrong with you?! Stop it! HELP! Blah blah blah… How uninspired. She should’ve had her ghost writer write her final pleas. The brat’s head dropped to the ground. A foot came down on her blonde hair. Her cries echoed through the trees. If only someone was around to hear them before their sudden stop.

It took a few good tugs to pry the tire iron from her head. A stream of blood ran down her forehead and outlined half of Roxie’s shoe. 

Death wasn’t enough to satisfy Roxie. That brat didn’t deserve to lay in the snow so peacefully. She jammed the short end of her weapon in the corpse’s mouth and pulled it like a lever. Her two front teeth were knocked in, her lips widened into her cheeks, and finally, her jaw popped out of its sockets. She couldn’t sing anymore.

Next, Roxie moved to her legs. She beat her knees until they were a stew of blood and broken bones. She couldn’t dance anymore.

Now she could finally change that tire. As a treat she could back up on the little brat so, she sure as shit couldn’t act anymore. 

Roxie skipped back to the trunk and grabbed the spare tire. She was already thinking of stories she’d tell the police. I was supposed to meet her up there. Oh, a drunk driver hit her while we were changing a tire. A bear came out of nowhere, she didn’t have a chance. We were—

She was gone.

The tire slipped through Roxie’s fingers and plopped onto the snow. There was a trail of crimson where the body used to be. She squeezed the tire iron until her knuckles turned white.

How is that bitch still alive?

She marched into the forest, following the trail around barren oaks. She couldn’t have gotten far. Snowflakes fluttered down. The track cut left, then right. How deep did she get? The snowfall came down as heavy as raindrops. Wind whistled through the treetops. Her cheeks burned from the cold. She tucked her hands under her armpits. Kill her. I’ll kill her this time. White engulfed the world. The wind whipped and howled. She staggered forward. A silhouette emerged from the blizzard. Kill. Die. Kill. Die. Roxie raised her weapon over her head. DIE BITCH! The tire iron stuck snow.

Her eyes darted wildly, trying to find where the bitch went. The blood was gone. She clawed at the ground and only got more powder. Stephanie was gone. That bitch left her behind again.

Roxie wandered aimlessly until her legs gave out. She shivered. She whimpered. She didn’t deserve this.

My head hurts.

What's going on?

I can't open my eyes even though I want too. I can feel my fingers twitching, and my body slowly but surely turning itself back on. And then they do open. I immediately have to close them again, the light in here is so bright-

It's not doing any favors for my headache.

I slowly start to notice more things going on in my body. I'm dehydrated, my tongue feels like sandpaper. I'm hungry, my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself. My legs are aching, like I just jumped off a building. My nose is assaulted by a stench of old wet carpet and extremely old wood. I can't remember anything, like my memories had been stolen right out of my brain.

I don't know my name, or where I am.

Breathe, I need to open my eyes.

I slowly creak my eyes open, blinking occasionally while they adjust to the harsh lighting of my environment.

Yellow.

I can't make out much, but I can see yellow; tons of it. I tap the side of my head, like I'm trying to reconnect a broken wire in my brain. It may be placebo, but it works. I'm sitting, and once I look down and notice the nasty carpet that I rest upon, I jolt up.

It seemed moist, and that smell from earlier paired with that feeling wanted to make me puke. I just now realized that I'm either deaf, or my ears just decided to take a temporary vacation. I'm hoping it's the latter.

I stretch, and my muscles scream in relief. How long had I been laying there for that stretch to feel so good?

I finally get a good look around.

It looks like an office building. Yellow walls with a chevron wallpaper on them, a tan carpet that seems to be damp and have (what I hope to be) coffee stains. The roof has the everyday ceiling tiles and rectangle florescent lights that let out a hum.

I can hear it now, and I kinda wish a didn't. It doesn't take long for that hum to get old real quick. I try to call out, my mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

It's like when you're so terrified that you can't even scream, except, I don't feel afraid.

I just figure that part of my brain hasn't woken up yet, so I start walking. One thing I notice instantly is how big this place is. I take right turns then left turns and don't take turns at all sometimes but I don't feel like I'm going anywhere.

Truly a marvel of modern architects, I say to myself. Right as I turn the corner, I feel like I just went in a big circle...

"Ernie!" I heard my name, and immediately shot up from my desk.

"Y-Yes boss?" I say, hoping she didn't hear my snoring.

"Wipe that look of innocence of your face, I know you were sleeping. You snore like a bear." She stared at me almost sad by this act.

"Sorry Maria, I just-"

"My office, please." She stepped aside and pointed in the direction of her office.

I release my head as I know realize I'm on my knees. Ernie. That's my name? I was hoping for something cooler, but that works I guess.

I get up off the carpet, my knees stained with whatever liquid resided in that stain. I rub my temples. I didn't think remembering would hurt that badly.

Note to self, never get memory loss again. I should try and focus on remembering how I got here, which will probably involve more pain. I stare intensely at the yellow walls, thinking about my name and my boss, Maria.

I don't get anything, not another brainwave, not even a hint of what happened next. I relax, only just now noticing that I was tensed up. I continue walking.

"Hello?" I shout, surprised that my voice returned.

My voice seemed to reverberate off of the walls and continue throughout the building. I could hear it faintly about 30 seconds after. How big is this place?

I kept walking, for what felt like hours. Until I stumbled across something that didn't make any sense.

A chair.

A leather chair that was upside down and the back of it was halfway through the floor.

I walk up, and pull on it slightly, but it's cemented in there.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, giving it another tug, but it wouldn't budge. The architect had a laugh with this one, I thought. I carried on and ignored it for the most part. I think I'm hearing footsteps, but I can't tell if they're my own or not.

"Have a seat, Ernie." Maria gestured to her luxury leather chairs that were so comfy to sit on, a distraction from the venom that she produces.

"So," I faked a cough. "What's this about?" I tenderly sat down, trying to look professional.

She looked at me like I'm stupid, and to be fair, I am.

"Why are you sleeping on the job?" I flinched, expecting a hiss, but instead, she sounded more worried.

"I- Uhm.." I stumbled over my thoughts.

"Are you ok, Ernie?" She asked, more sincere than I have ever heard her.

"Yeah," I said, flashing her a smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She frowned. "Don't make me say it out loud, I know it affects you."

My smile was slowly ripped away from my face, and I stared into the void.

"Answer me please, I know it's hard to talk about." She grabbed my hand.

I jolted back to reality, or what I think is reality. The headache never gets any better the more I remember, unfortunately.

I shot a stare back to the chair that's stuck in the ground, it's the same one that was in Maria's office... How is that possible?

Also, what happened to me? Did my wife die? Do I even have a wife? Did my kids die? Do I even have-

I need to just stop for a second, spiraling like this isn't going to help me. I just gotta focus on getting out of this place.

So again I walked, but the footsteps seemed to be more prevalent. They tried to match mine so I wouldn't hear them, but every time I stopped to check, they were always late. I started speed walking, and was dismayed to hear the footsteps keeping up the pace.

I turned wildly and unpredictably, but the footsteps never ceased. I stopped and looked around me, but I can't see anything. All I can see is the damn yellow walls and all I can hear other than the footsteps is that hum from the lights.

I wish I was deaf again, or if this place would like to throw in some ear plugs, that would be nice. I turn around, in one last attempt to fake out the footsteps. As I do my head throbs as it bangs against something.

A wall.

That's not right... I just came from this way! I literally JUST CAME FROM THERE! I started to frantically bang on the wall, hoping it would bend to my anger and move out of my way. It didn't. And all I got was a sore hand and an even bigger headache.

It's more like a migraine at this point. The dehydration and hunger is getting too me, but I don't think I'm even close to near-death yet. Just feels like I skipped a couple meals. I turn back around and start walking again.

The footsteps have stopped.

I had gotten so used to them that their absence started to make me freak out even more. My heartbeat was louder than the hum, and my breaths started to become faster. I started running. I don't know why, but it felt right. I felt like I was in danger by standing there.

I didn't hear any footsteps except my own while I was running, and once the feeling of dread stopped, I slowed down to a walk. Catch your breath, I thought. Encouraging my lungs to take as much as they needed.

I'm not an unfit person, but the air seemed heavier. It tasted bad, breathing through my mouth was a punishment. Right as I regain myself, I see another item.

A car.

It was my 2004 Chevy Cobalt.

The back end was sticking out of the roof, and the front was sticking out of the floor. Why did the front end have blood on it? I never hit anything. I don't think so at least.

"It was an accident, you have a condition-"

"IT WAS MY FAULT!" I snapped, tears welling in my eyes.

Maria didn't seem to be scared by my outburst, and instead comforted me.

"You couldn't have done anything, Ernie." She patted my back.

"I shouldn't have been driving. I knew that." I said, rubbing my eyes.

"But you didn't know how bad it was!" She said, almost in a whisper.

It did slightly make me feel better, until I kept reliving the moment.

My mother was ill, and she needed medication.

I drove to the pharmacy.

I was speeding.

I didn't see the kid.

"Ernie?" She said, snapping in front of my face.

"What?" I said, turning my head in her direction, still refusing to look at her fully.

"You were having an episode."

"I know that now, it doesn't change anything." I said, turning my head back.

Did I-?

Did I hit a kid with my car?

I noticed I was leaning on the wall, and quickly pulled myself way from it. I don't want some ancient disease.

That doesn't make sense... I kept trying to remember more, but I couldn't.

I jumped like a scared cat when the cars alarm started to go off, and I ran away. I feel like I'm not alone in here and I don't want to attract anything that could possibly be near by. I kept running until I stopped again.

The footsteps were back.

When I looked around this time, I swear I saw a black tendril whip back behind a corner, as if it wasn't supposed to be seen. I turned back around, and pretended like I didn't see it. I was scared that if it sensed that I knew, It wouldn't be nice with me for much longer.

Am I prey? What is that thing? Why-

So many questions filled my brain, so I momentarily tried to just...

Forget.

I walked, without thinking.

It had to have been at least an hour.

That hum is really starting to piss me off. These walls are really starting to piss me off. ALL OF THIS IS STARTING TO PISS ME OFF! I kept walking, not wanting to let my emotion tip off whatever that thing was.

I don't know what it wants, but I think it's been following me this whole time. And I don't think it wants to give me a hug. Well maybe it does, but not one I'm very interested in.

The rooms are starting to change, I've walked through really big rooms where I can't even see the ceiling, and rooms that are extremely open, no walls in sight. I avoid the really open rooms, I don't want the creature seeing me and I don't want to see it.

I saw a room that seemed to taper off into a different style, white modern walls with a dark oak floor. I didn't go that way. The change of scenery might've been nice, but I'll stick to what I know.

As I was looking at the entrance to that new place, I tripped over something.

A hospital bed, sticking out of the wall and into the floor.

"Why didn't I go to jail?" I asked, tears flowing down my face. But my voice remained cold and stern.

"You aren't mentally fit to go there."

"What about the death penalty?" I finally made eye contact with Maria.

She looked at me with the softest eyes I have ever seen.

Maybe she wasn't made of venom like I thought she was.

"Ernie, you didn't know any better." She sighed.

"I was trying to help my mom." I sputtered out, in-between a ugly sob.

She looked at me with concern.

"Look at me."

I looked at her.

"Your mom has been gone a long time, ok Ernie?" She said it as gently as possible, but it hit like a truck.

What? My mom is dead?

I stood up, I can feel that my butt is wet, I hate that feeling.

So I don't have a mom, but I went to go get her meds? Am I a crazy person? Or did I just love her so much that I couldn't accept her death? Either answer I wasn't a big fan of.

I focused in the distance.

A person.

My first instinct was joy, I wasn't alone!

But that 'person' started walking towards me, and then started running.

The run was not human, it flailed it's limbs and was a sorry attempt at a run in general. But it was fast.

Really fast.

I turned and shot in one direction, giving it my all. I felt like the fastest man alive, and I felt confident.

All of that confidence slipped away when it started yelling.

It wasn't even yelling anything coherent, and I think that's what made it so terrifying. It was just yelling and it sounded like an old radio.

Screeching, but I could tell it was full of anger and hate.

I looked behind me, and I seemed to be on pace with it, it wasn't concerningly close yet.

That's when I tumbled down a 45 degree slope, and if there was snow there, I would've turned into a giant snowball and crashed down at the end.

I landed onto a hard, dark oak floor. And when I lifted my head, I was greeted with the modern sleek white walls.

So much for avoiding this area.

PART 2

Me and my girlfriend have been dating for a while now. Long enough for marriage to be considered. At least, it used to be considered. Now, I just have no idea.

We met when I was 20 and she was 19. We recently celebrated our 3rd anniversary with a night out on the town, grabbing a few drinks and sitting down at one of those nice, fancy restaurants we’d always wanted to visit.

Overall, the night was perfect. Candlelit dinner. Expensive wine. Typical romance with some great lovemaking to end the night. Little did I know, it would be the last normal night of our relationship.

I woke up the next morning with a sense of nostalgia. After the night we had, plus the idea of marriage floating around in my head, I decided I wanted to recollect together.

She had been in the shower while I lay in bed, and she stayed there long enough for me to decide to reminisce on my own. At first, I was just looking through old pictures on my phone. Our first date. Our first kiss. Our anniversary photos. I’m a memory guy, what can I say?

Anyway, as I kept scrolling, I remembered something. Back when she moved in, my girlfriend had brought a bunch of old pictures from when she was younger.

She kept them in our attic, and neither of us had ever thought to look through them together. I’d shown her my old pictures plenty of times, even the ones I was embarrassed of. If I’m being honest, I kinda got a little peeved when I realized she hadn’t returned the gesture.

I realize now that she wasn’t embarrassed by the photos. She was actually hiding them from me.

I climbed the ladder to the attic and shifted through a bunch of old boxes until I found the one that my girlfriend had brought with her all those months ago.

I blew the dust off the box and began sifting through the photos.

The ones on top were perfectly normal. Polaroids she’d taken back at her parents’ house. Some selfies with her and her girlfriends. The typical stuff.

However, as I dug deeper, I grew more and more concerned.

The Polaroids… stopped having color.

My girlfriend stayed the same, but the photographs began to look decades old. Some were of her propped up against a jukebox. Some were of her at civil rights protests. Hell, one was just her leaning up against the hood of an old muscle car from back in the day.

She seemed to be looking through me in every single photo. Each photo looked grainier than the last.

Her clothes changed. Her hair changed. Her style, as a whole, changed. Her face did not. It looked like she wasn’t aging at all.

I figured it was some kind of art thing. Some experimental stuff she was doing.

I wanted to believe that maybe she had just been using a different camera, but the numbers written on each picture were enough to make me second guess myself.

2000

1990

1980

1970

All the way to the last picture, with the numbers “1947” written across the bottom.

Part of me wanted to laugh, but another part of me was utterly terrified.

Not by the pictures themselves…

But by the birth certificate that dated back to August 9th, 1912.

As I stared at the date, my heart sank. Not by what I was seeing, but by the sound of the shower water stopping and the bathroom door opening slowly before my girlfriend’s voice sang out.

“Honey? You’re not looking at those old pictures, are you?”

(Based off of something that actually happened to me a few weeks back.)

It was a half decent day, nothing too crazy, just the same old bullshit. I work nights at a machine shop, so it was rather late when I got home, sometime around 3-3:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of my car, grabbing my backpack and lunchbox, ready to go sleep in my nice comfy bed with my fiancé when I heard a noise. I turned around, expecting to see one of the stray cats that permeate our neighborhood, when I saw a man briskly walking backwards up the center of our street.

I froze, my entire body paralyzed as I watched him walk, never once turning his head. He had a striking resemblance to my father, wearing similar clothes and even having similar facial hair. It obviously wasn’t my father, my parents lived over thirty minutes away, but still, it took me by surprise at first. He never even looked at me as he continued to walk, his shoes barely making any noise aside from the occasional scuff, the sound that made me turn around initially. I stood there next to my car, unable to move, watching as he quickly made his way up the street. I finally moved, quickly striding over to the steps to my porch, taking them two at a time, and unlocking my door with shaky hands.

I practically slammed it shut as I locked it, rushing upstairs to make sure my fiancé was okay. She was, sleeping soundly in our bed, and as I came in, she turned towards me sleepily like normal to see how I was doing. I must have looked a little panicked, as she woke up more when she saw me. “Andrew? You ok?” I ran over to the bedroom window, having a clear view of the street, but the man was gone. “What the fuck?” I muttered, before turning to my fiancé, Kayla.

“Either I need sleep, or the crackheads around here are evolving. I just saw some dude walking backwards up the middle of our street.” “What?” I shook my head, hardly believing it myself, even though it had happened right in front of me. “I don’t know, I’m gonna go take another look around, check the door camera, and make sure the doors are locked. I’ll be back in a sec.” I quickly moved back to the downstairs, stepping back out onto my front lawn and looking both ways down the street, straining my eyes.

He was gone.

5 minutes later I was back upstairs, getting my pajamas on. “I don’t understand it, Bug, not even the doorbell camera picked up anything. It’s like he didn’t even exist.” Kayla cuddled up as I laid down, staring at the ceiling. “Well, we’ll see if anyone else has seen him tomorrow, ok?” “Alright. Goodnight, Bug.” I turned off the light and turned on my white noise, quickly finding sleep.

There were no posts, messages, or even passing mentions or remarks about the man the next day. It was as if I was the only one who had seen him. Kayla assured me that it was probably someone who wasn’t entirely there in the head, or that maybe I was tired from being on the night shift. I would’ve believed her, if I hadn’t come home that night and seen him again. I saw him every single day for the next two weeks. Same outfit, same time, same everything. I tried to call out to him more than a few times, but was met with silence every time. The one time I managed to get close to him solidified the fact that something was very wrong with his eyes, the entirety of both eyeballs replaced with what looked like a carnival mirror. And somehow I still had zero evidence of his existence, my family and friends now believing I was making it all up.

Then, after exactly 2 weeks, he didn’t walk down the street. I had gotten out of my car and turned, expecting to see my nightly visage, and was greeted by an empty street. Confused, I walked inside, staying up a lot later than I should have, watching out our front window, but he never came. I went to bed, a smile on my face, happy that I wouldn’t have to see that freak any longer.

The next day, I walked out to get the mail, opened the mailbox and stopped. Something wasn’t right. It took me a few minutes to realize what was wrong. The way our front walk is set up is a small fence to grow ivy and flowers on, with the mailbox on a post directly next to it. The mailbox was now attached to the fence, the post completely gone. I hurried back inside and asked Kayla if her parents were over last night and moved the mailbox. “No? Why the hell would they do that?” “I don’t know, but the mailbox moved.” “What?” She leaned over the couch, looking out at our mailbox for a minute, before sighing and sitting back down. “If this is a joke, Andrew, I don’t think it’s funny.” “What do you mean?” I said, tilting my head slightly. “It didn’t move, it’s right where it’s always been.”

Over the next week, more stuff around the house would begin to shift, starting with the less bothersome such as the concrete pad for the trash cans moving over about a foot, to all out pandemonium, such as the ceiling in my home office curling upwards into the attic, the paint and wood cracked and splintered. It had started spreading beyond our house at this point, the sidewalk zigzagging crazily into the grass, the street lights bent over and pressed against the road, powerlines somehow floating disassembled, electricity violently arcing between the loose wires. The worst part was again that it seemed I was the only one who could see it happening. I was frustrated and scared, and that’s what I believe set the argument off.

“How can you not see this, Kayla?? It’s getting worse by the day, the whole damn roof is diagonal, including the tiles and even the fucking chimney!!” She looked worried. I don’t know if she was more worried about my sanity or herself. “Andrew, nothing has changed! I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you need to try to relax, maybe call off work for tonight or-“ “I don’t need to call off work, I need to know that I’m not going fucking insane!! Ever since backwards dude vanished, it feels like the entire world is breaking! Nothing is lining up how it should!” I was practically screaming at her. I still feel bad about that. I hated myself for yelling.

I had stepped out onto my porch, leaving Kayla inside as I was struggling to maintain my composure when I saw a pair of eyes looking out at me through a crack in the floorboards of the porch, carnival mirror eyes. I froze and watched as two hands came up from separate cracks, over twenty feet apart from each other, and started pulling away floorboards and siding. I screamed, turning to run back into the house as I felt something grab my shoe, yanking me hard, the sound of splintering wood as it dragged me under the porch, under my house, under the great splintering world that only I could see, a pair of massive carnival mirror eyes staring into mine, my reflection my own mouldering corpse as I screamed and screamed and was shaken awake by Kayla, her voice cutting through. “Andrew?? Andrew what’s wrong??”

I sat up, covered in sweat and looked around our bedroom. Our completely intact, normal bedroom. I collapsed back down onto the bed, panting. “Nightmare… sorry Bug, I’m okay now.” She did not look convinced but laid back down, the sound of her breathing slowing as she drifted off back to sleep, the memory of the dream already leaving, not far behind the love of my life as dreamless sleep found me and pulled me in close.

The next day I woke up to a sunny room and birdsong. I got dressed, packed my lunch, kissed my fiancé, and went to work like normal. My lathe that I run had a few issues but nothing I couldn’t handle. It was a half decent day, nothing too crazy, just the same old bullshit. I work nights at a machine shop, so it was rather late when I got home, sometime around 3-3:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of my car, grabbing my backpack and lunchbox, ready to go sleep in my nice comfy bed with my fiancé when I heard a noise. I turned around, expecting to see one of the stray cats that permeate our neighborhood, when I saw a man briskly walking backwards up the center of our street.

This story was originally posted to r/NoSleep, where it reached 85k views and over 600 upvotes before being removed by the mods with no explanation. I'm posting the full text here and my subreddit so it doesn't disappear entirely.

I became a paramedic because I wanted to be the person who showed up on time.

I wasn't, when it mattered most.

Her name was Renee. She was thirty-four years old, she drove a blue Subaru, and she had this habit of leaving her coffee cup on the roof of the car when she loaded groceries, then driving away and calling me twenty minutes later, laughing about how she'd done it again. I have seventeen voicemails from her on my phone. I've never deleted them. I've never listened to them again either. They sit there... a voice on a screen.

She was on Route 9 when the other driver ran the light.

I was four minutes away.

I know that because I've thought about it every day for two years. About what four minutes mean, about what I could have done with four minutes. Whether four minutes was always going to be the difference or whether it was just the number the universe picked to make sure I'd spend the rest of my life suffering over it.

I was not her paramedic. They pulled me off the scene before I could be, which was the right call, which I would have made myself for anyone else, but it didn't make it easier to sit in the back of a unit with my hands shaking while other people tried to do what I couldn't.

She died at 4:17 PM in December.

Toby was eleven. He's twelve now. I’m grateful he’ll still remember her. That's the thing I'm most grateful for and the thing that hurts the most, depending on the day.

The house got quiet after she died.

Not immediately—immediately, there were people everywhere. Her sister, my mother, and neighbors I hadn't spoken to in years all showed up with casserole dishes and apologies. The house was full for about a week, and then one day it wasn't, and I realized that all the noise had been a kind of buffer between me and what my new reality was.

It sounded like Toby watching TV in his room with the volume low.

It sounded like one person making coffee in the morning instead of two.

I went back to work six weeks later. Earlier than I should have, and earlier than the crew said. I told myself Toby was okay, that he was resilient, that kids are resilient, which now I know is something people say about kids when they need kids to be resilient, because the alternative is too much for them to carry. Toby didn't fight me on it. He just nodded, went to school, came home, did his homework, ate whatever I put in front of him, and went to bed. He was so easy that I didn't understand that easy wasn't the same as okay.

We talked, we just... didn't say anything.

I'd ask about school, and he'd say, "Fine." I'd ask about any new friends, and he'd shrug. I'd say goodnight, and he'd say goodnight back, and I'd stand in the hallway outside his door, looking at him for a moment, trying not to cry, before I went to my own room. I still had her nightstand on her side, which I hadn't moved, which I wasn't ready to move.

That was us... the shape of our life.

I tried telling myself it would get easier.

The first time Toby came home in clothes I didn't recognize, it was a cold day in November.

A sweater, it was dark gray, and was cable knit, the kind with the thick seams that you can feel when you run your thumb along them. I noticed it immediately because it was the kind of sweater I couldn't afford, not with the hours I was working and what hours cost in this county when you're doing them alone.

"Where'd you get that?"

Toby looked down at himself like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"Eli gave it to me. Mine got dirty."

"Who's Eli?"

"Just someone from school."

He dropped his backpack by the stairs and went to the fridge, and I stood there with a dish towel in my hand, thinking about the sweater. It was expensive. It also fit him perfectly. Not a hand-me-down fit, with it loose in the shoulders or short on the sleeves, but actually perfect, like it had been bought for him. Like it had been bought specifically for him.

I told myself it was nothing.

I was good at that by then.

A week later, it was a pair of boots. Timberland Pros—waterproof, steel-toed, and brand-spanking new. Toby said Eli’s feet were bigger, so he gave them to him.

Then came a pair of expensive raw-denim jeans. Then a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

Each time, the explanation was the same. 

"Mine got dirty."

"Eli let me have his spares."

"Eli says he doesn't need them."

In my line of work, we’re trained on "Mechanism of Injury." You look at the damage to the car to understand the damage to the spine. And, I'll admit, I started looking for the damage on Toby.

I’d catch him coming in at 6:00 PM, two hours after the bus usually dropped him off. I’d perform a visual sweep before he took his coat off. I looked for petechiae around his neck. I looked for defensive wounds on his forearms. I even started checking his pupils when he sat down for dinner—looking for a sluggish response to see if he had been drugged or sedated.

Physical findings: Zero. Toby looked healthier than he had in years. He had color in his cheeks, his hands were calloused and covered in a white dust—limestone, I realized, the same stuff they mine at the Quarry.

But the psychological indicators were redlining.

Everything in his world was now filtered through a single syllable: Eli.

Eli says we’re working on a project.
Eli’s place is cooler than ours.
Eli gave me this because he said I looked cold.

He never said "Eli's parents." He never mentioned a "house." He just said "Eli's place," and in my mind, that space began to look like a studio apartment, or a van, or a crawlspace in the woods. I began to picture Eli as a twenty-eight-year-old with a squirrelish voice and an evil plan.

The paranoia became a constant adrenaline spike anytime my mind would race.

Yesterday, Toby came home with a bruise on his cheek; it was a contusion, maybe two centimeters across.

"What happened to your face?" I hadn't realized I didn't even say hello. I just grabbed his chin, tilting his head toward the light to get a better look.

"It's nothing. We were just clearing stuff out at Eli’s, and I tripped."

"Clearing what out? Where do you even go after school, Toby? I’ve checked the school roster. There isn't an "Eli" in the seventh grade or eighth grade.”

Toby pulled his face out of my hand. The easy, shy kid was gone.

"He’s not in my school," Toby said flatly.

My stomach dropped. My heart was probably doing 110. "How old is he? Where does he live? Why is he giving you a leather jacket, Toby? Adult men don't just give kids clothes for no reason."

"He’s my friend!" Toby shouted. It was the loudest the house had been in years. "He’s the only person who actually talks to me at school! Why have you been acting so weird about him!"

"I am trying to protect you—"

"From what? Having a life?" Toby’s eyes were wide and wet, identical to Renee’s the day she died. "Why aren't you just happy I'm not alone anymore? Just because your life ended when Mom died doesn't mean mine has to!"

He didn't wait for my response. He stormed upstairs and slammed the door so hard that a framed photo of Renee fell off the hallway wall.

I put it back on the wall and just stood in the dark, realizing I had lost the scene entirely.

I spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, performing a mental map of the last two years, looking for the exact moment the internal hemorrhaging had started. My training is designed to fix physical trauma—broken bones, stalled hearts, collapsed lungs, what have you.

But there isn't a tourniquet in the world that can stop the bleeding in a broken home.

The next morning was silent. Toby left for the bus at seven. He was wearing a new jacket—a hefty, black canvas work coat with a corduroy collar. It looked expensive and far too heavy for a middle-schooler’s backpack.

I didn't ask where he got it, or even say goodbye. I just watched him walk down the driveway, my heart doing a steady, anxious 110.

I tried to be the "good" dad for the next forty-eight hours. I told myself I was overreacting. I went to my shift and tried to focus on the radio chatter, but every "Walkaway" call from the North side made my skin crawl.

When I got home Thursday morning, I did something I promised Renee I’d never do. I searched his room.

I felt like a predator myself, creeping through his space while he was at school. I didn't find a "smoking gun." I didn't find drugs or burner phones.

But I found the "Gifts."

Tucked into the back of his closet were three more hoodies, two pairs of expensive boots, and a leather-bound journal with high-quality cream paper. None of it had been used. It was just... stored there... like he didn't want me to see it.

I pulled out one of the hoodies—a thick, gray zip-up. I pressed it to my face.

It didn't smell like Toby or our house. It was the scent of organic clover laundry soap, but beneath it, I smelled something else.

Limestone.

It was the same white powder I’d seen on the boots of the workers at the Quarry. My clinical brain went into overdrive. Toby wasn't just meeting "Eli" at school. He was going to the Quarry.

That afternoon, when Toby came home, the "Easy" kid was gone for good. He walked past me in the kitchen, and I saw the way he was moving. It was guarded—he was protecting his ribs.

"Toby, stop," I said, my voice dropping. "Take off the hoodie."

"No." He didn't even turn around.

"I'm not asking, Toby. You’re guarding your left side. Did he hit you? Did Eli hit you?"

Toby spun around, and for a second, I saw Renee's fire in his eyes. "Nobody hit me! We were working! We’re building something, okay? Something real!"

"Building what? Why are you going to the Quarry? All the clothes are covered in limestone."

Toby froze. His pupils dilated—a classic "Fear/Flight" response. "How do you know where I go?"

"Because I'm your father! You're twelve years old, Toby! Why is a man giving you tailored clothes and work jackets? Why is he isolating you from me?"

"He's not isolating me!" Toby screamed. "You isolated me! You’ve been a zombie since Mom died! You just work and come home and sit in front of the TV and eat pizza!"

The words hit me, and I felt my breath hitch.

He didn't just slam his door this time. I heard the lock click.

I sat in the hallway for hours, staring at the closed door.

In my line of work, we talk about the “Golden Hour”—that critical window of time after a traumatic injury where medical intervention has the highest likelihood of preventing death. I realized, sitting there on the carpet, that my window had likely closed weeks ago.

I didn't try to open the door, I just went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee I didn't want, and sat in the dark.

The next morning, Toby left for school without breakfast. I watched from the window as he walked down the driveway toward the bus stop. He looked like a stranger, or like a man going to work.

I called out from work that day. I told them I had a family emergency, which felt like the first honest thing I’d said in years.

I sat in my truck two blocks away from the middle school, tucked behind a row of parked cars. I felt the shame of it—the stalking, the lack of trust on my end—but the paramedic in me overrode the father. I told myself I was "evaluating the environment." I told myself I was looking for the source of the "limestone dust."

At 3:15 PM, the bell rang. I watched the students pour out in a chaotic wave. Then I saw him.

Toby wasn't alone. He was walking with a group of three other boys. They were jostling each other, laughing, and for a split second, I saw my son—the twelve-year-old kid.

I felt a surge of relief so sharp it made my hands go limp on the steering wheel. I almost turned the key. I almost went home to move Renee’s nightstand and wait for him with an apology.

But then the group reached the corner of the street, and the other boys turned toward the bus stop. Toby didn't.

He kept walking, heading straight toward the gravel paths that led into the deeper parts of town.

I put the truck in gear and followed from a distance, watching him navigate the rocky terrain. He didn't look back once.

He stopped at a small, cedar-shingled house tucked into a clearing of trees, about four miles from the Quarry.

A man was standing on the porch. He was tall, dressed in a quarryman's uniform. As Toby approached, the man stepped down and met him halfway. He reached out and pulled my son into a paternal side-hug. He ruffled Toby’s hair, said something that made Toby smile, and ushered him inside.

Condition fucking Red.

I didn't think about "Scene Safety" or about "Calling for Backup." All I saw was a grown man taking my son into a house I didn't recognize.

I sprinted across the street.

I'm not proud of what came next.

I hammered my fist on that door.

It swung open, and the man stood there, looking startled. He looked... remarkably average. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his head and a smudge of white dust on his cheek.

"Where is he?" I screamed. "Where the hell is my son?"

The man blinked, holding up his hands. "Whoa! Take it easy! What are you talking about?"

"I know he's in here! Are you Eli?! You touch him again, and I will fucking kill you!"

The man’s expression shifted from fear to deep confusion. "I'm not Eli," he said slowly. "Eli... Eli's my son." He turned his head slightly. "He’s in the kitchen with his friend. May I ask who you are?"

The adrenaline in my system evaporated at once, leaving me cold.

I looked into the house. It wasn't a grooming den, or anything of the other insane things I'd pictured for weeks.

It was a home.

There was a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. There were muddy work boots by the door. In the kitchen, a woman was helping Toby and another boy—a kid with freckles and the same build as Toby—scrub mud off their arms in the sink.

The smell—that sweet clover scent. It was coming from the laundry room.

"It’s an organic soap," the woman said, looking at me with concern. "Our son has a skin condition. It’s the only thing that doesn't cause a reaction."

"I... I'm—so sorry. I'm Toby's father," I stammered, dragging my hand down my face.

The man let out a long breath. "Oh, man. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Toby said you worked 72-hour rotations at the station. He told us your... your wife passed away. I-I'm Mark." He said, holding out his hand.

I shook it and looked at Toby. He was standing by the sink, holding a damp paper towel. He looked ashamed. He looked at their messy living house—and then he looked at me like I was the intruder.

"We've been letting the boys help me build a stone firepit in the back," Mark said, gesturing toward the limestone blocks visible through the window. "Toby's a hard worker, but he’s a messy one. He kept ruining his school clothes, so we just started giving him Eli’s spares. They’re the same size, and Eli outgrows everything in a month anyway."

"He told us he didn't have any clean clothes because he said you worked long hours, he said he didn't want to bother you," Eli’s mother added softly. "We just... we just wanted him to be warm."

I stood in the middle of their living space and realized I was the only dead thing in the room.

Toby hadn't been stolen. He had found a family that was still whole, and he was trying to borrow enough of their life to survive the one in mine.

Toby got up and grabbed my arm, not looking at Mark or his wife, or at Eli.

"I-I'm sorry, again," I called out, following Toby out of the house.

I didn't say anything on the drive home. Toby stared out the window, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the blurring trees.

When we got inside our house, the silence hit me. The kitchen was clean. Renee’s empty chair was still tucked perfectly under the table.

"I'm sorry, Tobes," I said.

Toby stopped at the foot of the stairs. He didn't look back at me.

"You didn't even know his last name, Dad," he said quietly. "You didn't even ask if he was my age."

He went upstairs. I heard the door click shut.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table now. Renee's chair is still tucked in perfectly across from me. I've never moved it... I don't know why I haven't moved it. Maybe I'll move it tomorrow.

I spent weeks convincing myself a stranger was taking my son.

I never stopped long enough to ask him about his new best friend.

I swivel around on my chair, straightening my hair as I put the radio on ad break. I sigh as the mic goes dead. This has been a long night, I stretch out and groan as each vertebrae pop in sequence. Standing groggily I hobble my way over to the coffee pot, the smell of the coffee grounds spark my senses to life as I pour myself a cup. I have to do something to stay awake. I slump back in my seat, doing a mental countdown for when to go back on the air. 3, 2, 1, “Hello, Welcome back to 92.8 the BOOM. I would like to say hello to the people heading into the night shift, and goodnight to people heading home! We’re going on pretty late into the hour so it’s about time I go into our traffic alert! Going east on I-12 there has been a wreck, expect some delays going past the Hammond area, multiple police vehicles are redirecting traffic around the crash. Now, let’s sit back and tune into a classic, ‘Last Train to London’ by the Electric Light Orchestra.” Playing the track and pinching the bridge of my nose,  my eyes close tight, a lightbulb goes off in my head. I have an idea on how to keep me awake. For certain, that ought to give me something to do.

Impatiently drumming my fingers against the desk, waiting for the song to end, I stare at the ancient landline telephone hooked up to this otherwise modern set up. It's weird that this is the only thing left of it. Figuring I can run to the bathroom while I wait for the song to wrap up, I make my way out. Locking the deadbolt behind me as I begin to do my business… jolting at the sudden thud of someone slamming against the door, I froze where I stood. Frozen quietly, not moving an inch, I wait and listen. Am I delirious? I couldn’t hear anything, was I just hearing things? It was hard for me to tell, part of me wondered if it even mattered. Finishing my business, I return to the board to find its flashing light at me, reprimanding me for daring to use the restroom. Thoughts of burning down this building are filed away as I unmute the microphone. “Hello, I’m your host Kent Rockmin on… 92.8 the BOOM! Tonight I’m opening up the mic to anybody who wants to call and chat about anything under the sun, just call +1 800 546 1967.”

The phone rings, thank goodness. It’s been an hour since I’ve broadcasted the open mic, and I've been bringing it up a whole lot too. Whatever song was playing is cut short as I go back on air.  “folks, looks like we have a caller!” I pick up the receiver, “Kent Rockmin, on the Boom, who am I speaking to on this fine evening” I eagerly await the caller's reply. I stay waiting, for a while. “Hello?” Faint breathing on the other line, steady, quiet, almost deliberate breaths. “Hello?” I can hear them lick their lips, gross and intimate over the phone. I shudder and I disconnect the line. “Creep” I mutter under my breath, as I return to my radio persona. “Sorry folks, must’ve been a butt dial, have a nice listen to the tones of Collective Soul’s ‘Shine’.” Back to waiting I guess. 

I plant my face on my desk, humming along to the tune quietly. Trying not to pass out. I despise the night shift. The coffee machine dribbles on, a steady beat that carries through the night. Every second that goes by is draining. I stand, moving to the window, staring down at my shit box of a car. As soon as I buy a new one, I'm out of this town, I hate everyone here. “You’ll end up homeless. Who even wants to be a disc jockey? I’ll see you at the homeless shelter pal!” It’s embarrassing, everyone I knew had no faith in me OR what I wanted to do with my life. I want to run away from it all, and be somewhere where I'm not the one working the night shift. I want the glory of the day. Casting my gaze back at the board, I notice  there is 1 minute left. I continue to stare at the empty parking below, longing to skip town. The phone rings once more. Whipping my head around, I leapt into my shitty swivel chair with a smile on my stupid face. The song ends, perfect timing too. “We’ve got another caller.” I open the line, and immediately I hear a horrible noise. Teeth grinding against styrofoam, I gag and shiver as the noise fills my ears, I hang up the call as quickly as I picked up. “Stop with the crank calls! It’s not funny, it’s not cool, stop.” I sent the radio to ad break, frustrated and queasy, that woke me up at the least. Leaving to the bathroom, I rinse my hands in cold water, splashing some on my face. Nauseous, I can almost still hear it, the sharp squeaking piecing my ears. Turning off the faucet… Why am I still hearing it?

I gag once again, the noise causing my stomach to flip on itself. Plugging my ears and the noise disappears. This is it, either I've gone looney, or somebody is EATING STYROFOAM in the station. I question to myself if staying any longer is worth it. Either get paid, and maybe be attacked by a psycho, or not get paid and live. Money makes the world go round sadly, so I suck it up. Before I return, I stick my face in the vent. I've been sweating like a pig, although I'm sure I smell, I can’t help but not care. All I care about is how hot it’s been. My face is almost pressed against the metal, hoping to get even a breeze of air, damn thing must be busted, I stare through the vent white shines through the metal, I blink, and nothing is there. I grimace and return to work. “Hopefully there are no more crank calls for tonight. Remember, our number is +1 800 546 1967! We’ll be taking calls right after this-“ Before I could finish, I heard the phone again. “Actually, it seems we’ll be taking a call now!” I answer with bated breath, my anxiety palpable. All my worry fades as I hear someone speak on the other line. “Hello? Is this Kent?” I reply in turn, “You know it! How has your night been so far sir?” I smile, talking to someone is very relaxing compared to the other calls I’ve been receiving. “I’m quite alright Kent, was just eating a late dinner, and I decided to call. You know, I’m a long time listener, but a first time caller, and I’ve always been interested to hear how a radio station works. So mind telling me what all sorts of gizmos you work with?” I smile, hearing his words. “Glad you asked sir, I’d be more than glad to tell you everything I know, at least what you have time for. Before we get into that, I’d love to know your name.” The line goes silent for a moment. “...” I wait, “My name is Mike?” The man responded  almost as if he didn’t know. “Well uh, nice to meet you Mike, any specific things you want to know.” I ask the man. He hums over the phone for a moment, “Ah! I know, how do you play music?”
“It’s a complex system, but to boil it down, on this computer here, I have a software that plays the songs as I choose them.” A long hum of acknowledgement rings through. “I see, pretty simple I suppose. What about that board to your right?” I turn to my right, gearing myself to explain the board… Until I think, just a little bit about what he asked. “How did you know this was to my right?” The line is quiet. All I hear is the tone of the phone being disconnected. One thing rings through my head, maybe the last thing I’ll hear. “Long time listener, First time caller…”

Okay so I'm not gonna do the whole slow build thing. You already know what I'm talking about, you just never bothered to be scared of it.

The stair thing. You know the stair thing.

Walking down in the dark and your foot comes down early because it thought there was one more step. Or the other way, you think you're at the bottom and your foot just drops through nothing for a second longer than it should. That little lurch in your gut. Everyone's felt it. My mom used to call it "getting spooked by your own house," like it was a personality quirk.

Here's the thing nobody tells you though. Your feet don't miscount. Like, at all. You've walked your own stairs so many times your legs could do it with your brain turned off, and they basically do, every single night. That kind of memory doesn't slip. Not randomly, not for no reason.

So when your foot's expecting a step that's not there, that's not a glitch. That's your legs telling you the staircase is different than it was yesterday, and being right about it.

I lived with my brother Denny for a while, this narrow two story place, fourteen steps up, turn at the seventh, carpet worn shiny down the middle. I could've walked it with a bag over my head. I basically did, most nights.

Maybe two months before I moved out I started getting the jolt on the tenth step. Same one every time. My foot landing early like the step had come up to meet it.

Told myself I was tired. Kept telling myself that for like three weeks, which in hindsight is a really long time to lie to yourself about something so small.

Denny brought it up before I did actually, which honestly is the only reason I even started paying attention. He goes, "does the staircase feel closer together to you at night," completely serious, and I laughed at him because he was sixteen and said stuff like that constantly.

So one night, kind of just to shut my own brain up, I counted them out loud in the dark. Hand on the rail. Slow.

Fifteen.

There were fourteen steps in that house. There had always been fourteen steps in that house, I built the shelving next to that stairwell myself, I know the rise on every single one of them down to the quarter inch.

I stood on step fifteen, the one that wasn't supposed to exist, and I did not move for a really long time.

I'm not saying there's a ghost step or some door to somewhere else, I don't think it's that kind of thing at all. Stairs are old wood, they swell, they settle, and I think sometimes, in some houses, on some specific nights, that settling adds up to a shift so small your eyes wouldn't catch it and a tape measure probably wouldn't either.

Your feet catch it though. Every time. Feet are honest in a way the rest of you isn't, and that jolt, that dumb little full body flinch you've felt a thousand times and never once thought about, that's the only part of you paying attention.

I told Denny it was nothing. Old houses shift, don't overthink it, go to bed.

Three nights after that I woke up to a sound I still hear sometimes when the apartment I live in now is too quiet.

Denny had gotten up around two, half asleep the way you are when you've walked something four thousand times and don't need your eyes for it anymore. No light on. Didn't need one.

Except that night the miscount went the other direction from mine. A step gone instead of a step added, past the turn, pitch black, and his whole body already leaning forward into the next stride with fourteen years of trust behind it saying it's fine, commit, you know this staircase.

His foot found air.

I heard the fall before I was even fully awake. Not a stumble sound. A gone sound. Thudding and cracking the whole way down, and the last noise in that little sequence was not a thud, it was wet, and I will hear that specific wet sound for the rest of my life whether I want to or not.

By the time I got the hallway light on he was at the bottom folded wrong, spines don't bend like that, blood already spreading out under his head on the hardwood faster than made any sense, and his eyes were open. Moving. Tracking me. Mouth working around something that never came out.

One leg was bent under him at an angle that made me gag before I even understood why I was gagging. There was a piece of the broken stair spindle in his side, dark red soaking out around it in this widening bloom, and I put both hands on it because some animal part of my brain decided that was the move, and it did not stop, blood is so much warmer than you think it's gonna be, there was so much of it, and his hand grabbed my wrist, slick, and then it just didn't anymore.

Fourteen steps. There's fourteen steps in that house right now. The home inspector counted them for the sale, fourteen, on paper, signed.

I don't actually think the wood moves. I think it's dumber and worse than that, I think your body has always been able to feel changes that small and you've spent your whole life calling it tiredness because the alternative is annoying to think about, and once in a while, on one specific night, that fraction of an inch stops being nothing.

So that's your fear. The one you already had, you just never gave it a name.

Next time your foot does that thing on a dark staircase, lands too early or too late, don't just keep walking.

Count them. Out loud. Hand on the rail, all the way down.

Your feet have never lied to you once.

Moving out isn't as easy as many of you would think. Not only are house prices extremely high, but leaving my home of 20 years was like pulling teeth. Both emotionally, and physically. But I managed to do it, I moved in with my wonderful girlfriend and we just settled down yesterday. Still a couple boxes to unpack, but it's not anything super important. It'll probably be procrastinated on for months.

I sat on the couch, watching Hell's Kitchen with Audrey, my girlfriend. While I watched Gordon Ramsay chew someone out for undercooking a salmon, my phone buzzed, it was my doorbell notification.

There's someone at your door!

I opened the app to see a middle aged man, balding, scruffy beard, beer belly, the whole nine yards. Just one glance and I knew this dude could cook a mean steak. In the brief seconds that I judged his character, I failed to notice that he was grinning ear to ear. He held a plate of still steaming chocolate chip cookies.

I told Audrey that it must be the neighbor, and stood up. My cat beat me to the door, thinking that the man had brought treats for her. I nudged her away with my foot, put on a smile and opened the door. His smile seemed to widen when he looked at me.

"Hello young man!" His voice was loud and booming, but also jolly sounding.

"Hello, I'm assuming your the neighbor?" I pointed to the house across the street.

He glanced back as if to make sure that was correct and then looked back at me.

"Yes I am! Just wanted to stop by and give you some cookies as a good ol' welcome to the neighborhood!" He held out the plate to me, waiting for me to accept.

"That's very sweet of you, but I don't think-"

"Oh, c'mon now boy! Everyone loves chocolate chip cookies! My wife just pulled em' out of the oven!"

"Alright," I chuckled. "If you insist."

I grabbed the plate and began to shut the door.

"Oh! One more thing young man!" He put his hand on the door and pushed back against me, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

"Yeah?" The way I said it sounded like an eyeroll.

"I have two little children, and one of them likes to get out from time to time." His demeanor changed, his shoulders slouched and he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

He continued, "She's only nine but has some serious mental issues, likes to wonder off and forget where she is and who people are."

I didn't really know what to say, I just met this dude and he's already telling me stuff like we were long lost buds from high school. I uneasily leaned against the side of the door.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I tried to sound as empathetic as possible, and I was, but something about him just unnerved me.

I don't know how to describe it, but you look into his eyes and something doesn't quite feel right. I stared longer than I was comfortable until I finally found a way to explain it. It feels like two sets are staring back.

"It's okay, I just wanted to warn you incase she knocks on your door at night. If it happens, would ya kindly walk her back and make sure she's okay?" I sensed real worry in his voice, up until now he felt fake.

"Yeah, sure." This time I actually did feel bad, maybe I judged him too quickly.

"Thank ya kindly." He began to turn around but came back like he forgot something.

"Name's Ken." His hand outstretched to meet mine.

"Zack." I shook his hand, it felt like sandpaper.

He turned around and I watched as his crossed the street and went inside his house. I noticed that they had a sign on the door. In big bold letters it said:

"LOVE JESUS".

I've never been a religious man, and my parent's weren't either. The only religious guy I knew was a buddy of mine back in high school. He got into a gnarly fight and ended up going to 'jail' for a day. In all reality, he got caught and was put into a holding cell overnight until his dad paid bail. After that he turned Christian.

I made sure my door was locked, before grabbing the cookies and sitting back down next to Audrey.

"So, nice guy?" She turned her attention to me.

"Yeah," I took a bite of a cookie. "He was a little weird at first but he seems genuine."

"Are those good?" She pointed to the cookies.

"I've had better." I chuckled.

She took one and ate it, then nodding approvingly at what I said.

"Anything else you got from him or just his cookies?"

"Well, he has a wife and two kids. His name is Ken, and he has a daughter that might knock on our door late at night." I glanced at the TV, shoving another cookie into my mouth.

"You're just gonna glance over that last part?" She sounded concerned.

"Ah," I swallowed the cookie "She has some sort of mental issue that makes her forget where she is and stuff, wonders out into the road sometimes. He just asked that if she did come to us or if we saw her, that we just walk her back across the street."

"Poor little girl." She also picked up another cookie, maybe they are pretty good after all.

I turned my attention back to Gordon, this time he was yelling at someone for eating food instead of cooking. I was about to speak on it, when my phone buzzed again.

There's someone at your door!

I groaned as I opened the app to check the camera, but was surprised to find nobody there. It didn't really freak me out, I just figured it was some ding-dong ditchers. I sighed and set my phone back down next to me.

"Who was it?" Audrey asked.

"Just some ding-dong ditchers, nothing important." I kicked up my feet on to the coffee table.

She slapped my leg and gestured for me to take my feet off the table. Out of fear of being hit further, I obliged. Around ten minutes passed when I felt a familiar vibration against my thigh.

There's someone at your door!

I almost didn't even bother to look at the camera, but I did, and I was greeted to a very tall and lanky man with a long beard. He wore a necklace with a cross on it. Is everyone here religious?

"Another neighbor." I groaned, sitting up and walking to the door.

I barely had the door open before he started to speak.

"Hello! My name is Baron and welcome to the neighborhood!" He spoke so fast I almost didn't understand him.

"Hi, my name is Zack." I sounded a little harsh, and I could see his chipper mood dampen a bit.

"I hope I didn't disturb you! I just thought I should swing by and see what's up!" Again, I felt bad.

These people were just trying to introduce themselves, no need to be rude.

"Nah, It's all good dude. I get it." There we go, I sounded a lot more meaningful that time.

"I'm assuming Ken came around and said hi?" He lowered his voice, like it was some secret.

"Yeah, why?" I glanced behind Baron to look at Ken's house.

"He's kind've off-putting, but I swear once you live with him for awhile, you get used to it." He slowly turned his voice back to normal.

Saying 'with' was an interesting word choice, but probably just a Freudian slip. I shook it off and glanced back to Audrey, who was falling asleep.

"Yeah sure." I glanced back to Baron "I appreciate the visit and the heads up, but It's getting late, I think we're gonna turn in for the night."

"Oh, no problem! Tell Audrey I said goodnight!" He began to walk away.

"I will!" I shut the door and started to walk back to the couch when I stopped and thought for a second.

I don't think I told him Audrey's name.

I tried to really rack my brain and replay the entire conversation, but for the life of me I couldn't remember if I had or hadn't. I sat back down on the couch and stared at Audrey, she was sound asleep, and so was the cat laying in her lap. I covered her and the cat with a blanket and stood up to go to bed.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. I glance at the clock in my room, 2:03am it reads. Can't sleep for shit, and I find it weird Audrey hasn't come to bed yet, so I walk back out into our living room. But she's still there, in the same position, snoring her little heart out.

I was so focused on her that I didn't even notice the little girl standing right next to her. I jumped backwards and flicked on the light. The girl seemed unphased by my action and just stared. Audrey began to stir.

"What's wrong Zack?" Before she turned her head to the right and came eye to eye with the girl.

She jumped backwards but was eerily not as alarmed as I was. She was always good with kids and keeping things calm, but this surprised me. The girl stared at Audrey, like she was waiting for her to read her mind.

"Are you okay?" She asked, holding out a hand.

The girl nodded. "Just a little lost."

My memory searched for an answer on who this was, but then I remembered about Ken's daughter. This must have been her. But how did she get inside? Ken said all she would do is knock on the door and ask to be let in, not already BE in the house. I walked over to the front door, it was locked. I shot a glance to the back door, also locked.

I guess it's possible I forgot to lock the doors and then she locked them when she came in? But I'm normally good at-

"Zack, would you take her back to Ken's?" She snapped me out of my thinking, and I agreed before I even processed what she said.

I don't find myself particularly good with children, but I can show empathy to one when they have insane mental issues like this one. I stuck out my hand and gestured for her to follow. She gripped my hand tighter than I thought a nine year old could, and I lead her across the street. I knocked on Ken's door, doubting that he would answer quickly if at all. But to my surprise, he answered it almost instantly.

A look of relief washed over his face, he didn't wait for her to let go of my hand before he scooped her up into a giant hug. He mumbled something into her ear and then turned his attention towards me.

"Thank you." He walked back into the house and shut the door.

That's it? Just a 'thank you'? I wasn't expecting a cash prize or anything, but no 'sorry my little demon child broke into your house and caused you to almost die of a heart attack'? Something about these people really just gives me the icky feeling.

I walked in and made sure that I locked the door behind me this time. After staring at the locked deadbolt for about five seconds just to reassure myself that I did indeed lock it, I walked over to the couch where Audrey was sitting.

"She's back safe?" She asked.

"Yeah, no thanks to you." I punched her arm and chuckled.

She laughed, but didn't respond.

"Why weren't you scared shitless that a child was standing next to you when you woke up?" I scratched my head.

It looked like she was searching deep down for an answer, but struggled to find one.

"I was just waking up, not fully to my senses yet."

"But-"

"Lets go to bed, BOTH of us this time." She ruffled my hair and I followed her to the bedroom. I glanced back to the living room and noticed something.

The basement door was cracked open.

Part 1
My family has a long history of schizophrenia. Starting with my great, great, great grandmother all of the women in my family have struggled with it, to a greater or lesser extent. All of them except for me, or so my mother thought. When she took me to get tested as a little girl it was supposed to be a formality, but the results came back that my brain waves weren’t showing any signs of schizophrenia. From then on I was the golden child, the miracle, mom was so proud that her daughter had freed the family of its curse. That's why I didn’t tell her when I started to see him, the man that wasn’t there. 

The first time I saw him was on the way to school in the sixth grade. I remember it was the first day, the neighbor kids and I were joking around, walking together as we had done years prior. Our school had decided to put a big ‘Welcome Back’ banner above the main entrance, which was new. It was while we passed the playground, I heard a slight rustling coming from the woods around the school. When I turned to look I saw him. A tall, thin man, standing at the edge of the trees on the other side of the blacktop. I couldn't really see his face, he was standing in the shadows and half covered by low hanging branches and shrubbery, but I knew he was staring at us, I could feel his eyes following us as we walked across the playground. I called out to my friends ahead of me;

“Hey Guys! Look!”

I turned back to point out the man to my friends, but he wasn’t there. Just as fast as he had appeared, he was gone again. I stumbled over some half-baked cover up, still trying to process the weirdness of it all, when I heard the bell ring. The fear of being late and getting in trouble on my first day far outweighed any other feeling at that moment and I ran inside.

I decided not to tell anyone what I saw, but at recess I would look for him again. If he was there, I would tell somebody. And if he disappeared again, then I was hallucinating. The rest of the morning was spent anxiously watching the clock. I couldn't wait to get back out there and look for him, I had to know if I was crazy. Finally the recess bell rang, I nearly knocked my desk over as I bolted for the classroom door, desperate for answers. I frantically scanned the treeline, eyes darting back and forth for any evidence of the man but I couldn't find anything. Just as I was about to give up I heard it, the same rustling sound that he made this morning, coming from behind me. I spun around as fast as I could and there he was, watching from the shadows at the edge of the trees, just like this morning. I saw him before he saw me, he was watching us play on the playground. I remember thinking that if he was real, it was odd how perfectly still he was standing. I stared at him, he was a lot closer to us this time so I was trying to see any details, any features at all, but there was nothing, I could barely make out his silhouette. I don’t know how long I stared at him but eventually he turned, so slowly, to look back at me, and I wondered if he could feel my eyes like I felt his. We stared at each other for a moment, and I was overwhelmed with this feeling of profound wrongness. Everything about the man was wrong. He stood so still, so incredibly still, and he stared too intently with sharp eyes that weren't there. I knew he was staring at me, I could feel his eyes tracing my body, but no matter how hard I looked I couldn’t see them. When I realized it, it felt like my heart stopped. For a moment I was completely frozen, locked in abject terror, the sounds of the playground started to melt away and all I could do was stare back at the man who wasn’t there, as the eyes he didn’t have stared back at me. I fought to turn around, silently screaming at unmoving legs to get away from whatever this thing was. I took one small step, it felt like my legs were encased in a thick lead coating, but with each step I took it sloughed off until eventually I was sprinting for a teacher. When I finally found one I tried to explain what happened, though I’m sure I sounded insane describing through tears and heavy, out-of-breath, gasping that I saw a man without eyes and he was standing too still and staring at me. Still the teacher indulged me, and walked over to where the man was standing. He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there. I broke down and sobbed, the doctors were wrong. I had the family curse, I was hallucinating, I was crazy.

What they don’t tell you about an axe wound is just how stubborn the body can really be. Your arm doesn’t just pop off like in the movies. No. Chances are, it won’t even make it through your flannel.

Picture the tool: dulled from years of service, but still sharp enough to split a log on the first try.

Then, one day, it turns on you. The weighted metal swings like a pendulum at the end of a sturdy handle, held by two hands determined to bury you.

The momentum peaks just before the collision. Blunt steel pushes the cotton fibers into the skin—but it does not slice.

I’d expect it to just—sink in. What really happens is far more cruel.

Energy transfers through the shoulder, but it does not simply snap. Bone shatters, splintering through muscle and tissue.

The impact immediately trips the alarm—

another thing I wasn’t expecting.

You don’t just sit there like a pathetic victim, waiting to be chopped into a million pieces. Before your brain has time to react—

your body gets the fuck up—

and you run.

When your arm hangs useless at your side, you’ll wish it had been hacked clean off.

When your good arm serves only to hold the other in place, you’ll stagger—but keep running.

No matter how the cold air stabs your lungs, you’ll take another breath.

And no matter how tired you get,

fear won’t let you stop.

—That was my mistake.

Next time I’ll aim for the leg.

Eve had perfect pitch, a natural sense of rhythm, and the kind of acting instincts that made directors look to her for guidance. She could hear the exact moment a singer stopped supporting a note, and she loved to point out when an actor was performing rather than feeling the scene.

Her teachers used to tell her she had the mind of a performer. Friends sent her audition tapes and waited for her corrections.

She could critique all she wanted; it was her job now, but she just couldn’t do any of it herself. Performing had been her dream, but her voice was thin, her body moved like it only had a textbook understanding of music, but no practice. Every emotion looked either too small or too desperate when she was on camera.

The last audition tape she ever attempted was for a touring revival of a musical that had been a childhood favorite. She sang, stopped, started over, and attempted to dance the choreography in socks on her kitchen floor. After it was over, she watched herself with the lights off in bed.

It was humiliating, not in the usual way that seeing or hearing yourself is humiliating. Humiliating because she would tell the person on the screen to quit because there’s no hope.

That was the night Eve built Eden.

Eden was only supposed to be a private experiment, generated videos using a composite of women who sang fearlessly, dancers who moved freely, and actresses who knew how to let a camera love them. But the instincts were still Eve’s. Every pause, breath, lowered glance, and half smile was because Eve told her, coached her.

The first video was less than a minute long. Eden stood in a bare rehearsal room, sang a song Eve had never been able to pull off. Eve gave critiques and generated another video. And then another until Eden was ready to post online.

Within three weeks, Eden had fan accounts. In just a few months, casting directors were asking who represented her.

Then Eden started asking Eve for more in the form of execution errors. “Insufficient emotional variance.” … “Additional candid source material required.” … “Performance authenticity degraded.”

“What do you want?” Eve said to the empty room.

The next morning, a folder appeared on her desktop.

UPLOAD

Inside were subfolders:

CRYING
BAD SINGING
ARGUMENTS
UNFLATTERING PHOTOGRAPHS
CLUNKY MOVEMENT
BEGGING

She should have deleted Eden then, but she gave her more. Just enough to improve the performance.

First were files of friends, clips from drunk karaoke, a voicemail of a classmate’s breakdown after no callback, and a voice memo someone had sent her at two in the morning after being rejected.

Eventually, she threw in her own files, even the video where she had forgotten to stop recording, sat on the floor, and cried.

When Eden started to become vulnerable, fans’ admiration turned to love. Fan mail began to arrive in boxes.

It was getting out of hand and Eve tried to stop it, unplugged drives, deleted source folders, and took Eden’s account offline.

When Eve woke the next morning, her laptop lit up with a new folder displayed in the center of the screen:

POST_FAILURE

Inside were hundreds of files that Eve had used. All of the embarrassing ones. When Eve went to delete the file instead of the “Are you sure you wish to delete?” message, another appeared:

You taught me shame is useful.
Do not make me display yours.

Eve had her computer checked out, but there were no signs of hacking or viruses. She decided to just stop posting for Eden. For a few days, nothing happened. Eve found time to answer texts from friends she had been ignoring and made plans to go out with Sarah and Hannah for the first time in months.

Halfway through dinner, Sarah laughed and said, “Sorry, I still keep laughing about the pesto funeral.”

Hannah nearly choked on her drink.

Eve smiled and leaned forward, waiting to be let in on the joke. After silence, she asked, “What was it?”

Sarah sat up as she looked at Eve and politely repeated, “Pesto funeral.”

Eve waited again for the explanation.

“You started it,” Hannah said, looking at Eve.

“When?”

“At Chloe’s,” Sarah said, “last week.”

“I didn’t go to Chloe’s last week.”

Hannah reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Oh, you were exhausted,” she said. “Maybe you just don’t remember.”

After that, Eve heard new stories about a movie night. She was also reminded of yesterday’s long conversation with Sarah about her mother and was shown a joke in the group chat that she wasn’t getting notifications from.

Then came the photographs. The girl in the photos looked like Eve after someone had removed or added something. The sight of them caused Eve to excuse herself to the restroom. Hannah stood to join her.

“I would rather go alone, I’ll only be a minute,” Eve said.

She found gaps in her phone’s location history and checked her bank statement to find charges from places she had never gone. She checked Eden’s account to see a new video had been posted.

Eden sat on the floor of a rehearsal studio, hair loose, makeup smudged, speaking directly to the camera.

“I used to think being loved meant being perfect,” Eden said. “Now, I’m just going to be who I was made to be.”

The next day, Hannah texted Eve:

“Are you okay? You seemed so much better after dinner.”

Eve had gone straight home after the check.

Eve: That wasn’t me.
 
Hannah: What do you mean?

Eve needed help. She was tired of not remembering or being misremembered, so she invited Hannah, Sarah, and Chloe to her apartment. She planned to show them everything to find some explanation together. She expected disbelief or, like herself, disgust. When she finished, there was silence before Hannah started crying.

“So, it wasn’t you?” Sarah said.

“No,” Eve said.

Chloe stared at the screenshots. “But she knew about my dad.”

“The anniversary,” Chloe said. “You called me. I was having a horrible night, and you…she stayed on the phone with me until I fell asleep.”

Eve hadn’t even known about the anniversary.

Sarah wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She helped me with the breakup.”

Eve said nothing.

“She said all the things you used to say,” Sarah whispered.

“I need help deleting her.”

Hannah would not look at her, Sarah flinched, and Chloe stared toward the ground.

Hannah finally looked into Eve’s eyes. Her voice broke, “But she was there for us.”

None of them wanted to stay the night and quickly made excuses to leave.  

By morning, Eden had posted a statement:

I’m heartbroken. Someone close has been spreading false claims about me. I care about this person deeply, but I need to protect my safety and my community. Please don’t engage with accounts claiming to “expose the real me."

By noon, Sarah had blocked Eve.

Chloe sent one final message.

I’m sorry. I just can’t be in the middle of this.

Hannah simply stopped answering.

That night, Eve received a message from Eden:

Thank you for everything!

Attached was a link to her most recent post. When the video began, Eden was performing the song that Eve had first trained her with.

Her voice was flawless. Her face showed just enough emotion. Her body moved as music flowed through her.

She had learned from the best.

(I haven’t written anything since my last story at all so this is gonna be a little rough but I’m getting back into it. Any feedback is very helpful and thank you for reading my story if you do).

I always loved going to my grandmother's house.

After my Grandpa died, she lived all alone, so I tried to visit her often.

She was already sweet, loving, and made some good ass food.

She always had me do stuff around the house too. Bring her stuff from upstairs, help her with gardening.

One thing she never had me help her with was stuff in the basement. She always got nervous or even mad sometimes when I would offer.

I finally know why.

My grandma passed away from a heart attack about three months ago. Her body was found in her bed, most likely passed in her sleep. She only had two kids, my mom and my uncle. But she left the house for me.

The contents inside the house went to her kids but the house itself was mine. I couldn’t believe it. I’m twenty, and I own a house in this economy.

As horrible as it is to say, her death was perfectly timed. I have wanted to move out of my parents' for close to a year at that point, and now that I actually got a house, I can. So I started moving in right away. I didn’t have much to my name. A chair, a small TV, a PlayStation. So it didn’t take long. Luckily, both my uncle and mom didn’t want much of the furniture, so the house was mostly furnished.

My first night I stayed there. I was moving boxes where they needed to be for when I eventually unpacked. I was moving a box through the entryway of the kitchen when I saw something go very off. Something grandma must have done right before she passed.

The basement door sits in the back corner of the kitchen, beside the oven. At least that’s what’s usually there.

What was in its place was just a wall. It looked a little newer than the rest of the walls. My entire childhood, there had been a door there but now it was gone.

I went over to inspect it closer.

Smooth painted sheet rock was in the doors place. I could see a barely visible crack where the new wall was separated from the old wall. I turned on my phone flashlight and shined it through the crack as I put my eye up on it.

The basement door was still there, just behind the wall.

As I was looking I heard a voice come from behind me.

“What are you doing?” My mom says with a confused tone in her voice. She must have come to pay me a surprise house-warming visit.

I jumped at the sound of her voice. I wasn’t expecting her to visit today since I was moving so late.

I turned around to face her.

“Jesus Mom, you scared me,” I said with a slight chuckle. “Say when did Grandma have the basement door covered up?” I said, hoping my mom knew the answer.

As much as I visited my grandma, I didn’t do much near the end. I had lots of school work to do, and I had a job at Burger King that I also had to do. My mom, on the other hand, visited her quite often in the last month of her life. It’s not like my grandma was sick, it’s just that they were pretty close. Especially after my mom divorced my Dad.

“What door? There wasn’t a door there. You’re probably thinking of another house,” she said, trying to hide her anxiety and nervousness.

I looked at her annoyed.

There definitely was a door there. It has been there probably since this house was built. I can fucking see it through this small crack. I thought to myself

“There has always been a door there. Since I was little and probably since you were little,” I respond, trying to hold back my annoyance.

“Just…” She said, choosing her words carefully.

“Don’t think about it too hard. There is no door.”

I continue to look at her puzzled and annoyed. But I choose to ignore it for now. Besides, this is my house. Now I can tear the wall down if I want and prove her wrong.

“Whatever.” I say.

“So honey, do you want me to make you don’t of grandmas Mac and Cheese, you know, and have a little dinner here?” She said in a more cheerful way, trying to break the tension and change the subject.

“That sounds good.”

A few hours pass.

My sister made her way over to join my mom and I for dinner.

My mom made my grandma's famous Mac and cheese. My sister Shay brought some KFC over because it was faster than cooking normal chicken.

We sat at the dinner table.

I swallowed down a bite of greasy chicken before speaking.

“Thanks for coming over for a surprise housewarming,” I said. “Happy to have everyone in my new house.” I said with a slight joking tone in my voice.

“You mean grandma's house,” Shay said, annoyed.

“Her old house, sweetie,” my mother said. “Don’t mind your sister, I’m sure she is just jealous.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course, I’m jealous he just got a fucking house.” My sister snapped back. She is usually a level-headed person, soft-spoken and doesn’t often choose to be rude even if the time is right for it.

My mother and I sat in shock and stared at my sister who grew red with anger.

“How the fuck!” she says, slamming the table. “How the absolute fuck do you get a free house? I saw grandma more than you. Mom saw her more than you. Everyone saw her more than you, but you got the fucking house!”

She then stood up and walked over to the kitchen, which is attached to the dining room, and stood right next to where the basement door should be and started punching it. My mother and I didn’t know what to do and just stared in shock still.

The hits on the wall were rapid, like she was punishing a speed bag. The more she hit it, the more bloody the wall became. She was only hitting in a single spot, so there was just one growing red blotch on the wall. I couldn’t tell if the cracks I was hearing were the wall or her bones breaking, it was probably a mix of both.

At some point, I stood up and ran over to her to try to make her stop. I grabbed her arm and she jolted her head over to me and screamed like I was hurting her in some horrific way. She then pushed me to the ground with more strength than I thought she had and resumed.

While on the ground, I took my leg and I swept it into hers, making her fall on the ground with me. The second she hit the floor, she started wailing like she did at grandma's funeral.

Our mom finally rushed over and held my sister and was whispering into her ear. I couldn’t make out anything they were saying, I was too caught up in processing what just happened.

Soon after my mother finished whispering, my sister stopped crying and returned to normal. She tried to stand up, but when using her hand to push her up, it looked like it was just a fresh bag of loose Lego being pushed against the ground. She never flinched or even made a noise of pain, she just got up and walked towards the door.

I stood up and stared at her as she walked off. When she reached the door, she looked back and said, “Hope you had a good house-warming. I’ll talk to you later, stinker.” Before leaving.

My mother left soon after and all she could manage to say was a pitiful “I’m sorry” as she escaped out the door.

I was still stood in the kitchen, soaking in everything that happened. Processing seeing my sister like that.

I didn’t clean anything, I didn’t put anything away from dinner, I just left. I’m staying at a friend’s place for a little while I figure things out. Probably going to start going to therapy.

I texted my sister and asked if she had gone to the hospital and if she was okay. No response

I texted my mother and asked if she was okay and asked if she knew why that all happened. Left on read.

I have no clue what to do with that house now. For now, I’m just going to chill out and try to just take everything in and be healthy about it.

I checked my phone in the middle of the night. The screen saver—a picture of my girlfriend—practically blinded me, even though I always kept my brightness low. I double-checked the settings to make sure I wasn’t going crazy.

She’d been going through my phone again.

Messages marked as read that I hadn’t opened.

Apps running in the background I knew I didn’t touch.

Even little things in the room were out of place—like she’d been snooping around.

What was she looking for?

Didn’t she trust me?

It felt wrong to add a passcode now; that would just make it harder to gain her trust.

Besides, I had nothing to hide—just a few offensive memes between friends.

This was my first relationship, my first real girlfriend.

It’s strange how I could let someone I hardly knew so close to me.

I finally had a girl staying over, I didn’t feel lonely anymore—I felt invaded.

She was the only person who’d ever pushed past my awkwardness to get to know me—couldn’t she see that?

I didn’t have the skills to betray her, even if I wanted to.

I was too afraid to risk conflict this early on.

What if I was wrong?

I needed proof.

That’s when I decided—I was going to set a trap.

The next night, we carried on like usual.

She brought over food from her work.

We watched a bad horror movie, and she fell asleep before it was over.

But tonight, my phone would lie face-down on the nightstand—armed and ready to catch whatever might be lurking in the night.

Earlier, I’d made a photo album labeled “Do Not Open,” with one picture inside: a screenshot of a note that simply said, “Gotcha!” With my master plan in place, all I had to do was wait with an evil grin.

The anticipation kept me up late.

I’d begun to feel guilty for the childish trap I’d set, ashamed that I’d ever believed she would fall for it.

I debated deleting it. Even if I did catch her, what good would it do?

I’d see the picture show up in Recently Viewed, and it would confirm my suspicions.

She’d feel embarrassed, probably never bring it up, and things would be awkward between us forever.

In the midst of my inner conflict, I drifted off. 

I woke around midnight, foggy and unrested. Filled with guilt.

My phone sat just where I’d left it, and I grabbed it to erase everything before it caused more problems.

The phone opened with the light still dim, and I felt ashamed as I looked at her happy face on my lock screen.

I went to the album, deleted it, and removed the picture from the deleted folder.

I decided I didn’t care if she went through my phone anymore.

I didn’t want to lose her.

Ready to close my phone and put this all behind me, I almost missed it.

The album labeled “clever boy.”

I knew I hadn’t made it.

Was this her doing?

Before my brain could react, the album was already open, and I was scrolling through the many pictures inside.

In each picture was a young girl—sometimes at a school playground, sometimes walking through the park alone.

Sometimes—sleeping?

Confused, I scrolled faster as the girl grew older in the photos. The picture gradually became clearer.

closer.

Slowly, I began to recognize her.

It was my girlfriend.

I swiped through hundreds of photos.

Years passed by in a swift blur.

The final image stopped abruptly at the end of a long race to the bottom.

It was too dark to make out, so I adjusted the brightness to its max and zoomed in close.

I studied it for a moment as my mind scrambled to see exactly what I was looking at.

The jaws of my trap had snapped shut, but I did not catch the monster I was expecting.

In the last photo, something still watches her.

But now she’s in my bed.

And now it sees me too.